“I don’t want any part of having to testify at a trial,” Arthur Saling said anxiously.
“Absolutely not,” Greg agreed, as he put a friendly arm around Saling’s shoulders. “We’ve got plenty of evidence and this nutcase will be forced to plead guilty. He’s married and has a family. What the FBI agent told me is that he’ll probably end up getting probation and being ordered to undergo psychiatric treatment. That will be easier for both the poor guy and his family.”
“How kind of you,” Arthur Saling said. “I’m not so sure I’d be that benevolent if somebody was trying to ruin my good name.”
With a sigh that was partly relief, partly compassion for Arthur Saling, Esther watched the men disappear into Greg Gannon’s private office. As the door closed behind them, she was sure that Saling was about to put Greg in control of his portfolio. I did my best to warn him, she thought. There are none so blind as those who will not see.
Her nerves frayed, Esther realized that she could barely wait until the month was up and she could retire. Of course, it’s possible that the SEC will swoop down on Greg even before then, she thought. I don’t want to be around for that. What would everybody think of Greg being led out of here in handcuffs? God spare me that scene, she thought.
Esther got down to the task she had been undertaking, the effort to track down Diana Blauvelt, the decorator who had designed these offices four years ago. It was nearly an hour later when she finally managed to find her phone number in Paris and make the call. There was no answer, only a request in both English and French to leave a message. Carefully choosing her words, Esther requested Diana Blauvelt to try to remember if she had ever told Peter Gannon that there was a false bottom in the desk she had ordered for his office, and to please return her call as soon as possible.
Esther had barely replaced the receiver on the cradle when Greg Gannon and Arthur Saling came out of Greg’s office. Both men were smiling broadly. “Esther, please welcome our new and very important client to the firm,” Greg said, his voice genial.
Esther forced a smile as she looked up into the face of Arthur Saling. You poor devil, she thought, as she stood and shook the hand he offered her.
At that moment, the phone on her desk rang. Esther picked it up. “Is my husband there? He’s not answering his cell phone.” Pamela Gannon’s voice was tight and high pitched.
“Yes, he is,” Esther replied and looked at Greg. “It’s Mrs. Gannon, sir.”
Greg was standing behind Arthur Saling. His voice still friendly, but his expression turning explosively angry, he said, “Ask my wife to hold. I’ll be right with her.”
“Never keep the ladies waiting,” Arthur Saling joked, as Greg walked with him to the elevators.
“Mrs. Gannon, he’ll be right with you,” Esther began, but was interrupted. “I don’t give a damn whether he’s with me or not. Where is my jewelry? There’s absolutely nothing in the safe in the apartment. What is he trying to pull?”
Think, Esther warned herself. “Is it possible that he pledged the jewelry to post bail for Peter?” she asked.
“The jewelry is mine. He has plenty of other assets.” By now, Pamela Gannon was shrieking.
“Mrs. Gannon, please, it’s not for me to say.” Esther realized that she sounded as though she were pleading.
“Of course it isn’t for you to say, Esther,” Pamela Gannon snapped. “Put him on.”
“He’ll be right with you.”
Greg Gannon came hurrying back into the office. He grabbed the phone out of Esther’s hand. “I took the jewelry,” he said, his voice cold and furious. “You’ve seen the last of it unless you can give me a satisfactory explanation of why you were with some guy in Southampton on Saturday afternoon. But there is no explanation, is there, Pam? Just for the record, I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”
He slammed down the phone and stared at Esther. “You know I trust my hunches,” he said. “You sent that letter. I want you out of here. But as a final gesture of loyalty, tell me the truth, Esther. Is the SEC coming after me?”
Esther stood up. “I wonder why it would ever occur to you to ask that question, Mr. Gannon. I’m delighted to be out of here. But may I offer one final comment?” She looked him in the eye. “It’s too damn bad that neither you nor your brother ever came close to being the kind of upstanding, splendid men your father and uncle were. They’d be ashamed of both of you. Thanks for the last thirty-five years. I have to say, they haven’t been dull.”
65
At five thirty on Monday evening, Peter Gannon was taken from the Tombs, an electronic bracelet clasped around his wrist, and released on the bail that Susan had guaranteed. With Harvey Roth at his side, the terms of his temporary freedom had been spelled out. He was not to leave Manhattan without the permission of the judge, and he was not to visit his daughter in the hospital.
At last, he and Roth were outside. Peter inhaled deeply of the crisp late-October air. “I have a car,” Roth told him. “I’ll drop you off at home if that’s what you want. I would suggest you get some rest. I’m sure the last two nights in the Tombs have not been conducive to sleep.”
“I’ll take up that offer,” Peter said, quietly. “I have a feeling it’s the best one I’ll get for a while.”
Roth’s driver pulled up to the curb and the two men got in the car. Peter waited until they were on the West Side Highway before he said, “I’m not sure if you’re the right lawyer for me. I need to have someone who believes that I am not a murderer, and I get the feeling that you think I am. I want a lawyer who does more than look for legal loopholes. I want somebody who is going to fight hard to prove my innocence.”
“I prefer not to consider myself an attorney who deals in legal loopholes,” Harvey Roth said mildly.
“You know what I mean. I’ve started to be able to think a little more clearly. What have you found out about the clothes I was wearing when I met Renée? Are there any bloodstains on them? Or is there any of her DNA on them?”
“The detective heading the case told me there are no apparent bloodstains, but the DNA evidence will take time to evaluate. On the other hand, you claim you were afraid of becoming nauseous when you left her. I understand there is absolutely no hint on your clothes that you became ill that night.”
Peter smiled grimly. “What you’re saying is that I’m a tidy drunk. Let’s consider this. The bar where I met her was in the eighties, on York Avenue. My office is nearly two miles away. Maybe I went directly there and passed out? Is that so improbable?”
“Mr. Gannon, it is very unfortunate that your office building does not have security cameras to back up that scenario,” Roth said. “Apparently they have been out of commission for quite a while.”
“The building that my present office is in is a dump,” Peter agreed.
“Nevertheless,” Roth said, “to get into it, a key to the outer door is required, as well as a key to your own office. Are you suggesting that you went directly there and that someone came in while you were passed out and hid that money in your desk? Isn’t that what you are telling me? Isn’t that a little far-fetched?”
“Mr. Roth, the couch where I was asleep is in the reception area of the suite. My office is in the next room. There’s a separate entrance for it, in case I want to go in without having to walk through the waiting room.”
“Peter, we might as well get on a first-name basis. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Let’s not waste any of it grasping at straws. Who else would have keys to your office building, your suite, and your private office?”
“As Susan can verify, I’m not very organized. I’m one of those people who is always losing keys.”
“Peter, a lot of people are careless with keys. But most of them aren’t carrying a shopping bag containing one hundred thousand dollars and leaving it in your office, to say nothing of putting the money in a hidden panel in your desk.”
Then, even in the semidarkness, Roth could see the expression on Pete
r’s face suddenly change. “Peter,” he asked sharply. “Can you think of anyone who had access to spare keys, and who might also have known about that one hundred thousand dollars?”
Peter did not answer. He looked out the window of the sedan as it moved slowly forward in the evening traffic. “Let me think about that,” he answered. He knew he could not yet bring himself to speak the name of the person who he was almost certain had been the one to put that money in his office.
I’m starting to remember, he thought. That car that was parked across the street when Renée slapped me. It looked familiar. She would have accepted a ride from him. If he suspected that she knew, he might have told her that he’d pay her off to keep quiet about his insider trading.
My brother, Greg.
66
Dr. Monica, one more thing,” Nan Rhodes said. “Sophie Rutkowski called this morning. She wouldn’t say what it was about, but she sounds upset. I promised that you’d call her back when your office hours were over.”
“I’ll do that. You run ahead. It’s been a busy day,” Monica replied. Nan had just relayed Ryan’s message to her: “The next time you lie for Dr. Farrell . . .” She felt stressed out and humiliated, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to confide to Nan why she was avoiding Ryan Jenner’s calls.
Nan wanted to protest but, seeing the expression on Monica’s face, decided it would be better to leave her alone. She probably needs some time to herself, Nan thought. In the morning, after the two detectives came to the office, she had immediately called John Hartman to see if he knew why they were there. She had not seen Hartman over the weekend because he’d been in Philadelphia, visiting an old friend who was also a retired detective.
Hartman told Nan that he had suggested to his former partner, Detective Carl Forrest, that they check the security cameras at the hospital and that had led to seeing Sammy Barber get out of his car and follow Monica. He had then tried to calm her by saying that they hoped they had scared him off from attacking her again.
“John, you’re telling me that thanks to you they traced this Barber guy?”
“Nan, they probably would have thought of it themselves,” Hartman answered. “But, be that as it may, you see Dr. Farrell at least eight hours a day, five days a week, and some Saturdays. You’re in the position to be on the watch for anyone who might be a danger to her.”
Hartman then suggested that they have dinner together, “if it isn’t one of your nights at Jimmy Neary’s with your sisters.”
It was an invitation that Nan had both been hoping for, and expected would come. Now, reluctant as she was to leave Monica, she was also eager to go home and freshen up before John came for her.
“Well then, I’ll see you in the morning, Dr. Monica,” she said. She was about to add, “Be sure to double-lock the door behind me,” but pressed her lips together. I’m sure she’s had enough advice from those detectives, she decided.
Alone in the suddenly quiet office, with the phones no longer ringing and no small patients scampering through the reception room, Monica went into her private office, put her elbows on the desk, and rested her chin on her hands.
The import of what the detectives had told her, that a hit man had tried to kill her, was beginning to sink in. Scott has to be behind this, she thought. Who else would have any interest in wanting to hurt me? He did call out of the blue only a few minutes after I got home Thursday night. I was so foolish to let him come over to the apartment. Maybe I was lucky that he didn’t try to hurt me then. God knows, he was obsessed with me after Dad died. He phoned twenty times a day, and even followed me around in the street . . .
He’s the reason I didn’t take the job at the hospital in Boston. I had to get away from him. He obviously needs psychiatric help. But I do know one thing. He’s not going to drive me out of New York. I love the hospital. I have a good practice. I have plenty of friends.
Inevitably, that thought led to the situation with Ryan Jenner. Why would I be so stupidly unprofessional as to ask Nan to lie for me to Ryan? she asked herself. I’m acting like a spurned girlfriend, when in fact I’ve never even had a single date with him. I’m sure he understands that I didn’t want any gossip about us in the hospital. I’m certain that when he really thinks about it, he doesn’t want it, either.
I have both his home and cell numbers. I’ll call tomorrow and apologize. I’ll simply say that I was concerned about the gossip but that I had no right to be rude to him. I’m sure he’ll be more gracious than I’ve been, and that will be that . . .
Monica sighed as she fished into her pocket for the slip of paper Nan had handed her with Sophie Rutkowski’s number on it. Nan had said that Sophie sounded nervous and upset. Monica found the paper, laid it on her desk, and began to dial. Do I dare hope that she’s remembered something about Olivia Morrow that would help me to learn about my grandparents? But I know that’s not going to happen.
Sophie answered her phone on the first ring. The strain in her voice was obvious to Monica even when she only uttered the simple word “Hello.”
“Sophie, this is Dr. Farrell. Is anything wrong?”
“Doctor, I feel like a thief. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sophie, no matter what you tell me, I am certain that you are not a thief,” Monica said firmly. “What’s going on?”
“I have another job on Saturday afternoons at Schwab House. After I finished it, I decided to go into Ms. Morrow’s apartment and tidy it up. I have a key, of course. I know people will be going through it who will want to buy it, and people will also be there who may want to buy her furniture and so on . . . I didn’t want them to see an unmade bed, or a pillowcase with blood on it.”
“Sophie, that was very nice of you,” Monica assured her. “If you took that pillowcase to wash, no one would ever believe that you wouldn’t return it.”
“Doctor, that’s not what I’m saying. That pillowcase was missing. This morning I called Dr. Hadley to see if he had taken it.”
Monica felt suddenly chilled. “What did Dr. Hadley say?”
“He got very mad. He said I had no right to be nosing around the apartment. He told me to leave my key at the desk and if I tried to go into Ms. Morrow’s apartment again, he’d have me arrested for trespassing.”
“Did he tell you that he had taken the pillowcase?” Monica asked, her thoughts filled with the image of Olivia Morrow’s face in death and the evidence that she had bitten her lower lip.
“No, that’s the problem. If he didn’t take it, someone else did, and if anything else is missing, they may blame me, Doctor. I’m so worried. I only went in because I wanted everything to be just so in Ms. Morrow’s home. But you see, I did take something and I’ve already turned in the key and I don’t know what to do now.”
“What did you take, Sophie?”
“I took a pillow that had blood on it, the one that had been covered with the pink pillowcase. I knew Ms. Morrow wouldn’t want anyone to see it. Blood always shows on pillow fabric.”
“Sophie,” Monica asked quickly, “did you throw that pillow out?”
“No, I brought it home, Doctor.”
“Sophie, this is very important. Put that pillow in a plastic bag and hide it. Don’t tell anyone, especially Dr. Hadley, that you have it. No, better still, give me your address. I’m going to take a cab up to your apartment right now and pick it up.”
“Doctor, why would you want a soiled pillow?” Sophie protested.
“Sophie, I honestly can’t answer that right now. It’s just something I have to work out myself. But please trust me.”
“Of course, Doctor. Have you got a pen? I’ll give you my address.”
An hour and a half later, all thoughts of dinner forgotten, Monica was holding the stained pillow with gloved hands over two pillows piled on her own bed, in the same position as she remembered the ones that had been under Olivia Morrow’s head.
Am I going crazy, she asked herself, or is it possible that there is only one way that stain
could have gotten on that spot? But why would anyone want to hold a pillow over her face and suffocate a dying woman?
Monica slipped the pillow back into the loose plastic bag. I’ll talk to Nan’s friend John Hartman, she decided. He’s the one who would know what to do. Is it possible that someone in the building got into Olivia Morrow’s apartment, maybe to burglarize it, and she woke up? It was pretty generally known that she was dying. But then again, why would Dr. Hadley get so upset with Sophie? Of all people, he should be the one to want to follow up if there’s any suggestion of foul play . . .
I’ll bring the pillow to the office tomorrow and ask Nan to see if Hartman will come over after office hours and talk to me, she decided.
The decision made, Monica decided not to put off calling Ryan any longer. She dialed his home number and heard his voice. “Sorry to miss your call. Leave a number and I’ll get back to you.”
I’m not apologizing to an answering machine, she thought. He’s probably out to dinner with his girlfriend, so I won’t bother him on his cell phone. Oh, well. She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and was disappointed to find that because she had not gotten around to shopping over the weekend, the most she could find was the makings of an omelet.
Then she had a frightening thought. The overhead light in the kitchen was on, which meant that anyone lurking in the back could see her through the panes of glass on the top section of the outside door. I have to get a dark shade for it, she thought, but in the meantime, I’ll tack something over it. Feeling under siege, she went into the living room and picked up the afghan from the couch.
As she carried it back to the kitchen, she remembered how tenderly Scott Alterman had tucked it around her after he had rushed to be with her and found her trembling and chilled by her brush with death.
67