Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  “Why not the bracelet?”

  “While I was waiting for you this morning, I looked at the pictures taken of the body before it was moved. Suzanne had a gold link bracelet on her left hand. You can see it in the picture. The diamond bracelet, which was on the other arm, doesn’t show. I checked the records. It was pushed up on her arm under the sleeve of her blouse so that it wasn’t visible. According to the medical examiner’s report it had a new and very tight security clasp. She may have shoved the bracelet out of sight because she had changed her mind about wearing it and was having trouble getting it off, or she may have been aware that her attacker had come to retrieve it, probably because it was a gift from him, and she may have been hiding it. Whatever the reason, it worked, because he didn’t find it.”

  While they waited for Morgan to call back, Green and Kerry worked together to prepare a flyer, with pictures of the jewelry in question, that would be distributed to New Jersey jewelers.

  At one point Frank observed, “Kerry, you do realize that if Mrs. Hoover’s hunch works out, it means that a tip from our state senator’s wife will have caught the murderer of Congressman Peale’s mother. Then if Arnott is tied to the Reardon case . . .”

  Frank Green, gubernatorial candidate, Kerry thought. He’s already figuring how to sugarcoat having convicted an innocent man! Well, that’s politics, I guess, she told herself.

  88

  Maddie Piatt was not aware of the car that followed her when she stopped at the market and did the shopping, carefully gathering all the items she had been instructed to get. Nor did she notice it continued to follow her when she drove farther out of Ellenville, down narrow, winding roads to the rambling country house owned by the man she knew as Nigel Grey.

  She let herself in and ten minutes later was startled when the doorbell rang. Nobody ever dropped in at this house. Furthermore, Mr. Grey had given her strict orders never to admit anyone. She was not about to open the door without knowing who it was.

  When she peeked out the side window she saw the neatly dressed man standing on the top step. He saw her and held up a badge identifying him as an FBI agent. “FBI, ma’am. Would you please open the door so I can talk to you?”

  Nervously, Maddie opened the door. Now she stood inches from the badge showing the unmistakable FBI seal and identifying picture of the agent.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m FBI agent Milton Rose. I don’t mean to startle or upset you, but it’s very important that I speak with you about Mr. Jason Arnott. You are his housekeeper, aren’t you?”

  “Sir, I don’t know any Mr. Arnott. This house is owned by Mr. Nigel Grey, and I’ve worked for him for many years. He’s due here this afternoon, in fact he should be here shortly. And I can tell you right now—I am under strict orders not to ever let anyone in this house without his permission.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not asking to come in. I don’t have a search warrant. But I still need to talk to you. Your Mr. Grey is really Jason Arnott, whom we suspect has been responsible for dozens of burglaries involving fine art and other valuable items. He might even be responsible for the murder of a congressman’s elderly mother, who may have surprised him during the burglary of her home.”

  “Oh my God,” Maddie gasped. Certainly Mr. Grey had always been completely a loner here, but she had just assumed that this Catskill home was where he escaped to for privacy and relaxation. She now realized that he might well have been “escaping” here for very different reasons.

  Agent Rose went on to describe to her many of the stolen pieces of art and other items that had disappeared from homes where Arnott had previously attended social functions. Sadly, she confirmed that virtually all of these items were in this house. And, yes, the miniature oval blue frame encrusted with seed pearls, with a woman’s picture in it, was on his night table.

  “Ma’am, we know that he will be here soon. I must ask you to come with us. I’m sure you didn’t know what was happening, and you’re not in any trouble. But we are going to make a telephone application for a search warrant so that we can search Mr. Arnott’s home and arrest him.”

  Gently, Agent Rose led the bewildered Maddie to the waiting car. “I can’t believe this,” she cried. “I just didn’t know.”

  89

  At twelve-thirty, a frightened Martha Luce, who for twenty years had been bookkeeper to James Forrest Weeks, sat twisting a damp handkerchief as she cowered in the office of U.S. Attorney Brandon Royce.

  The sworn statement she had given to Royce months ago had just been read back to her.

  “Do you stand by what you told us that day?” Royce asked as he tapped the papers in his hand.

  “I told the truth as far as I knew it to be the truth,” Martha told him, her voice barely above a whisper. She cast a nervous sidelong glance at the stenotypist and then at her nephew, a young attorney, whom she had called in a panic when she learned of the successful search of Barney Haskell’s home.

  Royce leaned forward. “Miss Luce, I cannot emphasize strongly enough how very serious your position is. If you continue to lie under oath, you do so at your own peril. We have enough to bury Jimmy Weeks. I’ll lay out my cards. Since Barney Haskell has unfortunately been so abruptly taken from us, it will be helpful to have you as a living witness”—he emphasized the word “living”—“to corroborate the accuracy of his records. If you do not, we will still convict Jimmy Weeks, but then, Miss Luce, we will turn our full attention to you. Perjury is a very serious offense. Obstructing justice is a very serious offense. Aiding and abetting income tax evasion is a very serious offense.”

  Martha Luce’s always timid face crumbled. She began to sob. Tears that immediately reddened her pale blue eyes welled and flowed. “Mr. Weeks paid every single bill when Mama was sick for such a long time.”

  “That’s nice,” Royce said. “But he did it with taxpayers’ money.”

  “My client has a right to remain silent,” the nephew/attorney piped up.

  Royce gave him a withering glance. “We’ve already established that, counselor. You might also advise your client that we’re not crazy about putting middle-aged women with misguided loyalties in prison. We’re prepared, this one—and only this one—time, to offer total immunity to your client in exchange for full cooperation. After that, she’s on her own. But you remind your client”—here Royce’s voice was heavy with sarcasm—“that Barney Haskell waited so long to accept a plea bargain offer that he never got to take it.”

  “Total immunity?” the nephew/lawyer asked.

  “Total, and we’ll immediately put Ms. Luce in protective custody. We don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  “Aunt Martha . . . ,” the young man began, his voice cracking.

  She stopped sniffling. “I know, dear. Mr. Royce, perhaps I always suspected that Mr. Weeks . . .”

  90

  The news that a cache had been found in a hidden safe in Barney Haskell’s summer home was, to Bob Kinellen, the death knell of any hope of getting Jimmy Weeks an acquittal. Even Kinellen’s father-in-law, the usually unruffleable Anthony Bartlett, was clearly beginning to concede the inevitable.

  On this Tuesday morning, U.S. Attorney Royce had requested and been granted that the lunch recess be extended an hour. Bob suspected what that maneuver meant. Martha Luce, a defense witness, and one of their most believable because of her timid, earnest demeanor, was being leaned on.

  If Haskell had made a copy of the books he had kept, Luce’s testimony swearing to the accuracy of Jimmy’s records was probably being held as a weapon over her head.

  If Martha Luce turned prosecution witness in exchange for immunity, it was all over.

  Bob Kinellen sat silently looking at every possible thing in the room other than his client. He felt a terrible weariness, like a weight crushing him, and he wondered at what moment it had invaded him. Thinking back over the recent days, he suddenly knew. It was when I delivered a threat concerning my own child, he said to himself. For eleven years he had b
een able to keep to the letter of the law. Jimmy Weeks had the right to a defense, and his job was to keep Jimmy from getting indicted. He did it by legal means. If other means were also being used, he did not know nor did he want to know about them.

  But in this trial he had become part of the process of circumventing the law. Weeks had just told him the reason he’d insisted on having Mrs. Wagner on the jury: She had a father in prison in California. Thirty years ago he had murdered an entire family of campers in Yosemite National Park. He knew he intended to hold back the information that juror Wagner had a father in prison and make that part of Weeks’ appeal. He knew, too, that was unethical. Skating on thin ice was over. He had gone beyond that. The burning shame he had felt when he heard Robin’s stricken cry as he struggled with Kerry still seared him. How had Kerry explained that to Robin? Your father was passing along a threat his client made about you? Your father’s client was the man who ordered some bum to terrify you last week?

  Jimmy Weeks was terrified of prison. The prospect of being locked up was unbearable to him. He would do anything to avoid it.

  It was obvious that Jimmy was wildly upset. They had lunch in a private room of a restaurant a few miles from the courtroom. After the orders were taken, Jimmy said abruptly, “I don’t want any talk about plea bargaining from you two. Understand?”

  Bartlett and Kinellen waited without responding.

  “In the jury room, I don’t think we can count on the wimp with the sick wife not to buckle.”

  I could have told you that, Bob thought. He didn’t want to discuss any of this. If his client had tampered with that juror, it was without his knowledge, he reassured himself. And Haskell was the victim of a mugging, an interior voice mocked.

  “Bobby, my sources tell me the sheriff’s officer in charge of the jury owes you a favor,” Weeks said.

  “What are you talking about, Jimmy?” Bob Kinellen toyed with his salad fork.

  “You know what I’m talking about. You got his kid out of trouble, big trouble. He’s grateful.”

  “And?”

  “Bobby, I think the sheriff’s officer has to let that prune-face, uptight Wagner dame know that her daddy, the murderer, is going to make big headlines unless she comes up with some reasonable doubt when this case goes to the jury.”

  Lie down with dogs and you’ll get up with fleas. Kerry had told him that before Robin was born.

  “Jimmy, we already have grounds for a new trial because she didn’t reveal that fact. That’s our ace in the hole. We don’t need to take it any further.” Bob shot a glance at his father-in-law. “Anthony and I are sticking our necks out by not reporting that to the court as it is. We can get away with claiming that it only came to our attention after the trial was over. Even if you’re convicted you’ll be out on bail, and then we delay and delay and delay.”

  “Not good enough, Bobby. This time you’ve got to put yourself on the line. Have a friendly chat with the sheriffs officer. He’ll listen. He’ll talk to the lady who already is in trouble for lying on her questionnaire. Then we have a hung jury, if not an acquittal. And then we delay and delay and delay while you two figure out a way to make sure we get an acquittal next time.”

  The waiter returned with their appetizers. Bob Kinellen had ordered the escargots, a specialty here that he thoroughly enjoyed. It was only when he finished and the waiter was removing the plate that he realized he hadn’t tasted a thing. Jimmy isn’t the only one who’s being backed into a corner, he thought.

  I’m right there with him.

  91

  Kerry went back to her office after the call from Si Morgan came through. She was now convinced that Arnott was irrevocably tied in some way to Suzanne Reardon’s death. Just how, though, would have to wait until he was in FBI custody and she and Frank Green had had a chance to interrogate him.

  There was a pile of messages on her desk, one of which, from Jonathan, was marked “Urgent.” He had left his private number at his local office. She called him immediately.

  “Thanks for calling back, Kerry. I have to come over to Hackensack and I want to talk to you. Buy you lunch?”

  A few weeks ago, he had started the conversation with “Buy you lunch, Judge?”

  Kerry knew the omission today was not accidental. Jonathan played it straight. If the political fallout from her investigation cost Frank Green the nomination, she would have to forget about a judgeship, no matter how justified she had been. That was politics, and besides, there were plenty of other highly qualified people panting for the job.

  “Of course, Jonathan.”

  “Solari’s at one-thirty.”

  She was sure she knew why he was calling. He had heard about Dr. Smith and was worried about her and Robin.

  She dialed Geoff’s office. He was having a sandwich at his desk.

  “I’m glad I’m sitting down,” he told her when she filled him in about Arnott.

  “The FBI will be photographing and cataloguing everything they find in the Catskill house. Morgan said the decision hasn’t been made whether to move everything into a warehouse or to just invite the people who’ve been robbed to come and identify their stuff right at that site. However they do it, when Green and I go up to talk to Arnott we want Mrs. Reardon along to positively identify the picture frame.”

  “I’ll ask her to postpone going in for the angioplasty for a few days. Kerry, one of our associates was in federal court this morning. He tells me that Royce requested an extra hour for the lunch break. The word is that he may be offering immunity to Jimmy Weeks’ bookkeeper. He’s not going to take a chance on losing another prize witness by playing hardball.”

  “It’s coming to a head, then?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you called Skip about Smith’s letter?”

  “Right after I talked to you.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He started to cry.” Geoff’s voice became husky. “I did too. He’s going to get out, Kerry, and you’re the reason.”

  “No, you’re wrong. You and Robin are. I was ready to turn my back on him.”

  “We’ll argue about that another time. Kerry, Deidre Reardon’s on the other phone. I’ve been trying to reach her. I’ll talk to you later. I don’t want you and Robin alone in your place tonight.”

  Before Kerry left to meet Jonathan, she dialed Joe Palumbo’s cellular phone. He answered on the first ring. “Palumbo.”

  “It’s Kerry, Joe.”

  “Recess is over. Robin is back inside. I’m parked in front of the main entrance, which is the only unlocked door. I’ll drive her home and stay with her and the sitter.” He paused. “Don’t worry, Momma. I’ll take good care of your baby.”

  “I know you will. Thanks, Joe.”

  It was time to meet Jonathan. As she hurried out to the corridor and rushed through the just-closing elevator door, Kerry kept thinking about the missing pin. Something about it seemed so familiar. The two parts. The flower and the bud, like a mother and child. A momma and a baby . . . why did that seem to ring a bell? she wondered.

  Jonathan was already seated at the table, sipping a club soda. He got up when he saw her coming. His brief, familiar hug was reassuring. “You look very tired, young lady,” he said. “Or is it very stressed?”

  Whenever he talked to her like that, Kerry felt the remembered warmth of the days when her father was alive and felt a rush of gratitude that Jonathan in so many ways had been a surrogate father to her.

  “It’s been quite a day so far,” she said as she sat down. “Did you hear about Dr. Smith?”

  “Grace called me. She heard the news when she was having breakfast at ten o’clock. Sounds like more of Weeks’ handiwork. We’re both heartsick with worry about Robin.”

  “So am I. But Joe Palumbo, one of our investigators, is outside her school. He’ll stay with her till I get home.”

  The waiter was at the table. “Let’s order,” Kerry suggested, “and then I’ll fill you in.”
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  They both decided on onion soup, which arrived almost immediately. While they were eating, she told him about the Federal Express package with all the jewelry and the letter from Dr. Smith.

  “You make me ashamed that I tried to dissuade you from your investigation, Kerry,” Jonathan said quietly. “I’ll do my best, but if the governor decides Green’s nomination is in jeopardy, it would be like him to take it out on you.”

  “Well, at least there’s hope,” Kerry said. “And we can thank Grace for the tip she gave the FBI.” She told him what she had learned about Jason Arnott. “I can see where Frank Green is already planning to defuse negative publicity about Skip Reardon being unfairly prosecuted. He’s dying to announce that the cat burglar who murdered Congressman Peale’s mother was captured because of a tip from the wife of Senator Hoover. You’re going to come out of this as his best friend, and who can blame him? God knows you’re probably the most respected politician in New Jersey.”

  Jonathan smiled. “We can always stretch the truth and say that Grace consulted Green first and he urged her to make the call.” Then the smile vanished. “Kerry, how does Arnott’s possible guilt in the Reardon case affect Robin? Is there a possibility that Arnott is the one who took that picture of her and sent it to you?”

  “No way. Robin’s own father passed along the warning and in essence admitted that Jimmy Weeks had that picture taken.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “Probably that Frank Green and I will bring Deidre Reardon up to the Catskills first thing tomorrow morning to positively identify that miniature frame. Arnott should be being cuffed right about now. They’ll keep him in the local jail, at least for the present. Then, once they start connecting the stolen goods to specific burglaries, they’ll begin arraigning him in different locations. My guess is they’re itching to try him first for the murder of Congressman Peale’s mother. And, of course, if he was responsible for Suzanne Reardon’s death, we’ll want to try him here.”