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