74
At two thirty on Tuesday, Barry Tucker went directly from the morgue, where he and Detective Flynn had viewed Scott Alterman’s body, to headquarters to report to Chief Stanton. Flynn went from the morgue back to Alterman’s apartment building to question the staff there.
“Dennis is trying to get a handle on Alterman’s activities, from the time he visited Monica Farrell on Thursday evening until he left his apartment late Saturday,” Tucker told the chief.
“Carl, do you think this looks like Scott Alterman was behind the attempt on Dr. Farrell’s life?” Stanton asked. “Does the medical examiner think he’s dealing with a suicide?”
“Too soon to tell. No marks on his body. We’ve contacted Alterman’s parents and siblings. They haven’t talked to him since last week. The ME thinks he may have been drugged before he fell into the river. Or was pushed. We won’t have the drug tests from the lab for at least a week. If he did order the hit on the doctor, he may have panicked, and overdosed himself. On the other hand,” Forrest speculated, “according to the doorman, when Alterman left his apartment building on Saturday night, he was in good spirits.”
“Which tells us nothing,” Stanton observed. “Sometimes when people decide to let go, they get a sudden sense of peace.”
“I’m wondering if Alterman wasn’t a little wacky,” Forrest said. “On Friday, in his office, his secretary and some of the other staff were talking about Monica Farrell almost being killed by the bus. Alterman told them he knew her and was going to prove that she was the heiress to a vast fortune.”
“That does sound whacky,” Stanton agreed. “I really do think that he was the guy who hired Sammy Barber. I just wish we could nail that lowlife, too.”
“So do I, but . . .” Carl Forrest stopped in midsentence and pulled out his cell phone. “It’s Flynn,” he said, then answered it. “What’s up?”
Jack Stanton watched as a look of astonishment came over Forrest’s face.
“You mean that Alterman rented a car and driver and went to a cemetery in Southampton, then to Greg Gannon’s house on Saturday?” Forrest asked, incredulously.
“I spoke to the driver,” Flynn reported. “Alterman had found out that an old lady, Olivia Morrow, who died last Tuesday night, had gone there last Tuesday afternoon. He got in touch with the driver and hired him for the same drive as the Morrow woman. She told the driver she had grown up in a cottage on the Gannon property. The house still belongs to Greg Gannon, Peter Gannon’s brother. The driver told Scott that Olivia Morrow didn’t go into the house, but Scott Alterman did on Saturday afternoon, and stayed for about an hour.”
Forrest went back to the call with Flynn. “Okay, Dennis. Thanks. Has the driver agreed to come in and make a statement?”
Forrest snapped the phone shut. “The driver can’t wait to give us the details. Flynn said he’s a real talker and is enjoying the situation.”
“I wish there were more like him,” Stanton observed. “This woman Olivia Morrow who died last week? See what you can find out about her.”
Fifteen minutes later, Forrest burst back into Stanton’s office without knocking. “Chief, you won’t believe this. The person who found Morrow dead was Dr. Monica Farrell. She told the medical team that responded to the emergency call at the apartment that she had had an appointment with Olivia Morrow that evening. She told them that Morrow was going to reveal some important information to her about her grandparents. It seems Farrell’s father was adopted, and had no idea of his background.”
The two detectives looked at each other. “Maybe Scott Alterman wasn’t wacky, after all,” Stanton said. “Maybe he had become dangerous to someone. And let’s take a good look at Olivia Morrow’s death. Find out who signed her death certificate.”
75
Harvey Roth’s normally calm voice was crackling with excitement when he phoned Peter Gannon. “Peter, we have two big breaks. A credible witness is prepared to say he saw you walking down York Avenue alone just after you and Renée left the bar. He said Renée was already gone. Our guys found him this morning and he made a statement to the cops.”
“Is that enough for reasonable doubt?” Peter asked.
“It’s a big help, let me tell you. That, and the fact that your clothes and car show no traces of Renée’s presence.”
“Thanks, Harvey. It’s going to take some time to digest this.”
“I can understand that. Peter, we’re a long way from being sure of an acquittal when you come to trial. We still can’t explain the money hidden in your desk and the shopping bag. But we are getting some breaks.”
Fifteen minutes later, Harvey Roth called back. “Peter, I just spoke to Esther Chambers. She traced that decorator who ordered the desk with the false bottom in the drawer. The fact is that she ordered two of them. One was for you, the other for Dr. Langdon. The decorator says she absolutely did not discuss the secret compartment in the desk with you, but distinctly remembers telling Langdon and your sister-in-law, Pamela, about it. Very interestingly, the decorator also said she believed there was something going on between them.”
Pam and Doug Langdon, Peter thought, his heart pounding. Of course it was possible that they were involved with each other! Would they have tried to stop Renée from exposing Greg’s insider trading? It’s possible. Of course it is. It makes sense. If the SEC ever goes after Greg, they’ll grab all his assets to pay off all the investors who lost money because of him, and that would include all the money and property and jewelry he’s given Pamela over the years.
A huge sense of relief was running through him. I might easily have left a set of keys to my office at the foundation, he thought. Doug and Pam have both been there, and know the layout. I never saw who was driving Greg’s car. It might have been Doug. My brother may be a thief, but I don’t believe he’s a killer.
“Peter, are you still there?” Harvey Roth asked, his voice now anxious.
“You bet I am,” Peter said. “You bet I am.”
76
At three thirty p.m., the moment Greg Gannon had been dreading for a long time arrived. Two federal officers, their manner brusque, walked past the secretary who was sitting at Esther’s desk and opened the door of his private office. “Mr. Gannon, stand up, and put your hands behind you. We have a warrant for your arrest,” one of them said.
Suddenly infinitely weary, Greg obeyed. As he listened to his rights being read, he looked down at the wastebasket. He had shredded the papers Arthur Saling had signed that had given him control over his portfolio. One last small decent thing to do, he thought grimly.
Everything is going to blow up now. They’ll look into the foundation, too. We’ve all been treating it like a piggy bank. We could all face charges on that. I know I’m going down, but I’m also going to hang Pam and Doug out to dry. I’m glad I finally found out about their little love nest on Twelfth Avenue. She probably has more jewelry stashed there. I don’t want either one of them left with so much as a penny.
Another thought crossed his mind as he was led out of his office for the last time. My brother’s a murderer. I’m a thief. One of my sons is a public defender.
I wonder if he’d care to represent either one of us.
He doubted it.
77
At six thirty the last of her small patients was gone. Monica went into her private office, where Detectives Forrest and Whelan and John Hartman had been patiently waiting. “Why don’t we go into the reception area?” she asked. “You have to be careful not to trip over toys, but we’ll have more room there.”
When she had returned from the meeting at the Gannon Foundation, she had asked Nan to call John Hartman and ask him to stop at the office at around six. Then, halfway through the afternoon, Nan reported that Detectives Forrest and Whelan wanted to have another meeting with her.
“I told them, they’d just have to wait until six o’clock,” Nan had reported. “They were nice about it.”
“Dr. Jenner will be coming over,
too,” Monica had told Nan.
Nan’s delighted smile telegraphed to Monica that she, too, was aware of the gossip about Ryan and herself.
Nan had tidied up the reception room. Without being asked, Forrest adjusted one of the couches so that they all sat facing each other. “Dr. Farrell . . .” he began.
The phone rang. Nan hurried to answer it. “It’s Dr. Jenner,” she said.
Monica got up and walked quickly to take the receiver from Nan’s hand.
“Monica,” Ryan said, “there’s been a nasty accident on the West Side Highway. Some head injuries. I’m waiting to see if I’m needed for surgery.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll call you back when I know how long I’ll be here.” He hesitated. “Unless it gets too late.”
“Call me back. I don’t care what time it is,” Monica said, then added, “I’m dying of curiosity about the lasagna.”
“I may never eat it again. I’ll get back to you.”
Monica replaced the phone on the cradle then went back to the reception room. John Hartman held a chair for her. As she sat down, she said to the detectives, “I’m glad you’re here. There is something that I was going to give to John, and I think it’s just as well that I’m able to talk to all of you about it.”
Carl Forrest said, “Before we discuss that, Dr. Farrell, I am very sorry to have to tell you that the body of Scott Alterman was found in the East River this morning. It may or may not be a suicide, but we are beginning to believe his death may have had something to do with his belief that you are connected to the Gannon family.”
“Scott is dead?” Monica repeated. “Dear God! But only yesterday at this very time you were suggesting that he might have been behind the attempt to kill me.”
Forrest nodded. “Dr. Farrell, you told us yourself that he had been obsessed with you. You told us that he called you shortly after you reached home, when you were pushed in front of a bus. What you did not tell us is that he believed you might be the granddaughter of Dr. Alexander Gannon—which, of course, would put you in line to inherit much of the Gannon fortune.”
For a long minute, Monica could not speak. In a whirlwind of memory, she thought of being her best friend Joy’s maid of honor at her wedding to Scott. She thought of how close she had been to both of them until after her father’s death, when Scott started to bombard her with phone calls and passionate e-mails.
“Scott was my father’s attorney,” Monica said, trying to choose her words carefully. “When my father became terminally ill and finally had to be placed in a nursing home, Scott handled all his affairs. My father was adopted, and was always seeking to learn his background, to find his birth family. He was a researcher, who late in life was a consultant in one of the labs in Boston founded by Dr. Alexander Gannon. The few years my father worked there, I was in medical school in Georgetown.”
She stopped as memories of trying to get back to Boston whenever she could possibly squeeze in a day or two, and her comfort in the fact that Joy and Scott had visited her father so frequently, raced through her mind.
“As long as I can remember, my father would cut out pictures of people whom he thought he resembled and wonder if he was related to them,” she said, sadly. “It became a desperate need for him to discover his roots. I used to tease him about it. Shortly before he died, he became fixated on the notion that he bore a striking resemblance to pictures he had seen of Alexander Gannon. Scott took him seriously. I never did, until today.”
Trying to keep her voice steady, Monica asked, “Nan, would you please print out the picture I took this morning on my cell phone?” She got up. “I have my father’s picture in my wallet but I have a larger one on my desk. Let me get that one and I’ll show you exactly what I saw this morning.”
She walked into her private office and for a minute stood there, hugging herself tightly to stop trembling. Scott, she thought. Poor Scott. If someone killed him, it was because he was trying to help me, because he thought I would come into a fortune.
She picked up her father’s framed picture and carried it back to the reception room. Nan had already printed out the one she had taken of the portrait of Alexander Gannon. Monica laid them side by side on the table. As the detectives leaned over to study them, she said, “As you can see, the pictures are virtually interchangeable.”
Without taking her eyes off the pictures, she said, “I think Scott Alterman lost his life trying to prove there was a blood relationship between Alexander Gannon and my father. And I also think that it doesn’t stop there. I believe that Olivia Morrow, the woman who was about to reveal the names of my grandparents, may have died last Tuesday night because she confided to someone else that I was coming to visit her on Wednesday evening.”
“Who is that person?” Forrest asked sharply.
Monica raised her head and looked directly across the table at him. “I believe Olivia Morrow told her cardiologist, Dr. Clayton Hadley, that she was going to give me proof that I am a Gannon descendant. Dr. Hadley is not only on the board of the Gannon Foundation, but he also visited Ms. Morrow late Tuesday evening. The next evening when I arrived at her apartment, she was dead.”
Monica turned to John Hartman. “I asked you to come here for a specific reason and it ties into all of this.”
Once again, Monica went into her private office and this time when she returned, she was carrying the plastic bag containing the pillow with the smear of blood that Sophie had taken from Olivia Morrow’s apartment. She explained to them why Sophie had taken it, and described Hadley’s response to Sophie about the missing pillowcase.
Forrest took the bag from her. “You have the makings of a good detective, Dr. Farrell. You can be sure we’ll take this to the lab right away.”
A few minutes later, they all left together. Declining John and Nan’s invitation to have dinner, Monica got in a cab and went home. Thoroughly exhausted from the events of the day, she double-locked the door, walked back into the kitchen, and looked at the afghan that was still draped over the glass half of the kitchen door.
When I put that up last night, it was because I was worried that Scott might harm me, she remembered. And now he’s dead because of me.
As a sort of unconscious tribute to him, she took it down, carried it back into the living room, curled up on the couch, and pulled it over her. Ryan may call anytime, she thought. I’ll keep both phones right next to me and close my eyes. I don’t think I’ll fall asleep, but if I do I just can’t miss his call. I need him.
She glanced at her watch. It was quarter of eight. Plenty of time to still have dinner, if he can get away, she thought.
At nine o’clock, she awoke with a start. The buzzer to her apartment from the front door was being pushed repeatedly. The sharp, urgent jabs were terrifying to hear. Was the building on fire? She jumped up and ran to the intercom. “Who is this? What’s the matter?” she demanded.
“Dr. Farrell, this is Detective Parks. Detective Forrest has sent me to protect you. You must leave your apartment immediately. Sammy Barber, the man who tried to push you under the bus, was spotted in the alleyway behind your house. We know he has a gun and is determined to kill you. Get out of there now.”
Sammy Barber. In a moment of sheer panic, Monica thought of the bus bearing down on her. She ran to the table and grabbed her cell phone. Not bothering to look for the shoes she had kicked off when she lay down on the couch, she ran from the apartment, down the corridor, and flung open the outer door.
A man in plainclothes was waiting there. “Hurry, hurry,” he said urgently. He put his arm around her and began to rush her down the steps to a waiting car. There was a driver at the wheel, the engine was running, and the back door was open.
Suddenly alarmed, Monica struggled to pull away from his iron grip and began to scream for help. He clasped a rough hand over her mouth and with violent force tried to shove her into the car. Dragging her legs and butting her head back against his chest, she frantically tried to break
away.
I’m going to die, she thought. I’m going to die.
It was at that moment from somewhere nearby, she heard a command shouted through a bullhorn. “Let go of her now. Get your hands up. You’re surrounded.”
Monica felt herself being released but was unable to keep her balance, and fell backward on the sidewalk. As her would-be assailant and the driver were grabbed by a swarm of undercover officers, the cell phone she was still clutching rang. Too stunned to react except in a robotlike manner, she answered it.
“Monica, are you all right? It’s Ryan. The accidents weren’t that bad. I’m leaving the hospital. Where shall I meet you?”
“Home,” Monica said, her voice breaking as strong arms lifted her to her feet. “Come over now, Ryan. I need you. Come over right now.”
78
It was Thursday morning, two days after Monica had been assaulted at her apartment. “Looks as though we’ve got the whole rotten bunch of them,” Detective Barry Tucker commented with satisfaction. He and his partner, Dennis Flynn, along with Detectives Carl Forrest and Jim Whelan, were at headquarters, in the office of Chief Jack Stanton. They were rehashing the series of events since Tuesday night.
“When Dr. Hadley broke down and confessed the minute we walked into his office to question him, he told us that he knew we would be coming. He admitted he suffocated that poor old woman. He even handed over the bloody pillowcase before we asked for it,” Flynn said.
“Langdon isn’t talking, but his girlfriend, Pamela, can’t stop talking,” Carl Forrest said, his voice scornful. “She knows she has no way out of this. Greg Gannon got suspicious of her and found out about the apartment she was keeping with Langdon. Renée Carter’s purse and a card with that address written in Scott Alterman’s handwriting were both there. Pamela admits that Carter got into the car with her and Langdon. They promised to pay her the other nine hundred thousand that Carter was demanding, and she fell for it. She went back to the apartment with them. They gave her a drink with knockout drops and then he strangled her. They kept her body there until they could safely dump it.”