Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall

by Mary Higgins Clark

  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
r />   this morning. I went straight to my office."

  "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