Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall

  there were a thorough autopsy. But he could circumvent that.

  Before going to bed, he went out to the foyer closet. He'd get

  those moccasins safely into his bag now. Reaching into one pocket

  of the Burberry, he pulled out a misshapen moccasin. Expectantly

  he put his free hand in the other pocket—first matter-offactly,

  then rummaging frantically. Finally he pawed through

  the overshoes stacked on the closet floor.

  At last he stood up, staring at the battered moccasin he was

  holding. The right one. The one he had tugged off Vangie's right

  foot. Hysterically he began to laugh.

  Somehow in the dark the moccasin had fallen out of his pocket.

  The one he'd found after crawling around in the parking lot like

  a dog was the one he'd already had. Somewhere the left moccasin

  that Vangie Lewis had been wearing was waiting to trace her

  footsteps back to him.

  KATIE had set the clock radio for six a.m., but she was wide

  awake long before. Her sleep had been troubled; several times

  she'd almost started to jump up, frightened by a vague, worrisome

  dream. Shivering, she adjusted the thermostat, then ran to the

  kitchen, quickly made coffee and took a cup back upstairs to bed.

  Propped against the pillows, the comforter wrapped around her,

  she eagerly sipped as the heat of the cup warmed her fingers.

  "That's better," she murmured. "Now, what's the matter with me?"

  She glanced into the mirror of the antique mahogany dresser

  opposite the bed. Her hair was tousled. The bruise under her eye

  was now purple tinged with yellow. Her eyes were swollen with

  sleep. I look like something the cat dragged in, she reflected.

  But it was more than the way she looked. It was a heavy feeling

  of apprehension. Had she dreamed that queer, frightening nightmare

  again? She couldn't be sure.

  Vangie Lewis. It seemed impossible that anyone would choose

  to kill her by forcing cyanide down her throat. She simply didn't

  believe Chris Lewis was capable of that kind of violence.

  She thought of Dr. Highley's call. That damn operation. Well,

  at least she was getting it over with. Check in Friday night. Operation

  Saturday, home Sunday. At work Monday. No big deal.

  As she sipped her coffee, she glanced instinctively at John's picture.

  A handsome, grave-looking man with gentle, penetrating

  eyes. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she was keeping a deathwatch.

  John would be the first one to blast her for that.

  A hot shower picked up her spirits. She had a plea-bargaining

  session scheduled for nine, a sentencing at ten and Friday's trial

  to prepare for. I'd better get a move on, she thought.

  She dressed quickly, selecting a soft brown wool skirt and a

  turquoise silk shirt with long sleeves that covered the bandage on

  her arm. The car from the service station arrived as she finished a

  second coffee. She took the driver back and drove to the office.

  It had been a busy night in the county. There had been a

  drunken-driving accident resulting in four deaths, and two armed

  robberies.

  Scott Myerson was just coming out of his office. "Lovely night,"

  Katie observed.

  He nodded. "Look, I'm interested in the psychiatrist Vangie

  Lewis was going to. I'd like his opinion of her mental state. I can

  send Phil, but a woman would be less noticeable over there."

  Katie hesitated. "Maybe I can help out. Dr. Highley is my

  gynecologist. I actually have an appointment with him today. Perhaps

  I could see Dr. Fukhito before or after."

  Scott's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you think of

  Highley? Richard made some crack yesterday about Vangie's condition;

  seemed to think that he was taking chances with her."

  Katie shook her head, "I don't agree. Highley's specialty is difficult

  pregnancies. That's the point. He tries to save the babies other

  doctors lose." She thought of his phone call to her. "I can vouch

  for the fact that he's a very concerned doctor."

  Scott frowned. "How long have you known him?"

  "Not long. My sister, Molly, has a friend who raves about Dr.

  Highley, so I went to see him last month." She remembered his

  words. "You're quite right to have come," he'd said. "I think of the

  womb as a cradle that must always be kept in good repair." The

  one thing that had surprised her was that he did not have a nurse

  in attendance during the examination, unlike other gynecologists.

  "All right," Scott said. "Talk to Highley. And the shrink too.

  Find out whether or not they think she was capable of suicide.

  See if she talked about her husband. Charley and Phil are checking

  on Chris Lewis now. Talk to the nurses too."

  "Not the nurses." Katie smiled. "The receptionist, Edna. She

  knows everybody's business. I wasn't in the waiting room two

  minutes before I found myself giving her my life history."

  Katie went into her office for her files, then rushed to her appointment

  with a defense attorney about an indicted defendant.

  From there she hurried to a second-floor courtroom to hear the

  sentencing of a youth she had prosecuted for armed robbery.

  When she returned, she had two messages to call Dr. Carroll.

  She tried to reach him, but he was out on a case.

  She phoned Dr. Highley's office fully expecting to hear the

  nasal warmth of Edna's voice. But whoever answered was a

  stranger. "Doctors' offices."

  Katie decided to ask for Edna. "Is Miss Burns there?"

  "She called in sick today. I'm Mrs. Fitzgerald."

  Katie realized then how much she had counted on talking to

  Edna. Briefly she explained that Dr. Highley expected her to

  call for an appointment and that she'd also like to see Dr. Fukhito.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald put her on hold a few minutes, and then said, "Dr.

  Fukhito is free at a quarter to four. Dr. Highley would prefer three

  o'clock if it is convenient."

  Katie confirmed the appointments, then turned to the work on

  her desk. At lunchtime Maureen Crowley, one of the office secre

  taries, popped her head in and offered to bring Katie a sandwich.

  Deep in preparation for Friday's trial, Katie nodded.

  "Ham on rye with mustard and lettuce," Maureen said.

  Katie looked up, surprised. "Am I that predictable?"

  The girl was about nineteen, with a mane of red-gold hair,

  emerald-green eyes and a lovely pale complexion. "Katie, about

  food you're in a rut." The door closed behind her.

  You're on a deathwatch. You're in a rut. Katie was astonished

  to realize she was close to tears. I must be sick if I'm getting this

  thin-skinned, she thought.

  When the lunch arrived she ate it, only vaguely aware of what

  she was having. Vangie Lewis' face was constantly before her.

  But why had she seen it in a nightmare?

  CHAPTER SIX

  RICHARD Carroll was in his office just after nine. Twice he tried

  phoning Katie, hoping to catch her between court sessions. He

  wanted to hear the sound of her voice. For some reason he'd felt

  edgy about leaving her alone in that big house last night. Why

  did
he have a hunch that something was troubling her?

  He went out on a case. When he returned to his office at four

  thirty, he was absurdly pleased to see that Katie had returned

  his calls. Quickly he phoned her, but the switchboard operator

  said that she had left for the day.

  That meant he wouldn't get to talk to her today. He was having

  dinner in New York with Clovis Simmons, a TV actress. Clovis

  was fun, but the signs were that she was getting serious.

  Richard made a resolve. This was the last time he'd take Clovis

  out. It wasn't fair to her. Refusing to consider the reason for that

  sudden decision, he turned his thoughts again to the Lewis case.

  He had not been exaggerating when he'd said that if Vangie

  Lewis had not delivered her baby soon, she wouldn't have needed

  cyanide. How many women got into that same condition under the

  Westlake Maternity Concept? Had there been anything unusual

  about the ratio of deaths among Westlake's patients? Richard

  asked his secretary to come in.

  Marge was in her mid-fifties, an excellent secretary who thoroughly

  enjoyed the drama of the department.

  "Marge," he said, "I want to do some unofficial investigating of

  Westlake Hospital's maternity section. I'd like to know how many

  patients died either in childbirth or from complications during

  pregnancy. I also want to know the ratio of deaths to the number

  of patients treated there. Do you know anybody at Westlake who

  might look at the hospital records for you on the quiet?"

  His secretary frowned. "Let me work on it."

  "Good. And check into any malpractice suits that have been filed

  against either of the doctors."

  Satisfied at getting the investigation under way, Richard dashed

  home to shower and change. Seconds after he left his office a call

  came for him from Dr. David Broad at Mount Sinai Hospital.

  Marge took the message asking Richard to contact Dr. Broad in

  the morning. The matter was urgent.

  KATIE was a few minutes early for her appointment with Dr.

  Highley. The other receptionist, Mrs. Fitzgerald, was coolly pleasant,

  but when Katie asked about Edna's illness, the woman seemed

  nervous. "It's just a virus," she replied stiffly.

  A buzzer sounded. The receptionist picked up the phone. "Mrs.

  DeMaio, Dr. Highley will see you now," she said.

  Katie walked quickly down the corridor to Dr. Highley's office.

  She knocked, then opened the door and stepped inside. The office

  had the air of a comfortable study. Bookshelves lined one wall;

  pictures of mothers with babies nearly covered another. A club

  chair was placed near the doctor's elaborately carved desk. The

  doctor stood up to greet her. "Mrs. DeMaio." His tone was courteous,

  the faint British accent barely perceptible. His face was

  round and smooth-skinned. Thinning sandy hair, streaked with

  gray, was carefully combed in a side part. Eyebrows and lashes,

  the same sandy shade, accentuated protruding steel-gray eyes. Not

  an attractive man, but authoritative.

  As they sat down, Katie thanked him for the phone call.

  He dismissed her gratitude. "If you had told the emergency-

  room doctor that you were my patient, he would have given you

  a room in the west wing. Far more comfortable, I assure you. And

  about the same view."

  Katie fished in her shoulder bag and took out her notebook and

  pen. She looked up quickly. "Anything would be better than the

  view I thought I had the other night. . . ." She stopped. She was

  here on official business, not to talk about her nightmares. "Doctor,

  if you don't mind, let's talk about Vangie Lewis." She smiled. "I

  guess our roles are reversed for a few minutes. I get to ask the

  questions."

  His expression became somber. "That poor girl. I've thought

  of little else since I heard the news."

  Katie nodded. "When was the last time you saw her?"

  He leaned back in the chair. His fingers interlocked under his

  chin. "It was last Thursday evening. I'd been having Mrs. Lewis

  come in weekly since the halfway point of her pregnancy."

  "How was she," Katie asked, "physically and emotionally?"

  "Her physical condition was a worry. There was danger of toxic

  pregnancy, which I was watching very closely. But every additional

  day she carried increased the baby's chance of survival."

  "Could she have carried the baby to full term?"

  "Impossible. In fact, I warned Mrs. Lewis last Thursday that

  we'd have to bring her in soon and induce labor."

  "How did she respond to that news?"

  He frowned. "I expected her to be concerned for the baby's life.

  But the closer she came to delivery, the more it seemed to me that

  she was morbidly fearful of giving birth."

  "Did she show any specific depression?"

  Dr. Highley shook his head. "I did not see it. But Dr. Fukhito

  should answer that. He saw her on Monday night, and he's better

  trained than I to recognize the symptoms."

  "A last question," Katie said. "Your office is right next to Dr.

  Fukhito's. Did you see Mrs. Lewis at any time Monday night?"

  "I did not."

  "Thank you. You've been very helpful." She slipped her notebook

  back into her bag. "Now it's your turn to ask questions."

  "You answered them last night. Now, when you've finished talking

  with Dr. Fukhito, please go to room 101. You'll be given a trans

  fusion. Wait about half, an hour before driving after you've received

  it. Also..." He reached into the side drawer of his desk and

  selected a bottle containing a number of pills. 'Take one of these

  tonight. Then one every four hours tomorrow; the same on Friday.

  I must stress that this is very important. If this operation does not

  cure your problem, we must consider more radical surgery, perhaps

  a hysterectomy."

  "I'll take the pills," Katie said.

  "Good. You'll be checking in around six o'clock Friday evening.

  I'll look in on you." He opened the door for her. "Till Friday, then,

  Mrs. DeMaio," he said softly.

  THE investigative team of Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent

  returned to the prosecutor's office at four p.m. exuding the

  excitement of hounds who have treed their quarry. Rushing into

  Scott's office, they proceeded to lay their findings before him.

  "The husband's a liar," Phil said crisply. "He wasn't due back till

  yesterday morning, but his plane developed engine trouble. The

  passengers were off-loaded in Chicago, and he and the crew

  deadheaded back to New York. He got in Monday evening."

  "Monday evening!" Scott exploded.

  "Yeah. We talked to his crew on the Monday flight. Lewis gave

  the purser a ride into Manhattan. Told him his wife was away

  and he was going to stay in the city overnight and take in a show.

  He parked the car and checked in at the Holiday Inn on West

  Fifty-seventh Street; then he and the purser had dinner together.

  The purser left him at seven twenty. After that, Lewis got his car.

  The garage records show he brought it back at ten. And get this.

  He took off again at m
idnight and came back at two."

  Scott whistled. "He lied to us about his flight. He lied to the

  purser about his wife. He was somewhere in his car between

  eight and ten and between midnight and two a.m. And Vangie

  Lewis died between eight and ten."

  "There's more," Charley Nugent said. "Lewis has a girl friend, a

  Pan Am stewardess. Name's Joan Moore. Lives on East Eighty-

  seventh Street. Her doorman told us that Captain Lewis drove her

  home from the airport yesterday morning. She left her bag with

  him and they went for, coffee in the drugstore across the street."

  "It's four o'clock," Scott said crisply. "The judges will be leaving

  soon. Phil, get one of them on the phone and ask him to wait

  around for fifteen minutes. Tell him we'll need a search warrant.

  Charley, you find out what funeral director picked up Vangie

  Lewis' body in Minneapolis. Get to him. The body is not to be

  interred. Did Lewis say when he was coming back?"

  Charley nodded. "Tomorrow, after the service."

  "Find out what plane he's on and invite him here for questioning.

  And I want to talk to Miss Moore. What do you know about her?"

  "She shares an apartment with two other stewardesses. She's

  planning to switch to Pan Am's Latin American division and fly