That decision made, Clayton Hadley felt somewhat better. At seven o’clock, he sent down for dinner from the in-house restaurant in his upscale condominium. As usual, he ate heartily, then managed to abolish Olivia Morrow’s face from his consciousness and fall into a deep sleep.
On Monday morning, he arrived at his office at nine thirty, as usual. His secretary reported that a Ms. Sophie Rutkowski had phoned and would call back in fifteen minutes.
Sophie Rutkowski, Clay thought. Who’s she? Oh, I know who she is—Olivia’s cleaning woman. Olivia left her five thousand dollars in her will. She probably knows about it and is waiting to get her hands on it.
But when Sophie phoned back, it was not about the money. “Dr. Hadley,” she began, her voice respectful. “Did you take the pillowcase with the blood on it from Ms. Morrow’s apartment? You see, if you did, I’d like to get it from you and wash it so that the complete set is in the linen closet just the way Ms. Morrow would like it to be. “Would that be all right with you, Doctor?”
61
The offices of the prestigious corporate law firm where Susan Gannon worked were on the tenth floor of the former Pam Am Building, on Park Avenue. On the twelfth floor was the equally prestigious criminal defense firm that Harvey Roth headed. Casual friends, they sometimes joked that they still thought of the building by its original name rather than by its present one, the MetLife Building.
Before she hired Roth to defend Peter, Susan had carefully researched who would be the best possible lawyer for the job. Four of the five attorneys whose opinions she had sought recommended Harvey Roth. The other one had suggested himself.
On Monday, at noon, Susan and Harvey met in his office. After ordering sandwiches from a local delicatessen, they went into his conference room and sat down at the table. “Harvey, how did Peter appear to you when you saw him Saturday?” Susan began.
“Numb. In shock. Bewildered. I could go on, but you get the picture,” Harvey answered. “He claims he absolutely didn’t know there was a false bottom in his desk drawer. I called his brother’s secretary to ask her about it an hour ago.”
“Esther Chambers. What did she say?”
“She never knew about it, either. She had nothing to do with the decorating, except to okay the bills. She said that the prices were, and now I’m quoting, ‘ludicrously expensive.’ ”
“Did she give you the name of the decorator?”
“Chambers didn’t have it at her fingertips, but said she knows that the woman has retired and spends most of her time in France. She’s going to follow up and get in touch with her. She told me she’d do anything to help Peter.”
“I believe that,” Susan said. “Harvey, tell me the truth. If Peter’s trial were starting now, what would happen?”
“Susan, you know as well as I do that he’d be found guilty. But the trial isn’t starting now. Let’s take a look at whatever positive facts we can find. Peter was out on the street with Renée Carter. He says he left her and the bag of money. But even if he didn’t leave her, what happened next? That bag must have been fairly heavy. He certainly didn’t carry it and drag Renée Carter down York Avenue at the same time. Even if the street wasn’t crowded, he would almost certainly have been noticed.”
Susan nodded. “If I were the cops, I’d want to see if there is a record of Peter getting into a cab.”
“I’m sure that the cops are doing that,” Harvey agreed. “Of course, there are plenty of those unlicensed limo drivers cruising around. He might have hailed one of them, with or without her, or Renée might have gotten into one of them alone. There’s another possibility that we’re looking into. The restaurant where Peter met Renée had at least eight or ten people hanging out at the bar. Last night we got the names of the regulars and we’re following up on them. If anyone suspected that there was money in that bag, he might have followed Renée out. Maybe some guy had a car parked nearby and offered her a ride. Peter’s car is clean, by the way. They have no physical evidence that Renée was ever in it, dead or alive.”
Harvey Roth looked across the conference table at the slender woman, whose hazel eyes suddenly blazed with hope. “Susan,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t forget. Someone may surface who remembers seeing Renée walking east, and Peter following her.”
“Why would she walk east?” Susan demanded. “She lived on the West Side. She certainly wasn’t going to stroll along the river alone carrying a bag full of money at that hour of the night.”
Harvey Roth shrugged. “Susan, we’re looking for answers,” he said flatly. “We won’t leave a stone unturned. As I told Peter when I saw him Saturday, our investigators will visit every bar in that area to see if he staggered into one of them, hopefully alone. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that he did. Now I’ve got to get back to work.”
He stood up and tucked the plastic plate that had held his sandwich into the paper bag that had contained it. “Gourmet dining,” he said, with a quick smile.
Susan put her sandwich, with only a few bites nibbled from it, into the paper bag in front of her. She dropped it and her empty coffee container into the wastebasket, then picked up her purse and a Barnes & Noble bookstore shopping bag.
Answering Harvey’s unspoken question, she smiled, wryly. “I’m going to the hospital to see Peter’s baby,” she said. “I’m not good at this sort of thing, but in the children’s section, the clerk assured me that the books she helped me select were perfect for a nineteen-month-old. I’ll let you know if she was right.”
62
When Ryan returned from visiting the O’Keefes on Saturday afternoon, he entered the apartment half afraid that Alice would have found some reason to stay over. But she was gone. A note from her on the coffee table in the living room urged him to give himself enough time to find the right place to rent or buy, that there was no reason for him to rush out and do it just because they’d be sharing this apartment for a little while longer.
Alice ended the note by writing, “I’ll miss you. It’s been fun.” She signed it, “Love, A.”
With an exasperated sigh, Ryan glanced around the room. During the week, Alice had moved some of the furniture so that two club chairs were now facing each other on either side of the couch. She had tied back the heavy draperies with knotted cords that picked up one of the colors in the fabric, giving the room a much brighter appearance. The bookshelves around the fireplace had been rearranged so that the books were in neat rows rather than stacked haphazardly. The room felt as if it had Alice’s imprint on it and it made him uncomfortable.
Then he went into his room, and found to his dismay that there were new reading lamps on the night tables, and a handsome comforter in a brown and beige pattern with coordinating pillows covering the bed. There was a note on the top of the dresser. “How did you ever manage to read with those lamps? My grandmother had one of those heavy old quilts. I took the liberty of packing them all away where I hope they’ll never be found.” The note was unsigned but a caricature of Alice was drawn on it.
So she’s an artist, too, Ryan thought. Get me out of here.
After the long morning, which he spent apartment hunting, and then the trip to Mamaroneck, he did not feel like going out again. I’ll settle for cheese and whatever else I find, he decided. He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A casserole of lasagna had instructions taped on it, “Heat at 350 degrees for about forty minutes.” Next to it, a smaller dish contained an endive salad. The note indicated there was a freshly made garlic dressing that went with it.
I wonder if Alice comes on with such a heavy hand to other guys she’s met? Ryan thought. Someone should warn her to tone it down a bit.
But I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, he thought. I’m hungry and Alice is a good cook. He followed the instructions on heating the lasagna, then, when it was ready, he collected some newspapers and read them as he ate.
In the car on the way from Mamaroneck he had heard on the radio that the first frost of the season w
ould occur during the night. When he carried his second cup of coffee into the living room, he could tell by the chill in the high-ceilinged room that the temperature was dropping outside.
One of the few modern touches in the old apartment was a gas fireplace. Ryan pressed the switch and watched as the flames leaped up behind the glass shield. His thoughts turned to his visit with the O’Keefes.
Monica did everything right, he decided. According to Emily O’Keefe, she diagnosed Michael immediately and didn’t give them any false hope. I can’t explain those MRIs. No one can. His first tests show how advanced the cancer was. Michael was so frightened by the MRIs that the O’Keefes decided to not have any more tests since he was terminal. At least, Michael’s father decided that. His mother says that he didn’t need MRIs because he was in the care of Sister Catherine.
A year later, when they took Michael to Monica to show her how well he was doing, Monica was astonished at how good he had looked. They allowed her to order another MRI and the tumor was gone. Michael’s brain was normal. Monica was as shocked as I would have been. Michael’s father was disbelieving at first, then absolutely overjoyed. Michael’s mother offered a prayer of thanks to Sister Catherine.
I told the O’Keefes that I was going to ask to be allowed to testify at the beatification hearing, and I told them that I don’t care how many years from now they keep testing Michael, he will die of old age before he dies of that cancerous brain tumor. It’s gone. I’ll make that call Monday.
That resolved, Ryan opened his computer. The available apartments he had seen so far were nothing like what he had in mind. But there are plenty more to see, he thought, philosophically. The problem is that I want to find something that’s available immediately.
On Sunday morning he began to visit the ones he considered the most likely possibilities. At four o’clock Sunday afternoon, just after he’d decided to give it up until next weekend, he found exactly what he wanted: a spacious, tastefully decorated, four-room condominium in SoHo, overlooking the Hudson River. The owner, a photographer who would be overseas on an assignment, was offering a six-month lease. “No animals, no kids,” he told Ryan.
Amused by the order of descending importance, Ryan had said, “I have neither, but someday hope to have both. However, that won’t happen in the next six months, I guarantee you.”
Satisfied that he would soon be in his own space, he slept well on Sunday night, and was at the hospital at seven o’clock on Monday morning. His schedule in the operating room was turned upside down by an emergency case, a young jogger hit by a car whose driver didn’t see him because he was texting. It was quarter past six before he found time to call Monica’s office.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about returning the O’Keefe file,” Nan reassured him. “Dr. Farrell had me run over and pick it up from your office.”
“Why did she do that?” Ryan asked, astonished. “I certainly intended to bring it back myself. May I please speak with her?”
By the uncomfortable pause, he knew that Monica’s secretary had been told to say she was unavailable to him.
“I’m afraid she’s already gone, Doctor,” Nan said.
In the background, Ryan could clearly hear Monica saying good-bye to a patient. “Then tell Dr. Farrell, for me, to keep her voice down when she’s asking you to lie for her,” he said sharply, and with a decisive click, hung up the phone.
63
On Monday morning Monica made an exceptionally early visit to the hospital because she knew her office schedule was packed. When she arrived, Nan and Alma were already there, gearing up for a busy day. Nan’s first question was about Sally.
“She’s really good,” Monica answered, gratefully. “Almost too good, in fact. I won’t have much justification for keeping her in the hospital longer than a few more days.”
“No relatives showed up over the weekend?” Alma asked.
“No. From what I read in the newspapers, even if Peter Gannon gets out on bail, he’s forbidden to go near her. No one seems to know anything about Renée Carter’s background, although, putting it bluntly, if her relatives are anything like her, Sally is better off never meeting them.”
At ten o’clock, as she was about to go on to the next patient, Nan called her on the intercom. “Doctor, would you please step into your consulting room?”
It had to be important. Nan would never have interrupted her for a casual visitor. Alarmed, Monica darted down the corridor to her private office. Two men were standing there waiting for her.
“We can see how busy you are, Doctor, so we’ll make this brief,” the taller man said, reaching behind her to shut the office door. “I’m Detective Carl Forrest. This is my partner, Detective Jim Whelan. We have come to the definite conclusion that last Thursday evening you were deliberately pushed in front of that bus. Security tapes at the hospital show a man whom we know to be mob-connected followed you when you left the hospital. We’re certain he was the one who pushed you.”
“Who is he?” Monica asked, bewildered. “And why on earth would he want to kill me?”
“His name is Sammy Barber. Do you know him, Doctor?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m not surprised,” Forrest said. “He’s a hit man for hire. Do you have any idea why someone would want to hurt or kill you? Think about it. Have you had any problems about a missed diagnosis, say, where you lost a child?
“Absolutely not!”
“Dr. Farrell, do you owe anyone money, or does anyone owe you money?”
“No. No one.”
“How about a rejected boyfriend? Is there anyone like that in your life?”
Forrest caught the hesitation in Monica’s face. “There is someone, Dr. Farrell, isn’t there?”
“But it was in the past,” Monica protested.
“Who was he?”
“I can tell you, you’re going nowhere asking about him and I certainly don’t want you to put his new job in jeopardy by giving anyone the impression that he’s a stalker.”
“Dr. Farrell, why would you suggest that this person is a stalker?” Forrest asked sharply.
Calm down. Get your bearings, Monica told herself. “The man I’m talking about was married to a close friend. He was also my father’s attorney. He developed a crush on me just before I left Boston. I hadn’t seen him in four years. He is now divorced and recently moved to Manhattan. He is very interested in trying to help me trace my father’s background. My father was adopted. I consider him a friend, nothing more, nothing less.”
“What is his name?”
“Scott Alterman.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last Thursday evening. He heard on the radio about the bus almost hitting me and called. I guess he could tell by my voice that I was pretty shaken up. He came to my apartment and stayed for about an hour.”
“He came immediately after the accident?”
“Yes, but you must get something straight. In one hundred million years Scott Alterman would never harm me. I’m sure of that.”
“Have you spoken to him since Thursday?”
“No, I have not.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Manhattan, on the West Side. I don’t have his address.”
“We’ll find it. Do you know where he works?”
“As I told you, Scott is an attorney. He just started at a New York law firm. It’s one of those with three or four names. One of them is Armstrong. Look, I really have to get back to my patients,” Monica said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “But what about this Sammy Barber? Where is he?”
“He lives on the Lower East Side. We’ve already confronted him about being on the security tape. He denies having anything to do with you, but we are keeping a twenty-four-hour tail on him.”
Forrest reached in his pocket and took out the mug shot of Barber. “Here is his picture, so you know what he looks like. He knows we’re watching him, so I don’t think he’ll try again.
But, Doctor, please be careful.”
“I will. Thank you.” Monica turned and hurried back down to the examining room, where a six-month-old was now screaming. When they started talking about Scott, I never even thought to mention that the watering can had been moved the other night, she thought. But before I tell anybody, I’m going to ask Lucy if she pushed it aside when she swept the patio.
Scott would never, ever want to harm me, she thought. Then the uncomfortable memory of how he had suddenly appeared on the street when she was hailing a cab to go to Ryan’s apartment came back to her.
Is it possible, she asked herself, is it even remotely possible that Scott is still obsessed with me and would hire someone to kill me?
64
At two o’clock on Monday afternoon, Arthur Saling phoned Greg Gannon and twenty minutes later arrived at Gannon’s office. Esther tried to keep from looking at the sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. She knew it was the letter she had sent him.
“Mr. Saling, it’s so nice to see you,” she began. “I’ll tell Mr. Gannon that you are here.”
It was not necessary to announce him. The door of Greg’s office had opened, and Greg was hurrying to meet Saling with a welcoming smile and extended hand. “Arthur, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you got one of those poison-pen letters a former employee is sending out. Thank you so much for bringing it to me. A number of our clients have received them. They’re being turned over to the FBI. The man who has been sending them is demented. They’re about to arrest him.”