“I’ll do that. Thank you.” Irresolutely Chris hung up the phone, walked over to a lobby chair facing the south elevator bank and sat down. The elevators opened and dislodged passengers, filled again, disappeared in a streak of ascending panel lights.
One elevator caught his attention. There was something vaguely familiar about someone on it. Dr. Salem? Quickly he scanned the passengers. Three women, some teen-agers, an elderly couple, a middle-aged man with a turned-up coat collar. No. Not Dr. Salem.
At five thirty Chris tried again. And at quarter of six. At five past six he heard the whispers that ran through the lobby like a flash fire. “Someone jumped from a window. The body spotted on the roof of the extension.” From somewhere along Central Park South the wail of an ambulance and the yip-yip of police cars were frantic explosions of increasing sound.
With the certainty of despair, Chris went to the bell captain’s desk. “Who was it?” he asked. His tone was crisp, authoritative; suggested he had a right to know.
“Dr. Emmet Salem. He was a big shot in the AMA. Room 3219.”
Walking with the measured gait of an automaton, Chris pushed through the revolving door at the Fifty-eighth Street entrance. A cab was cruising from west to east He hailed it, got in and leaned back in the seat closing his eyes. “LaGuardia, please,” he said; “the National Airlines terminal.”
There was a seven-o’clock flight to Miami. He could just make it.
In three hours he’d be with Joan.
He had to get to Joan, try to make her understand before he was arrested.
♦38♦
Twelve-year-old Jennifer threw open the door as Katie came up the walk. “Katie, hi.” Her voice was joyous, her hug sturdy. The two smiled at each other. With her intense blue eyes, dark hair and olive skin, Jennifer was a younger version of Katie.
“Hi, Jennie. How do you feel?”
“Okay. But how about you? I was so worried when Mom told me about your accident. You sure you’re okay now?”
“Let’s put it this way: by next week I’ll be in great shape.” She changed the subject. “Anybody here yet?”
“Everybody. Dr. Richard is here too . . . . You know what his first question was?”
“No.”
“’Is Katie here yet?’ I swear he’s got a case on you, Katie. Mom and Dad think so too. I heard them talking about it. How about you? Have you got a case on him?”
“Jennifer!” Half laughing, half irritated, Katie started up the short staircase toward the den in the back of the house, then looked back over her shoulder. “Where are the other kids?”
“Mom shipped them off with a baby-sitter to eat at McDonald’s and then to a movie. She said the Berkeley baby would never sleep if the twins were around.”
“Good thinking,” Katie murmured. She started down the foyer to the den. After leaving Gana Krupshak, she’d gone home, showered and changed. She’d left the house at quarter of seven thinking, Very soon Chris Lewis will be in Scott’s office being questioned . . . . What explanation could he give for not admitting that he was in the New Jersey area Monday night? Why hadn’t he volunteered that immediately?
She wondered if Richard had spoken to the Minnesota doctor yet. He might have cleared up a lot of questions. She’d try to get Richard aside and ask him.
Driving over, she had resolved to put the case out of her mind for the rest of the evening. Maybe not thinking about it for a while would help her to follow up the elusive threads that kept escaping her—
She reached the den. Liz and Jim Berkeley were seated on the couch, their backs to her. Molly was passing hors d’oeuvres. Bill and Richard were standing by the window talking. Katie studied Richard. He was wearing a navy blue pin-striped suit that she’d never seen before. His dark brown hair had touches of gray she’d never noticed. His fingers on the stem of the glass he was holding were long and finely shaped. Funny how this past year she’d seen him as a composite, never noticing details. It seemed to her that she was like a camera that had been locked into one position and was just beginning to focus again. Richard looked serious. His forehead was creased. She wondered if he was telling Bill about the Lewis fetus. No, he wouldn’t discuss that even with Bill.
At that moment Richard turned his head and saw her. “Katie.” His smile matched the pleased tone in his voice. He came hurrying over to her. “I’ve been listening for the doorbell.”
So often in these three years she’d entered a room where she was the outsider, the loner, amidst couples. Now here tonight, Richard had been waiting for her, listening for her.
Before she had time to consider her feelings, Molly and Bill were saying hello, Jim Berkeley had stood up and the usual confusion of greetings was taking place.
On the way to the dining room she did manage to ask Richard if he’d reached Dr. Salem. “No. Apparently I just missed him at five,” Richard explained. “Then I tried again from my place at six, but there was no answer. I left this number with the hotel operator and with my answering service. I’m very anxious to hear what that man has to say.”
By tacit agreement, none of them brought up the Lewis suicide until dinner was almost over. And then it came about because Liz Berkeley said, “What luck. I have to admit I’ve been holding my breath that Maryanne wouldn’t wake up and be fussy. Poor kid, her gums are so swollen she’s in misery.”
Jim Berkeley laughed. He was darkly handsome with high cheekbones, charcoal-brown eyes and thick black eyebrows. “When Maryanne was born, Liz used to wake her up every fifteen minutes to make sure she was still breathing. But since she’s teething, Liz has become like every other mother.” He imitated her voice. “Quiet, dummy, don’t wake up the baby.”
Liz, a Carol Burnett type, with sinewy slenderness, an open, pleasant face and flashing brown eyes, made a face at her husband. “You have to admit I’m calming down to being normal. But she is a miracle to us. I’d just about given up hope and then we tried to adopt, but now there just aren’t babies. Especially with the two of us in our late thirties, they told us to forget it. And then Dr. Highley. He’s a miracle maker, that man.”
Katie watched as Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You genuinely think that?” Richard queried.
“Positively. I mean, Dr. Highley isn’t the warmest person on earth—” Liz began.
“What you mean is that he’s an egocentric son of a bitch and as cold a fish as ever I’ve met,” her husband interrupted. “But who gives a damn about that? What matters is that he knows his business, and I have to say he took excellent care of Liz. Put her to bed in the hospital almost two months before the delivery and personally checked on her three or four times a day.”
“He does that with all his difficult pregnancies,” Liz said. “Not just me. Listen, I pray for that man every night. The difference that baby has made in our lives, I can’t even begin to tell you! And don’t let this one fool you”—she nodded in the direction of her husband—“he’s up ten times a night to make sure that Maryanne is covered and that there’s no draft on her. Tell the truth.” She looked at him. “When you went up to the john before, didn’t you look in on her?”
He laughed. “Sure I did.”
Molly said what Katie was thinking. “That’s the way Vangie Lewis would have felt about her child.”
Richard looked at Katie questioningly and she shook her head. She knew he was wondering if she’d told Molly and Bill that the Lewis baby was Oriental. Deliberately Richard pulled the conversation from Vangie. “I understand that you used to live in San Francisco,” he said to Jim. “I grew up there. In fact, my father still practices at San Francisco General . . . .”
“One of my favorite towns,” Jim replied. “We’d go back there in a minute, wouldn’t we, Liz?”
As the others chatted, Katie listened with half a mind, contributing enough to the conversation that her silence wasn’t noticeable. She had so much thinking to do. These few days in the hospital would give her time for that too. She was feeling light-headed and fatig
ued, but did not want to make a move too soon for fear of breaking up the party.
Her chance came as they left the table to go into the living room for a nightcap. “I’m going to say good night,” Katie said. “I have to admit I haven’t slept well this week and I’m really bushed.”
Molly looked at her knowingly and did not protest. Richard said, “I’ll walk you to the car.”
“Fine.”
The night air was cold, and she shivered as they started down the walk. Richard noticed immediately and said, “Katie, I’m worried about you. I know you’re not feeling up to par. You don’t seem to want to talk about it, but at least let’s have dinner tomorrow night. With the way the Lewis case is breaking, the office will be a zoo tomorrow.”
“Richard, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m going away this weekend.” Katie realized her tone was apologetic.
“You’re what? With all that’s happening at the office? Does Scott know that?”
“I . . . I’m committed.” What a lame, stupid thing to say, Katie thought. This is ridiculous. I’m going to tell Richard that I’ll be in the hospital. The driveway lights were on his face, and his expression of mingled disappointment and disapproval was unmistakable.
“Richard, it’s not something I’ve talked up, but . . .”
The front door was thrown open. “Richard, Richard!” Jennifer’s shout was rushed and excited. “Clovis Simmons is on the phone.”
“Clovis Simmons!” Katie said. “Isn’t she the actress on that soap opera?”
“Yes. Oh, hell, I was supposed to call her and forgot. Hold on, Katie. I’ll be right back.”
“No. I’ll see you in the morning. You go ahead.” Katie got into the car and pulled the door closed. She fished for the ignition key in her handbag, found it and inserted it into the lock. Richard looked irresolute for an instant, then hurried into the house, listening as Katie’s car drove away. Hell, he thought, of all the times. His “Hello, Clovis” was brusque.
“Well, Doctor, it’s a shame I have to track you down, but we did discuss dinner, didn’t we?”
“Clovis, I’m sorry.” No, Clovis, he thought, you discussed dinner. I didn’t.
“Well, obviously it’s too late now.” Her tone was cool. “Actually, I just got in from the taping and wanted to apologize in case you’d kept the evening. I should have known better.”
Richard glanced at Jennifer, who was standing at his elbow.
“Clovis, look, let me call you tomorrow. I can’t talk very well now.”
There was a sharp click in his ear. Richard hung up the phone slowly. Clovis was angry, but more than that, she was hurt. How much we take people for granted, he thought. Just because I wasn’t serious about her, I didn’t bother to think about her feelings. Tomorrow he could only call and apologize and be honest enough to tell her that there was someone else.
Katie. Where was she going this weekend? Was there someone else for her? She’d looked so troubled, so worried. Was it that he’d been misreading her all along? He’d put her reticence, her lack of interest in him to the probability that she was living in the past. Maybe there was someone else in her life. Was he being as much a fool about her feelings as in a different way he’d been with Clovis?
The possibility sheared away the pleasure of the evening. He’d make his excuses and go home. It still wouldn’t be too late to try Dr. Salem again.
He went into the living room. Molly, Bill and the Berkeleys were there. And swathed in blankets, sitting straight up on Liz’s lap, was a baby girl.
“Maryanne decided to join the party,” Liz said. “What do you think of her?” Her smile was proud as she turned the baby to face him.
Richard looked into solemn green eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Jim Berkeley was sitting next to his wife, and Maryanne reached over and grabbed his thumb.
Richard stared at the family. They might have posed for a magazine cover: the smiling parents, the beautiful offspring. The parents handsome, olive-skinned, brown-eyed, square-featured; the baby fair-complexioned, red-blond, with brilliant green eyes.
Who the hell do they think they’re kidding? Richard thought. That child has to be adopted.
♦39♦
Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent watched in disgust as the final stragglers filed through the waiting room at Newark Airport’s Gate 11. Charley’s perpetually mournful expression deepened.
“That’s it.” He shrugged. “Lewis must have figured we’d be waiting for him. Let’s go.”
He headed for the nearest pay phone and dialed Scott. “You can go home, boss,” he said. “The Captain didn’t feel like flying tonight.”
“He wasn’t on board? How about the coffin?”
“That came in. Richard’s guys are picking it up. Want us to hang around? There are a couple of indirect flights he might be on.”
“Forget it. If he doesn’t contact us tomorrow, I’m issuing a pickup order for him as a material witness. And first thing in the morning, I want you to go through Edna Burns’s apartment with a fine-tooth comb.”
Charley hung up the phone. He turned to Phil. “If I know the boss, I’d say that by tomorrow night at this time there’ll be a warrant out for Lewis’ arrest.”
Phil nodded. “And after we get Lewis, I hope we can hang something on that shrink if he was the one who made that poor gal pregnant.”
The two men wearily started down the stairs to the exit. They passed the baggage area, ignoring the people clustered around the carousels waiting for their luggage. A few minutes later the area was deserted. Only one unclaimed bag circled forlornly on the ramp: a large black carryall, properly tagged, in accordance with airline regulations, CAPT. CHRISTOPHER LEWIS, No. 4, WINDING BROOK LANE, CHAPIN RIVER, N. J. Inside the bag, placed there at the last minute, was the picture Vangie’s parents had pressed on Chris.
It was a nightclub photo of a youthful couple. The inscription read, Remembrance of my first date with Vangie, the girl who will change my life. Love, Chris.
♦40♦
Richard phoned the Essex House Hotel as soon as he reached his apartment after leaving the Kennedys’. But once again there was no answer on Dr. Salem’s number. When the operator came back on the line, he said, “Operator, did Dr. Salem receive my message to phone me? I’m Dr. Carroll.”
The woman’s voice was oddly hesitant. “I’ll check, sir.”
While he was waiting, Richard reached over and flipped on the television set. Eyewitness News had just begun. The camera was focusing on Central Park South. Richard watched as the marquee of the Essex House Hotel was featured on the screen. Even as the telephone operator said, “I’m connecting you with our supervisor,” Richard heard reporter Gloria Rojas say, “This evening in the prestigious Essex House Hotel, headquarters for the American Medical Association convention, a prominent obstetrician-gynecologist, Dr. Emmet Salem of Minneapolis, Minnesota, fell or jumped to his death.”
♦41♦
Joan Moore sat distractedly by the telephone. “Kay, what time did he say he’d phone?” she asked. Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip.
The other young woman looked at her with concern. “I told you, Joan. He called about eleven thirty this morning. He said he’d be in touch with you tonight and that you should wait in for his call. He sounded upset.”
The doorbell rang insistently, making them both jump from their chairs. Kay said, “I don’t expect anybody.” Some instinct made Joan run to the door and yank it open.
“Chris—oh, my God, Chris!” She threw her arms around him. He was ghastly white, his eyes were bloodshot, he swayed as she held him. “Chris, what is it?”
“Joan, Joan.” His voice was nearly a sob. Hungrily he pulled her to him. “I don’t know what’s happening. There’s something wrong about Vangie’s death, and now the only man who might have told us about it is dead too.”
♦42♦
He had planned to go directly home from the Essex House, but after he drove out of the parking lot and started
up the West Side Highway in the heavy traffic, he changed his mind. He was so terribly hungry. His stomach had been empty all day. He never ate before operating, and this morning the call from Salem had come just before he would have left for lunch.
He didn’t want to take the time to prepare food tonight. He’d go to the Carlyle. Then if the question ever arose as to his whereabouts tonight, he could truthfully admit he had been in New York. The maître d’ would emphatically reassure the police that Dr. Edgar Highley was a valued and frequent patron.
He would have smoked salmon, vichyssoise, a rack of lamb . . . His mouth salivated in anticipation. The sudden, terrible depletion of energy now that it was over needed to be corrected. There was still tomorrow. Inevitably there’d be a thorough investigation when Kathleen DeMaio died. But her former gynecologist had retired and moved away. No one would loom from the past with old medical records to challenge him.
And then he’d be safe. Right now, all over the AMA convention, doctors were probably discussing the Newsmaker article and the Westlake Maternity Concept. Their remarks would be tinged with jealousy, of course. But even so, there would be offers for him to speak at future AMA seminars. He was now on the path to public fame. And Salem, who might have stopped him, was finished. He was anxious to go through Vangie’s medical history in the file he’d taken from Salem. He’d incorporate it with his own records. That history would be invaluable in his future research.
The last new patient this morning. She would be next. He parked on the street in front of the Carlyle. It was nearly six thirty. Parking would be legal at seven. He’d just wait in the car until then. It would give him a chance to calm himself down.