His bag was locked in the trunk. Vangie’s file, the paperweight and the shoe were in it. How should he dispose of the shoe and the paperweight? Where should he dispose of them? Any one of the overflowing trash baskets in this city would do. No one would fish them out. They’d be collected in the morning together with the tons of garbage that accumulated every twenty-four hours in this city of eight million, lost in the smell of decaying food and discarded newspapers . . . .
He’d do it on the way home, under cover of darkness, never noticed.
A sense of buoyancy at the anticipation of how well it was going made him suddenly straighten up in his seat. He leaned over and looked into the rearview mirror. His skin was glistening, as if with perspiration about to burst through the pores. His eyelids and the skin under his eyes were accumulating fatty tissue. His hairline still showed no sign of receding, but the dark sandy hair was shot with silver now . . . He was starting to age. The subtle change that began in the mid-forties was happening to him. He was forty-five now. Young enough, but also time to become aware of the swift passage of years. Did he want to remarry? Did he want to father children of his own? He’d wanted, expected them from Claire. When they hadn’t come he’d checked his own sperm count, found it surprisingly low, secretly blamed himself all those years for Claire’s inability to conceive. Until he learned that she’d made a fool of him.
He would not have minded having a child by Winifred. But she was virtually past childbearing years when they married. After she became suspicious of him, he didn’t bother to touch her. When you are planning to eliminate someone, she is already dead to you, and sex is for the living.
But now. A younger woman, a woman unlike Claire and Winifred. Claire, haughtily demeaning him with her sneering comments about his father’s apothecary; Winifred the do-gooder, with her causes and charities. Now he needed a wife who would not only be socially at ease, but also like to entertain, to travel, to mingle.
He hated those things. He knew his contempt showed. He needed someone who would take care of all that for him, soften his image.
One day he would be able to carry out his work publicly. One day he would have the fame he deserved. One day the fools who said his work was impossible would be forced to acknowledge his genius.
It was seven o’clock. He got out of the car and carefully locked it. He walked to the entrance of the Carlyle, his dark blue suit covered by a blue cashmere coat, his shoes shined to a soft luster, his silver-tipped hair unruffled by the biting night drafts.
The doorman held the door open for him. “Good evening, Dr. Highley. Pretty bad weather, isn’t it, sir?”
He nodded without answering and went into the dining room. The corner table he preferred was reserved, but the maître d’ quickly switched the expected diners to another table and led him to it.
Wine warmed and soothed him. The dinner gave him the strength he was anticipating. The demitasse and brandy restored him to total balance. His mind was clear and brittle. He reviewed each step of the procedure that would lead Katie DeMaio to death by hemorrhage.
There would be no mistakes.
He was just signing his check when the maître d’ came to his table, his footsteps uncharacteristically hurried, his manner agitated. “Dr. Highley, I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
His finger gripped the pen. He looked up.
“It’s just, sir, that a young man was observed prying the trunk of your car. The doorman saw him just as he got it open. Before he could be stopped, he had stolen a bag from the trunk. The police are outside. They believe it was a drug addict who chose your car because of the MD license plates.”
His lips were rubbery. It was hard to form words. Like an X-ray machine he mentally examined the contents of the bag: the bloodstained paperweight; the medical file with both Vangie and Salem’s names on it; Vangie’s moccasin.
When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. “Do the police believe that my bag will be recovered?”
“I asked that question, sir. I’m afraid they just don’t know. It might be discarded a few blocks from here after he’s taken what he wants from it, or it might never show up again. Only time will tell.”
♦43♦
Before she went to bed, Katie packed an overnight bag for her stay in the hospital. The hospital was halfway between the house and the office, and it would have been an unnecessary waste of time to return home for the bag tomorrow.
She realized that she was packing with a sense of urgency. She’d be so glad to get this over with. The heavy sense of being physically out of tune was wearing her down mentally and emotionally. Tonight she’d felt almost buoyant setting out for Molly’s. Now she felt depleted, exhausted, depressed. It was all physical, wasn’t it?
Or was the nagging thought that maybe Richard was involved with someone contributing to the feeling of depression?
Maybe when this wasn’t hanging over her, she’d be able to think more clearly. It felt as though her mind were being plagued by half-completed thoughts like swarms of mosquitoes, landing, biting, but gone before she could reach them. Why did she have the sensation of missing threads, of not asking the right questions, of misreading signals?
By Monday she’d be feeling better, thinking straight.
Wearily, she showered, brushed her teeth and hair and got into bed. A minute later she pulled herself up on one elbow, reached for her handbag and fished out the small bottle Dr. Highley had given her.
Almost forgot to take this, she thought as she swallowed the pill with a gulp from the water glass on her night table. Turning off the light, she closed her eyes.
♦44♦
Gertrude Fitzgerald wearily let the water run cold in the bathroom tap and opened the prescription bottle. The migraine was beginning to let up. If it didn’t start in on the other side of her head, she’d be all right by the morning. This last pill should do it.
Something was bothering her . . . something over and beyond Edna’s death. It had to do with Mrs. DeMaio’s call. It was so silly, asking if Edna had ever called Dr. Fukhito or Dr. Highley Prince Charming. Perfect nonsense.
But Prince Charming.
Edna had talked about him. Not in relation to the doctors, but somehow in the last couple of weeks. If she could only remember. If Mrs. DeMaio had asked if Edna had ever mentioned him, it might have helped her remember right away. Now it was eluding her, the exact circumstance.
Or was she imagining it? Power of suggestion.
When this headache was finished, she’d be able to think. Really think. And maybe remember.
She swallowed the pill and got into bed. She closed her eyes. Edna’s voice sounded in her ears. “And I said that Prince Charming won’t . . .”
She couldn’t remember the rest.
♦45♦
At four A. M. Richard gave up trying to sleep, got out of bed and made coffee. He had phoned Scott at home about Emmet Salem’s death, and Scott had immediately alerted the New York police that his office wanted to cooperate in the investigation. More than that it had been impossible to accomplish. Mrs. Salem was not at home in Minneapolis. The doctor’s answering service could only supply the emergency number of the doctor covering the practice and did not know how to reach his nurse.
Richard began writing notes. 1. Why did Dr. Salem phone our office? 2. Why did Vangie make an appointment with him? 3. The Berkeley baby.
The Berkeley baby was the key. Was the Westlake Maternity Concept as successful as had been touted? Or was it a cover-up for private adoptions for women who either couldn’t conceive or could not carry babies to term? Was the fact that they were being put to bed in the hospital two months before the supposed delivery nothing but a cover-up for what would become an obvious non pregnant condition?
Babies were hard to adopt. Liz Berkeley had openly admitted that she and her husband had tried that route. Suppose Edgar Highley had said to them, “You’ll never have your own child. I can get you a child. It will cost you money and it will have to be absolutely confide
ntial.”
They’d have gone along with it. He’d stake his life on that.
But Vangie Lewis had been pregnant. So she didn’t fit into the adoptive pattern. Granted she was desperate to have a child . . . but how the hell did she expect to pass off an Oriental baby on her husband? Was there any chance that there was Oriental blood in either family? He’d never considered that.
The malpractice suits. He had to find out the reason those people sued Highley. And Emmet Salem had been Vangie’s doctor. His office would have her medical records. That would be a place to start.
Vangie’s body had come back on the plane that Chris Lewis did not take. It was in the lab now. First thing in the morning he’d review the autopsy findings. He’d go over the body again. There was something . . . It had seemed unimportant at the time. He’d brushed over it. He’d been too involved with the fetus and the cyanide burns.
Could Vangie have simply spilled the cyanide on herself? Maybe she’d been frantically nervous. But the glass would have had more prints. She’d have picked it up, refilled it; there’d be something—an envelope, a vial—that she’d have used to hold more cyanide.
It hadn’t happened like that.
At five thirty Richard turned out the light. He set the alarm for seven. At last sleep came. And he dreamed of Katie. She was standing behind Edna Burns’s apartment looking in the window, and Dr. Edgar Highley was watching her.
♦46♦
As befits a bookkeeper, Edna had kept meticulous records. When the search team headed by Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent descended on her apartment on Friday morning, they found a simple statement in the old-fashioned breakfront:
Since my one blood relative never bothered to inquire about or send a card to my dear parents in their illness, I have decided to leave my worldly goods to my friends, Mrs. Gertrude Fitzgerald and Mrs. Gana Krupshak. Mrs. Fitzgerald is to receive my diamond ring and whatever household possessions she cares to have. Mrs. Krupshak is to receive my diamond pin, my imitation fur coat and whatever household possessions Mrs. Fitzgerald does not wish to have. I have discussed my funeral with the establishment that handled my parents’ arrangements so beautifully. My $10,000 insurance policy less funeral expenses is assigned to the nursing home which took such fine care of my parents and to whom I am still financially indebted.
Methodically the team dusted for fingerprints, vacuumed for hair and fibers, searched for signs of forced entry. A smear of dirt on the bottom of the windowsill plant in the bedroom caused the crinkles around Phil’s eyes and forehead to settle into a deep frown. He went around the back of the apartment building, thoughtfully scraped a sample of frozen dirt into an envelope and with his fingertips pushed up the bedroom window. For an average-sized person, it was low enough to step over.
“Possible,” he said to Charley. “Someone could have come in here and sneaked up on her. But with the ground so frozen, you’d probably never be able to prove it.”
As the final step, they rang the doorbells of all the neighbors in the courtyard. The question was simple: had anyone noticed any strangers in the vicinity on Tuesday night?
They had not really expected success. Tuesday night had been dark and cold. The untrimmed shrubbery would have made it possible for anyone who did not want to be seen to stay in the shadows of the building.
But at the last apartment they had unexpected success. An eleven-year-old boy had just come home from school for lunch. He heard the question asked of his mother.
“Oh, I told a man which apartment Miss Burns lived in,” he reported. “You remember, Ma, when you made me walk Porgy just before I went to bed, after Happy Days . . .”
“That would be around nine thirty,” the boy’s mother said. “You didn’t tell me you spoke to anyone,” she said accusingly to her son.
The boy shrugged. “It was no big deal. A man parked at the curb just when I was coming back down the block. He asked me if I knew which apartment Miss Burns was in. I pointed it out. That’s all.”
“What did he look like?” Charley asked.
The boy frowned. “Oh, he was nice-looking. He had sort of dark hair and he was tall and his car was neat. It was a ’Vette.”
Charley and Phil looked at each other. “Chris Lewis,” Charley said flatly.
♦47♦
On Friday morning, Katie got into the office by seven o’clock and began a final review of the case she was trying. The defendants were eighteen- and seventeen-year-old brothers accused of vandalizing two schools by setting fires in twelve classrooms.
Maureen came in at eight thirty carrying a steaming coffeepot. Katie looked up. “Boy, I’m going all out to nail those two,” she said. “They did it for kicks—for kicks. When you see the way people are struggling to pay taxes to keep up the schools their kids go to, it’s sickening; it’s more than a crime.”
Maureen reached for Katie’s coffee cup and filled it. “One of those schools is in my town, and the children next door go there. The ten-year-old had just finished a project for the science fair. It was fantastic—a solar heating unit. Poor little kid worked on it for months. It got burned in the fire. There was just nothing left of it.”
Katie jotted a note on the side of her opening statement. “That gives me some extra ammunition. Thanks.”
“Katie . . .” Maureen’s voice was hesitant.
Katie looked up into troubled green eyes. “Yes?”
“Rita told me that she told you about . . . about the baby.”
“Yes, she did. I’m terribly sorry, Maureen.”
“The thing is I can’t seem to get over it. And now this Vangie Lewis case . . . all the talk about that . . . only brings it back. I’ve been trying to forget . . . .”
Katie nodded. “Maureen, I’d have given anything to have had a baby when John died. That year I prayed I’d get pregnant so I’d have something of him. When I think of all the friends I have who elect never to have children or who have an abortion as casually as they have their hair set, I wonder about the way life works out. I just pray God that someday I will have children of my own. You will too, of course, and we’ll both appreciate them because of not having the ones we wanted before.”
Maureen’s eyes were filled with tears. “I hope so. But the thing about the Vangie Lewis case is—”
The telephone rang. Katie reached for it. It was Scott. “Glad you’re in, Katie. Can you run over here for a minute?”
“Of course.” Katie got up. “Scott wants me now. We’ll talk later, Maureen.” Impulsively she hugged the girl.
Scott was standing by the window staring out. Katie was sure he was not seeing the barred windows of the county jail. He turned when she came in.
“You’re on trial today—the Odendall brothers?”
“Yes. We have a good case.”
“How long will it take?”
“Most of the day, I’m sure. They’re bringing character witnesses from their kindergarten teacher on up, but we’ll get them.”
“You usually do, Katie. Have you heard about Dr. Salem yet?”
“You mean the doctor from Minneapolis who called Richard? No, I haven’t spoken to anyone this morning. I went straight to my office.”
“He fell—or was pushed—out a window in the Essex House last night a few minutes after he checked into the hotel. We’re working with the New York police on it. And incidentally, Vangie Lewis’ body arrived from Minneapolis last night, but Lewis wasn’t on the flight.”
Katie stared at Scott. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that he probably took the flight that went into LaGuardia. It would have gotten him into New York about the time Salem checked in. I’m saying that if we find he was anywhere in the vicinity of that hotel, we may be able to wrap this case up. I don’t like the Lewis suicide, I don’t like the Edna Burns accidental death and I don’t like the idea that Salem fell from a window.”
“I don’t believe Chris Lewis is a murderer,” Katie said flatly. “Where do you think
he is now?”
Scott shrugged. “Hiding out in New York, probably. My guess is that when we talk to his girlfriend shell lead us to him, and she’s due in from Florida tonight. Can you hang around this evening?”
Katie hesitated. “This is the one weekend I have to be away. It’s something I can’t change. But I’ll be honest, Scott. I feel so absolutely lousy that I’m not even thinking straight. I’ll get through this trial . . . I’m well prepared; but then I will leave.”
Scott studied her. “I’ve told you all week that you shouldn’t have come in,” he said, “and right now you look paler than you did Tuesday morning. All right, get the trial over with and clear out of here. There’ll be plenty of work on this case next week. We’ll go over everything Monday morning. You think you’ll be in?”
“Positively.”
“You should have a complete checkup.”
“I’m going to see a doctor this weekend.”
“Good.”
Scott looked down at his desk, a signal that the meeting was over. Katie went back to her own office. It was nearly nine, and she was due in the courtroom. Mentally she reviewed the schedule of the pills Dr. Highley had given her. She’d taken one last night, one at six o’clock this morning. She was supposed to take one every three hours today. She’d better swallow one now before going down to court. She washed it down with the last sip of coffee from the cup on her desk, then gathered her file. The sharp edge of the top page of the brief slit her finger. She gasped at the quick thrust of pain and popping a tissue from her top drawer wrapped it around the finger and hurried from the room.
Half an hour later as, with the rest of the people in the courtroom, she rose to acknowledge the entrance of the judge, the tissue was still wet with blood.
♦48♦
Edna Burns was buried on Friday morning after an eleven-o’clock Mass of the Resurrection at St. Francis Xavier Church. Gana Krupshak and Gertrude Fitzgerald followed the coffin to the nearby cemetery and, holding hands tightly, watched Edna placed in the grave with her parents. The priest, Father Durkin, conducted the final ceremony, sprinkled holy water over the coffin and escorted them back to Gertrude’s car.