The Shadow of Your Smile

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Monica stared at her. “Renée Carter is dead?” she asked numbly.

  “Yes. The police are trying to locate the next of kin. Until then we’ll take custody of Sally. When you’re ready to discharge her, if no relatives have been found, we’ll place her in foster care, for the present.”

  Renée Carter dead! Shocked, Monica could only visualize the petulant woman who had had so little interest in her baby. Who would the next of kin turn out to be? she wondered. What’s going to happen to Sally?

  Even though she needed to get to the office where she knew patients were already waiting, she stopped to see Sally again before she left the hospital. The little girl was still sleeping, and not wanting to wake her up, Monica stood at the crib wistfully for a long minute, then hurried away.

  When she reached the office, the waiting room was beginning to fill up. Nan followed her into her private office and cornered her. “I heard the report on the radio last evening, Dr. Monica,” she said, breathlessly. “I almost died. I tried to call you right away. Thank God you put that message on the phone to say you were all right. But the first thing I did was to tell John Hartman, the retired detective who lives down the hall from me, about it. He says he’s going to call one of his detective friends and tell him to have the security cameras around the hospital checked. Maybe that guy who pushed you was following you? Maybe it had something to do with that picture of you standing in front of the hospital that I showed you. You didn’t think that it meant anything.”

  Monica raised her hand to stop the torrent of words. “Nan, you know how much I appreciate your concern, but I just don’t think anyone deliberately shoved me. I think that guy was so anxious to cross the street that he tried to get me out of his way. So if any of my friends call here asking how I am, please reassure them I’m fine, and I absolutely believe it was an unfortunate accident. Now please tell Alma I’m ready to get started. God help the poor parents who came in yesterday and then had to drag the kids in again today.”

  Nan took a few steps toward the door, then hesitated. “Doctor, one more question. How is Sally Carter?”

  It felt surreal to Monica to say that Sally’s mother was not only dead, but the victim of a homicide. “I don’t know anything more than that,” she said hurriedly, as she buttoned her white jacket and headed for the examining room.

  For the next seven hours, she only gave herself a five-minute break for a cup of tea and two bites of a sandwich before the last little patient was gone at six o’clock. Alma left, saying, “Please take it easy over the weekend, Doctor.”

  “I intend to. Thanks, Alma.” Monica went to her small private office and took off her white coat. That was when Nan followed her in and asked the question that had been bothering her all day. “Dr. Monica, what happened when you met Olivia Morrow Wednesday? Did she really know your grandmother?”

  Monica turned away as she felt her eyes begin to glisten. The crushing disappointment that Olivia Morrow was dead, her nearfatal accident, the near certainty that Sally might be headed for foster care, and finally the deepening knowledge that she cared far more for Ryan Jenner than she had realized were all sinking in.

  She took a minute to swallow hard before she began to speak. Even though her voice was steady, she was forced to turn from the sympathy in Nan’s face as she told her about going to the Morrow apartment and finding that Olivia had passed away during the night. “So, I guess that if there was any substance to the story, I’ll never know it,” she concluded.

  “What are the funeral arrangements?” Nan asked.

  “When I spoke to Dr. Hadley, while we were waiting for the EMS squad, he said he would be taking care of them.”

  “I have a copy of the Times,” Nan said. Maybe there’s something in the obituary section.” She ran out to her desk and returned with the newspaper opened to that page. “Doctor, there is a notice here about Ms. Morrow. There is a funeral Mass being offered for her tomorrow morning at St. Vincent Ferrer, at ten o’clock. If I were you I’d go to it. It says right here that she didn’t have any next of kin, but she must have had some friends. I’d like to go with you. Between us we might be able to talk to some of the people who attend the Mass and find out if she ever talked about you. Who knows what you may find out? You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Monica said slowly. “You said ten o’clock tomorrow, at St. Vincent Ferrer?”

  “Yes. That’s at Sixty-sixth and Lexington.”

  “I’ll meet you there at quarter of ten.” Monica reached into the closet for her coat. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” she quoted, wearily.

  As they passed Nan’s desk on the way to the outside door, the phone rang. Nan ran to see who was calling. “It’s Dr. Jenner,” she said, her voice pleased.

  “Let it ring,” Monica said, emphatically. “Let’s go.”

  44

  On Friday morning Scott Alterman took an early run in Central Park, got back to his rented apartment, showered, shaved, and dressed casually. Then at eight o’clock, feeling guilty, he called and left a message for his secretary to say that he had some pressing private business and would be in later in the day.

  He made coffee and toast and scrambled eggs as he tried to replace his sense of guilt with a sense of purpose. He knew it was not wise to take time away from his new office on Wall Street. He had accepted a considerable amount of money to become a partner. However, the chance to comfort Monica after her accident reinforced his feeling that more than anything in the world he wanted to prove himself to her.

  She knew how much her father wanted to find his roots, Scott thought, and I think that, far more than she realizes, she shares that need. She was heartsick last night when she told me that Olivia Morrow, the woman who might have known her grandparents had died. Learning everything I can about that woman might be the only way to follow the trail to Monica’s father’s parentage, and it’s a trail that could go cold very quickly. If it turned out that Olivia Morrow had any connection to the Gannons, then we’d really have something to go on.

  Scott knew that he was consumed with his need to follow his instinct that Monica’s father might have been the “issue” Alexander Gannon referenced in his will, and that she might be the legitimate heir to the money generated by Alexander Gannon’s genius.

  How often, he mused, did adopted children share the same talents of their birth family? Monica’s father, Edward Farrell, had been a medical researcher who helped discover why some patients rejected implants, particularly the hip, knee, and ankle replacements that were the cash cows of companies like Gannon Medical Supplies.

  The main headquarters of the company was in Manhattan, but the research laboratory was in Cambridge. When he was in his sixties, Edward Farrell had been invited to join the staff there. By then, Alex Gannon was dead, but Edward Farrell’s startling resemblance to him was a subject that came up from his co-workers over and over again until his retirement. It would be an irony of fate, Scott thought, if Monica’s father had indeed worked for the company founded by his birth father.

  The constant reference to his similarity in appearance had been sufficient to make Edward Farrell begin a hobby of finding articles about Alexander Gannon and comparing their pictures at different ages.

  Monica really doesn’t understand how fixated her father was on that subject, Scott thought, as he opened a lined pad and, over a second cup of coffee, began to list the starting points of his investigation. How much had Olivia known about Monica’s grandparents? Was there anyone who might still know about a family connection to the Gannons?

  Monica had told him that Olivia Morrow’s physician of many years had rushed to the apartment after Monica and the clerk had found her dead. Clayton Hadley was the doctor’s name, Scott remembered. He wrote it on the pad.

  Morrow’s apartment at Schwab House. Monica had the impression that Morrow had been a longtime resident there. I’ll talk to the staff, Scott thought. They’d probably be familiar with any
regular visitors.

  Almost certainly Morrow had a cleaning woman or cleaning service. Follow that up, he told himself.

  Who was the executor of her will and what were the contents of it? He’d put his secretary on that one.

  Scott finished his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and tidied up the kitchen. Funny, he thought. That was just one more thing that didn’t work between Joy and me. I don’t think I’m a Felix Unger, but I do feel better when a place is orderly. When she walked in the door, Joy dropped everything she was carrying on the nearest chair or table. I used to wonder if her coat ever saw the inside of the closet.

  There wasn’t a thing out of place in Monica’s apartment, he recalled.

  He went into the small den that he used as an at-home office, turned on his computer, and began a search for Dr. Clayton Hadley. Then as he read the lengthy references he came to one that made him emit a soundless whistle. Hadley was on the board of the Gannon Foundation!

  Monica had said that from what Dr. Hadley told her it must have been shortly after her phone call to Olivia Morrow that Hadley had gone to the apartment and checked on Olivia. A coincidence? Probably, Scott thought. Monica did tell me that Morrow sounded very feeble. Nevertheless, something that was not yet actual suspicion made Scott decide to call Dr. Hadley immediately. If he was Olivia Morrow’s longtime physician then he had to know a fair amount about her background, he thought, as he reached for the phone.

  When he was put through to Hadley, as an experienced trial lawyer, it was obvious to him that the doctor was evading his questions and that his claim of knowing virtually nothing about Olivia Morrow’s background was patently a lie.

  But I didn’t have to put him on guard by warning him that I’d find a connection between Olivia Morrow and the Gannon Foundation, Scott told himself, as he hung up the phone. Maybe someday I’ll learn to sit back and bide my time. That call was the same kind of impulsive stupidity I engaged in when I went rushing down to Monica’s building and startled the wits out of her when she came out . . .

  Cool it, he thought. Cool it.

  Thoroughly dissatisfied with himself, he decided to walk to Schwab House and speak to some of the staff members, particularly those who had worked in the building for a long time.

  When he arrived there, Scott waited until there was a lull in activity of people entering and leaving, then spoke to the doorman. The man readily told him the little he knew. Ms. Morrow was a lovely, quiet lady, always very gracious, always a thank-you when he held the door for her, always generous at Christmas. He’d miss her.

  “Did she go out much?” Scott asked.

  “For the last six months anyhow, when I put her in a cab, it was always to the doctor, the hairdresser, or to church on Sunday. We joked about it.”

  Not very helpful, Scott thought, as he went inside and stopped at the concierge’s desk. He explained that he was an attorney, sure that the concierge would get the impression that he had been Morrow’s attorney. “I know she’s been here for many years and want to be sure that anyone who is close to her is notified of her passing,” he explained.

  “She wasn’t one to have much company,” the concierge explained. “There was one lady on the eighteenth floor who used to go out to the theatre with her, but she passed away a few years ago. It’s been obvious to all of us that Ms. Morrow has been in very poor health and she didn’t go out much at all.”

  As Scott was about to turn away, he thought to ask, “Did Ms. Morrow keep a car in the garage here?”

  “Yes, she did. From what I understand she just about gave up driving herself. When she didn’t take a cab to go someplace local, she used a service where the driver would take her in her own car. In fact she went out for a few hours on Tuesday.”

  “This past Tuesday! You mean the day before she died?” Scott exclaimed. “Was she out long?”

  “Most of the afternoon.”

  Do you know where she went?”

  “No, but I have the number of the service here. Quite a few of our residents use it.” The concierge reached into a drawer, pulled out some cards, and went through them. “Here it is,” he said, handing one over. “You can have this if you want it. I’ve got a few of them.”

  The address of the driving service was only a few blocks away. Scott decided to walk over to it. He had long since learned that it was much better to try to get information in person rather than over the phone.

  The clouds that had started to gather on his walk over to Schwab House had become thicker and darker. He moved quickly, not wanting to get caught in a downpour. What would make a very sick woman leave her home for hours? he wondered. A week earlier, Olivia Morrow had told the driver whose child was Monica’s patient that she had known Monica’s grandmother. Why did she wait until Monica’s phone call to disclose that to Monica, and even say she knew the identity of both her grandparents? Knowing that she was dying, why didn’t she do it sooner? That last day of her life, did Olivia Morrow visit someone else who also knew the truth?

  As these questions rushed through his mind, nothing in Scott’s psyche warned him that by his call to Clayton Hadley, he had signed his own death warrant and that the process of eliminating him had already begun.

  45

  His throat dry, Peter Gannon invited Detectives Barry Tucker and Dennis Flynn into the living room of his apartment. Why are they here? he wondered. Did I do something crazy when I blacked out? I don’t think I took the car out. God, I hope I didn’t run someone over!

  Even deciding where to sit was nerve-wracking. Not the couch, he thought. It was lower than the chairs. He would feel even more intimidated. He chose the high-back wing chair, which forced the detectives to sit side by side on the couch.

  The somber expression on both their faces telegraphed to Peter that whatever their purpose in coming, it was a serious matter. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak first. He had not intended to offer them coffee but he realized he was still carrying the cup that he had been sipping when the concierge phoned. Now he heard himself saying, “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. May I offer you . . . ? ”

  Before he had finished the sentence they both shook their heads. Then Detective Tucker spoke. “Mr. Gannon, did you meet Renée Carter last Tuesday evening?”

  Renée, Peter thought, dismayed. She did go to the cops and tell them that Greg is an insider trader! Be careful, he warned himself. You don’t know that yet. Be cooperative. “Yes, I met her on Tuesday evening,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “Where did you meet her?” Tucker asked.

  “At a bar-and-grill type place, near Gracie Mansion.” I can’t even remember the name of the place, he thought. I’ve got to keep my head straight.

  “Why did you meet her there?”

  “It was at her suggestion.”

  “Did you quarrel with her?”

  They know that already, Peter thought. There were people at the bar who were probably watching us. Some of them would have heard her raise her voice and then would have seen her storm out. “We had a disagreement,” he said. “Look, what is this all about?”

  “What it’s all about, Mr. Gannon, is that Renée Carter never reached home Tuesday night. Yesterday her body was found stuffed in a garbage bag on the East River walkway, near Gracie Mansion.”

  Stunned, Peter stared at the two detectives. “Renée is dead? That can’t be,” he protested.

  “Are you the father of her child?” Barry Tucker shot the question at him.

  Renée is dead. They know we quarreled. They may think I killed her. Peter moistened his lips. “Yes, I am the father of Renée Carter’s child,” he said.

  “Have you been supporting the child?” Detective Flynn asked, quietly.

  “Supporting? The answer to that is yes and no.” I sound like a fool, Peter told himself. “Let me explain what I mean by that,” he added hastily. “I met Renée over four years ago at the opening-night party of a play I was producing. My former wife is an attorney and skippe
d that kind of late-evening event. I ended up escorting Renée home and getting involved with her. It lasted less than two years.”

  “You mean you haven’t been involved with her for two years?” Tucker asked.

  “Renee knew I was sick of her and regretted the relationship had ever begun. That was when she managed to get pregnant. She told me that she wanted two million dollars from me to take care of her while she had the baby, then she planned to give it up for adoption.”

  “Did you agree to that?” Flynn asked.

  “Yes. That was before several of my spectacular flops on Broadway. I thought it was worth it to have Renée out of my life. She told me she knew some very nice, substantial people who would give anything to have a baby and that they would be overjoyed to adopt it.”

  “You had no interest in your own child?” Flynn asked.

  “I’m not proud of that fact, but frankly no, I didn’t. Renée cost me my marriage. My wife had found out about the affair and divorced me. When I got back some sense in my head, I realized I had thrown away something terribly precious and would regret it for the rest of my life. The last thing I wanted was to hurt her even more by having her find out that Renée was pregnant with my child. Renée was bored with New York. She told me she was moving to Vegas for good and that the two million dollars would be the last I’d ever see or hear from her.”

  “Were you sure that the child was yours, Mr. Gannon?”

  “I absolutely believed it when I paid her the money. I knew the way Renée’s mind worked. It was worth getting pregnant to get that money out of me. Then, nineteen months ago, when the baby was born, she sent me a congratulations card and enclosed with it was a copy of the DNA report of her, me, and the baby. She had been smart enough to collect some DNA from me before she left, just in case I had lingering doubts. I had it checked. I’m the baby’s father.”