Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  Jonathan’s face flushed to a deep, angry red. “Grace, there’s a point where Kerry’s sense of justice approaches the ludicrous. Last night I was able to persuade the governor to delay submitting to the senate the names of candidates for appointment to the bench. He agreed.”

  “Jonathan!”

  “It was the only thing I could do short of asking him to withhold Kerry’s appointment for the present. I had no choice. Grace, Prescott Marshall has been an outstanding governor. You know that. Working with him, I’ve been able to lead the senate in getting necessary reforms into law, in revising the tax structure, in attracting business to the state, in welfare reform that doesn’t mean depriving the poor while searching out the welfare cheats. I want Marshall back in four years. I’m no great fan of Frank Green, but as governor he’ll be a good benchwarmer and won’t undo what Marshall and I have accomplished. On the other hand, if Green fails, and if the other party gets in, then everything we’ve accomplished will be taken apart.”

  Suddenly the intensity the anger had inspired drained from his face and he looked to Grace only very tired and every minute of his sixty-two years.

  “I’ll invite Kerry and Robin to dinner Sunday,” Grace said. “That will give you another chance to talk sense to her. I don’t think anyone’s future should be sacrificed for that Reardon man.”

  “I’m going to call her tonight,” Jonathan told her.

  44

  Geoff Dorso rang the doorbell at exactly seven-thirty and once again was greeted by Robin. She was still wearing her witch’s costume and makeup. Her eyebrows were thick with charcoal. Pasty white powder covered her skin except where the lacerations streaked her chin and cheek. A wig of tangled black hair flapped around her shoulders.

  Geoff jumped back. “You scared me.”

  “Great,” Robin said enthusiastically. “Thanks for being on time. I’m due at a party. It’s starting right now, and there’s a prize for the scariest costume. I need to be going.”

  “You’ll win in a landslide,” Geoff told her as he stepped into the foyer. Then he sniffed. “Something smells good.”

  “Mom’s making garlic bread,” Robin explained, then called, “Mom, Mr. Dorso’s here.”

  The kitchen was at the back of the house. Geoff smiled as the door swung open and Kerry emerged, drying her hands on a towel. She was dressed in green slacks and a green cowl-neck sweater. Geoff couldn’t help but notice how the overhead light accentuated the gold streaks in her hair and the spray of freckles across her nose.

  She looks about twenty-three, he thought, then realized that her warm smile did not disguise the concern in her eyes.

  “Geoff, good to see you. Go inside and be comfortable. I have to walk Robin down the block to a party.”

  “Why not let me do that?” Geoff suggested. “I’ve still got my coat on.”

  “I guess that would be okay,” Kerry said slowly, assessing the situation, “but be sure to see her inside the door, won’t you? I mean, don’t just leave her at the driveway.”

  “Mom,” Robin protested, “I’m not scared anymore. Honest.”

  “Well, I am.”

  What’s that about? Geoff wondered. He said, “Kerry, all of my sisters are younger than I am. Until they went to college, I was forever dropping them off and picking them up, and God help me if I didn’t see them safely inside wherever they were going. Get your broom, Robin. I assume you have one.”

  As they walked along the quiet street, Robin told him about the car that had frightened her. “Mom acts cool about everything, but I can tell she’s freaking out,” she confided. “She worries about me too much. I’m sort of sorry I told her about it.”

  Geoff stopped short and looked down at her. “Robin, listen to me. It’s a lot worse not to tell your mother when something like that happens. Promise me you won’t make that mistake.”

  “I won’t. I already promised Mom.” The exaggerated painted lips separated in a mischievous smile. “I’m real good at keeping promises except when it comes to getting up on time. I hate getting up.”

  “So do I,” Geoff agreed fervently.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, when he was sitting on a counter stool in the kitchen watching Kerry make a salad, Geoff decided to try a direct approach. “Robin told me about this morning,” he said. “Is there a reason to worry?”

  Kerry was tearing freshly washed lettuce into the salad bowl. “One of our investigators, Joe Palumbo, talked to Robin this afternoon. He’s concerned. He thinks that a car doing a reckless U-turn a few feet from where you’re walking could make anybody jumpy, but Robin was so specific about the window opening and then a hand appearing with something pointing at her . . . Joe suggested that somebody might have taken her picture.”

  Geoff heard the tremor in Kerry’s voice.

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. Frank Green feels that it might be connected to that case I just prosecuted. I don’t agree. I could have nightmares wondering if some nut may have seen Robin and developed a fixation. That’s another possibility.” She began to tear the lettuce with savage force. “The point is, what can I do about it? How do I protect her?”

  “It’s pretty tough to carry that worry alone,” Geoff said quietly.

  “You mean because I’m divorced? Because there was no man here to take care of her? You’ve seen her face. That happened when she was with her father. Her seat belt wasn’t fastened, and he’s the kind of driver who floors the accelerator and then makes sudden stops. I don’t care whether it’s maeho stuff or just the fact that Bob Kinellen is a risk taker, in his case, Robin and I are better off alone.”

  She ripped the final piece of lettuce, then said apologetically, “I’m sorry. I guess you picked the wrong night for pasta in this house, Geoff. I’m not much company. But then that doesn’t matter. What is important are my meetings with Dr. Smith and Dolly Bowles.”

  Over salad and garlic bread she told him about her encounter with Dr. Smith. “He hates Skip Reardon,” she said. “It’s a different kind of hatred.”

  Noting the look of confusion on Geoff’s face, she added, “What I mean is that typically when I deal with relatives of victims, most of them despise the murderer and want him to be punished. What they’re expressing is anger so entwined with grief that both emotions are flying out of them. Parents will frequently show you baby pictures and graduation pictures of the murdered daughter, then tell you the kind of girl she was and if she won a spelling bee in the eighth grade. Then they break down and cry, their grief is so overwhelming, and one of them, usually the father, will tell you he wants five minutes alone with the killer, or he’ll say that he’d like to pull the switch himself. But I didn’t get any of that from Smith. From him I got only hatred.”

  “What does that say to you?” Geoff asked.

  “It says that either Skip Reardon is a lying murderer or we need to find out whether Smith’s intense animosity to Skip Reardon preceded Suzanne’s death. As part of the latter consideration, we also need to know exactly what Smith’s relationship with Suzanne was. Don’t forget, by his own testimony, he didn’t lay eyes on her from the time she was an infant till she was nearly twenty. Then one day she just appeared in his office and introduced herself. From her pictures you can see she was a remarkably attractive woman.”

  She stood up. “Think about that while I put together the pasta. Then I want to tell you about Dolly Bowles and ‘Poppa’s car.’ ”

  Geoff was almost unaware of how delicious the linguine with clam sauce tasted as he listened to Kerry’s report of her visit to Dolly Bowles. “The thing is,” she concluded, “from what Dolly tells me, both our office and your people brushed aside even the possibility that little Michael might have been a very reliable witness.”

  “Tim Farrell interviewed Dolly Bowles himself,” Geoff recalled. “I kind of remember a reference to a learning-disabled five-year-old seeing a car, but I passed over it.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Kerr
y said, “but Joe Palumbo, the investigator I told you about who spoke to Robin, brought the Reardon file with him this afternoon. I want to go through it to see what names might have come up—of men Suzanne was possibly getting cozy with. It shouldn’t be too hard to check with the Motor Vehicle Division to see if any of those named owned a black Mercedes sedan eleven years ago. Of course, it’s possible the car was registered in someone else’s name, or even rented, in which case we won’t get anywhere.”

  She looked at the clock over the kitchen stove. “Plenty of time,” she said.

  Geoff knew she was talking about getting Robin. “What time is the party over?”

  “Nine. There usually aren’t weeknight parties, but Halloween really is the kids’ special night, isn’t it? Now how about espresso or regular coffee? I keep meaning to buy a cappuccino machine but never seem to find the time.”

  “Espresso is fine. And while we’re having it, I’m going to tell you about Skip Reardon and Beth Taylor.”

  When he finished giving her the background of Beth’s relationship with Skip, Kerry said slowly, “I can see why Tim Farrell was afraid to use Taylor as a witness, but if Skip Reardon was in love with her at the time of the murder, it tends to take some of the credibility away from Dr. Smith’s testimony.”

  “Exactly. Skip’s whole attitude about seeing Suzanne arranging flowers given to her by another man can be summed up in two words: ‘Good riddance.’ ”

  The wall phone rang and Geoff looked at his watch. “You said nine o’clock for Robin, didn’t you? I’ll get her while you’re on the phone.”

  “Thanks.” Kerry reached for the receiver. “Hello.”

  She listened, then said warmly, “Oh, Jonathan, I was going to call you.”

  Geoff got up, and with a “see you” motion of his hand, went into the foyer and reached in the closet for his coat.

  As they walked back home, Robin said she had had a good time at the party even though she had not won first prize for her costume. “Cassie’s cousin was there,” she explained. “She had on a dorky skeleton outfit, but her mother had sewed soup bones all over it. I guess that made it special. Anyhow, thanks for walking me, Mr. Dorso.”

  “You win some, you lose some, Robin. And why don’t you call me Geoff?”

  The moment Kerry opened the door for them, Geoff could see that something was terribly wrong. It was an obvious effort for her to keep an attentive smile on her face as she listened to Robin’s enthusiastic description of the party.

  Finally Kerry said, “Okay, Robin, it’s after nine and you promised . . .”

  “I know. Off to bed and no dragging my heels.” Robin kissed Kerry quickly. “Love you, Mom. Good night, Geoff.” She bounced up the stairs.

  Geoff watched as Kerry’s mouth began to quiver. He took her arm, led her into the kitchen and closed the door. “What’s the matter?”

  She tried to keep her voice steady. “The governor was supposed to be submitting three names to the senate tomorrow for approval of judicial appointments. Mine was to be one of them. Jonathan has asked the governor to postpone the action for now, because of me.”

  “Senator Hoover did that to you!” Geoff exclaimed. “I thought he was your big buddy.” Then he stared at her. “Wait a minute. Does this have something to do with the Reardon case and Frank Green?”

  He didn’t need her nod to know he was right. “Kerry, that’s lousy. I’m so sorry. But you said ‘postponed,’ not ‘withdrawn.’ ”

  “Jonathan would never withdraw my nomination. I know that.” Now Kerry’s voice was becoming steadier. “But I also know that I can’t expect him to go out on a limb for me. I told Jonathan about seeing Dr. Smith and Dolly Bowles today.”

  “What was his reaction?

  “He wasn’t impressed. He feels that by reopening this case I am needlessly bringing into question both the capability and the credibility of Frank Green, and that I’m leaving myself open to criticism for wasting taxpayers’ money on a case that was decided ten years ago. He pointed out that five appeals courts have confirmed Reardon’s guilt.”

  She shook her head, as though trying to clear her mind. Then she turned away from Geoff. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time this way, Geoff, but I guess I’ve decided that Jonathan is right. A murderer is in prison, put there by a jury of his peers, and the courts have been consistent in upholding his conviction. Why do I think I know something they don’t?”

  Kerry turned back and looked at him. “The killer is in prison, and I’m just going to have to let this drop,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster.

  Geoff’s face tightened in suppressed anger and frustration. “Very well, then. Good-bye, Your Honor,” he said. “Thanks for the pasta.”

  Wednesday, November 1st

  45

  In the laboratory of FBI headquarters in Quantico, four agents watched the computer screen freeze on the profile of the thief who had broken into the Hamilton home in Chevy Chase over the weekend.

  He had pulled the stocking mask up so that he could have a better look at a figurine. At first, the image taken by the hidden camera had seemed impossibly blurry, but after some electronic enhancement, a few details of the face were visible. Probably not enough to make a real difference, thought Si Morgan, the senior agent. It’s still pretty difficult to see much more than his nose and the outline of his mouth. Nonetheless, it was all they had, and it might just jog someone’s memory.

  “Get a couple of hundred of these run off and see that they’re circulated to the families in every break-in that matches the profile of the Hamilton case. It’s not much, but at least we now have a chance of getting that bastard.”

  Morgan’s face turned grim. “And I only hope that when we get him we can match his thumbprint to the one we found the night Congressman Peale’s mother lost her life because she’d canceled her plans to go away for the weekend.”

  46

  It was still early morning as Wayne Stevens sat reading the newspaper in the family room of his comfortable Spanish-style house in Oakland, California. Retired two years from his modestly successful insurance business, he looked the part of a contented man. Even in repose, his face maintained a genial expression. Regular exercise kept his body trim. His two married daughters and their families both lived less than half an hour away. He had been married to his third wife, Catherine, for eight years now, and in that time had come to realize that his first two marriages had left much to be desired.

  That was why when the phone rang he had no premonition that the caller was about to evoke unpleasant memories.

  The voice had a distinct East Coast accent. “Mr. Stevens, I’m Joe Palumbo, an investigator for the Bergen County, New Jersey, prosecutor’s office. Your stepdaughter was Suzanne Reardon, was she not?”

  “Suzanne Reardon? I don’t know anyone by that name. Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re not talking about Susie, are you?”

  “Is that what you called Suzanne?”

  “I had a stepdaughter we called Susie, but her name was Sue Ellen, not Suzanne.” Then he realized the inspector had used the past tense: “was.” “Has something happened to her?”

  Three thousand miles away, Joe Palumbo gripped the phone. “You don’t know that Suzanne, or Susie as you call her, was murdered ten years ago?” He pushed the button that would record the conversation.

  “Dear God.” Wayne Stevens’ voice fell to a whisper. “No, of course I didn’t know it. I send a note to her every Christmas in care of her father, Dr. Charles Smith, but I’ve heard nothing from her in years.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Eighteen years ago, shortly after my second wife, Jean, her mother, died. Susie was always a troubled, unhappy and, frankly, difficult girl. I was a widower when her mother and I married. I had two young daughters and I adopted Susie. Jean and I raised the three together. Then, after Jean died, Susie received the proceeds of an insurance policy and announced that she was moving to New York. She was nin
eteen then. A few months later I received a rather vicious note from her saying she’d always been unhappy living here and wanted nothing to do with any of us. She said that she was going to live with her real father. Well, I phoned Dr. Smith immediately, but he was extremely rude. He told me that it had been a grave mistake to allow me to adopt his daughter.”

  “So Suzanne, I mean Susie, never spoke to you herself?” Joe asked quickly.

  “Never. There seemed to be nothing to do but let it go. I hoped in time she’d come around. What happened to her?”

  “Ten years ago her husband was convicted of killing her in a jealous rage.”

  Images ran through Wayne Stevens’ head. Susie as a whiny toddler, a plump, scowling teenager who turned to golf and tennis for recreation but seemed to take no pleasure in her own prowess in either sport. Susie listening to the jangle announcing phone calls that were never for her, glowering at her stepsisters when their dates came to pick them up, slamming doors as she stomped upstairs. “Jealous because she was involved with another man?” he asked slowly.

  “Yes.” Joe Palumbo heard the bewilderment in the other man’s voice and knew that Kerry’s instinct was right when she had asked him to delve into Suzanne’s background. “Mr. Stevens, would you please describe your stepdaughter’s physical appearance?”

  “Sue was . . .” Stevens hesitated. “She was not a pretty girl,” he said quietly.

  “Do you have pictures of her you could send me?” Palumbo asked. “I mean, those that were taken closest to the time she left to come East.”

  “Of course. But if this happened over ten years ago, why are you bringing it up now?”

  “Because one of our assistant prosecutors thinks there’s more to the case than came out at the trial.”

  And boy, was Kerry’s hunch right! Joe thought as he hung up the phone after having secured Wayne Stevens’ promise to send the pictures of Susie by overnight mail.