She continued to talk, but then he interrupted. “Honey, that’s just what I’m going to do. Her suit and coat and blouse and shoes all have Escada labels. Okay, fine. Yes, I know their flagship store in New York is on Fifth Avenue. I’m heading there now with her description, and a description of the suit she was wearing.”
Barry closed his cell phone, took a last gulp of coffee, and looked at his partner. “My God, that woman can talk,” he said. “But she did tell me one useful thing. It’s pronounced ‘Ess-cah-dah,’ not ‘Ess-cah-dah.’ ”
30
On Thursday afternoon, Monsignor Joseph Kelly and Monsignor David Fell completed interviewing two more witnesses in the beatification hearings concerning Sister Catherine Mary Kurner. After the Notary had left they sat together in Kelly’s office, discussing the process.
They agreed that the witnesses they had just interviewed had all given compelling stories about their encounters with Sister Catherine. One of them, Eleanor Niven, had been a volunteer in the hospital in Philadelphia founded by Sister Catherine. She had said that at that time Sister Catherine was obviously ill and rumored to be dying.
“She had the most beautiful face and serene manner,” Niven recalled. “When she entered the room the atmosphere changed. We all knew we were in the presence of a very special person.” Eleanor Niven had gone on to testify that she had accompanied Catherine as she made the rounds visiting the patients.
“There was an eight-year-old girl who had had heart surgery and was in very grave condition. The mother, a young widow, was sitting by the bed crying. Sister Catherine embraced her and said, ‘Remember, Christ heard the cry of a father whose son was dying. He is going to hear your cry as well.’ Then Sister Catherine knelt by the bed and prayed. By the next morning the child had begun to turn the corner, and within a few weeks she was able to go home.”
“It’s a story I knew,” Monsignor Kelly said to Fell. “When I was a young priest, I visited that hospital. I never met that child, but I can certainly understand when these witnesses keep testifying to their awareness of Sister’s presence. She had an aura about her. And certainly when she picked up a sick child and cradled it in her arms, it was magical the way the most fretful little one quieted down and accepted the treatment it had been fighting.”
“Our star witness yesterday was pretty interesting, wasn’t she?” Monsignor Fell asked.
“Dr. Farrell? You bet she was. She certainly is pivotal in this process. Emily O’Keefe, Michael’s mother, not only had faith that he would live, but also virtually stopped taking him to doctors.”
“Dr. Farrell mentioned her colleague, Dr. Ryan Jenner,” Fell continued. “I looked him up. He’s made quite a reputation for himself as a neurosurgeon. Dr. Farrell volunteered that on the basis of all the MRIs and CAT scans, Jenner told her that Michael O’Keefe was terminal and should have died. It would be interesting to ask him to testify to that as another qualified witness. I’d really like to question him.”
Monsignor Kelly nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. It would be one more highly respected medical observation to further the cause.”
Then for a long minute, both men were silent, each knowing the thought process of the other. “I am still so frustrated that we can’t learn the circumstances around the fact that Catherine had given birth,” Fell said.
“I know,” Kelly agreed. “We knew she was only seventeen when she entered the convent. It must have happened shortly before that, which would explain why her Mother Superior sent her to Ireland a few months after she became a novice. It suggests that she only realized she was pregnant after she joined the community.
“And no one would have known about it, if that hospital aide who tended to her when she was dying hadn’t noticed Catherine had had a caesarean. And if the aide hadn’t sold the story to one of the gossip rags all these years later when the beatification process began. We never would have found one of the doctors who took care of her in her last illness, the one who verified the story when we questioned him. The fact that he couldn’t in good conscience issue a denial to the press threw gasoline on the flames for the sensationalists, of course . . .” Monsignor Kelly sighed.
Monsignor Fell replied, “We can’t ignore the fact that we have no information as to her state of mind about the pregnancy. Was the liaison consensual? The early pictures we have show that she was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. It would not be surprising if she had admirers. Did she give birth to a live child, and if so what became of it? Did she ever talk to anyone about it? These are the questions I have to ask.”
Monsignor Fell realized he was asking these questions without expecting an answer. “It is my job to make sure that miracles are really miracles, and that only people of extraordinary virtue, not extraordinary beauty may someday be listed on the Calendar of Saints,” he said.
Monsignor Kelly nodded and did not choose to mention that ever since yesterday’s meeting with Dr. Monica Farrell his memories of Sister Catherine kept playing through his mind. Maybe it’s because I saw the pain in that lovely young doctor’s face when she talked about breaking the news to the O’Keefes that Michael was terminal.
She had that same look that I remember seeing on Sister Catherine when she shared the heartbreak of parents whose children were dangerously ill.
31
On the way back to Renée Carter’s apartment on Central Park West, Kristina Johnson called her best friend, Kerianne Kennan, with whom she shared a tiny apartment in Greenwich Village. Kerianne, a student at the Fashion Institute of Technology, answered her cell phone on the first ring.
“Keri, this is Kris.”
“I can tell by your voice that something’s wrong. What’s the matter?” Keri demanded.
“Everything,” Kristina wailed. “The baby I’m minding is in intensive care and the mother isn’t around. You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on.” Twenty minutes later, when the taxi stopped on the corner of Ninety-sixth Street and Central Park West, Kristina had the comforting assurance that Kerianne was rushing to be with her and would stay for the rest of the day.
“I just know Renée Carter will start screaming at me that I didn’t take good care of Sally,” Kristina had explained tearfully. “Maybe if you’re there she won’t go too crazy. And if she doesn’t come back by this evening, I’m going to leave a note for her, and take off. I can’t work for that miserable woman anymore.”
Kristina got out of the cab, went into the lobby, and took the elevator to the apartment. As she opened the door, the dog’s frenzied barking reminded her that it had not been out for a walk since last night. Oh God, she thought as she ran to get its leash. She did not take the time to look through the apartment, but it was obvious that everything was exactly as she had left it, and Ms. Carter had not come home.
Downstairs again, as the Lab strained to pull her along, she called to the desk clerk, “Jimmy, when my friend Kerianne gets here, tell her I’ll be right back, okay?”
Fifteen minutes later, when she returned to the building, she was relieved to see Keri waiting for her in the lobby. But before they went to the elevator she stopped again at the desk. “Jimmy, did Ms. Carter come in while I was walking the dog?”
“No, Kristina,” the young clerk answered. “Haven’t seen her all morning.”
“Or all day yesterday,” Kristina murmured to Keri as they went up in the elevator. “The first thing I want to do is make a pot of coffee. Otherwise I’ll fall asleep standing up.”
Inside the apartment she headed straight for the kitchen. “Take a look around,” she told Kerianne. “Because once she gets here, we’re on our way.”
A few minutes later, Kerianne joined her in the kitchen. “This is a gorgeous apartment,” she commented. “My grandfather was in the antique business and trust me, there are some pretty nice pieces of furniture here. Ms. Carter must have money and lots of it.”
“She’s an event planner,” Kristina said. “She must have some really big event goi
ng on now, if she doesn’t show up here, or answer her cell phone. Think about it. She has a baby who was in the hospital a week ago and is back in now. I’m definitely going to quit this job, but I worry what will happen to Sally.” She sighed heavily as she took out two coffee cups and set them on the counter.
“What about Sally’s father?”
“Who knows? I’ve been here for a solid week and I haven’t seen any sign of him. I guess he’s another winner as a parent. The coffee’s ready. Let’s have it at the bar.”
The elaborate built-in bar was in the den. They had just begun to settle on the chairs at the counter when the intercom sounded. Kristina jumped up. “That must be Jimmy tipping me off that Ms. Carter is on the way up.”
But when she answered, the desk clerk had a different message. “There are two detectives here inquiring about your boss. They asked me who was in the apartment. I told them you and your friend and they said they wanted to talk to you.”
“Detectives?” Kristina exclaimed. “Jimmy, is Ms. Carter in trouble?”
“How would I know?”
Kristina locked the dog in the den, and when the bell rang, she opened the door to find the men standing in the vestibule. They held up their badges for her to see.
“I am Detective Tucker,” the shorter man introduced himself. “And, this is Detective Flynn. May we come in?”
“Of course,” Kristina said nervously. “Did something happen to Ms. Carter? Was she in an accident?”
“Why do you ask?” Tucker inquired as he stepped into the apartment.
“Because she hasn’t come home since night before last, and she doesn’t answer her cell phone, and Sally, her baby, is so sick I had to take her to the hospital this morning.”
“Is there a picture of Ms. Carter around?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll get one.” As a shocked Kerianne stood, coffee cup in hand, Kristina went down the hall to Renée Carter’s bedroom. A table by the window had framed pictures of Renée at a variety of black-tie events. Kristina grabbed several of them and rushed back to the living room.
When she handed them to Tucker, she saw the grim look he gave his partner. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Kristina gasped, “and I’ve been saying such mean things about her.”
“Why don’t we sit down and you tell me all about her,” Tucker suggested. “We understand she has a baby. You say the baby is in the hospital?”
“Yes. I brought her there this morning. She’s really sick. That’s why I was so mad at Ms. Carter. I didn’t know what to do, so I waited too long to bring Sally to the emergency room.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“What about the baby’s father? Did you try to contact him?”
“I don’t know who he is. When Ms. Carter left she was all dressed up, so I figured she was going to one of her parties. But looking back, I think she may have been meeting him. When she waved good-bye to Sally, she yelled something like, ‘Keep your fingers crossed, baby. Your old man is finally coughing up the money.’ ”
32
Now that she was aware that Greg Gannon was under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission, Esther Chambers was keenly attuned to the tension building in him. It seemed to her that every day, Greg’s expression became increasingly more troubled except, of course, when a client dropped into the office.
If his door was partially open, she could hear him on the phone, and the tone of his voice was either warm and jovial with a client, or abrupt and curt when he was speaking to one of his fellow three foundation board members, Dr. Hadley, or Dr. Langdon, or his brother, Peter. The gist of what she could gather he was telling them was to forget any new grants they wanted to suggest, that there was already too damn much money being spent supporting Hadley’s heart research and Langdon’s mental health clinics, and that there wouldn’t be another dime for Peter’s theatre projects.
On Thursday morning he came into the office scowling, his shoulders bunched together, and dropped a list on her desk.
“Call them,” he said abruptly. “When one of them is available to talk, give me the name fast.”
“Of course, Mr. Gannon.” Esther had only to take one look at the list to know they were all potential clients, and that he was going to try to rope them in.
The first three were not able to take his call. Others stayed on the line for only a few minutes. Esther guessed that whatever bond or stock issue Greg was hawking had been turned down. But at twenty past eleven Arthur Saling accepted the call. Saling, a prospective client, had lunched with Greg last week. A timid-looking man in his early sixties, he had come back to the office with Greg, and had been duly impressed with the lavish setup. He had confided to Esther that he was considering investing with a number of money managers, and had heard glowing reports about Greg. “I want to be very sure of whom I select,” he had said quietly. “You can’t be too careful these days.”
Out of curiosity Esther had googled him. After the recent death of his mother, Saling had come into the principal of a family trust, close to one hundred million dollars.
The door was closed, but she could hear Greg’s booming jovial tones even though the words were muffled. Then for a long time she could not hear a sound from his office. Which means, she decided, that now he’s oozing charm and giving Saling his confidential pitch. She knew it by heart: “I’ve been following this stock for four years and its time has come. The company is about to be bought out, and you can imagine what that means. It’s the best opportunity in the market since Google went public.”
Poor Arthur Saling, she thought. If Greg is frantic to cover his losses, a lot of these paper profits he’s been posting probably don’t even exist, and this is one more victim in the making. I wish I could tip him off.
When the call to Saling ended, Greg got back on the intercom. “That turned out to be a good morning’s work, Esther,” he said, his voice warm and relieved now. “I think we’ll hold the other calls until this afternoon. My wife is joining me for lunch and I should be on my way.”
“Of course.” I wish I was out of here, Esther thought, as the clock on her desk registered the noon hour. Not just for lunch, but out of here altogether. It makes me feel slimy to be reporting on Greg to the SEC, even though he might have just convinced someone else to trust him with his money.
Greg was still at his desk when Pamela Gannon swept in at quarter past twelve. “Is anyone with him?” she asked Esther.
“No, Mrs. Gannon,” Esther said, trying to force a friendly note into her voice. I’ve got to admit that woman is beautiful, she conceded, as Pamela strode past her desk, stunning in a fur-trimmed red suit and suede boots. But her kind marries people like Greg Gannon for one reason only, a five-letter word spelled m-o-n-e-y.
She watched as Pamela, without knocking, turned the handle of Greg’s door and flung it open. “Surprise, I’m here, Papa Bear,” she called. “I know I’m early but I couldn’t wait ’til one o’clock to meet you at Le Cirque. I’m sorry I wasn’t awake before you left this morning. I wanted to wish you a happy tenth anniversary of the wonderful day we met.”
Papa Bear! God spare me, Esther thought, shuddering at Greg’s delighted response.
“I’ve been thinking about it every minute,” Greg was saying, “and I’ve had such a good morning that I planned to stop at Van Cleef and Arpels before I met you for lunch. But now you can go with me and help me pick out something really special.”
How about a tiara? Esther asked herself as they passed her desk, ignoring her. They’re going out to buy pricey jewelry on the poor guy who’s probably just committed a fortune for Greg to handle.
It’s not going to happen, she told herself. On her way to have lunch, Esther stopped at a CVS pharmacy and bought plain paper and a plain envelope. In block letters she wrote, “THIS IS A WARNING. DO NOT INVEST WITH GREG GANNON. YOU WILL LOSE YOUR MONEY.” She signed it, “A friend,” then put a stamp on the envelope, addressed it, and took a cab to the main post office, where she dropped it in a mailbox
.
33
For hours Monica did not leave the side of Sally’s crib after she managed to resuscitate her. The baby’s lungs kept filling with fluid and she continued to burn with fever. Finally Monica lowered the side of the crib and, leaning in, cradled Sally in her arms. “Come on, little girl,” she whispered. “You’ve got to make it.” The thought of what the Monsignor had told her about Sister Catherine praying over sick children ran through her head.
Sister Catherine, she thought, I don’t believe in miracles, but I know so many believe you saved lives, not only terminal kids like Michael O’Keefe, but other kids who were at death’s door. Sally has had such a rotten break. A mother who neglects her, and no father around. She’s wrapped herself around my heart. If she lives, I promise I’ll take care of her.
It was a long afternoon but at seven o’clock she felt that it was safe to go. Sally’s fever had gone down and even though she still had an oxygen mask clamped around her face, her breathing had eased. “Call me if there’s any change,” Monica told the nurse.
“I will, Doctor. I didn’t think we were going to be able to save her.”
“Neither did I.” With an attempt at a smile, Monica left the pediatrics floor and the hospital. The temperature had dropped but as she buttoned her coat she decided to walk to the office. I’ll check on my messages, she thought, and see how much Nan has been able to rearrange my appointments. I’ll walk over. It will feel good to clear my head.
Her shoulder bag in place, she put both hands in her pockets and at her usual rapid pace began to walk east across Fourteenth Street. Now that she felt reasonably secure about Sally, her thoughts reverted to the crushing disappointment of finding Olivia Morrow dead. In her mind she could see every detail of Morrow’s face, the gaunt thinness of her features, the gray pallor of her skin, the wrinkles around her eyes, her teeth clamped on the corner of her lower lip.