Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  “Kerry, I’m trying to save my child’s life.”

  “Your child? All of a sudden she’s so important to you? Do you know how many times you’ve devastated her when you didn’t show up to see her? It’s insulting. Now get out.”

  As he turned, she snatched the paper from his hand. “But I’ll take this.”

  “Give that to me.” Kinellen grabbed her hand, forcing her fingers open and pulling the paper from her.

  “Dad, let go of Mom!”

  They both whirled to see Robin standing in the doorway, the fading scars bright once more against the ashen pallor of her face.

  66

  Dr. Smith had left the office at 4:20, only a minute or so after his last patient—a post-tummy-tuck checkup—had departed.

  Kate Carpenter was glad to see him go. She found it disturbing just to be around him lately. She had noticed the tremor in his hand again today when he removed the skull stitches from Mrs. Pryce, who had had an eyebrow lift procedure. The nurse’s concern went beyond the physical, however; she was sure that mentally there was something radically wrong with the doctor as well.

  The most frustrating thing for Kate, though, was that she didn’t know where to turn. Charles Smith was—or at least had been—a brilliant surgeon. She didn’t want to see him discredited, or drummed out of the profession. If circumstances were different, she would have talked to his wife or best friend. But in Dr. Smith’s case, she couldn’t do that—his wife was long gone, and he seemed to have no friends at all.

  Kate’s sister Jean was a social worker. Jean probably would understand the problem and be able to advise her on where to turn to get Dr. Smith the help he obviously needed. But Jean was on vacation in Arizona, and Kate didn’t know how to reach her even if she wanted to.

  At four-thirty Barbara Tompkins phoned. “Mrs. Carpenter, I’ve had it. Last night, Dr. Smith called and practically demanded that I have dinner with him. But then he kept calling me Suzanne. And he wants me to call him Charles. He asked if I had a serious boyfriend. I’m sorry, I know I owe him a lot, but I think he is really creepy, and this is getting to me. I find that even at work I’m looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him lurking somewhere. I can’t stand it. This can’t go on.”

  Kate Carpenter knew she couldn’t stall any longer. The one possible person who came to her mind in whom she might confide was Robin Kinellen’s mother, Kerry McGrath.

  Kate knew she was a lawyer, an assistant prosecutor in New Jersey, but she was also a mother who was very grateful that Dr. Smith had treated her daughter in an emergency. She also realized that Kerry McGrath knew more about Dr. Smith’s personal background than did she or anyone else on his staff. She wasn’t sure why Kerry had been checking on the doctor, but Kate didn’t feel that it was for any harmful purpose. Kerry had shared with her the information that Smith had been not only divorced but also was the father of a woman who was murdered.

  Feeling like Judas Iscariot, Mrs. Kate Carpenter gave Barbara Tompkins the home phone number of Bergen County Assistant Prosecutor Kerry McGrath.

  67

  For a long time after Bob Kinellen left, Kerry and Robin sat on the sofa, not talking, shoulders touching, legs up on the coffee table.

  Then, choosing her words carefully, Kerry said, “Whatever I said, or whatever the scene you just witnessed might have implied, Dad loves you very much, Robin. His worry is for you. I don’t admire the fixes he gets himself into, but I respect his feeling for you even when I get so angry I throw him out.”

  “You got mad at him when he said he was worried about me.”

  “Oh, come on, those were just words. He makes me so angry sometimes. Anyhow, I know that you’re not going to grow up to be the kind of person who lets herself drift into problems that are obvious to everyone else, then pleads situational ethics—meaning ‘this may be wrong but it’s necessary.’ ”

  “That’s what Dad’s doing?”

  “I think so.”

  “Does he know who took my picture?”

  “He suspects he knows. It has to do with a case Geoff Dorso has been working on and that he’s tried to get me to help him with. He’s trying to get a man out of prison that he’s convinced is innocent.”

  “Are you helping him with it?”

  “Actually, I’d pretty well decided that by getting involved I was stirring up a hornet’s nest for no reason. Now I’m beginning to think I may have been wrong, that there are a couple of very good reasons to think that Geoff’s client indeed may have been unfairly convicted. But on the other hand, I’m certainly not going to put you in any danger to prove it. I promise you that.”

  Robin stared ahead for a moment and then turned to her mother. “Mom, that doesn’t make sense. That’s totally unfair. You’re putting Dad down for something, and then you’re doing the same thing. Isn’t not helping Geoff if you think his client shouldn’t be in prison ‘situational ethics’?”

  “Robin!”

  “I mean it. Think about it. Now can we order the pizza? I’m hungry.”

  Shocked, Kerry watched as her daughter stood up and reached for the bag with the video movies they were planning to watch. Robin examined the titles, chose one and put it in the VCR. Just before she turned it on, she said, “Mom, I really think that guy in the car the other day was just trying to scare me. I don’t think he really would have run me over. I don’t mind if you drop me off at school and Alison picks me up. What’s the dif?”

  Kerry stared at her daughter for a moment, then shook her head. “The dif is that I’m proud of you and ashamed of myself.” She hugged Robin quickly, then released her and went into the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, as she was getting out plates for the pizza, the phone rang and a hesitant voice said, “Ms. McGrath, I’m Barbara Tompkins. I apologize for bothering you, but Mrs. Carpenter, in Dr. Charles Smith’s office, suggested that I call you.”

  As she listened, Kerry grabbed a pen and began jotting notes on the message pad. Dr. Smith was consulted by Barbara . . . He showed her a picture . . . Asked her if she wanted to look like this woman . . . Operated on her . . . Began counseling her . . . Helped her select an apartment . . . Sent her to a personal shopper . . . Now is calling her “Suzanne” and stalking her . . .

  Finally Tompkins said, “Ms. McGrath, I’m so grateful to Dr. Smith. He’s turned my life around. I don’t want to report him to the police and ask for a restraining order. I don’t want to hurt him in any way. But I can’t let this go on.”

  “Have you ever felt you were in physical danger from him?” Kerry asked.

  There was a brief hesitation before Tompkins answered slowly, “No, not really. I mean he’s never tried to force himself on me physically. He’s actually been quite solicitous, treating me as though I were fragile somehow—like a china doll. But I also get a sense occasionally of terrible, restrained anger in him, and that it could easily be unleashed, maybe on me. For example, when he showed up to take me out to dinner last night, I could tell he wasn’t happy that I was ready to immediately get out of my apartment. And for a moment I thought he might lash out. It’s just that I didn’t want to be alone with him. And now I feel that if I outright refused to see him, he could get very, very angry. But as I told you, he’s been so good to me. And I know a restraining order could seriously damage his reputation.”

  “Barbara, I’m going in to see Dr. Smith on Monday. He doesn’t know it, but I am. I think from what you tell me, and particularly from the fact that he calls you Suzanne, that he’s suffering from some sort of breakdown. I hope he might be persuaded to seek help. But I can’t advise you not to speak to the New York police if you’re frightened. In fact, I think you should.”

  “Not yet. There’s a business trip I was going to make next month, but I can rearrange my schedule and take it next week. I’d like to talk to you again when I come back; then I’ll decide what I should do.”

  * * *

  When she hung up, Kerry sank into a kitchen chair, the notes
of the conversation in front of her. The situation was getting much more complicated. Dr. Smith had been stalking Barbara Tompkins. Had he also been stalking his own daughter? If so, it was very likely that it was his Mercedes Dolly Bowles and little Michael had seen parked in front of the Reardon house the night of the murder.

  She remembered the partial license numbers Bowles claimed to have seen. Had Joe Palumbo had a chance to check them against Smith’s car?

  But if Dr. Smith had turned on Suzanne the way Barbara Tompkins feared he might turn on her, if he was the one responsible for her death, then why was Jimmy Weeks so afraid of being connected to Suzanne Reardon’s murder?

  I need to know more about Smith’s relationship with Suzanne before I see him, before I know which questions to ask him, Kerry thought. That antique dealer, Jason Arnott—he might be the one to speak to. According to the notes she had found in the file, he had been just a friend but went into New York frequently with Suzanne to auctions and whatever. Perhaps Dr. Smith met them sometimes.

  She placed a call to Arnott, leaving a message requesting him to call her back. Kerry then debated about making one more call.

  It would be to Geoff, asking him to set up a second meeting at the prison with Skip Reardon.

  Only this time she would want to have both his mother and his girlfriend, Beth Taylor, there as well.

  68

  Jason Arnott had planned to stay quietly at home on Friday night and prepare a simple dinner for himself. With that in mind he had sent his twice-weekly cleaning woman shopping, and she had returned with the filet of sole, watercress, pea pods and crisp French bread he had requested. But when Amanda Coble phoned at five o’clock to invite him to dinner at the Ridgewood Country Club with Richard and her, he had accepted gladly.

  The Cobles were his kind of people—superrich but marvelously unpretentious; amusing; very, very smart. Richard was an international banker and Amanda an interior designer. Jason successfully handled his own portfolio and keenly enjoyed talking with Richard about futures and foreign markets. He knew that Richard respected his judgment and Amanda appreciated his expertise in antiques.

  He decided they would be a welcome diversion after the disquieting time he had spent in New York yesterday with Vera Todd. And in addition, he had met a number of interesting people through the Cobles. In fact, their introduction had led to a most successful forage in Palm Springs three years ago.

  He drove up to the front door of the club just as the Cobles surrendered their car to the parking valet. He was a moment behind them going through the front entrance, then waited as they greeted a distinguished-looking couple who were just leaving. He recognized the man immediately. Senator Jonathan Hoover. He’d been at a couple of political dinners where Hoover put in an appearance but they’d never met face to face.

  The woman was in a wheelchair but still managed to look regal in a deep blue dinner suit with a skirt that came to the tips of high-laced shoes. He had heard that Mrs. Hoover was disabled, but had never seen her before. With an eye that instantly absorbed the smallest detail, he noted the position of her hands, clasped together, partially concealing the swollen joints of her fingers.

  She must have been a knockout when she was young, and before all this happened, he thought as he studied the still-stunning features dominated by sapphire blue eyes.

  Amanda Coble glanced up and saw him. “Jason, you’re here.” She waved him over and made the introductions. “We’re talking about those terrible murders in Summit this morning. Both Senator Hoover and Richard knew the lawyer, Mark Young.”

  “It’s pretty clear that it was a mob hit,” Richard Coble said angrily.

  “I agree,” Jonathan Hoover said. “And so does the governor. We all know how he’s cracked down on crime these eight years, and now we need Frank Green to keep up the good work. I can tell you this: If Weeks were being tried in a state court, you can bet the attorney general would have completed the plea bargain and gotten Haskell’s testimony, and these murders never would have happened. And now Royce, the man who bungled this whole operation, wants to be governor. Well, not if I can help it!”

  “Jonathan,” Grace Hoover murmured reprovingly. “You can tell it’s an election year, can’t you, Amanda?” As they all smiled, she added, “Now we mustn’t keep you any longer.”

  “My wife has been keeping me in line since we met as college freshmen,” Jonathan Hoover explained to Jason. “Good seeing you again, Mr. Arnott.”

  “Mr. Arnott, haven’t we met before as well?” Grace Hoover asked suddenly.

  Jason felt his internal alarm system kick in. It was sending out a strong warning. “I don’t think so,” he answered slowly. I’m sure I’d have lemembered, he thought. So what makes her think we’ve met?

  “I don’t know why, but I feel as though I know you. Well, I’m sure I’m wrong. Good-bye.”

  Even though the Cobles were their usual interesting selves and the dinner was delicious, Jason spent the evening heartily wishing he had stayed home alone and cooked the filet of sole.

  When he got back to his house at ten-thirty, his day was further ruined by listening to the one message on his answering machine. It was from Kerry McGrath, who introduced herself as a Bergen County assistant prosecutor, gave her phone number, asked him to call her at home till eleven tonight or first thing in the morning. She explained that she wanted to talk to him unofficially about his late neighbor and friend, the murder victim, Suzanne Reardon.

  69

  On Friday evening, Geoff Dorso went to dinner at his parents’ home in Essex Fells. It was a command performance. Unexpectedly, his sister Marian, her husband, Don, and their two-year-old twins had come in from Boston for the weekend. His mother immediately tried to gather together her four other children, their spouses and offspring, to welcome the visitors. Friday was the only night all the others could make it at once, so Friday it would have to be.

  “So you will postpone any other plans, won’t you, Geoff?” his mother had half pleaded, half ordered when she had called him that afternoon.

  Geoff had no plans, but in the hopes of building up credit against another demand invitation, he hedged: “I’m not sure, Mom. I’ll have to rearrange something, but . . .”

  Immediately he was sorry for having chosen that tack. His mother’s voice changed to a tone of lively interest as she interrupted, “Oh, you’ve got a date, Geoff! Have you met someone nice? Don’t cancel it. Bring her along. I’d love to meet her!”

  Geoff groaned inwardly. “Actually, Mom, I was just kidding. I don’t have a date. I’ll see you around six.”

  “All right, dear.” It was clear his mother’s pleasure in his acceptance was tempered by the fact that she wasn’t about to be introduced to a potential daughter-in-law.

  As he got off the phone, Geoff admitted to himself that if this were tomorrow night, he would be tempted to suggest to Kerry that she and Robin might enjoy dinner at his parents’ home. She’d probably run for the hills, he thought.

  He found it suddenly disquieting to realize that several times during the day the thought had run through his mind that his mother would like Kerry very, very much.

  * * *

  At six o’clock he drove up to the handsome, rambling Tudor house that his parents had bought twenty-seven years ago for one-tenth of its present value. It was an ideal family home when we were growing up, he thought, and it’s an ideal family home now with all the grandchildren. He parked in front of the old carriage house that now was the residence of his youngest and still-single sister. They’d all had their turn at using the carriage house apartment after college or graduate school. He’d stayed there when he was at Columbia Law School, then for two years after that.

  We’ve had it great, he acknowledged as he breathed in the cold November air and anticipated the warmth of the inviting, brightly lighted house. His thoughts turned toward Kerry. I’m glad I’m not an only child, he said to himself. I’m grateful Dad didn’t die when I was in college and Moth
er didn’t remarry and settle a couple of thousand miles away. It couldn’t have been easy for Kerry.

  I should have called her today, he thought. Why didn’t I? I know she doesn’t want anyone hovering over her, but, on the other hand, she doesn’t really have anyone to share her worries with. She can’t protect Robin the way this family could protect one of our kids if there were a threat.

  He went up the walk and let himself into the noisy warmth, so typical when three generations of the Dorso clan gathered.

  After effusive greetings to the Boston branch and a casual hello to the siblings whom he saw regularly, Geoff managed to escape into the study with his father.

  Lined with law books and signed first editions, it was the one room off limits to exploring youngsters. Edward Dorso poured a scotch for his son and himself. Seventy years old, he was a retired attorney who had specialized in business and corporate law and once numbered among his clients several Fortune 500 companies.

  Edward had known and liked Mark Young and was anxious to hear any behind-the-scenes information about his murder that Geoff might have picked up in court.

  “I can’t tell you much, Dad,” Geoff said. “It’s hard to believe the coincidence that a mugger or muggers just happened to botch a robbery and kill Young, just when his fellow victim, Haskell, was about to plea bargain in return for testifying against Jimmy Weeks.”

  “I agree. Speaking of which, I had lunch in Trenton today with Sumner French. Something that would interest you came up. There is a planning board official in Philadelphia they’re positive gave Weeks inside information ten years ago, about a new highway being built between Philly and Lancaster. Weeks picked up some valuable property and made a huge profit selling it to developers when the plans for the highway were made public.”

  “Nothing new about inside tips,” Geoff observed. “It’s a fact of life and almost impossible to police. And frequently difficult to prove, I might add.”