We'll Meet Again

  It didn’t have to happen—that was what had haunted her and her mother. Should they have been aware of something about him that last day? Could they have prevented it?

  If only he had talked to us, Fran thought. If he had only said something!

  And where did the money go? she asked herself. Why wasn’t there a trace of it, or at least some hint of an investment that hadn’t worked? Someday I’ll find the answer, she vowed as she started up the car.

  She looked at her watch. It was twenty minutes of one. The odds were good that Joe Hutnik would be having lunch, but on the off chance that he might be in, she decided to stop by the Time.

  Joe was, in fact, at his desk and was insistent that she was not interrupting; besides, he wanted to talk to her. “A lot of water under the bridge since last week,” he said gruffly as he waved her to a chair and closed the door.

  “I would say so,” Fran agreed.

  “The raw material for your program is expanding.”

  “Joe, Molly is innocent of both those crimes. I know it. I feel it.”

  Joe’s eyebrows came together. “Level with me, Fran. You’re kidding, right? ’Cause if you’re not, then you’re kidding yourself.”

  “Neither, Joe. I’m convinced she didn’t kill either her husband or Scalli. Look, you have your finger on the pulse of the town. What do you hear?”

  “Very simple. People are shocked, sad, but not surprised. They all think Molly is off her rocker.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Then you’d better be afraid of something else. Tom Serrazzano, the prosecutor, is pressuring the parole board to revoke her parole. He knows he’s stuck with her having bail on the new charge, but he’s arguing that her statement when she got out of prison was inconsistent with her statement at her parole hearing that she had accepted responsibility for her husband’s death. Because she’s denying that now, he’s arguing that she perpetrated a fraud on the parole board and should be required to finish serving the whole sentence. And he just may get his way.”

  “That means Molly could go right back to prison.”

  “My guess is that it’s going to happen, Fran.”

  “It can’t happen,” Fran murmured, as much to herself as to Hutnik. “Joe, I met with Dr. Peter Black this morning. I’ve been doing some digging into the hospital and the Remington HMO. Something is going on there; just what it is, I haven’t figured out yet. But I do know that Black was nervous when I got there. He almost broke out in hives when I asked why he thought Gary Lasch plucked him from a nondescript job to be his partner running Lasch Hospital and Remington Health Management, when his record was less than sterling and there were so many better-qualified candidates already in the area.”

  “That’s odd,” Joe said. “As I remember it, the impression we were given around here was that it was a coup to persuade him to come work at the hospital.”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t.” She stood up. “I’m on my way. Joe, I want to get copies of anything the Time wrote about the library fund drive my father was involved in, and anything written about Dad and the missing funds after he died.”

  “I’ll see that you get it,” he promised.

  Fran was grateful that Joe didn’t ask questions, but even so she felt she owed him an explanation. “This morning, when I was trying to pin Dr. Black down, he came up with a righteous-wrath defense. What right had I to question him? he asked. I was the daughter of a thief who stole the donations of half the people in town.”

  “That was a lousy dig,” Hutnik said. “But I think it’s easy enough to figure out the reason for it. He’s got to be under a lot of pressure right now, and he doesn’t want anything new to come along that might threaten the Remington acquisition of the smaller HMOs. The truth is, at least according to my sources, the deal is in trouble, Fran, lots of trouble. American National is getting the inside track. And from what I hear, things at Remington are a little shaky at the moment. These new HMOs, small though they may be, would bring in some extra cash and allow Remington to buy some time.”

  Joe opened the door for her. “As I told you the other day, the head of American National is one of the most respected physicians in the country, and he’s also one of the biggest critics of the way HMOs are run. He thinks a national system is the only right answer, but until that day arrives, American National, under his leadership, is getting the highest HMO marks in the health field.”

  “So you think Remington may be losing out?”

  “Looks that way. The smaller HMOs that were supposed to be a shoo-in to join Remington are huddling with American now. It seems incredible, but it could happen that Whitehall and Black, despite all the stock they own in Remington, may not be able to avoid a hostile takeover down the line.”

  * * *

  It may be petty of me, Fran thought as she drove back to New York, but after that crack about Dad, nothing would give me more pleasure than to see Peter Black fail.

  She stopped at the office, checked her mail, and then took a taxi down to Philip Matthews’s office in the World Trade Center for their three o’clock meeting.

  She found him seated at his desk, which was stacked high with papers; his expression was grim. “I just spoke to Molly,” he said. “She’s pretty shaken up. Edna Barry quit this morning, and you know what reason she gave? Get this: she’s afraid of Molly, afraid to be around a person who killed two people.”

  “She didn’t dare say that!” Fran stared at him in disbelief. “Philip, I’m telling you right now, that woman is hiding something!”

  “Fran, I’ve been going through the statement Edna made to the police after she discovered Gary Lasch’s body. It’s absolutely consistent with what she told you and Molly yesterday.”

  “You mean the part where she says that Molly was the only one who had used the spare key, and that she didn’t return it to the hiding place in the garden? Molly absolutely denies that ever happened. Philip, after Mrs. Barry discovered the body, when the police were questioning people, didn’t they ask Molly about the key as well?”

  “When Molly woke up covered with blood that Monday morning and learned what had happened, she became practically catatonic, and the condition lasted for days. I don’t see any record of her being questioned about it. Don’t forget, there was absolutely no sign of forced entry, and Molly’s fingerprints were all over the murder weapon.”

  “Which means that Edna Barry’s story will be believed no matter how sure Molly is that she’s lying.” Fran paced the office in irritation. “My God, Philip, Molly can’t get a break anywhere.”

  “Fran, I had a phone call this morning from the mighty Calvin Whitehall. He wants to bring on some big guns to help in Molly’s defense. He’s already checked and they’re available. They’ve been given details of the case, and according to Whitehall, they all agree that the plea should be ‘not guilty by reason of insanity.’ ”

  “Philip, don’t let that happen.”

  “I don’t want it to happen, but there’s another problem. The prosecutor is moving heaven and earth to get Molly’s parole revoked.”

  “Joe Hutnik at the Greenwich Time tipped me off about that. So this is the way it stands: Molly’s housekeeper is saying that she’s afraid of her, and Molly’s friends are trying to have her committed. That’s what an insanity defense would amount to, wouldn’t it? She would have to spend time in an institution of some sort, right?”

  “No jury would let her walk after a second murder, so yes, she’d be locked up no matter what. We’ll certainly never get another plea bargain, and I’m not at all sure the insanity defense would work.”

  Fran saw the misery in Philip’s face. “This is getting personal for you, isn’t it?” she asked.

  He nodded. “It’s been personal for a long time. I swear to you, though, that if I thought my feelings for Molly would interfere with my judgment in defending her, I’d turn her case over to the best criminal lawyer I could find for her.”

  Fran looked at Philip Matt
hews compassionately, remembering that her first impression of him at the prison gate was of his fierce protectiveness toward Molly. “I believe that,” she said softly.

  “Fran, it’s going to take a miracle to keep Molly from going back to prison.”

  “I’m meeting with Annamarie’s sister tomorrow,” Fran said. “And as soon as I get back to the office today, I’m going to get the research department to find every scrap of background it can on Remington Health Management and everyone connected with it. The more I hear, the more I believe that those murders have less to do with Gary Lasch being a womanizer than with problems at Lasch Hospital and Remington Health Management.”

  She picked up her shoulder bag, and on her way out, she stopped at the window. “You have a spectacular view of Lady Liberty,” she said. “Is that to encourage your clients?”

  Philip Matthews smiled. “It’s funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what Molly asked the first time she was here six years ago.”

  “Well, for Molly’s sake, let’s hope Lady Liberty proves to be Lady Luck as well. I’ve got a hunch about something, and if I’m right, it could be the break we’ve been hoping for. Wish me luck, Philip. See you later.”

  63

  The dramatic change in Tasha began around five o’clock. Barbara Colbert could see it actually happening.

  For the past two days the nurses had not used the light makeup that gave a hint of color to her ashen complexion, but now a pinkish glow was becoming evident.

  The rigidity of her limbs, which had been held at bay by constant massage, seemed to be relaxing spontaneously. Barbara did not need to see the nurse tiptoe away from the bedside or hear her murmur on the phone in the sitting room to know that she was summoning the doctor.

  It’s better for Tasha this way, she tried to tell herself. Please, God, give me strength. And please let her live until her brothers are here. They want to be with her at the end.

  Barbara got up from the chair and sat on the bed, taking care not to disturb the tangle of intravenous lines and oxygen equipment. She took both Tasha’s hands in hers. “Tasha, Tasha,” she murmured. “My only consolation is that you’re going to be with Dad, and he loved you as much as I do.”

  The nurse was at the door. Barbara looked up. “I want to be alone with my daughter,” she said.

  The nurse’s eyes were filled with tears. “I understand. I’m so sorry.”

  Barbara nodded and turned back. For an instant she thought she saw Tasha move, thought she felt a pressure on her hands.

  Tasha’s breathing quickened. Barbara felt her heart ripping as she waited for the final breath. “Tasha, Tasha.”

  She was vaguely aware of a presence at the door. The doctor. Go away, she thought, but she didn’t dare turn away from this last moment of her daughter’s life.

  Suddenly Tasha opened her eyes. Her lips curved into a familiar smile. “Dr. Lasch, it was so stupid,” she murmured, “I tripped on my shoelace and went flying.”

  Barbara stared. “Tasha!”

  Tasha turned her head. “Hi, Mom . . .”

  Her eyes closed, slowly opened again. “Mom, help me . . . please.” Her last breath was a quiet sigh.

  “Tasha!” Barbara shrieked. “Tasha!” She whirled around. Peter Black was standing motionless in the doorway. “Doctor, you heard her! She spoke to me. Don’t let her die! Do something!”

  “Oh, my dear,” Dr. Black said soothingly, as the nurse rushed in. “Let our dear girl go. It is over.”

  “She spoke to me!” Barbara Colbert screamed. “You heard her!”

  Frantically she pulled Tasha’s body into her arms. “Tasha, don’t go. You’re getting better!”

  Strong arms were embracing her, gently compelling her to release her daughter. “Mother, we’re here.”

  Barbara looked up at her sons. “She talked to me,” she sobbed. “As God is my witness, before she died, she talked to me!”

  64

  Lou Knox was watching television when he received the summons he was expecting. Cal had warned him that he’d be driving a package out to West Redding, but he hadn’t been sure what time he would have to leave.

  When he got to the house, he found Cal and Dr. Peter Black in the library. It was instantly apparent to him that they had just had a major row. Cal’s mouth was a narrow, mean line, and his cheeks were flushed. Dr. Black was holding a large glass of what appeared to be straight scotch, and from the glazed look in his eyes it was obvious it wasn’t his first drink of the night.

  The television was turned on, but the screen showed the deep blue of the video setting. Whatever they had been watching was no longer playing. When Cal saw that Lou was there, he snapped at Black, “Give it to him, you fool!”

  “Cal, I’m telling you—” Dr. Black protested, his voice a dull monotone.

  “Just give it to him!”

  From the table next to him, Black picked up a small box, loosely wrapped in brown paper. Mutely he held it out to Knox.

  “Is this the package I’m to take to West Redding, sir?” Lou asked.

  “You know damn well it is, Lou. Now hurry up.”

  Lou remembered the phone call Cal had made this morning. This had to be the tape he was talking about with the ophthalmologist, Dr. Logue. Cal and Black must have been looking at it, because it was obvious the package had been opened and then rewrapped. “Right away, sir,” he said crisply. But not until I see what this tape is all about, he thought as he left.

  He hurried back to his apartment and carefully double locked the door. It wasn’t difficult to open the package again without tearing the wrapping. As he’d expected, there was a videotape inside. Quickly he inserted it in the VCR and then pushed the PLAY button.

  What was this about? he wondered as he studied the screen. He saw a hospital room—a pretty fancy one—with a young woman asleep or unconscious in bed, and a classy-looking old lady sitting next to her.

  Wait a minute, Lou thought, I know who that woman is. She’s Barbara Colbert, and that’s her daughter, the one who has been in a coma for years. The family gave so much money for the long-term care building at Lasch that they named it after the girl.

  The time the tape was made showed on the lower right corner of the screen: 8:30 this morning. Did this record the whole day? Lou wondered. Surely he didn’t have twelve hours on this one tape.

  He fast-forwarded to the end of the tape, rewound a short way, then pressed PLAY again. The picture now showed the old lady sobbing, while two men held on to her. Dr. Black was bending over the bed. The girl must have died, Lou thought. He checked the time again at the bottom of the picture: 5:40 P.M.

  Just a couple of hours ago, Lou thought. But this can’t be just about the girl dying, he reasoned. She’s been out of it for years, so they knew she was going to die some time.

  Lou knew that at any moment Cal might come up the steps, demanding to know what was keeping him. His senses straining to hear Cal approaching, he again rewound the tape, this time going further back.

  What he saw made him shiver. It was hard to believe, but there it was: the girl who had been out of it for years, waking up, turning her head, talking clearly, talking about Dr. Lasch. Then she closed her eyes and died. And then there was Black, telling the mother he hadn’t heard the girl say anything.

  It was spooky. Whatever this was about, it was big stuff. Lou knew that. He also knew the chance he was taking when he spent precious time duplicating the last fifteen minutes of the tape and hiding it in the compartment behind the shelves in his apartment.

  He was just getting in the car when Cal came out. “What kept you? What have you been up to, Lou?”

  Lou was sure the naked fear he felt was visible in his face, but he forced himself to control it. He knew what he had in that tape, and the power it gave him. Long years of making deception an art form served him well.

  “I was in the bathroom. My stomach isn’t so good.”

  Without waiting for a response, he closed the car door and started
the engine. An hour later he was at the farmhouse in West Redding, handing the package to the man he knew as Dr. Adrian Logue.

  Almost feverish with excitement, Logue grabbed the package from Lou’s hand and slammed the door in his face.

  65

  “It was one of the hardest things I ever did in my entire life,” Edna Barry explained on the telephone to Marta Jones. She had just finished tidying up the kitchen after dinner, and it seemed a good time to have a final cup of tea and get her story across to her friend.

  “Yes, it must have been dreadful for you,” Marta agreed.

  Edna had no doubt that Fran Simmons would be nosing around again, asking more questions, and she might very well drop over to see Marta. Well, if she did, Edna wanted to be sure her neighbor got the story right. This time, Edna vowed, Marta was going to pass on information that wouldn’t hurt Wally. She took another sip of tea and moved the phone to her other ear. “Marta,” she continued, “you were the one who put the idea in my head that Molly might be dangerous, remember? I tried not to think about it, but she is acting strange. She’s very quiet. Sits for hours, just by herself. Doesn’t want anyone around. Today she was on the floor, going through boxes. There were stacks of pictures of the doctor.”

  “No!” Marta gasped. “I would think she’d have gotten rid of them long ago. Why would she hold on to those? Would you want to look at a picture of a man you killed?”

  “That’s what I mean about her acting so strange,” Edna said. “Then yesterday, when she said she never took the key from the hiding place in the garden—well, Marta, I realized then that all that business about forgetting everything started before the doctor died. I think it all began when she had the miscarriage. Depression must have set in then, and after that Molly was never the same.”

  “Poor woman,” Marta said with a sigh. “It would be a lot better for her if they put her someplace where she can get real help, but I’m glad you’re staying away from her, Edna. Don’t forget, Wally needs you, and he has to be your first priority.”