With one last look at the mausoleum, Scott got back in the car.
“Where to?” Garrigan asked, cheerfully.
“Back to the house where we just were. Let’s see if the owner of that fancy sports car lives there, and if so, would be willing to chat with an unexpected visitor.”
50
On Friday afternoon, after he was forced by the police to leave his apartment, Peter Gannon found himself on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventieth Street, at the door of the apartment building where he had lived with Susan for twenty years. He had given her the co-op in the divorce settlement four years ago, and he couldn’t miss the uncomfortable expression on the face of the doorman, even though his greeting was cordial.
“Mr. Gannon, how nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you as well, Ramon.” Peter understood the reason for the man’s unease. He could not allow him to enter the building without Susan’s permission. “Will you call and see if my wife is in?” he asked, then wanted to bite his tongue. “I mean will you see if Ms. Gannon is in?”
“Of course, sir.” As he dialed the number of Susan’s apartment, Peter waited nervously. She’s probably at work, he thought. She wouldn’t be home at this time on a Friday. What’s the matter with me? Or better yet, what else is the matter with me? I can’t think straight. What was Ramon saying?
“Ms. Gannon said to go right up, sir.”
Peter could see the curiosity in the man’s eyes. I know I look like hell, he thought. He went into the lobby and walked across the familiar carpet to the elevator. The door was open. The operator, another longtime employee, welcomed him warmly and, without being asked, pressed the button for the sixteenth floor.
As he rode up, Peter realized he didn’t know what to expect from Susan. When he had passed a newsstand he had seen Renée’s picture and the headlines about her death on the front page of both the Post and the News. Susan must have seen the morning newspapers, too. She would immediately remember Renée and guess that she was the reason why he had begged her to lend him a million dollars.
The elevator stopped. Peter saw the operator’s questioning glance as he hesitated before getting out. Then, when the door closed behind him, he stood for a full minute. Their apartment was the corner duplex. Feeling icy cold, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, he turned to walk toward it.
The door was ajar and before he could knock, Susan was standing in the doorway. For a long minute they looked at each other without speaking. Peter could see that she was shocked at his appearance. I guess showering and shaving didn’t hide the effects of a drunk blackout, he thought.
She was wearing a belted gray wool dress that accentuated her small waist. A colorful scarf was knotted around her throat. Her only jewelry was silver earrings that complemented the salt-and-pepper hair that had been artfully contoured to frame her face. She looks just like what she is, Peter thought, a wonderfully attractive, classy, intelligent woman, and in twenty years I was never smart enough to realize how lucky I was to have her.
“Come in, Peter,” Susan told him. She stood aside as he passed. He was certain that she wanted to avoid any attempt on his part to kiss her. Don’t worry, Susan, he thought. I wouldn’t have the nerve to try.
Without speaking, he walked from the foyer to the living room. The windows looked down on Central Park. He walked over to them. “The view doesn’t change,” he commented, then turned to her. “Sue, I’m in a lot of trouble. I have no right to be bothering you, but I don’t know who else to turn to for advice.”
“Sit down, Peter. You look as if you’re going to cave in. I read the papers this morning. Renée Carter, the woman you were, or are, involved with, is the same Renée Carter who was murdered, isn’t she?”
Peter sat down heavily on the couch, feeling as if his legs no longer had the strength to hold him. “Yes, she is, Sue. I swear to God, I hadn’t seen nor heard from her for two years. That was when she moved back to Vegas. I was sick of her. I knew what a horrible mistake I had made. I’ve regretted it and will regret it every day of my life.”
“Peter, according to the papers, Renée Carter has a nineteen-month-old child. Is she yours?”
It was the question Peter Gannon had hoped never to have to answer. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. I never wanted you to know about the baby. I knew how much the miscarriages tore you apart.”
“How considerate of you. Can you be sure it’s yours?”
Bleakly, Peter looked into the scornful eyes of his former wife. “Yes, I’m sure it’s mine. Renée cleverly produced the DNA reports as proof for me. I’ve never seen the child. I never want to see her.”
“Then shame on you.” Susan spat out the words. “She is your flesh and blood. According to the papers she’s been in critical condition in the hospital with pneumonia, and you’re not the least concerned about her? What kind of monster are you?”
“Sue, I’m not a monster,” Peter pleaded. “Renée told me she had friends who were desperate for a baby, that they were substantial and fine people. I thought that was the best way to go. Two years ago, I gave Renée two million dollars so that she could have the baby and then get out of my life. But she called me three months ago, and demanded a million more. That’s why I asked you for a loan. I couldn’t get it anyplace else.”
He saw the expression on Susan’s face change from scorn to alarm. “Peter, when did you last see Renée Carter?”
“Tuesday night.” Get it out, he thought. Don’t try to make it sound like anything except what it is. “Sue, I didn’t have a million dollars. I couldn’t raise it. I brought a bag with one hundred thousand in cash to give her. I met Renée in a bar and told her that. She took the bag and rushed out of the bar. I followed her. I grabbed her arm and said something like, ‘I can’t get any more.’ She slapped me and dropped the bag. As she picked it up I knew I was going to be sick. I’d been drinking scotches all day. I left her on the street.”
“What did you do then?”
“I blacked out. I don’t know another thing until I woke up on the couch in my office the next afternoon.”
“Your office? Didn’t someone wake you up in the morning?”
“No one else came in. I let everyone go. I couldn’t pay anyone’s salary. Sue, the cops came to my apartment today. I let them take a DNA swab. They’re getting a search warrant for the apartment and the office. They made me leave my apartment.”
“Peter, are you telling me that you left Renée Carter on York Avenue after you had quarreled and she slapped you and was picking up the bag with one hundred thousand dollars in cash that she said wasn’t enough money? And now you say that you don’t remember anything until you woke up in your office and that her body was found not far from where you left her? My God, do you realize how much trouble you’re in? You’re not only a person of interest. You’re the prime suspect.”
“Susan, I swear to you I don’t know what happened to her.”
“Peter, what you’re saying is that you don’t know what happened. Period. Did you tell the police that Renée Carter was blackmailing you because of the foundation money and what you think Greg is up to in the market?”
“No. No. Of course not. I’ve got to keep Greg out of this. I told them that she was after me for more money after what I gave her two years ago.” Peter knew he was close to tears. Not wanting to break down in front of Susan, he got to his feet. “Sorry to inflict you with all of this, Sue,” he said, struggling to steady his voice. “I just needed someone to talk to. You came up first on the list.” He attempted to smile. “In fact, you are the list.”
“That doesn’t say much for you. Peter, you’re not going anywhere until you’ve had coffee and a sandwich. When did you last eat?”
“I don’t know. When I woke up in the office Wednesday I went home and went to bed. I stayed home all day yesterday until I met you. Then after you blew me off, I got drunk again.”
“Peter, on Tuesday evening, you had already told Renée Carter you
couldn’t give her any more money. Why did you try to borrow from me Wednesday night?”
“Because I knew she wasn’t finished with me, and that if she set the cops on Greg he’d be in big trouble.”
“Peter, you said the police were getting a search warrant. Are they going to find anything at all in your office or apartment that might incriminate you?”
“Susan, absolutely not.”
“Do you remember if you struggled with her? Did you hit her back when she slapped you?”
“I swear, I never would have hurt her. I just wanted to get away from her.”
“Peter, you’ve already told the police that Renée Carter was trying to extort more money from you. Listen to me. You’re going to need an attorney. I’m in corporate law, not criminal defense, but a first-year law student could shoot holes in your convenient blackout. Fortunately, they can’t subpoena me as a witness because I’m an attorney, and I will tell them you spoke to me only to seek legal advice. But don’t say a single word about this to anyone else or answer any more questions from the police. The police should be finished with searching the apartment by now so after I fix you something to eat, I want you to go home and get some rest. You’re going to need it. Stay there until you hear from me. I’m going to make some calls and hire the best criminal defense attorney I can find.”
An hour later when he left Susan’s apartment, Peter Gannon took a backward glance at the exquisitely furnished living room with its deep, comfortable matching sofas, antique carpet, and the grand piano he had bought Sue for one of their anniversaries. He thought of lying on the couch and listening to her play. She was a fine pianist, far more than “a pretty good amateur,” as she labeled herself.
And I gave all this up for Renée Carter! he thought. And now Renée may cost me the rest of my life. Even that wouldn’t be enough for her, he thought bitterly.
When he got back to his apartment, he found it in total disarray. Every drawer had been pulled out and the contents dumped on the carpet. The contents of the refrigerator were on the countertops. Cushions from the chairs and couch had been tossed on the floor. Furniture was pushed to the center of the living room. Paintings had been removed from the walls and stacked on top of each other. A copy of the search warrant had been left on the dining room table.
Like an automaton, Peter began to clean up. The physical effort helped to limber his back, cramped from inactivity. Susan thinks I might be arrested, he thought. The prospect seemed impossible to him. I feel as if I’m in a bad movie. I’ve never lifted a finger to hurt anyone. I never even had a fight with another kid when I was growing up. Even after I knew Renée wasn’t going to settle for one hundred thousand dollars, I still was trying to borrow money from Susan to pay her off.
I wouldn’t have done that if I had already killed her. I wouldn’t have killed her. Why can’t I remember what I did after I left Renée on York Avenue?
As he put back the contents of the drawers, straightened the furniture, and rehung the pictures, his mind kept swirling with unanswered questions. Where did I go after I left Renée? Did I talk to anyone or am I imagining it? Did I see someone who looked familiar across the street? I don’t know. I just don’t know.
It was shortly after midnight when the concierge phoned him. “Mr. Gannon, Detectives Tucker and Flynn are here to see you.”
“Send them up.” Virtually paralyzed with fear, Peter waited by the door until the bell rang. He opened it and the two detectives, unsmiling and businesslike, entered the apartment.
“Mr. Gannon,” Barry Tucker said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Renée Carter. Turn around, Mr. Gannon.” As he handcuffed him behind his back, Tucker began the Miranda ritual. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”
Every word was a physical blow.
“You have the right to an attorney . . .”
Trying to blink back tears, Peter’s mind flashed back to the moment when, at that party after the opening of his play, Renée Carter had linked her arm in his and asked him if he was lonely.
51
On Saturday morning, Ryan put his plan into motion. He got up at seven and showered and shaved, grateful that somewhere along the way the large apartment had been renovated so that a bathroom was directly off the master bedroom and he did not have to risk bumping into Alice in the hall before he was fully dressed. Maybe she’s still asleep, he hoped.
But when he went out to the kitchen, she was already there, wrapped in a satin robe, wearing light makeup, every hair in place. A very pretty woman, he thought, as he forced a smile, but she’s just not for me.
“You don’t give yourself a break on Saturdays and stay in bed for an extra hour or so?” she asked, her tone teasing, as she poured coffee for him. He saw that fresh orange juice and a bowl of cut-up fruit were already on the breakfast table.
“No. I have a lot of errands, so I want to get an early start, Alice.”
“Well, surely as a doctor you know that a good breakfast is the best way to start the day? I’ve seen the way you rush out during the week. How about poached eggs on toast?”
Ryan had intended to decline, but the offer sounded good to him and he knew he could not refuse to have something to eat without being rude. “Sounds great,” he said, uncomfortably. He sat at the table, sipped the orange juice, and thought, I just want out of here. If Monica walked in right now, or if I saw her in the same situation, I know what I’d think.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up when I came home last night,” Alice said, as she broke eggs into a pan of boiling water.
“I didn’t hear you come in. I went to bed around eleven,” Ryan answered, as he thought about how he had spent the previous evening. I went to a lousy movie because I didn’t want to be here with you. Turns out I could have come straight home the way I wanted to, since you weren’t here anyway. Home, he thought. We both used the word “home” just now. Isn’t that cute?
“You haven’t asked, but I’m going to tell you anyhow what I was doing and why it’s so important,” Alice said, as she put bread in the toaster.
“I’m asking now.” Ryan tried to sound interested.
“Well, I was at a dinner given by the publisher of Everyone magazine. It was for the retiring editor of the celebrity-beauty section. He offered me her job. That means I get to pick the celebrities I want to feature and analyze what they’re wearing, their hairstyles, and makeup. It’s the kind of job I’ve been hoping for ever since I got into the beauty and fashion business.”
“I’m really delighted for you, Alice,” Ryan said sincerely. “I have friends in the publishing world and it’s a tough field to crack. Little as I know about Everyone magazine, I do know it’s one of the most successful ones. I see it everywhere.”
“As you know, I’m going back to Atlanta today,” Alice continued. “I’m going to have to scramble to get an agent to rent my apartment there, and put my furniture into storage, and get my clothes packed, and all the rest that goes with moving. They want me to start in two weeks. Would you mind very much if your stepsister comes back here until I can find my own place? It’s a big apartment and I promise I won’t be in your way.”
Stepsister? Oh, she told the doorman I was her stepbrother, Ryan remembered. “Alice, people share apartments all the time in New York, and in every big city I guess, but I’m long overdue to have a place of my own. That’s what I’m going to be looking for today. So I’m sure I’ll be gone when you get back.”
I will be gone, too, he thought, even if it’s to a residential hotel.
“Well, I hope that doesn’t mean you won’t come for a cocktail or dinner sometime? I pride myself on being a good hostess, and I have some really interesting friends in New York.” Alice put the plate of poached eggs in front of him and refilled his coffee cup.
Ryan made the only response possible. “Of course I’ll come, if I’m invited.” Alice is very nice, very attractive, and I’m sure very smart, he thoug
ht. If it weren’t for Monica it might be different, but it’s not going to be different. Giving Monica back the file on Monday will be an excuse to talk to her and apologize for making her feel uncomfortable in front of the nurses. When she was here that Friday, she enjoyed herself. I know she did.
“Well, how are my eggs?” Alice asked. “I mean they’re done to perfection, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” Ryan agreed hastily. “Many thanks, Alice. And now I’m off. I have to stop at the hospital.” I do have to stop in my office there, he thought. I want to see the Michael O’Keefe file. The O’Keefes’ address and phone number are in it. I am going to do some apartment hunting today, but I’m also going to call and ask if I can visit Michael. I want to see him for myself before I ask to testify in Sister Catherine’s beatification process as an expert witness.
With a final good-bye to Alice, and her unwanted kiss on his lips, Ryan went down in the elevator. As it descended, he remembered a fragment of the dream he had had during the night. Monica had been in it somehow. No reason she wouldn’t be, he thought. Ever since she was almost hit by that bus, I’ve been sick with worry about her.
But it was not just that she was in it. He remembered that she had been speaking to a nun.
Good Lord, he thought. Now I’m dreaming about Sister Catherine, too.
52
At three o’clock Dr. Douglas Langdon and Dr. Clayton Hadley met for a late lunch at the St. Regis Hotel. They decided to select from the light menu served in the King Cole Bar, and chose a table out of any possible earshot of the few other diners.