The covering letter concluded with the promise that any information would be kept confidential.
“I know the Peales’ Washington home was broken into a few years ago,” Jonathan had said. “Terrible business. I had been there to Jock’s victory party. Two weeks later his mother came home early from a family vacation and must have walked in on the thief. She was found at the bottom of the staircase with a broken neck, and the John White Alexander painting was missing.”
Maybe it was because I know the Peales that I paid so much attention to this picture, Grace thought as she gripped the flyer. The camera must have been below him, the way his face is angled.
She studied the blurry image, the narrow neck, sharp-tipped nose, pursed lips. It wasn’t what you’d notice when you look directly at someone’s face, she thought. But when you’re looking up at him from a wheelchair, you see him from this angle.
I would swear this looks like that man I met at the club the other night, Jason Arnott, Grace thought. Was it possible?
“Carrie, hand me the phone, please.” A moment later Grace was speaking to Amanda Coble, who had introduced her to Jason Arnott at the club. After the usual greetings, she brought the conversation around to him. She confessed that she was still plagued by the impression that she had met him before. Where did he live? she asked. What did he do?
When she hung up, Grace sipped the now cooling tea and studied the picture again. According to Amanda, Arnott was an art and antiques expert, and he traveled in the best social circles from Washington to Newport.
Grace called Jonathan in his Trenton office. He was out at the time, but when he got back to her at three-thirty that afternoon, she told him what she believed she had figured out, that Jason Arnott was the burglar the FBI was looking for.
“That’s quite an accusation, dear,” Jonathan said cautiously.
“I’ve got good eyes, Jonathan. You know that.”
“Yes, I do,” he agreed quietly. “And frankly, if it were anyone other than you, I would hesitate to pass the name along to the FBI. I don’t want to put anything in writing, but give me the confidential number on that flyer. I’ll make a phone call.”
“No,” Grace said. “As long as you agree that it’s all right to speak to the FBI, I’ll make the call. If I’m dead wrong, you’re not connected to it. If I’m right, I at least get to feel that at last I’ve done something useful again. I very much liked Jock Peale’s mother when I met her years ago. I’d love to be the one who found her killer. No one should be allowed to get away with murder.”
78
Dr. Charles Smith was in a very bad mood. He had spent a solitary weekend made more frustratingly lonely by the fact that he could not reach Barbara Tompkins. Saturday had been such a beautiful day, he thought she might enjoy a drive up through Westchester, with a stop for an early lunch at one of the little inns along the Hudson.
He got her answering machine, however, and if she was home, she did not return his call.
Sunday was no better. Usually on Sunday Smith forced himself to look in the “Arts and Leisure” section of the Times to find an off-Broadway play or a recital or a Lincoln Center event to attend. But he had no heart for any of it that day. Most of Sunday was passed lying on top of his bed, fully dressed, studying the picture of Suzanne on the wall.
What I achieved was so incredible, he said to himself. That painfully plain, bad-tempered offspring of two handsome parents had been given back her birthright—and so much more. He had given her beauty so natural, so breathtaking, that it inspired awe in those who encountered it.
On Monday morning he tried Barbara at the office and was told that she was on a business trip to California, that she would not be back for two weeks. Now he really was upset. He knew that was a lie. In the course of conversation at dinner on Thursday night, Barbara had mentioned something about looking forward to a business lunch at La Grenouille this Wednesday. He remembered because she said she had never been to that restaurant and was especially looking forward to it.
For the rest of Monday, Smith found it difficult to concentrate on his patients. Not that his schedule was very busy. He seemed to have fewer and fewer patients, and those who came in for initial consultation seldom came back. Not that he really cared—so few of them had the potential for genuine beauty.
And once again he felt Carpenter’s eyes following him. She was very efficient, but he had decided it might be time to let her go. He had noticed that the other day, during the rhinoplasty, she had watched him like an anxious mother, hoping her child will perform his part in the school play without stumbling.
When his three-thirty appointment canceled, Smith decided to go home early. He would get the car and drive up to Barbara’s office and park across the street. She usually left a few minutes after five, but he wanted to be there early just in case. The thought that she might be deliberately evading him was intolerable. If he learned that was true . . .
He was just stepping from the building lobby onto Fifth Avenue when he saw Kerry McGrath approaching. He looked around quickly for some way to avoid her, but it was impossible. She was blocking his path.
“Dr. Smith, I’m glad I caught you,” Kerry said. “It’s very important that I speak to you.”
“Ms. McGrath, Mrs. Carpenter and the receptionist are still in the office. Any assistance you require can be handled by them.” He turned and tried to walk past her.
She fell into step beside him. “Dr. Smith, Mrs. Carpenter and the receptionist can’t discuss your daughter with me, and neither one of them is responsible for putting an innocent man in prison.”
Charles Smith reacted as though she had thrown hot tar on him. “How dare you?” He stopped and grabbed her arm.
Kerry realized suddenly that he was about to strike her. His face was contorted with fury, his mouth twisted in a narrow snarl. She felt the trembling of his hand as his fingers pinched her wrist.
A man passing by looked at them curiously and stopped. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked.
“Am I all right, Doctor?” Kerry asked, her voice calm.
Smith released her arm. “Of course. Of course.” He started to walk quickly down Fifth Avenue.
Kerry kept stride with him. “Dr. Smith, you know you will have to talk to me eventually. And I think it would be a much better idea to hear me out before things get out of hand and some very unpleasant situation occurs.”
He did not respond.
She stayed next to him. She realized his breathing was rapid. “Dr. Smith, I don’t care how fast you walk. I can outrun you. Shall we go back to your office, or is there some place around here where we could get a cup of coffee? We have got to talk. Otherwise I’m afraid you’re going to be arrested and charged with being a stalker.”
“Charged . . . with . . . what?” Again Smith whirled to face her.
“You have frightened Barbara Tompkins with your attention. Did you frighten Suzanne as well, Doctor? You were there the night she died, weren’t you? Two people, a woman and a little boy, saw a black Mercedes in front of the house. The woman remembered part of the license plate, a 3 and an L. Today I learned that your license plate has an 8 and an L. Close enough to make it possible, I would say. Now, where shall we talk?”
He continued to stare at her for several moments, anger still flaring in his eyes. She watched as resignation gradually took its place, as his whole body seemed to go slack.
“I live down this street,” he said, no longer looking at her. They were near the corner, and he pointed to the left.
Kerry took the words as an invitation. Am I making a mistake going inside with him? she wondered. He seems to be at the breaking point. Is there a housekeeper there?
But she decided whether she was alone with Smith or not, she might not get this chance again. The shock value of what she had said to him might have cracked something in his psyche. Dr. Smith, she was sure, did not mind seeing another man in prison but would not relish the prospect of facing the court in any way as a defendant.<
br />
They were at number 28 Washington Mews. Smith reached for his key and with a precise gesture inserted it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. “Come in if you insist, Ms. McGrath,” he said.
79
The tips continued to filter in to the FBI from people who had been guests at one or more of the various burglarized homes. They now had twelve potential leads, but Si Morgan thought he had struck gold when on Monday afternoon his chief suspect, Sheldon Landi, admitted that his public relations firm was a coverup for his real activity.
Landi had been invited in for questioning, and for a brief moment Si thought he was about to hear a confession. Then Landi, perspiration on his brow, his hands twisting together whispered, “Have you ever read Tell All?”
“That’s a supermarket tabloid, isn’t it?” Si asked.
“Yes. One of the biggest. Four million circulation a week.” For an instant there was a bragging note in Landi’s tone. Then his voice dropped almost to the point of being inaudible as he said, “This must not go beyond this room, but I’m Tell All’s chief writer. If it ever gets out, I’ll be dropped by all my friends.”
So much for that, Si thought, after Landi left. That little sneak is just a gossipmonger; he wouldn’t have the guts to pull off any of those jobs.
At quarter of four, one of his investigators came in. “Si, there’s someone on the Hamilton case confidential line I think you should talk to. Her name is Grace Hoover. Her husband is New Jersey State Senator Hoover, and she thinks she saw the guy we’re looking for the other night. It’s one of the birds whose name has come up before, Jason Arnott.”
“Arnott!” Si grabbed the phone. “Mrs. Hoover, I’m Si Morgan. Thank you for calling.”
As he listened, he decided that Grace Hoover was the kind of witness lawmen pray to find. She was logical in her reasoning, clear in her presentation and articulate in explaining how, looking up from her wheelchair, her eyes were probably at the same angle as the lens of the surveillance camera in the Hamilton house.
“Looking straight at Mr. Arnott you would think his face was fuller than it appears when you’re looking up at him,” she explained. “Also when I asked him if we knew each other, his lips pursed together very tightly. I think it may be a habit he has when he’s concentrating. Notice how they’re scrunched in your picture. My feeling is that when the camera caught him, he was concentrating very much on that statuette. I would guess he was deciding whether or not it was genuine. My friend tells me he’s quite an expert on antiques.”
“Yes, he is.” Si Morgan was excited. At last he had struck gold! “Mrs. Hoover, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this call. You do know that if this leads to a conviction, there’s a substantial reward, over one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” Grace Hoover said. “I’ll simply send it on to a charity.”
When Si hung up he thought of the tuition bills that were sitting on his desk at home for the spring semester at his sons’ colleges. Shaking his head he turned on the intercom and sent for the three investigators who were working on the Hamilton case.
He told them that he wanted Arnott followed round the clock. Judging from the investigation they had made of him two years ago, if he was the thief, he had done an excellent job of concealing his tracks. It would be better to trail him for a while. He might just lead them to where he was keeping stolen property.
“If this isn’t another red herring, and we can get proof he’s committed the burglaries,” Si said, “our next job will be to nail the Peale murder on him. The boss wants that one solved big time. The president’s mother used to play bridge with Mrs. Peale.”
80
Dr. Smith’s study was clean, but Kerry noticed that it had the shabby look of a room that had endured years of neglect. The ivory silk lamp shades, the kind she remembered from her grandmother’s house, were darkened with age. One of them had at some point been scorched, and the silk around the burn mark was split. The overstuffed velour chairs were too low and felt scratchy.
It was a high-ceilinged room that could have been beautiful, but to Kerry it seemed frozen in time, as though it were the setting for a scene in a black-and-white movie made in the forties.
She had slipped off her raincoat, but Dr. Smith did not attempt to take it from her. The lack of even the gesture of courtesy seemed to suggest that she would not be staying long enough for him to bother. She folded the coat and draped it on the arm of the chair in which she was sitting.
Smith sat rigidly erect in a high-backed chair that she was sure he never would have chosen if he were alone.
“What do you want, Ms. McGrath?” The rimless glasses enlarged eyes that chilled with their hostile probing.
“I want the truth,” Kerry said evenly. “I want to know why you claimed that it was you who gave Suzanne jewelry, when, in fact, it was given to her by another man. I want to know why you lied about Skip Reardon. He never threatened Suzanne. He may have lost patience with her; he may have gotten angry at her. But he never threatened her, did he? What possible reason would you have for swearing that he did?”
“Skip Reardon killed my daughter. He strangled her. He strangled her so viciously that her eyes hemorrhaged, so violently that blood vessels in her neck broke, her tongue hung out of her mouth like a dumb animal’s . . .” His voice trailed off. What had started as an angry outburst ended almost as a sob.
“I realize how painful it must have been for you to examine those pictures, Dr. Smith.” Kerry spoke softly. Her eyes narrowed as she saw that Smith was looking past her. “But why have you always blamed Skip for the tragedy?”
“He was her husband. He was jealous, insanely jealous. That was a fact. It was clear to everyone.” He paused. “Now, Ms. McGrath, I don’t want to discuss this any further. I demand to know what you mean by accusing me of stalking Barbara Tompkins.”
“Wait. Let’s talk about Reardon first, Doctor. You are wrong. Skip was not insanely jealous of Suzanne. He did know she was seeing someone else.” Kerry waited. “But so was he.”
Smith’s head jerked as though she had slapped him. “That’s impossible. He was married to an exquisite woman and he worshiped her.”
“You worshiped her, Doctor.” Kerry hadn’t expected to say that, but when she did, she knew it was true. “You put yourself in his position, didn’t you? If you had been Suzanne’s husband and had found out she was involved with another man, you’d have been capable of murder, wouldn’t you?” She stared at him.
He did not blink. “How dare you! Suzanne was my daughter!” he said coldly. “Now get out of here.” He stood and moved toward Kerry as though he might grab her to throw her out.
Kerry jumped up, clutching her coat, and stepped back from him. With a glance she checked to see that, if necessary, she could get around him to the front door. “No, Doctor,” she said, “Susie Stevens was your daughter. Suzanne was your creation. And you felt you owned her, just as you believe you own Barbara Tompkins. Doctor, you were in Alpine the night Suzanne died. Did you kill her?”
“Kill Suzanne? Are you crazy?”
“But you were there.”
“I was not!”
“Oh yes you were, and we’re going to prove it. I promise you that. We’re going to reopen the case and get the innocent man you condemned out of prison. You were jealous of him, Dr. Smith. You punished him because he had constant access to Suzanne and you didn’t. But how you tried! In fact, you tried so hard that she became sick of your demands for her attention.”
“That’s not true.” The words escaped through his clenched teeth.
Kerry saw that Smith’s hand was trembling violently. She lowered her voice, took a more conciliatory tone. “Dr. Smith, if you didn’t kill your daughter, someone else surely did. But it wasn’t Skip Reardon. I believe that you loved Suzanne in your own way. I believe that you wanted her murderer to be punished. But do you know what you’ve done? You’ve given Suzanne’s killer a free ride. He?
??s out there laughing at you, singing your praises for covering up for him. If we had the jewelry Skip is sure you didn’t give Suzanne, we could try to trace it. We might be able to find out who did give it to her. Skip is certain that at least one piece is missing and may have been taken that night.”
“He’s lying.”
“No, he isn’t. It’s what he’s been saying from the beginning. And something else was stolen that night—a picture of Suzanne in a miniature frame. It had been on her night table. Did you take it?”
“I was not in that house the night Suzanne died!”
“Then who borrowed your Mercedes that night?’
Smith’s “Get out!” was a guttural howl.
Kerry knew she had better not stay any longer. She circled around him but at the door turned to him again “Dr. Smith, Barbara Tompkins spoke to me. She is alarmed. She moved up a business trip solely to get away from you. When she returns in ten days, I’m going to personally escort her to the New York police to lodge a complaint against you.”
She opened the door to the old carriage house, and a blast of cold air swept into the foyer. “Unless,” she added, “you come to terms with the fact that you need both physical and psychological help. And unless you satisfy me that you have told the full truth about what happened the night Suzanne died. And unless you give me the jewelry you suspect may have been given to her by a man other than you or her husband.”
* * *
When Kerry bundled up her collar and thrust her hands in her pockets for the three-block walk to her car, she was aware neither of Smith’s probing eyes studying her from behind the grille in the study window, nor of the stranger parked on Fifth Avenue who picked up his cellular phone and called in a report of her visit in Washington Mews.
81
The U.S. attorney, in cooperation with the Middlesex and Ocean County prosecutor’s offices, obtained a search warrant for both the permanent residence and the summer home of the late Barney Haskell. Living apart from his wife most of the time, Barney resided in a pleasant split-level house on a quiet street in Edison, an attractive middle-income town. His neighbors there told the media that Barney had never bothered with any of them but was always polite if they met face to face.