The Shadow of Your Smile

  “When did you hear from Renée Carter again?”

  “About three months ago. She told me that she was back in New York, that she had decided to keep the baby, and that she would need help raising it.”

  “You mean child support?” Tucker queried.

  “She demanded an additional one million dollars. I told her I simply didn’t have that kind of money anymore. I reminded her that our agreement when I gave her the two million was that it was the end of any obligation I had for her and the baby.”

  “Have you ever seen your child, Mr. Gannon?” Flynn asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know that she is in the hospital and has been gravely ill with pneumonia?”

  Peter felt his face redden at the scorn in Tucker’s voice. “No, I didn’t know that. You said she was gravely ill. How sick is she now?”

  “Sick enough. By the way, her name is Sally,” Flynn told him. “Do you know that?”

  “Yes, I do,” Peter snapped.

  “When you told Ms. Carter that you couldn’t raise that kind of money, how did she react?” Flynn asked.

  “She demanded that I find a way to get it. I was panicked and told her that she had to give me time. I’ve been stalling her, frankly. When I met her on Tuesday night I had one hundred thousand dollars cash for her and told her that would be it.”

  “Even if you had one million dollars, how could you be sure she still wouldn’t go to court and demand child support?” Tucker leaned forward as he asked the question, his eyes boring into Peter’s face.

  Be careful, Peter warned himself again. You can’t let them know she was blackmailing you. It would bring Greg down. “On Tuesday evening, I warned Renée that we had made a deal and that if she got nasty I would go to the police and charge her with extortion. I think she believed me.”

  “All right,” Tucker told him. “You met her. You tried to scare her off. You handed her one hundred thousand dollars, not a check for a million. What was her reaction?”

  “She was furious. I guess I’d given her the impression I was going to have the full million. She grabbed the shopping bag with the money out of my hand and took off.”

  “Do you think anyone saw her take the bag from you?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Almost every barstool was taken, and there were a few people still lingering over dinner. Renée raised her voice.”

  “When you followed her out of the restaurant, what happened?”

  “I caught up with her on the street. I took her arm and said something like, ‘Renée, be reasonable. You’ve read the papers. I just lost a fortune in the musical. I haven’t got it.’ ”

  “What happened then?”

  “She hauled off and whacked me across the face. She dropped the bag.” Let them know how much you were drinking, Peter told himself. Get that in now.

  “Who picked up the bag?” Tucker asked.

  “She must have picked it up. You don’t think Renée Carter would leave one hundred thousand dollars on the street, do you? Frankly, I’d been so down in the dumps about the play closing and the bills I couldn’t pay piling up and then having to meet Renée that I’d been drinking all day in my office. I got to that bar first, and had two double scotches while I was waiting for her. By the time I ran after her I was close to passing out. My memory is that I said something pretty nasty to her, then walked away. That’s all I know until I woke up in my office yesterday afternoon.”

  “You just left her standing on the street?”

  “Thinking about it, I’m sure of that. She was leaning down to pick up the bag. I thought I was going to get sick and hurried away.”

  “Oh, now you definitely remember that she bent down to pick up the bag. That’s helpful, Mr. Gannon,” Tucker said sarcastically. “I notice you have a nick on your face. How did you get it?”

  “Renée’s nail scratched me when she slapped me.”

  “And you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  Tucker stood up. “Would you be willing to give a sample of your DNA? It only involves a swab with a cotton tip on the inside of your mouth. We have a kit with us. We can’t force you to take the test now, but if you refuse we will get a court order, and you will have to comply with it.”

  They think I killed her, Peter thought. Panic-stricken, he tried to keep his voice steady. “I am perfectly willing to take that test now. I have no reason to refuse. I had an argument with Renée. I absolutely did not kill her.”

  Tucker looked unimpressed. “Mr. Gannon, where are the clothes you were wearing Tuesday evening?”

  “In a private bathroom in my office suite. I always keep a change of clothes there. When I woke up on the couch there yesterday, I showered and changed. The dark blue jacket and tan slacks are in the closet. My underwear and socks are in the bin in the bathroom. I wore the dark brown loafers home.”

  “You’re referring to your office on West Forty-seventh Street.”

  “Yes. That is my only office.”

  “Very well, Mr. Gannon, you are required to leave this apartment at once. A police officer will be stationed at the door until we have obtained a search warrant for these premises, as well as your office. Do you have a car?”

  “Yes. A black BMW. It’s in the garage in this building.”

  “When did you last use it?”

  “I think last Monday.”

  “You think last Monday?”

  “I simply don’t know if I used it after I left Renée. Frankly, I thought I might have driven it and you were here to follow up on a fender bender.”

  “We’ll obtain a search warrant for your car as well,” Tucker told him, crisply. “Would you be willing to come down to headquarters and give a formal statement of everything you have just told us? That does not mean you are under arrest. However, we consider you to be a person of interest in the death of Renée Carter.”

  Peter Gannon realized he was in the fight of his life. Everything that had happened before, all the money problems and Broadway failures, did not compare with what was happening to him now. I was wild at her, he thought. I was furious and frustrated. Did I kill her? Dear God, did I kill her?”

  He looked straight into Tucker’s eyes. “You may take the DNA sample. However, I will not cooperate with you any further. I will not answer any more questions nor sign any statements until I have consulted an attorney.”

  “Very well. As I told you, you are not under arrest at this time. You will be hearing from us shortly.”

  “What hospital is my daughter in?”

  “She is in Greenwich Village Hospital, but you will not be allowed to visit her, so please don’t try.”

  Ten minutes later, after allowing the DNA sample, Peter Gannon walked out of his apartment building. The weather was threatening rain. His head was splitting and he was close to despair. Help me, dear God, help me, please, he prayed, I just don’t know what to do.

  He began to walk aimlessly down the block, thoroughly traumatized. “Where do I go?” he agonized. “What do I do?”

  46

  Ryan Jenner did not like to admit to himself how bitterly disappointed he was at Monica’s obvious annoyance that they had been gossiped about in the hospital. The fact that her secretary had dropped off the Michael O’Keefe file at his office without any kind of personal note from Monica had also been a clear message that she wanted no direct contact with him.

  I know now that she wasn’t in her office to give me the O’Keefe file last evening because she stayed so late in intensive care with the Carter baby, he thought on Friday afternoon, after his last surgery, as he stopped in the hospital cafeteria for a cup of tea. And then Monica was nearly run over by a bus on the way home . . .

  The possibility that Monica might have died sent a cold shudder through him. One of the operating room nurses had told him that she heard on the radio the old woman who was a witness to the near tragedy. “She swears that Dr. Farrell was pushed,” the nurse told him. “It would raise the h
air on the back of your neck to hear that lady describe how she thought the wheels of the bus had gone over Dr. Farrell.”

  It does raise the hair on the back of my neck, Ryan thought. Monica must have been so frightened. How would it feel to be on the ground with a bus bearing down on you?

  The nurse also told him that Monica had passed the word this morning that she was sure it was an accident. Meaning, let it go, Ryan thought, but then I asked her about it, and made a personal remark about how wonderful she is with children in front of the nurse. I was overstepping myself. Maybe if I wrote her a note and apologized she’d understand?

  Understand what? he asked himself. I am interested in her. Last week, when she came to the apartment, she looked lovely. I swear when her hair is loose on her shoulders, she could pass for twenty-one. And she was so apologetic about being late. That’s why it’s funny that when she sent the O’Keefe file this morning, knowing we had made an appointment for six o’clock last evening, she didn’t just scrawl a few lines to say that she’d been delayed at the hospital. It’s just not like her, he decided.

  As if it were happening now, he could feel again the sensation of their arms touching as they sat next to each other at the crowded table in the Thai restaurant. She was enjoying herself, too, Ryan told himself. There’s no way that was an act.

  Is there some guy important in her life? Maybe she was just being kind to warn me off? I’m not going to give up that easily. I’m going to call her. Last night, if she had been there, I intended to ask her to have dinner. Earlier this week, when I looked at the O’Keefe file in her office, I would have asked her to go out for dinner, but Alice had already roped me into going to that play.

  Ryan finished his tea and got up. The cafeteria had thinned out. The daytime people were all in the process of leaving, and it was too early for the evening shift to have a dinner break. I’d like to go home, he thought, but Alice is probably still hanging around. She said she was busy tonight, but what does that mean? I don’t feel like sitting over a glass of wine with her until she goes out. I don’t know what time her plane is tomorrow, but as soon as I get up I’m leaving the apartment. I don’t know what excuse I’ll make, but I’m not sitting across the breakfast table with her while she’s still in her fancy bathrobe. I feel as if she’s trying to play house with me.

  Now if it was Monica across the table, it would be different . . .

  Impatient and out of sorts, Ryan Jenner walked out of the cafeteria and went back to his in-hospital office. Everyone had left, and the cleaning woman was emptying wastebaskets. Her vacuum was in the middle of the reception area.

  This is ridiculous, he thought. I can’t go home because I’m a nonpaying guest in my aunt’s apartment and I’m annoyed that she is allowing someone else to share it. I think that an impartial observer would call that colossal nerve on my part. I know now what I’m going to do tomorrow: I’m going to start hunting to find my own place.

  The decision cheered him. I’ll stay here and go back through the O’Keefe file, he thought. Maybe I missed something when I looked at it the first time. Brain cancer doesn’t simply disappear. Could there have been a misdiagnosis? The general public hasn’t a clue how many times some seriously ill patients are given an all clear, and others are treated for conditions that don’t exist. If we were more open about it, the average person’s trust in the medical community would be shaken to the core. That’s why smart people get second and third opinions before they submit to radical treatment, or if after they’re told there’s nothing wrong, they listen to their own bodies telling them they have a problem.

  The cleaning woman spoke. “I can vacuum later, Doctor,” she said.

  “That would be great,” Ryan said. “I promise I won’t be too long.”

  With a feeling of relief, he went into his private office and closed the door. He settled at his desk and reached into the drawer for the Michael O’Keefe file, then realized that his mind was churning with a question: is there any possibility that some nut is stalking Monica?

  Ryan leaned back in his chair. It’s not impossible, he decided. There are all kinds of people in and out of this hospital around the clock. One of them, maybe a visitor to some patient, might have seen Monica and become fixated on her. I remember my mother telling the story that years ago, when she was a nurse in a hospital in New Jersey, a young nurse was murdered. A guy with a history of assault had spotted her when he was visiting someone, followed her home, and killed her. It does happen.

  Monica is the last person to want any kind of sensational publicity, but is she making a mistake not taking that witness seriously? I’m going to call her, Ryan decided. I simply have to talk to her. It’s just six o’clock. She might still be in her office.

  He dialed, hoping against hope that she would either pick up the phone herself, or that her receptionist would still be there and pass it on to her. Then, when the message machine took over, he quietly replaced the receiver. I have her cell phone number, he thought, but suppose she’s out with some guy? I’ll wait and call her Monday, when I can catch her in her office. Intensely disappointed at not hearing her voice, he opened the O’Keefe file.

  Two hours later he was still there, going back and forth between Monica’s reports on the early symptoms of dizziness and nausea that Michael had experienced when he was only four years old, the tests she had conducted, the MRIs from the Cincinnati hospital that clearly confirmed Monica’s diagnosis that Michael had advanced brain cancer. Michael’s mother had stopped bringing him in for treatment to relieve the symptoms, then months later when she did set up an appointment with Monica, the next MRI showed an absolutely normal brain. It was astonishing. A miracle?

  There is no medical explanation for this, Ryan confirmed to himself. Michael O’Keefe should be dead. Instead, according to these notes, he’s now a healthy kid on a Little League team.

  He knew what he was going to do. On Monday morning, he was going to phone the Bishop’s Office in Metuchen, New Jersey, and volunteer to testify that he believed Michael’s recovery was not explicable by any medical standards.

  After making the decision he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts on the day when he had been fifteen years old and at the bedside of his little sister, who died of brain cancer. That was the day I knew I wanted to spend my life trying to cure people with injured brains, he thought. But there will always be some people who are beyond our human skills to help. Michael O’Keefe was apparently one of them.

  The very least I can do is to testify that I believe a miracle was performed. I only wish to God we had known about Sister Catherine then. Maybe she would have heard our prayers, too. Maybe Liza would still be with us. She’d be twenty-three years old now . . .

  The wrenching memory of four-year-old Liza’s small flower-covered white casket filled Ryan Jenner’s mind as he left his office, went down to the lobby, and left the hospital. He walked to the corner and waited, as a Fourteenth Street bus thundered past him. The thought of Monica lying in the street in the path of that bus sent sickening fear rushing through his body.

  And then, as if she were standing there, he remembered the moment when Monica told him she once played Emily in Our Town. I told her that I still get choked up at that last scene, when George, Emily’s husband, throws himself on her grave.

  Why do I think about Monica as Emily? Ryan asked himself. Why do I have this awful premonition about her? Why am I filled with dread that Monica is going to relive the role she performed in that high school play?

  It’s exactly the way I felt when I was kneeling beside Liza’s bed, knowing her time was running out and I was helpless to stop it . . .

  47

  On Saturday morning, Nan picked Monica up in a cab at nine fifteen and they drove uptown to St. Vincent Ferrer Church on Lexington Avenue. The funeral Mass for Olivia Morrow was scheduled for ten A.M. On the way up, Nan phoned the rectory and asked to speak to the priest who would be celebrating the Mass. His name, she learned, was Father Joseph D
unlap. When he got on the phone she explained to him why she and Monica would be present.

  “We’re hoping you can help Dr. Farrell find someone who may have been a confidant of Ms. Morrow,” Nan told the priest. “Dr. Farrell had an appointment to meet her on Wednesday morning because on Tuesday Ms. Morrow had revealed that she knew the identity of the doctor’s birth grandparents. Dr. Farrell’s father was adopted, so she’s never known anything about her ancestry. Unfortunately Ms. Morrow passed away during the night. Dr. Farrell is hoping that someone attending the funeral Mass may have the information Ms. Morrow planned to give her.”

  “If anyone can understand the need to trace family roots, I can,” Father Dunlap responded. “Over the years I have encountered that situation regularly in my pastoral duties. I intend to eulogize Olivia following the gospel. Why don’t I tell Dr. Farrell’s story when I conclude my remarks, and say that she will be waiting in the vestibule to speak with anyone who might be helpful?”

  Nan thanked him and hung up. When they arrived at St. Vincent’s, Monica and Nan deliberately sat near the back so that they could observe the people who attended the funeral Mass. At five minutes of ten the rich sound of the organ began to fill the church. By then there were not more than twenty people in the pews.

  “Be not afraid, I go before you . . .” As Monica listened to the lovely soprano voice of the soloist, she thought, Be not afraid, but I am afraid. I am afraid that I may have lost my only link to my father’s ancestry.

  At precisely ten o’clock, the door opened and Father Dunlap walked down the aisle to receive the casket. To Monica’s astonishment, the only person following it was Dr. Clay Hadley.

  As the casket was escorted to the foot of the altar, Monica did not miss the startled look Hadley gave her when their eyes met. She watched as he took a place in the first pew. No one joined him there.

  “Maybe that man is a relation who could be helpful,” Nan whispered to Monica.

  “That’s her doctor. I met him Wednesday evening. He’s not going to be any help,” Monica whispered back.