Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  “Suppose he won’t talk?”

  “We’re sending flyers to all the jewelers in New Jersey, naturally concentrating on Bergen County since both Weeks and Arnott live here. My guess is that one of those jewelers will recognize the more contemporary jewelry and tie it to Weeks, and that the antique bracelet will turn out to be from Arnott. When it was found on Suzanne’s arm it obviously had a new clasp, and the bracelet is so unusual some jeweler might remember it. The more we can find to use in confronting Arnott, the easier it should be to make him try to strike a deal.”

  “Then you expect to leave early in the morning for the Catskills?”

  “Yes. I’m certainly not going to leave Robin alone in the house in the morning again, but if it turns out that Frank wants to be on the road very early, I’ll see if the sitter will stay over.”

  “I have a better idea. Let Robin stay with us tonight. I’ll drop her off at school in the morning, or, if you want, you can have that Palumbo man pick her up. Our house has state-of-the-art security. You know that. I’ll be there, of course, and I don’t know whether you realize that even Grace has a gun in her night table drawer. I taught her to use it years ago. Besides, I really think it would be good for Grace to have Robin visit. She’s been rather down lately, and Robin is such fun to have around.”

  Kerry smiled. “Yes, she is.” She thought for a moment. “Jonathan, that really could work. I really should get some work in on another case I’ll be trying, and then I want to go through the Reardon file with a fine-toothed comb to see if there’s anything more I can pick up to use when we question Arnott. I’ll call Robin when I know she’s home from school and tell her the plan. She’ll be delighted. She’s crazy about you and Grace, and she loves the pink guest room.”

  “It used to be yours, remember?”

  “Sure. How could I forget? That’s back when I was telling Grace’s cousin, the landscaper, that he was a crook.”

  92

  The extended recess over, U.S. Attorney Royce returned to court for the afternoon trial session of the United States versus James Forrest Weeks. He went secure in the knowledge that behind her timid, unassuming facade, Martha Luce had the memory of a personal computer. The damning evidence that would finally nail Jimmy Weeks was spilling from her as she responded to the gentle prodding of two of Royce’s assistants.

  Luce’s nephew/attorney, Royce admitted to himself, had possibilities. He insisted that before Martha began singing, the bargain she was striking had to be signed and witnessed. In exchange for her honest and forthright cooperation, which she would not later rescind, any possible federal or other criminal or civil charges would not be pressed against her either now or in the future.

  Martha Luce’s evidence would come later, however. The prosecution case was unfolding in a straightforward way. Today’s witness was a restaurateur who in exchange for having his lease renewed admitted to paying a five-thousand-dollar-a-month cash bonus to Jimmy’s collector.

  When it was the defense’s turn to cross-examine, Royce was kept busy jumping to his feet with objections as Bob Kinellen jabbed at the witness, catching him in small errors, forcing him to admit that he had never actually seen Weeks touch the money, that he really couldn’t be sure that the collector hadn’t been working on his own. Kinellen is good, Royce thought, too bad he’s wasting his talent on this scum.

  Royce could not know that Robert Kinellen was sharing that same thought even as he grandstanded to a receptive jury.

  93

  Jason Arnott knew there was something terribly wrong the minute he walked in the door of his Catskill home and realized that Maddie was not there.

  If Maddie’s not here and she didn’t leave a note, then something is happening. It’s all over, he thought. How long before they would close in on him? Soon, he was sure.

  Suddenly he was hungry. He rushed to the refrigerator and pulled out the smoked salmon he had asked Maddie to pick up. Then he reached for the capers and cream cheese and the package of toast points. A bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé was chilling.

  He prepared a plate of salmon and poured a glass of wine. Carrying them with him, he began to walk through the house. A kind of final tour, he thought, as he assessed the riches around him. The tapestry in the dining room—exquisite. The Aubusson in the living room—a privilege to walk on such beauty. The Chaim Gross bronze sculpture of a slender figure holding a small child in the palm of her hand. Gross had loved the mother-and-child theme. Arnott remembered that Gross’s mother and sister had died in the Holocaust.

  He would need a lawyer, of course. A good lawyer. But who? A smile made his lips twitch. He knew just the one: Geoffrey Dorso, who for ten years had so relentlessly worked for Skip Reardon. Dorso had quite a reputation and might be willing to take on a new client, especially one who could give him evidence that would help him spring poor Reardon.

  The front doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again, then continued persistently. Arnott chewed the last toast point, relishing the delicate flavor of the salmon, the pungent bite of the capers.

  The back doorbell was chiming now. Surrounded, he thought. Ah, well. He had known it would happen someday. If he had only obeyed his instincts last week and left the country. Jason sipped the last of the wine, decided another glass would be welcome and went back to the kitchen. There were faces at all the windows now, faces with the aggressive, self-satisfied look of men who have the right to exercise might.

  Arnott nodded to them and held up the glass in a mocking toast. As he sipped, he walked to the back door, opened it, then stood aside as they rushed in. “FBI, Mr. Arnott,” they shouted. “We have a warrant to search your home.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he murmured, “I beg you to be careful. There are many beautiful, even priceless objects here. You may not be used to them, but please respect them. Are your feet muddy?”

  94

  Kerry called Robin at three-thirty. She and Alison were at the computer, Robin told her, playing one of the games Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Grace had given her. Kerry told her the plan: “I have to work late tonight and be on the way by seven tomorrow. Jonathan and Grace really would like to have you stay with them, and I’d feel good knowing you’re there.”

  “Why was Mr. Palumbo parked outside our school and why did he drive me home and why is he parked outside now? Is it because I’m in really big danger?”

  Kerry tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Hate to disappoint you, but it’s just a precaution, Rob. The case is really coming to a head.”

  “Cool. I like Mr. Palumbo, and, okay, I’ll stay with Aunt Grace and Uncle Jonathan. I like them too. But what about you? Will Mr. Palumbo stay in front of the house for you?”

  “I won’t be home till late, and when I get there, the local cops will drive by every fifteen minutes or so. That’s all I need.”

  “Be careful, Mom.” For a moment, Robin’s bravado vanished, and she sounded like a frightened little girl.

  “You be careful, sweetheart. Do your homework.”

  “I will. And I’m going to ask Aunt Grace if I can pull out her old photo albums again. I love looking at the old clothes and hairstyles, and if I remember it right, they are arranged in the order they were taken. I thought I might get some ideas, since our next assignment in camera class is to create a family album so that it really tells a story.”

  “Yeah, there are some great pictures there. I used to love to go through those albums when I was house-sitting,” Kerry reminisced. “I used to count to see how many different servants Aunt Grace and Uncle Jonathan grew up with. I still think about them sometimes when I’m pushing the vacuum or folding the wash.”

  Robin giggled. “Well, hang in there. You may win the lottery someday. Love you, Mom.”

  At five-thirty, Geoff phoned from his car. “You’ll never guess where I am.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I was in court this afternoon. Jason Arnott had been trying to reach me. He left a message.”

  “Jason Arnott!” Kerry exclaimed
.

  “Yes. When I got back to him a few minutes ago, he said he has to talk to me immediately. He wants me to take his case.”

  “Would you represent him?”

  “I couldn’t because he’s connected to the Reardon case, and I wouldn’t if I could. I told him that, but he still insists on seeing me.”

  “Geoff! Don’t let him tell you anything that would have lawyer-client privilege.”

  Geoff chuckled. “Thank you, Kerry. I never would have thought of that.”

  Kerry laughed with him, then explained the arrangement she had made for Robin for the night. “I’m working late right here. When I start home I’ll let the Hohokus cops know I’m on the way. It’s all set.”

  “Now be sure you do.” His voice became firm. “The more I’ve thought about you going into Smith’s house alone last night, the more I realize what a lousy idea it was. You could have been there when he was shot, just the way Mark Young was gunned down with Haskell.”

  Geoff signed off after promising to call and report to Kerry after he had seen Arnott.

  * * *

  It was eight o’clock before Kerry had finished the work she needed to do in preparing for an upcoming case. Then once again she reached for the voluminous Reardon file.

  She looked closely at the pictures of the death scene. In his letter, Dr. Smith had described entering the house that night and finding Suzanne’s body. Kerry closed her eyes at the awful prospect of ever finding Robin like that. Smith said he had deliberately removed the “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” card because he was so sure Skip had murdered Suzanne in a fit of jealous rage, and he didn’t want him to escape maximum punishment, to get off with a reduced sentence.

  She believed what Smith had written—most people don’t lie when they plan to kill themselves, she reasoned. And what Dr. Smith had written also supports Skip Reardon’s story. So now, Kerry thought, the murderer is the man who visited that house between the time Skip left at around six-thirty, and when the doctor arrived at around nine o’clock.

  Jason Arnott? Jimmy Weeks? Which one had killed Suzanne? she wondered.

  At nine-thirty Kerry closed the file. She hadn’t come up with any new angles in her plan to question Arnott tomorrow. If I were in his boots, she thought, I’d claim that Suzanne gave me the picture frame that last day because she was afraid a couple of pearls were getting loose and wanted me to have it fixed. Then, when she was found dead, I didn’t want to become involved in a murder investigation, so I kept the frame.

  A story like that could easily hold up in court because it was entirely plausible. The jewelry, however, was a different story. It all came back to the jewelry. If she could prove that Arnott gave Suzanne those valuable antique pieces, there was no way he could get away with saying it was a gift of pure friendship.

  At ten o’clock she left the now-quiet office and went into the parking lot. Realizing suddenly that she was starving, she drove to the Arena diner around the corner and had a hamburger, french fries and coffee.

  Substitute a cola for the coffee, and you have Robin’s favorite meal, she thought, sighing inwardly. I have to say I miss my baby.

  The momma and the baby . . .

  The momma and the baby . . .

  Why did that singsong phrase keep echoing in her head? she wondered again. Something about it seemed wrong, so terribly wrong. But what was it?

  She should have called and said good night to Robin before she left her office, she realized suddenly. Why hadn’t she? Kerry ate quickly and got back in the car. It was twenty of eleven, much too late to call. She was just pulling out of the lot when the car phone rang. It was Jonathan.

  “Kerry,” he said, his voice low and taut, “Robin is in with Grace. She doesn’t know I’m calling. She didn’t want me to worry you. But after she fell asleep she had a terrible nightmare. I really think you should come over. So much has been going on. She needs you.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Kerry switched the turn signal from the right to the left one, pressed her foot on the accelerator and rushed to get to her child.

  95

  It was a long and miserable ride from New Jersey up the thruway to the Catskills. An icy rain began falling around Middletown, and traffic slowed to a crawl. An overturned tractor trailer that blocked all lanes caused an extra hour to be added to the already torturous trip.

  It was a quarter of ten before a tired and hungry Geoff Dorso arrived at the Ellenville police headquarters, where Jason Arnott was being held. A team of FBI agents was waiting to question Arnott as soon as he had had the chance to speak to Geoff.

  “You’re wasting your time waiting for me,” Geoff had told them. “I can’t be his lawyer. Didn’t he tell you that?”

  A handcuffed Arnott was escorted into the conference room. Geoff had not seen the man in the nearly eleven years since Suzanne’s death. At that time, he had been considered to have a relationship with Suzanne Reardon that combined friendship and business. No one, including Skip, ever suspected that he had any other interest in her.

  Now Geoff studied the man closely. Arnott was somewhat more full-faced than Geoff remembered, but he still had that same urbane, world-weary expression. The lines around his eyes suggested deep fatigue, but the turtleneck cashmere shirt still looked fresh under his tweed jacket. Country gentleman, cultivated connoisseur, Geoff thought. Even in these circumstances, he certainly looks the part.

  “It’s good of you to come, Geoff,” Arnott said amiably.

  “I really don’t know why I’m here,” Geoff replied. “As I warned you on the phone, you are now connected to the Reardon case. My client is Skip Reardon. I can tell you that nothing you may say to me is a privileged communication. You’ve had your Miranda warning. I am not your lawyer. I will repeat anything you say to the prosecutor, because I intend to try to place you in the Reardon house the night of Suzanne’s death.”

  “Oh, I was there. That’s why I sent for you. Don’t worry. That isn’t privileged information. I intend to admit it. I asked you here because I can be a witness for Skip. But in exchange, once he is cleared, I want you to represent me. There won’t be any conflict of interest then.”

  “Look, I’m not going to represent you,” Geoff said flatly. “I’ve spent ten years of my life representing an innocent man who got sent to prison. If you either killed Suzanne, or know who did, and you let Skip rot in that cell all this time, I’d burn in hell before I would raise a finger to help you.”

  “You see, now that’s the kind of determination I want to hire.” Arnott sighed. “Very well. Let’s try it this way. You’re a criminal defense attorney. You know who the good ones are whether they’re from New Jersey or elsewhere. You promise to find me the best attorney money can buy, and I’ll tell you what I know of Suzanne Reardon’s death—which, incidentally, I am not responsible for.”

  Geoff stared at the man for a moment, considering his offer. “Okay, but before we say another word, I want to have a signed and witnessed statement that any information you give me will not be privileged, and that I can use it in whatever way I see fit to assist Skip Reardon.”

  “Of course.”

  The FBI agents had a stenotypist with them. She took down Arnott’s brief statement. When he and a couple of witnesses had signed it, he said, “It is late and it has been a long day. Have you been thinking about what lawyer I should have?”

  “Yes,” Geoff said. “George Symonds, from Trenton. He’s an excellent trial lawyer and a superb negotiator.”

  “They’re going to try to convict me of deliberate murder in the death of Mrs. Peale. I swear it was an accident.”

  “If there’s a way to get it down to felony murder, he’ll find it. At least you wouldn’t face the death penalty.”

  “Call him now.”

  Geoff knew that Symonds lived in Princeton, having once been invited to dinner at his home. He also remembered that the Symonds phone was listed in his wife’s name. Using his cellular phone, he made the call in Arnott’
s presence. It was ten-thirty.

  Ten minutes later, Geoff put the phone back. “All right, you’ve got a top-drawer lawyer. Now talk.”

  “I had the misfortune to be in the Reardon house at the time Suzanne died,” Arnott said, his manner suddenly grave. “Suzanne was so wildly careless of her jewelry, some of which was quite beautiful, that the temptation proved too great. I knew Skip was supposed to be in Pennsylvania on business, and Suzanne had told me she had a date with Jimmy Weeks that evening. You know, odd as it may seem, she really had quite a crush on him.”

  “Was he in the house while you were there?”

  Arnott shook his head. “No, the way they had arranged it, she was to drive to the shopping mall in Pearl River, leave her car there and join him in his limo. As I understood it, she was meeting Jimmy early that night. Obviously I was wrong. There were a few lights on downstairs when I got to Suzanne’s house, but that was normal. They came on automatically. From the back I could see that the windows of the master bedroom were wide open. It was child’s play to climb up, since the second-story roof of that very modern house slopes almost to the ground.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Precisely eight o’clock. I was on my way to a dinner party in Cresskill; one of the reasons for my long and successful career is that almost invariably I could furnish an impeccable set of witnesses as to my whereabouts on particular nights.”

  “You went into the house . . . ,” Geoff encouraged.

  “Yes. There wasn’t a sound, so I assumed everyone was away as planned. I had no idea that Suzanne was still downstairs. I went through the sitting room of the suite, then into the bedroom and over to the night table. I’d only seen the picture frame in passing and had never been sure if it was a genuine Fabergé; obviously I had never wanted to seem too interested in it. I picked it up and was studying it when I heard Suzanne’s voice. She was shouting at someone. It was quite disconcerting.”