up ten times a night to make sure that Maryanne is covered."
As the others chatted, Katie only half listened. She felt tired and
light-headed, but she did not want to break up the party.
Her chance came as they headed for the living room for a
nightcap. "I'm going to say good night," Katie said. "I'm bushed."
Molly did not protest. Richard said, "I'll take you to your car."
The night air was cold, and she shivered as they started down
the walk. "Katie, I'm worried about you," Richard said. "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."
"Richard, I'm sorry. I can't. I'm going away this weekend."
"You're what? With all that's happening at the office?"
"I.. . I'm committed." What a lame thing to say, Katie thought.
This is ridiculous. She would tell Richard that she'd be in the hospital.
. .
Suddenly the front door was thrown open. "Richard," Jennifer
shouted. "Clovis Simmons is on the phone."
"Clovis Simmons!" Katie said. "The actress?"
"Yes. Oh, hell, I was supposed to call her."
"I'll see you in the morning." Katie got into the car and closed
the door. Richard hesitated, then hurried into the house as Katie
drove away. 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?"
"I'm sorry. Clovis, let me call you tomorrow. I can't talk now."
There was a sharp click in his ear. Richard hung up the phone
slowly. Tomorrow he must call and apologize and tell her that
there was someone else. For now he'd make his excuses and go
home. Maybe try Dr. Salem again.
He went into the living room. Molly, Bill and the Berkeleys
were there. And swathed in blankets, sitting on Liz's lap, was a
baby girl.
"Maryanne decided to join the party," Liz said. "What do you
think of her?" Proudly she turned the baby to face him.
It might have been a magazine cover: the smiling parents, the
beautiful offspring. The mother and father olive-skinned, brown-
eyed, square-featured; the baby fair-complexioned, red blond, with
a heart-shaped face and brilliant green eyes.
Richard stared at the family group. Who do they think they're
kidding? he thought. That child has to be adopted.
PHIL Cunningham and Charley Nugent watched in disgust as
the final stragglers came through Newark airport's gate 11.
"That's it." Charley shrugged. "Lewis must have figured we'd
be waiting for him. Let's go."
From a nearby pay phone he 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 other 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 you two go through Edna Burns's apartment again."
Charley hung up. 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."
RICHARD phoned the Essex House as soon as he got home from
the Kennedys'. Again there was no answer in Dr. Salem's room.
The operator came back on the line. "Operator, did Dr. Salem
receive the message to phone me? I'm Dr. Carroll."
The woman's voice was hesitant. "I'll check, sir."
While he waited, Richard flipped on the television to Eyewitness
News. The camera was focusing on Central Park South. He
watched as the marquee of the Essex House appeared on the
screen. Even as the telephone operator said, "I'm connecting you
with our supervisor," the television reporter was saying, "This
evening in the prestigious Essex House Hotel, Dr. Emmet Salem
of Minneapolis, Minnesota, fell or jumped to his death. . . ."
JOAN MOORE SAT DISTRACTEDLY BY THE phone in Miami. "Kay,
what time did he say he'd phone?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"I told you," said the other young woman. "He said he'd be in
touch with you tonight and that you should wait for his call. He
sounded upset."
The doorbell rang insistently, making them both jump from
their chairs. Joan ran to the door and yanked it open.
"Chris—oh, Chris!" She threw her arms around him. He was
ghastly white; he swayed as she held him. "Chris, what is it?"
His voice was nearly a sob. "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."
HE HAD planned to go directly home from the Essex House, but
after he drove out of the garage, he changed his mind. He was
very hungry. He needed to correct the terrible depletion of energy
now that the business with Salem was over. He'd go to the Carlyle
for dinner.
After tomorrow he'd be safe. Inevitably there'd be an investigation
when Kathleen DeMaio died. But her former gynecologist
had moved away. No old medical records would loom up from the
past. Right now, at the AMA convention, doctors were probably
discussing the Newsmaker article and the Westlake Maternity
Concept. He was on the path to fame, and Salem, who might
have stopped him, was out of the way. He was anxious to go
through Vangie's medical history in Salem's file. It would be invaluable
in his future research.
He parked on the street in front of the Carlyle. His bag was
locked in the trunk. Salem's file on Vangie, the paperweight and
the moccasin were in it. He could dispose of the shoe and the
paperweight in one of the city's trash baskets. They'd be lost among
the decaying food and discarded newspapers. He'd do it on the way
home, under cover of darkness.
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.
The doorman held the door open for him. "Good evening, Dr.
Highley." In the dining room, the maitre d' led him to the corner
table he preferred.
Wine warmed and soothed him. The dinner restored him, as he
had anticipated. He was just signing his check when the maitre d'
came hurrying over. "Dr. Highley, I'm afraid there's a problem."
His fingers tightened on 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."
When Highley spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. "Do the
police believe that my bag will be recovered?"
"I'm afraid they don't know, sir. 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
."
BEFORE she went to bed, Katie packed an overnight bag for her
stay in the hospital. She realized how glad she'd be to get the
operation over with. The sense of being physically out of tune was
wearing her down. She felt depleted, exhausted, depressed. It
was all physical, wasn't it? Or was part of it the thought that
Richard might be involved with someone else?
By Monday she'd be feeling better. Wearily she showered,
brushed her teeth 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 water from the
glass on her night table.
GERTRUDE Fitzgerald opened the prescription bottle. The migraine
was letting up. 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. Prince Charming.
Edna had mentioned him in the last couple of weeks. If she
could only remember. It was eluding her, the exact circumstance.
When this headache was gone she'd be able to think. She
swallowed the pill, got into bed, closed her eyes. Edna's voice
sounded in her ears. "And I said that Prince Charming won't. . ."
She couldn't remember the rest.
AT FOUR a.m. Richard gave up trying to sleep. He had phoned
Scott Myerson about Emmet Salem's death, and Scott had in
formed the New York police of their interest. More than that had
been impossible to accomplish. Mrs. Salem was not at home in
Minneapolis. Nor could he reach the doctor's nurse.
Richard got up and began making notes. "1. Why did Salem
want to talk to him? 2. Why did Vangie want to see Salem? 3. The
Berkeley baby."
The baby was the key. Was the Westlake Maternity Concept
as successful as had been touted? Or was it a cover-up for secret
adoptions? Were the women being put to bed in the hospital two
months before the supposed delivery to hide the fact that they
were not pregnant?
But Vangie Lewis had been pregnant. So she didn't fit into the
adoptive pattern. She was desperate to have a child, but how did
she expect to pass off an Oriental baby on her husband?
The malpractice suits. He had to find out the reason those
people sued Highley. And Emmet Salem's office would have
Vangie's medical records. That would be a place to start.
Vangie's body was back in the lab now. First thing in the
morning he'd review the autopsy findings, go over the body again.
There was something. .. .
At five thirty Richard set the alarm for seven and turned out
the light. When sleep came at last, he dreamed of Katie. She was
standing looking in the rear window of Edna Burns's apartment,
and Dr. Edgar Highley was watching her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EDNA Burns 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 statement in the
old-fashioned breakfront.
I leave my worldly goods to my friends, Gertrude Fitzgerald and
Gana Krupshak. Mrs. Fitzgerald is to receive my diamond ring
and whatever household possessions she cares to have. Mrs.
Krupshak is to receive my ruby pin, my imitation fur coat and
whatever household possessions Mrs. Fitzgerald does not wish to
have. My $10,000 insurance policy less funeral expenses is assigned
to the nursing home which took such fine care of my parents.
Methodically the team dusted for fingerprints, vacuumed for
hair and fibers, searched for signs of forced entry. As the final
step, they asked the neighbors if anyone had noticed any strangers
in the vicinity on Tuesday night. At the last apartment they had a
break. 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 in a car which apartment Miss Burns lived in,"
he reported. "You remember, Ma, when you made me walk Porgy
just before I went to bed."
"That was about nine thirty," the boy's mother said.
"What did the man look like?" Charley asked.
"He had sort of dark hair. His car was neat. It was a Corvette."
Charley looked at Phil. "Chris Lewis drives a Corvette," he said
flatly.
THROUGH the long, sleepless night, Edgar Highley rationalized
the problem of the stolen bag. The odds were it would be abandoned
after the thief went through it. Few people would take the
trouble to return it.
Suppose the New York police recovered the bag intact? His
name and address were inside it. If they phoned and asked him for
a list of the contents, he'd simply mention some standard drugs
and a few patients' files. They would assume that Vangie Lewis'
file was his. If they asked about the shoe and the bloodstained
paperweight, he'd say that the thief must have put them there.
It would be all right. And tonight the last risk would be removed.
At five a.m. he gave up trying to sleep, showered and went
downstairs. He was not going in to the office until noon. Meanwhile
he'd go over his research notes. Yesterday's patient would
be his new experiment. But he hadn't yet chosen the donor.
ON FRIDAY MORNING KATIE GOT IN TO the office by seven o'clock
and began a review of the case she was trying. The defendants
were teenage brothers accused of setting fires in two schools.
Maureen came in at eight thirty, and immediately made fresh
coffee. Katie looked up. "Boy, I'm going all out to nail those two,"
she said. "They did it for kicks. It's sickening."
Maureen reached for Katie's coffee cup and filled it. "Katie . .."
Katie looked 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. I've been trying to forget,
and now this Vangie Lewis case brings it back."
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, I wonder about the way life
works out. But we'll both have children someday, and we'll appreciate
them because of not having the ones we wanted before."
Maureen's eyes were filled with tears. "I know. But the thing
about the Vangie Lewis case is—"
The telephone rang. Katie reached for it. It was Scott Myerson.
"Glad you're in, Katie. Can you run over here for a minute?"
"Of course." Katie got up. "Scott wants me now. Well talk
later, Maureen." Impulsively she hugged the girl.
Scott was standing by the window staring out. He turned when
she came in. "You're on trial today—the Odendall brothers?"
"Yes. We have a good case. We'll get them."
"You usually do, Katie. Have you heard about Dr. Salem?"
"The doctor from Minneapolis? No, I haven't spoken to anyone
"He fell—or was pushed—out a window in the Essex House a
few minutes after he checked in. We're working with the New York
police on it. Incidentally, Vangie Lewis' body arrived from Minneapolis
yesterday. 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 La
Guardia. 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 believe Chris Lewis is a murderer," Katie said flatly.
"Where do you think he is now?"
Scott shrugged. "I think his girl friend will lead us to him. She's
due in from Florida tonight. Can you hang around?"
Katie hesitated. "This is one weekend I have to be away. But
I'll be honest, Scott. I feel so lousy that I'm not thinking straight.
I'll get through this trial, but then I will leave."
Scott studied her. "You should have a checkup. You look paler
than you did right after your accident. All right, get the trial over
Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall Page 12