Twenty minutes later she was standing behind an evergreen tree with heavy branches. From there she had a good view of the house. She waited for nearly an hour and then, her hands and feet cold, decided to leave. It was at that moment that the side door of the farmhouse opened and she saw Gloria Evans come out carrying two suitcases.
She’s leaving now, Penny thought. What’s her big hurry? Rebecca said that she has thirty days to get out if the house sells. On the other hand, Rebecca told her that she was bringing the buyers in tomorrow for a look around the house. That’s probably what Missy Evans is worried about. Dollars to donuts, I’m right. What’s she got to hide in there?
Gloria Evans had put the suitcases in the trunk of her car and returned to the house. When she came out again, she was dragging an oversized trash bag that seemed to be heavy. That, too, she started to put in the trunk. As Penny watched, a paper fell out of the top of the bag and blew back into the yard. Evans looked after it, but did not chase it. Then she went back into the house and for the next half hour did not come out.
Too cold to wait any longer, Penny went back to her car. It was nearly noon and she drove straight into town. Rebecca had left a note on the door: “Back soon.”
Disappointed, Penny started to drive home but then, on an impulse, returned to her observation spot behind Sy’s farmhouse. This time to her chagrin, the Evans car was gone. Oh, boy, that means nobody’s in there, she thought and, holding her breath, walked up to the back of the house. The shades were drawn to the sill except for one of them that was raised about six inches. She peered in and could see into the kitchen with its heavy old furniture and linoleum floor. Can’t tell much from here, she thought. I wonder if she’s gone for good?
Making her way to the wooded area again, she saw that the sheet of paper that had blown away was caught on a shrub. Pleased, she ran to get it.
It was coloring paper and a childish hand had obviously sketched it. It had the outline of a woman’s face with long hair, a face that in some way resembled Evans. Under the sketch was a single word, “Mommy.”
So she has a kid, Penny thought, and she doesn’t want anyone to know it. I bet she’s hiding it from the father. That would be just her style. I wonder if she cut her hair recently. No surprise that she didn’t want me to see the toy truck. I know what I’ll do. I’ll call Alvirah and tell her—maybe she can trace Ms. Gloria Evans. Maybe if she’s been hiding a kid from his father, there’ll be a reward. Wouldn’t that really be a surprise for Bernie?
With a satisfied smile, Penny went back to the car, the drawing securely held between her gloved fingers. She laid it on the passenger seat, looked down at it, and frowned. Something was sticking in her mind, it felt like a sore tooth that was starting to throb again.
Darned if I know what, she thought as she started the car and drove away.
70
On Saturday morning, the normally intense satisfaction he would have felt at seeing the pictures of Zan splattered all over the tabloids was missing. He had endured a miserable night of restless dreams involving him trying to outrun the hordes of people who were relentlessly chasing him.
Shooting the priest had unnerved him. He had tried to hold the gun against the old man’s robe, but at the last minute the priest had pulled to one side. According to the news report, he was in critical condition.
Critical condition, but not dead.
What was he going to do now? He had told Gloria to meet him at LaGuardia tonight, but thinking about it, that was a lousy idea. She was worried about being caught. She was suspicious that he would not deliver on the money. I know her mind, he thought. I still wouldn’t put it past her to try to get some of that reward money. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was dumb enough to think she could make a deal with the cops and let them put a wire on her before we meet. If she gives them my name now, it’s all over.
But if she thinks it through, and is greedy enough to hang on, waiting to get her hands on my money and not go to jail, she may opt for that, he thought.
I can’t take a chance of someone spotting me in broad daylight around that farmhouse. But I’ve got to get up there before she leaves to meet me at LaGuardia. I’ll take everything personal in the house that belonged to her and Matthew with me. Then when the real estate agent finds them dead, nothing will be around to suggest that Gloria was impersonating Zan.
He had planned to kill Zan and make it look like a suicide. In a way this was better. She would never get over losing Matthew for good.
When he thought about it, that was infinitely more satisfactory than putting a bullet through her heart. How much fun it had been all these years, even before Matthew was born, being able to observe almost every moment of Zan’s life at home whenever he wanted to tune in. In these last two years, he had loved being able to watch her lying in bed, hear her sobbing in her sleep, then waking up in the morning, and, not knowing he was watching, reach over and touch Matthew’s picture.
It was eleven o’clock. He dialed Gloria. But she did not answer her cell phone. Maybe she was already on the way into New York, and on her way to the cops?
The thought terrified him. What could he do? Where could he run?
Nowhere.
At 11:30 and then at 12:30, he called her again. By then his hands were shaking. But this time she answered. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“Where do you think I am? I’m stuck here in this damn farmhouse.”
“Were you out?”
“I went to the store. Matty just isn’t eating anything. I got some hot dogs for his lunch. What time do you want me to meet you?”
“Eleven o’clock tonight.”
“Why that late?”
“Because there’s no need to do it earlier. And by then, Matthew will be sound asleep, so you won’t have to lock him up alone for too long. I’ll have all the money. It might raise too many questions to wire it. You can take your chances on carrying it through airport security or sending it parcel post to your father, but this way you’ll know you have it, Brittany…”
“Don’t call me that! You shot that priest, didn’t you?”
“Gloria, I need to remind you of something. If you still have any thoughts of going to the police and making a deal, it won’t work. I’ll tell them that it was you who begged me to kill that good old man because you were stupid enough to blab to him in confession. They’ll believe me. You’ll never go scott free. This way you still have a chance of doing what you want to do, to have a career. Even if you cut a deal, you won’t get away with less than twenty years. Believe me, there isn’t much of a market for either actresses or makeup artists in prison.”
“You’d better have that money with you.”
He could tell that if she had had any intention of going to the cops, she was wavering. “I’m looking at it right now.”
“Six hundred thousand dollars?” she asked. “All of it.”
“I’ll wait tonight while you count it.”
“What about Matthew saying I took him from the stroller?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. He was just three years old. There’s nothing to worry about. They’ll think he’s mixed up about whether his mother or someone else, meaning you, took him that day. You know they arrested Zan last night? The cops don’t believe a word that she’s saying.”
“I guess you’re right. I just want this to be over.”
You’re making it easy for me, he thought. “Don’t leave around any of the stuff you wore when you looked like Zan,” he said.
“Stop worrying. Every bit of it is packed. Did you get my airline ticket?”
“Yes. I’m sending you by way of Atlanta. It’s better if you don’t have a direct flight. I’m just being careful. Use your own ID when you fly from Atlanta to Texas. You’re booked on the 10:30 Continental tomorrow morning from LaGuardia to Atlanta. That way if you want to send the money to your father, parcel post, which I think is a good idea, you’ll have time to do it. I’ll meet you in the parki
ng lot of the Holiday Inn on the Grand Central Parkway. I made a reservation for you there.”
“I guess you’re right. And like you say, if I meet you at eleven o’clock, I only have to put Matty in the closet at 9:30.”
“Exactly.” Then, making his voice sound tender, he added, “You know, Gloria, you are a superb actress. These times you’ve been out, you’ve not only looked like Zan but you moved like her, too. I could see that in the photos that tourist took. It’s uncanny. I’m telling you, those cops are convinced it’s Zan in them.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” She clicked off.
I wasted a night’s sleep, he thought. She won’t go to the cops. Once again he picked up a newspaper with Zan’s face on it. “I can’t wait to see your expression tomorrow when that real estate woman and her buyer find Brittany and Matthew, and you get the sad tidings,” he said aloud.
And like that he figured out the solution that was at his fingertips. It would take money, but that kind of money he could willingly spare.
He just didn’t have the heart to kill the child himself.
71
It was late morning when he got to his desk after seeing Brittany La Monte’s roommates. Wally Johnson leaned back in his chair. Totally ignoring the phones and conversations going on in the big room, he studied Brittany’s photo montage. There is a slight resemblance to the Moreland woman, he thought. Angela Anton had said that La Monte was a consummate makeup artist. He held the montage against the front page of the Post showing Alexandra Moreland coming out of the courthouse. The headline read: ZAN SCREAMS, “I AM NOT THE WOMAN IN THOSE PHOTOS.”
Was there even the faintest chance that she was right?
Wally closed his eyes. On the other hand, was Brittany La Monte still alive, or had Bartley Longe managed to carry out his threat to her? She had not been seen in nearly two years, and the postcard could well have been a phony.
The tape of that phone call was enough to bring Longe in for questioning. But suppose… Wally Johnson did not finish the thought. Instead, he reached for his cell phone and called Billy Collins. “Wally Johnson, Billy, you at your desk?”
“On the way in. I had to stop at the dentist. Be there in twenty minutes,” Billy answered.
“I’ll take a run up. I want to show you something.”
“Sure,” Billy said, mildly curious.
* * *
The night before, Billy had gone directly from Zan Moreland’s arraignment to a play at Fordham University on the Rose Hill Campus in the Bronx. His son, a senior, had one of the leading roles in it. Billy and Eileen had heard about the shooting of Fr. Aiden O’Brien in the car on their way home to Forest Hills.
“I’m sorry we won’t get this case, but it happened in another precinct,” he had told Eileen heatedly the night before. “To shoot a seventy-eight-year-old priest when he’s in the process of offering you forgiveness has to be the worst form of lowlife. I just spoke to Fr. O’Brien earlier today, something about the Moreland case. The crazy thing is that Fr. O’Brien was warned about that guy. Alvirah Meehan, the friend of Zan Moreland I told you about, had seen someone watching that priest Monday evening. She even went to view the church security camera tape, but couldn’t get a decent look at him.”
All Friday night, Billy had kept waking up, feeling as if he had, in some way, personally failed Fr. O’Brien. But we did look at the tape, he thought. The glimpse we got of that guy with a lot of dark hair was useless. He could have been anybody.
The first thing he did in the morning was to phone the hospital, where a police guard had been placed outside the intensive care unit. “He’s holding his own, Billy,” was the reassuring answer to his inquiry.
At the precinct, Jennifer Dean was waiting at his desk with David Feldman, one of the detectives assigned to investigate the shooting of Fr. O’Brien.
Although Jennifer Dean was outwardly calm, Billy knew her well enough to sense that she was tense. “Wait till you hear what Dave has to tell us, Billy,” she began. “It’s pretty explosive.”
Feldman didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “Billy, as soon as the medics got the priest on the way to the hospital, we looked at the security cameras.” The crinkles around David Feldman’s eyes were proof that the detective was by nature a man who frequently smiled, but now his expression was grave. “We had a description from some of the people who were in the atrium after they heard three popping sounds. They saw a six- or six-foot-one man with a bushy head of black hair, trench coat, upturned collar, and dark glasses run out of the Reconciliation Room. It was easy to pick him out on the camera, entering and leaving the church. I think that mop of hair is a wig. No way that we could get a decent look at his face.”
“Anyone see which way he headed?” Billy snapped.
“A woman came forward who saw a man running toward Eighth Avenue. He may or may not have been our guy.”
“Okay.” Billy knew David Feldman had more to say but would do it his way, meticulously covering the step-by-step of the investigation.
“This morning the church handyman, Neil Hunt, came back. He had been to an AA meeting last night and went straight home and to bed after it. He didn’t hear about the shooting until this morning. But get this.” Feldman pulled his chair closer to Billy’s desk and leaned forward. “Hunt used to be a cop. He got thrown off the force after being sent to the farm twice to dry out. Drinking on duty. The third time he was told to turn in his shield.”
“Billy, wait till you hear the rest of it,” Jennifer said, a note of barely concealed astonishment in her voice. “Remember that Alvi-rah Meehan told us that she had been in church Monday evening, and didn’t like the way that man sprang up from supposedly praying when Fr. O’Brien came out of the Reconciliation Room? It bothered her enough that she went back and looked at those security tapes.”
Feldman darted an annoyed glance at Dean for interrupting him. “We took a look at those tapes from Monday night, Billy,” he said. “It’s the same guy who was on the cameras last night going into the atrium of the lower church and leaving it a few minutes later, the one who shot the priest. You couldn’t miss him. Mop of black hair, big dark glasses, same trench coat. The priest had no idea who he was.
“But, Billy, get this. We believe that Zan Moreland was in the church Monday night, too. She came and left before Alvirah, but the man in the black hair may have followed her in. He didn’t leave until he saw what Fr. Aiden looked like.”
“Was Moreland dropping in to say a prayer, or do you think she’s connected to the guy who shot the priest?” Billy snapped. “Or did she go to confession and maybe that guy got worried?”
“I think it’s a possibility,” Feldman answered. “Billy, there’s something else going on. As I said, the handyman who showed us the security tapes, Neil Hunt, used to be a cop.”
“He wasn’t the one who showed us the security tape yesterday,” Jennifer Dean interrupted again.
“He claims he has a photographic memory,” Feldman continued. “He bragged that I should look up his record in the department on that. He swears that Monday night, right after the Moreland woman left the church, he was walking home and a block away, a woman who looked just like her stepped in front of him and got in a cab. He said he’d have thought it was the same person, except the one who got in the cab had slacks and a jacket on. The one in church was dressed up.”
Billy Collins and Jennifer Dean looked at each other for a long minute, each thinking the same thing. Was it possible that Alexandra Moreland was telling the truth, that there really was someone who looked exactly like her out there? Or was this ex-cop trying to capture a moment of self-importance by making up a story that no one might be able to prove or disprove?
“I wonder if our former brother in New York’s Finest has read the morning papers and figures this is a good way to get someone to pay him for an interview?” Billy suggested, even as his gut told him that wouldn’t be the case. “Dave, let’s get Neil Hunt in here and see if he sticks to his story.”
Billy’s cell phone began to ring. Deep in thought, he picked it up and barked his name. It was Alvirah Meehan. He did not miss the triumphant note in her voice. “I wonder if I can come right over and see you,” she said. “I have something of great interest to tell you.”
“I’ll be right here, Mrs. Meehan, and I’ll be glad to see you.” He looked up.
Wally Johnson was making his way swiftly through the uneven rows of desks to come to him.
72
Kevin Wilson spent more than an hour in the exercise room of his apartment late Saturday morning. During that time he switched the remote from channel to channel, trying to see every possible news clip showing Zan leaving the courthouse. Her agonized protest, “I am not the woman in those photos,” cut through him like a knife.
Frowning, he watched as a psychiatrist compared the photos of Zan in Central Park after Matthew disappeared and the ones of her taking Matthew from the stroller and carrying him away. “There is no way that woman is not the mother kidnapping her own child,” the psychiatrist was saying. “Look at these photos. Who else would be able to find and change into the exact same dress in the space of a few hours?”
Kevin knew he had to see Zan today. She had told him she lived in Battery Park City, only fifteen minutes away. She had given him her cell phone number. Keeping his fingers crossed, he dialed it.
It rang five times, then her voice came on. “Hi, this is Zan Moreland. Please leave a number and I’ll get back to you.”
“Zan, this is Kevin. I hate to do this to you, but I’d really like to get together with you today. We’re getting the workmen started Monday on the apartments and there are a few things I need to go over with you.” Then he added, hastily, “No problems, just choices.”
He showered, then dressed in his favorite kind of clothes: jeans, a sport shirt, and a sweater. He wasn’t hungry, but he had some cereal and coffee. He sat at the small table that overlooked the Hudson while he read in the paper about the charges that had been placed against Zan. Kidnapping, interfering with parental custody, lying to the police.