The Shadow of Your Smile

  Farrell had good ears if she had heard it, Sammy thought, and I guess she did, because the next thing I knew, a light went on inside the apartment. That was it for that plan.

  Restlessly, Sammy began to consider alternate ways to get at Farrell, but then his eyes narrowed. The place was starting to fill up with the usual losers, but two guys in business suits were being led to a table. They’re cops, Sammy thought. They might as well be wearing their badges.

  It was obvious that the waiter who seated them knew that, too. He looked across the room at Sammy, who nodded, meaning he’d spotted them.

  Some jerk who’d been pretty loaded when he came in was staggering to his feet. Sammy knew he was heading for the D-list rapper, who was sitting with his groupies in the celebrity section. The drunk had been trying to get that guy’s attention for the last half hour. In an instant, Sammy was on his feet, and with quick steps, surprising for his bulk, was at the drunk’s side. “Sir, please stay right here.” As he spoke he squeezed the guy’s arm hard enough to make him get the point.

  “But I just wanna pay my reshpechs . . .” He looked up into Sammy’s face and his vacant expression changed to a frightened stare. “Okay, okay, pal. Don’t wanna make problums.” He slumped back into his seat.

  As Sammy turned to go back to his table, one of the two men he’d spotted as cops signaled to him.

  Here it comes, Sammy thought, as he made his way across the room.

  “Pull up a chair, Sammy,” Detective Forrest invited, as he and Detective Whelan passed their badges across the table to him.

  Sammy glanced at them, then looked quickly at Whelan, remembering that he had been the lead detective on his case and a witness at his trial. He could still remember the disgusted look on Whelan’s face when he was acquitted. “Nice to see you again,” he told him.

  “Glad you remember me, Sammy,” Whelan said. “But you always did have a way with threats, I mean words.”

  “This joint is clean. Don’t waste your time looking for trouble,” Sammy snapped.

  “Sammy, we know this dump could serve as a day care center,” Forrest told him. “We’re only interested in you. Why did you bother to change from your sweat suit to your version of dress-up clothes when you picked up your car at the pound? You remember, Thursday, you were in such a hurry to follow Dr. Farrell when she left the hospital that you didn’t even take time to feed the meter?”

  Sammy had been questioned enough in the past by cops that he had trained himself never to appear to be nervous. But he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

  “We all know what I’m talking about, Sammy,” Forrest told him. “We hope nothing happens to Monica Farrell, because if it does, Sammy, you’ll think you were caught in a tsunami. On the other hand, we’d be very interested to know who hired you.”

  “Sammy,” Whelan asked, “why were you parked in front of the hospital? Just in case you forgot, as Carl just told you, the security cameras show your car being hauled away.”

  “Not feeding the meter cost me big bucks, but no one ever mentioned that it was a crime. And when you look at it, it helps the city. All those extra bucks, you know what I mean?” Sammy was beginning to feel confident. They’re trying to rattle me, he thought, scornfully. They’re trying to get me to say something stupid. They wouldn’t talk to me like this if they could prove anything.

  “By any chance do you know Dr. Monica Farrell?” Detective Forrest asked.

  “Doctor who?”

  “She’s the young woman who fell, or was pushed, in front of a bus the other night. It was in all the papers.”

  “Don’t get much chance to read the papers,” Sammy said.

  “You should. They keep you abreast of current events.” Forrest and Whelan stood up together. “Always interesting to chat with you, Sammy.”

  Sammy watched as the two detectives worked their way through the now crowded tables to the exit. I can’t be the one to take Farrell out, he thought. I’ve got to hand off the job, and I know just the right guy to take my place. I’ll offer Larry one hundred grand. He’ll snap at it. But I’ll make sure it happens while I’m at work so I have a rock-solid alibi. Then those cops will be off my back. And I still come out ahead. I got paid one million to do it, and I subcontract the job for one-tenth of that!

  Smiling at the thought, but with a sense of failure, Sammy admitted to himself that for the first time in his long career as a hit man, he had bungled two attempts to carry out his contract to eliminate an unwanted problem. Maybe it is time to quit, he thought. But not before I see this one through.

  Like I told Dougie, I always keep my word.

  56

  Tony, Rosalie, and little Carlos Garcia went for a drive on Saturday afternoon. They were on their way to visit Rosalie’s sister Marie and her husband, Ted Simmons, at their home in Bay Shore, Long Island.

  Tony had been working nonstop for almost two weeks between the chauffeuring jobs and events at the Waldorf, where he was a waiter. As he explained to Rosalie, the minute October came all the big charities had their black-tie dinners. “Sometimes I hear the people I’m driving talk about how many of these affairs they’ve gone to in a week,” Tony told Rosalie. “And don’t think they’re cheap.”

  But this Saturday he was off, and it was a nice day to drive to Bay Shore. Tony liked his in-laws. Marie and Ted had three kids a little older than Carlos, and Ted’s mother and brother would be there as well. Ted had opened a hardware store in Bay Shore and was doing great. Their house was a big colonial, and they had a fenced-in yard where Carlos and his cousins could run around with no one worrying about the traffic.

  “It’s going to be so much fun today, Tony,” Rosalie said happily, as they emerged from the gloom of the Midtown Tunnel onto the expressway. “I was so scared when the baby got that terrible cold this week, but he hasn’t even sneezed in four days.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Have you, love?” she asked Carlos, who was securely ensconced in his car seat.

  “No, no, no,” Carlos responded in a singsong voice.

  “Boy, is that ever his new word,” Rosalie laughed.

  “It’s his only word these days,” Tony answered, then thought of something he’d been meaning to tell his wife. “Rosie, I told you about that nice old woman I drove two weeks ago to that cemetery in Rhinebeck? She’s the one who said she knew Dr. Monica’s grandmother. I saw in the paper yesterday that she had died. She’s being buried today.”

  “That’s too bad, Tony.”

  “I really liked her. Oh, God!” Tony slammed his foot on the accelerator. In the midst of the heavy traffic, the car had stopped dead. Frantically, he turned the key in the ignition as the screeching of brakes from the truck behind him warned him that they were going to be hit. “No!” he shouted.

  Rosalie turned to look at Carlos. “Oh, my God!” she wailed.

  As Rosalie screamed, they felt a bump that shook them back and forth, but the driver of the truck had managed to brake and slow down before he hit them.

  Shaking with relief, they turned to look at their two-year-old son. Totally unruffled, Carlos was trying to climb out of his car seat.

  “He thinks we’re there,” Tony said, his voice quivering, his hands still clutching the wheel. A moment later, still shaking, he opened the door of the car to greet the man whose quick reaction had saved their lives.

  Three hours later they were in Ted and Marie’s house in Bay Shore, at the dining room table. It had taken forty minutes for the tow truck to arrive. They had caused a massive traffic delay on the expressway. Ted had driven over to pick them up at the service station where they were stranded.

  The awareness that if the driver behind them had been tailgating, or if he’d been unable to stop, they might be dead, filled all the adults at the table, Rosalie and Tony, Marie and Ted, Ted’s mother and brother, with a profound sense of gratitude. “It could have been so different,” Rosalie said, as s
he glanced out the windows. One of his big cousins was pushing a delighted Carlos on the swing.

  “It could still be so different if you don’t get rid of that old car of yours, Tony,” Ted, a heavyset man with a decisive manner, said bluntly. “You’ve been nursing that rattletrap much too long. I know you’ve been putting off buying a new car, and I know why—all those medical bills for Carlos have been burying you. But he didn’t beat leukemia so that all of you could be killed in an accident. Look around for a decent car, okay? I’ll lend you the money.”

  Tony looked gratefully at his brother-in-law. He knew that Ted might say that he’d lend the money, but he also knew he would never let him pay it back. “I know you’re right, Ted,” he agreed. “I’m not putting my family in that old heap again. Even before it broke down, I was thinking about a car that would be perfect for us and it can’t be too expensive. It’s a ten-year-old Cadillac. I drove the old lady who owned it, a couple of weeks ago. It was a pretty long trip. You know I know cars. This one is in perfect condition. It’s probably heavier on the gas than the new ones, but I bet I could get it at book value, which can’t be much.”

  “Tony, you mean the lady we were talking about on the way out?” Rosalie asked. “The lady whose funeral was today?”

  “Yes, Ms. Morrow. It’s her car that’s probably going to be for sale.”

  “Look into it, Tony,” Ted said. “Don’t waste time. There isn’t much of a market for a ten-year-old Caddy. You’ll probably get it.”

  “I’ll go to her apartment building. Someone there can probably tell me who to call about it,” Tony promised. “I really liked Ms. Morrow and I have the feeling that she liked me.”

  And I have the crazy hunch that she’d want me to have her car, he thought.

  57

  Peter Gannon went through the shocking ritual of being fingerprinted, having his mug shot taken, being strip-searched, and finally led to a cell in the Tombs, the crowded and noisy jail where prisoners awaiting trial in Manhattan were incarcerated.

  With every inch of his being he wanted to protest his innocence, to shout to everyone within earshot that he could never hurt Renée, no matter how much he hated her. On Saturday morning, he read in his cellmate’s newspaper that the shopping bag and money had been found in his office. Too numb for coherent thought, he sat in the cell until late Saturday afternoon, when the lawyer Susan had found for him came to see him.

  He introduced himself as he handed Peter his card. “I’m Harvey Roth,” he said, his tone of voice low but resonant.

  Peter looked at him, still feeling as if he was experiencing a nightmare. Roth was a compact man with iron-gray hair, and rimless glasses framing a thin face. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a blue shirt and tie.

  “Are you expensive?” Peter asked. “I have to tell you straight up that I’m broke.”

  “I am expensive,” Roth answered, mildly. “Your ex-wife, Susan, has paid the retainer for my services, and guaranteed all the costs of defending you.”

  Susan did that, Peter thought. It was one more whiplash reminder of the kind of person she was, and that he had traded her for Renée Carter.

  “Mr. Gannon, I assume you know that the money you claimed was in Renée Carter’s possession was hidden in the false bottom of your desk drawer?” Roth asked.

  “I didn’t even know that any drawer in my desk had a false bottom,” Peter said, his voice a monotone. At the incredulous look on Harvey Roth’s face, Peter felt as if he were caught in quicksand and sinking into it ever deeper. “Four years ago, when the Gannon Foundation and my brother Greg’s investment firm moved to the Time Warner Center, a decorator was hired to re-do the offices from scratch. I asked that whoever was hired also take care of my new theatre production office. At that time I was doing well, and I had a suite on West Fifty-first Street. Two years ago, when I downsized, I got rid of a lot of the furniture, but kept the desk. No one ever told me about the false bottom in it.”

  “Who was the decorator?” Roth asked.

  “I don’t know her name.”

  “You didn’t have meetings with her? She didn’t show you any sketches or samples?”

  “I’m not a detail man,” Peter said wearily. “I liked what she was doing at the offices in Time Warner.”

  “Didn’t you talk to her about how much the project would cost?” Roth asked.

  “The foundation paid for it, because it was sponsoring my theatre projects. What I mean is, the foundation voted a grant that included the expenses of my office.”

  “I see, Mr. Gannon. Then you claim you never knew there was a false bottom in your desk?”

  “I swear, I swear I didn’t know that.” Peter buried his face in his hands, hoping to shut himself away from the persistent questions Harvey Roth was asking him.

  “And you don’t know the name of the decorator who bought the desk for your office?”

  “No, I don’t,” Peter said, wearily. “Let me say it again. I don’t know her name. I asked Greg’s secretary to have her take care of my new production office. I don’t think I even met the woman. She did the job while I was away with Renée.”

  Where did we go that time? he wondered. Oh, I remember. Paradise Island. He managed to choke back a desperate fit of laughter.

  “How can I learn who the decorator is?” Roth persisted.

  “The secretary at my brother’s office would know. She handles that kind of thing.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Esther Chambers.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  Peter looked at Roth. He thinks I’m lying. He thinks I killed Renée. Peter knew he had to ask the questions that had been swirling through his mind during the sleepless night in the cell. “If I told someone that I thought—let’s say it straight, that I knew—my brother was doing insider trading, would that person have an obligation to report it to the SEC?”

  “Read the facts about the master financial crook, Bernie Madoff, Mr. Gannon,” Roth said matter-of-factly. “When his sons learned what he was doing, they knew they had to report it immediately. Of course, they were employees of his firm so that changes the picture. It depends on the person to whom you disclosed that information.”

  I can’t drag her into it, Peter thought.

  “Mr. Gannon, why did you say you’re sure your brother was involved in insider trading?”

  “A couple of years ago, at a cocktail party for the Wall Street types, I overheard a guy from Ankofski Oil and Gas thank Greg for the money. He told Greg he had been able to take the kids to Europe for their spring break. That was about a month after Ankofski was taken over by Elmo Oil and Gas, and the stock tripled.”

  “What was your brother’s response?” Roth asked.

  “He went wild. He said something like, ‘Shut up, you fool, and get out of here.’ ”

  “Did your brother know you had overheard that conversation?”

  “No, he didn’t. I was standing behind him. I didn’t want him to know that I heard it. But I do know that Greg’s hedge fund made a fortune on that takeover. It’s not that everything isn’t bad enough already, but could criminal charges be filed against me if Greg is ever caught and it came out that I knew what he was up to?”

  He saw the contempt in Harvey Roth’s eyes. “Mr. Gannon, I would suggest that you concentrate on assisting me in preparing a defense for you on the charge of murder. I will do everything in my power to give you the best defense I can, but it would be most helpful if you can try to recall what happened in those fifteen hours between the time you blacked out and the time you woke up on your couch. Let’s talk about the shopping bag that contained the money. One that fits the exact description of the one you told the police that you gave Ms. Carter was found in the wastebasket under your desk.”

  “Why would I hide the money and leave the shopping bag where anyone could find it?” Peter asked, with a spark of anger.

  Roth nodded. “That has occurred to me. On the other hand, by your own admi
ssion you were drunk. Let me tell you how we are going to proceed. Our investigative staff will go to the bar where you met Ms. Carter and question any patrons we can learn were there. They will also go to other bars in the area. We hope we may find someone who saw you alone after you left Ms. Carter.”

  “If I left Ms. Carter, you mean,” Peter said. “That is really what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  Without answering, Roth got up to leave. “We are trying to get your bail reduced from five million to two million dollars.”

  “I think my brother will put it up for me,” Peter said.

  “I hope so. If not, there is another source who will guarantee it.”

  “Susan?” Peter asked.

  “Yes. Against all odds, she believes firmly in your innocence. You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Gannon, to have a champion like Susan in your corner.”

  Peter watched Roth as he walked away from him, then felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” the guard ordered brusquely.

  58

  On Saturday night, before she went to bed, Monica had double-locked and bolted the door to the patio, then wedged a chair under the knob on the kitchen side. She had talked to some of her friends and asked about their alarm systems, and afterward she left an urgent message for one company asking for the immediate installation of a state-of-the-art system, including security cameras on the patio.

  That done, she hoped to feel somewhat more secure, but her dreams had been filled with memories of her father. Fragmented as they were, she remembered that in one of them she had been with him in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She woke with the sensation of his hand in hers.

  Did I ever really appreciate him? she asked herself, as she got up and began to make coffee. Looking back I can begin to understand how much he loved Mom. He never looked at another woman after she died, and he was such a handsome man.