Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  There was no question that Green was already preparing for the gubernatorial campaign. The media coverage accorded his office was building, and the attention he was paying to his wardrobe was obvious to everyone. An editorial had said that since the present governor had served so well for two terms and Green was his handpicked successor, it seemed very likely that he would be chosen to lead the state.

  After that editorial appeared, Green became known to his staff as “Our Leader.”

  Kerry admired his legal skills and efficiency. He ran a tight, solid ship. Her reservation about him was that several times in these ten years he had let an assistant who had made an honest mistake hang out to dry. Green’s first loyalty was to himself.

  She knew her possible nomination for a judgeship had increased her stature in his eyes. “Looks like the two of us will be going on to greater things,” he had told her in a rare burst of exuberance and camaraderie.

  Now he said, “Come in, Kerry. I just wanted to hear personally from you about how Robin is doing. When I learned that you had asked the judge to recess the trial yesterday, I was concerned.”

  She briefly told him about the checkup, reassuring him that all was under control.

  “Robin was with her father at the time of the accident, wasn’t she?” he asked.

  “Yes. Bob was driving.”

  “Your ex may be running out of luck. I don’t think he’s going to get Weeks off this time. The word is they’re going to nail him, and I hope they do. He’s a crook and maybe worse.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “I’m glad Robin’s coming along okay, and I know you are on top of things. You’re cross-examining the defendant today, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Knowing you, I’m almost sorry for him. Good luck.”

  Monday, October 23rd

  9

  It was almost two weeks later, and Kerry was still basking in the satisfaction of the now concluded trial. She had gotten her murder conviction. At least the sons of the murdered woman would not have to grow up knowing that their mother’s killer would be walking the streets in five or six years. That would have happened if the jury had fallen for the manslaughter defense. Murder carried a mandatory thirty-year sentence, without parole.

  Now, once again seated in the reception area of Dr. Smith’s office, she opened her ever-present briefcase and pulled out a newspaper. This was Robin’s second checkup and should be fairly routine, so she could relax. Besides, she was anxious to read the latest about the Jimmy Weeks trial.

  As Frank Green had predicted, the consensus was that it would not go well for the defendant. Previous investigations for bribery, inside trading and money laundering had been dropped for lack of sufficient evidence. But this time the prosecutor was said to have an airtight case. If it ever actually got started, that is. The jury selection had been going on for several weeks, and there seemed to be no end in sight. It no doubt makes Bartlett and Kinellen happy, she thought, to have all these billable hours piling up.

  Bob had introduced Kerry to Jimmy Weeks once, when she had bumped into them in a restaurant. Now she studied his picture as he sat with her ex-husband at the defense table. Take away that custom-tailored suit and phony air of sophistication, and underneath you’ve got a thug, she thought.

  In the picture, Bob’s arm was draped protectively around the back of Weeks’ chair. Their heads were close together. Kerry remembered how Bob used to practice that gesture.

  She scanned the article, then dropped the newspaper back into her briefcase. Shaking her head, she remembered how appalled she had been when, shortly after Robin was born, Bob had told her he had accepted a job with Bartlett and Associates.

  “All their clients have one foot in jail,” she had protested. “And the other foot should be there.”

  “And they pay their bills on time,” Bob had replied. “Kerry, you stay in the prosecutor’s office if you want. I have other plans.”

  A year later he had announced that those plans included marrying Alice Bartlett.

  Ancient history, Kerry told herself now as she looked around the waiting room. Today the other occupants were an athletic-looking teenage boy with a bandage across his nose and an older woman whose deeply wrinkled skin suggested the reason for her presence.

  Kerry glanced at her watch. Robin had told her that last week she had waited in the examining room for half an hour. “I wish I’d brought a book with me,” she had said. This time she’d made sure she had one.

  I wish to God that Dr. Smith would set realistic appointment times, Kerry thought with irritation as she glanced in the direction of the examining rooms, the door to which was just opening.

  Immediately, Kerry froze, and her glance became a stare. The young woman who emerged had a face framed by a cloud of dark hair, a straight nose, pouty lips, wide-set eyes, arched brows. Kerry felt her throat constrict. It wasn’t the same woman she had seen last time—but it looked like her. Could the two be related? If they were patients, surely Dr. Smith couldn’t be trying to make them look alike, she thought.

  And why did that face remind her so much of someone else that it had brought on a nightmare? She shook her head, unable to come up with an answer.

  She looked again at the others seated in the tiny waiting room. The boy had obviously had an accident and probably had broken his nose. But was the older woman here for something as routine as a face-lift, or was she hoping to have a totally different appearance?

  What would it be like to look into the mirror and find a stranger’s face staring back at you? Kerry wondered. Can you just pick a look that you want? Was it that simple?

  “Ms. McGrath.”

  Kerry turned to see Mrs. Carpenter, the nurse, beckoning to her to come to the examining rooms.

  Kerry hurried to follow her. Last visit she had asked the receptionist about the woman she had seen there and been told her name was Barbara Tompkins. Now she could ask the nurse about this other woman. “That young woman who just left, she looked familiar,” Kerry said. “What is her name?”

  “Pamela Worth,” Mrs. Carpenter said shortly. “Here we are.”

  She found Robin seated across the desk from the doctor, her hands folded in her lap, her posture unusually straight. Kerry saw the look of relief on her daughter’s face when she turned and their eyes met.

  The doctor nodded to her and with a gesture indicated that she should take the chair next to Robin. “I have gone over with Robin the follow-up care I want her to take to insure that nothing impedes the healing process. She wants to continue to play soccer, but she must promise to wear a face mask for the rest of the season. We must not risk the slightest possibility of those lacerations being reopened. I expect that by the end of six months they’ll no longer be visible.”

  His expression became intense. “I’ve already explained to Robin that many people come to me seeking the kind of beauty that was freely given to her. It is her duty to safeguard it. I see from the file that you are divorced. Robin told me her father was driving the car at the time of the accident. I urge you to warn him to take better care of his daughter. She is irreplaceable.”

  * * *

  On the way home, at Robin’s request, they stopped to have dinner at Valentino’s in Park Ridge. “I like the shrimp there,” Robin explained. But when they were settled at a table, she looked around and said, “Daddy brought me here once. He says it’s the best.” Her voice was wistful.

  So that’s why this is the restaurant of choice, Kerry thought. Since the accident. Bob had phoned Robin only once, and that had been during school hours. The message on the answering machine was that he guessed she was in school and that must mean she was doing great. There was no suggestion she return his call. Be fair, Kerry told herself. He did check with me at the office, and he knows that Dr. Smith said she is going to be okay. But that was two weeks ago. Since then, silence.

  The waiter arrived to take their orders. When they were alone again, Robin said, “Mom, I don’t want to go back to D
r. Smith anymore. He’s creepy.”

  Kerry’s heart sank. It was exactly what she had been thinking. And her next thought was that she only had his word that the angry red lines on Robin’s face would disappear. I’ve got to have someone else check her out, she thought. Trying to sound matter-of-fact, she said, “Oh, I guess Dr. Smith is all right, even if he does have the personality of a wet noodle.” She was rewarded by Robin’s grin.

  “Even so,” she continued, “he doesn’t want to see you for another month, and after that, maybe not at all, so don’t worry about him. It’s not his fault he was born without charm.”

  Robin laughed. “Forget the charm. He’s a major creep.”

  When the food arrived, they sampled each other’s choices and gossiped. Robin had a passion for photography and was taking a basic course in technique. Her present assignment was to capture the autumn leaves in transition. “I showed you the great shots I got of them just as they started to turn, Mom. I know the ones I took this week with the colors at peak are terrific.”

  “Sight unseen?” Kerry murmured.

  “Uh-huh. Now I can’t wait till they get dried up and then a good storm starts scattering everything. Won’t that be great?”

  “Nothing like a good storm scattering everything,” Kerry agreed.

  They decided to skip dessert. The waiter had just returned Kerry’s credit card when she heard Robin gasp. “What is it, Rob?”

  “Daddy’s here. He sees us.” Robin jumped up.

  “Wait, Rob, let him come over to you,” Kerry said quietly. She turned. Accompanied by another man, Bob was following the maître d’. Kerry’s eyes widened. The other man was Jimmy Weeks.

  As usual, Bob looked stunning. Even a long day in court did not leave a sign of fatigue on his handsome face. Never a wrinkle or a rumple about you, Kerry thought, aware that in Bob’s presence she always had the impulse to check her makeup, smooth her hair, straighten her jacket.

  On the other hand, Robin looked ecstatic. Happily she returned Bob’s hug. “I’m sorry I missed your call, Daddy.”

  Oh, Robin, Kerry thought. Then she realized that Jimmy Weeks was looking down at her. “I met you here last year,” he said. “You were having dinner with a couple of judges. Glad to see you again, Mrs. Kinellen.”

  “I dropped that name a long time ago. It’s back to McGrath. But you do have a good memory, Mr. Weeks.” Kerry’s tone was impersonal. She certainly wasn’t going to say she was glad to see the man.

  “You bet I have a good memory.” Weeks’ smile made the remark seem like a joke. “It helps when you’re remembering a very attractive woman.”

  Spare me, Kerry thought, smiling tightly. She turned from him as Bob released Robin. Now he stretched out his hand to her.

  “Kerry, what a nice surprise.”

  “It’s usually a surprise when we see you. Bob.”

  “Mom,” Robin implored.

  Kerry bit her lip. She hated herself when she jabbed at Bob in front of their daughter. She forced a smile. “We’re just leaving.”

  * * *

  When they were settled at their table and their drink orders taken, Jimmy Weeks observed, “Your ex-wife sure doesn’t like you much, Bobby.”

  Kinellen shrugged. “Kerry should lighten up. She takes everything too seriously. We married too young. We broke up. It happens every day. I wish she’d meet someone else.”

  “What happened to your kid’s face?”

  “Flying glass in a fender bender. She’ll be fine.”

  “Did you make sure she had a good plastic surgeon?”

  “Yes, he was highly recommended. What do you feel like eating, Jimmy?”

  “What’s the doctor’s name? Maybe he’s the same one my wife went to.”

  Bob Kinellen seethed inwardly. He cursed the lousy luck of meeting Kerry and Robin and having Jimmy ask about the accident. “It’s Charles Smith,” he said finally.

  “Charles Smith?” Weeks’ voice was startled. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Well, I hear he’s retiring soon. He’s got big-time health problems.”

  Kinellen looked startled. “How do you know that?”

  Jimmy W. looked at him coldly. “I keep tabs on him. You figure out why. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  10

  That night the dream returned. Again, Kerry was standing in a doctor’s office. A young woman was lying on the floor, a cord knotted around her neck, her dark hair framing a face with wide unfocused eyes, a mouth open as though gasping for breath, the tip of a pink tongue protruding.

  In her dream, Kerry tried to scream, but only a moaning protest came from her lips. A moment later Robin was shaking her awake. “Mom. Mom, wake up. What’s wrong?”

  Kerry opened her eyes, “What. Oh my God, Rob, what a rotten nightmare. Thanks.”

  But when Robin had returned to her room, Kerry lay awake, pondering the dream. What was triggering it? she wondered. Why was it different from the last time?

  This time there had been flowers scattered over the woman’s body. Roses. Sweetheart roses.

  She sat up suddenly. That was it! That was what she had been trying to remember! In Dr. Smith’s office, the woman today, and the woman a couple of weeks ago, the ones who had resembled each other so closely. She knew now why they seemed so familiar. She knew who they looked like.

  Suzanne Reardon, the victim in the Sweetheart Murder Case. It had been nearly eleven years ago that she had been murdered by her husband. It had gotten a lot of press attention, crime of passion and roses scattered over the beautiful victim.

  The day I started in the prosecutor’s office was the day the jury found the husband guilty, Kerry thought. The papers had been plastered with pictures of Suzanne. I’m sure I’m right, she told herself. I sat in at the sentencing. It made such an impression on me. But why in the name of God would two of Dr. Smith’s patients be look-alikes for a murder victim?

  11

  Pamela Worth had been a mistake. That thought kept Dr. Charles Smith sleepless virtually all Monday night. Even the beauty of her newly sculpted face could not compensate for her graceless posture, her harsh, loud voice.

  I should have known right away, he thought. And, in fact, he had known. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. Her bone structure made her a ridiculously easy candidate for such a transformation. And feeling that transformation take place under his fingers had made it possible for him to relive something of the excitement of the way it had been that first time.

  What would he do when it wasn’t possible to operate anymore? he wondered. That time was rapidly approaching. The slight hand tremor that irritated now would become more pronounced. Irritation would yield to incapacity.

  He switched on the light, not the one beside his bed, but the one that illuminated the picture on the wall opposite him. He looked at it each night before he fell asleep. She was so beautiful. But now, without his glasses, the woman in the picture became twisted and distorted, as she had looked in death.

  “Suzanne,” he murmured. Then, as the pain of memory engulfed him, he threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the image. He could not bear to remember how she had looked then, robbed of her beauty, her eyes bulging, the tip of her tongue protruding over her slack lower lip and drooping jaw . . .

  Tuesday, October 24th

  12

  On Tuesday morning, the first thing Kerry did when she got to her office was to phone Jonathan Hoover.

  As always, it was comforting to hear his voice. She got right to the point. “Jonathan, Robin had her checkup in New York yesterday, and everything seems to be fine, but I’d be a lot more comfortable with a second opinion, if another plastic surgeon concurred with Dr. Smith that there won’t be any scarring. Do you know anyone who’s good?”

  Jonathan’s voice had a smile. “Not by personal experience.”

  “You certainly never needed it.”

  “Thank you, Kerry. Let me make some inquiries. Gr
ace and I both thought you should get a second opinion, but we didn’t want to interfere. Did something happen yesterday that made you decide on this?”

  “Yes and no. I have someone coming in right now. I’ll tell you about it when I see you next.”

  “I’ll get back to you with a name this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Jonathan.”

  “You’re welcome, Your Honor.”

  “Jonathan, don’t say that. You’ll jinx me.”

  As the phone clicked, she heard him chuckle.

  Her first appointment that morning was with Corinne Banks, the assistant to whom, as trial chief, she had assigned a vehicular homicide case. It was on the court calendar for next Monday, and Corinne wanted to review some aspects of the prosecution she intended to present.

  Corinne, a young black woman of twenty-seven, had the makings of a top-drawer trial lawyer, Kerry thought. A tap at the door, and Corinne came in, a large file under her arm. She was wreathed in smiles. “Guess what Joe dug up,” she said happily.

  Joe Palumbo was one of their best investigators.

  Kerry grinned. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Our oh-so-innocent defendant who claimed he never was involved in another accident has a real problem. Under a phony driver’s license, he has a string of serious traffic violations, including another death by auto fifteen years ago. I can’t wait to nail that guy, and now I’m confident that we can.” She laid down the file and opened it. “Anyhow, this is what I wanted to talk about . . .”

  Twenty minutes later, after Corinne left, Kerry reached for the phone. Corinne’s mention of the investigator had given her an idea.

  When Joe Palumbo answered with his usual “Yup,” Kerry asked, “Joe, have you got lunch plans?”