“I can’t give you proof—at least not yet.”
“Then you’ll excuse me, but I have work to do.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“What’s to believe? Look, Miss Drake.”
“Please, it’s Shelley.”
“Okay, Shelley. You want to know how I see this? Let me tell you. A prominent old man who did a lot of good things has died. Now you and all the others in your maggoty business are feeding on the corpse. It’s not enough for you to put out a lot of crap about how he was screwing this writer. You’re also out to smear his reputation every way you can—just so you can get a beat on your competition.”
She flushed. “Will you listen to me? Please?”
“For about ten more seconds. Go ahead.”
“I’m not making this up. I’m an investigative reporter, and a good one. I was working on the story when the senator died.”
“Uh-huh.”
“All right, I’ll make a deal with you.”
“No you won’t.”
The blue eyes flashed anger. “Have it your way, Lieutenant. But when you find out what I’m saying is true, you can give me a ring. Unless, like everybody else, you’re just out to hide all this under a rug.” She got out of the car and slammed the door.
Ben watched her go, hands thrust into the pockets of the trench coat, long legs striding, blond hair rippling in the autumn breeze.
Jesus—the shit you had to put up with.
9
Peggy Demarest nosed her small yellow Toyota sedan into a space in the parking lot of the Brentwood Treatment Center and got out of the car. As she walked to the entrance of the ivy-covered stone building, she turned up the collar of her coat and hunched her shoulders. The sun was shining, but the air was brisk out here on the eastern end of Long Island, the wind sweeping in off the sea and rustling the pine trees surrounding the hospital.
This was a trip she undertook at least twice a week, but one she felt ambivalent about making. On one hand, she wanted to see Jan, but on the other, it was depressing to find her sister’s condition unchanged each time she came here. Jan was two years younger than Peggy, twenty-one her last birthday, and had always been the more outgoing of the two—a bright, sunny girl with auburn hair and a ready laugh.
And the better-looking one as well, Peggy reminded herself. Jan was a good two inches taller, with a fuller bust line, and Peggy had envied her sister’s figure as well as her coloring. Both had been so much more glamorous than Peggy’s slim shape and her deep red hair that was dull rather than striking, like Jan’s.
Yet nowadays, Jan looked like an old woman and recognized no one.
The receptionist greeted Peggy pleasantly and after speaking into a telephone asked her to have a seat, saying Dr. Chenoweth would be with her shortly. Peggy took a chair near a window and picked up a copy of that morning’s New York Times from a coffee table.
The story of Clayton Cunningham’s death was on the front page, along with a photograph of the former senator. Peggy had already heard the news on CBS TV while she was having breakfast, but seeing the piece in the paper sent another pang through her, nevertheless.
If it hadn’t been for the generosity of the Cunningham family, Jan wouldn’t be receiving the treatment she was getting at Brentwood; the Demarests never could have afforded it. Peggy’s salary as a dental hygienist wouldn’t cover a tenth of the bills, and her mother had only a small income from the insurance Peggy’s father had left when he died. It was the Cunninghams who’d stepped in when the Demarests had been desperate for help.
And now the senator was dead. She felt a wave of sympathy for his wife and his children and a sense of regret that New York—and the world—had lost a fine man.
“Morning, Peggy. How are you?”
She looked up, to see Jay Chenoweth approaching. Despite her feelings of depression over her sister’s condition and the death of Clayton Cunningham, she had to smile. The psychiatrist had an invariably pleasant manner, always easygoing and friendly. Today he was as casual as ever, wearing a battered herringbone tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, a knitted tie askew on his blue shirt. But his short brown beard was neatly trimmed and his grin was infectious.
How someone could work in a mental hospital and remain so cheerful was beyond her, but optimism probably was vital to survival in such a job. If you didn’t have it, you’d be in danger of losing your own sanity.
She stood up and shook his hand. “I’m fine, Doctor. How are you?”
“The way I always am. Upbeat.”
“Must be wonderful.”
“Better than not, believe me. Come on along and we’ll have a chat before you see Jan.” He led her down a corridor to his office.
The room was like its occupant: unpretentious. It was small and cluttered, with a metal desk piled high with papers, only one visitor’s chair, plus a filing cabinet and a bookcase. A single window gave a view of the grounds.
The framed diplomas were impressive, however, their Latin inscriptions proclaiming that Jay Chenoweth was an alumnus of Columbia College and the Yale University School of Medicine. He’d also been a resident at Massachussetts General and McLean hospitals and was a graduate of the New York State Psychoanalytic Institute.
Peggy sat down and unbuttoned her coat. Then she asked the same question she raised each time she came here. “How is she—any change?”
And Chenoweth gave the same answer. “No, but I’m hopeful. At least she hasn’t deteriorated further, and that’s a good sign. And she’s eating better than she was at first.”
“But she’s still not able to feed herself.”
“No, not yet.”
“Not yet? Tell me the truth, Doctor. Do you really feel there’s any chance that she’ll ever come out of this … state she’s in?”
“Of course I do. I can’t sit here and give you odds or forecast exactly when it might happen. But does she have a chance? You bet she does.”
Peggy said nothing. Sometimes she suspected his responses were simply standard phrases he used to console friends and relatives of Brentwood’s patients. And then she felt guilty at having thought such a thing.
As if he’d read her mind, he softened his tone. “Peggy, you have to remember we’re lucky to have her at all. The injuries she suffered could easily have killed her.”
“Oh, God—I know that. But there are times when …” Her voice trailed off.
“When you think she might be better off if she had died, right?”
She flushed. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not. It’s perfectly normal, in fact. Seeing her the way she is now and not knowing when she might improve imposes great stress on you. I’d be amazed if it didn’t. But you mustn’t punish yourself for having negative thoughts about her or about her condition. Those reactions are only to be expected.”
Peggy nodded. What he was saying was true, but knowing that didn’t help much. The only thing that could really help would be for Jan to get better.
She looked Chenoweth in the eye. “It’s possible that she could stay like this for the rest of her life, isn’t it?”
“It’s possible, yes. But we can’t think in those terms. Instead, we have to continue trying to get her to respond. And for all we know about this catatonic state she’s in, the best way to do that is never to lose faith. We have to show her kindness and love, even if she doesn’t seem to have any awareness of what we’re trying to tell her.”
“But couldn’t it be that the physical damage was just too great for her to overcome? The injury to her brain?”
“Yes, that’s possible, too. But I don’t believe that’s the basic problem here. Jan suffered brain damage, yes. But the tests we’ve made, including the most recent MRI, indicate the neurological trauma wasn’t that severe. The psychological damage is what we’re dealing with. And that was very grave indeed.”
“You say it’s important to show her kindness and love. Do you think any of
that registers?”
“Absolutely. I firmly believe she can feel it and sense where it’s coming from, even though she makes no response.”
Again Peggy was quiet for a moment.
“Look,” Chenoweth said. “Keep in mind that Jan was not only brutally beaten and left for dead, but there was also evidence that she was sexually abused, even tortured. So it’s not surprising that although her body has mostly healed, Jan is still in hiding emotionally. She’s withdrawn to a safe place where no one can reach her, somewhere deep in her own psyche. But she’s there, Peggy. Our job is to bring her back again. And one of the people who can do the most to make that happen is you.”
“Me? I wish I believed that was true.”
“But it is true. You grew up together; you loved each other.”
One corner of Peggy’s mouth curled in a small, rueful smile. “And we were also rivals. Jealous as hell. We had some fights you wouldn’t believe. Swiped each other’s clothes and other belongings. Once, we even had a tug-of-war over a boyfriend.”
“You mentioned that last time we talked. What happened?”
“It was a couple of years ago. I was dating a guy, brought him to our mother’s house for dinner. Jan was there, too, and the next thing I knew, he broke off with me and began seeing her.”
“Did it last long?”
“No. I have a hunch she didn’t care at all about him, just wanted to show me she could do it.”
“And you had a fight about that?”
“Oh sure. But then we more or less got over it—after she dropped him.”
“When she broke up with him, was that before the other things happened, before she began the wild period you told me about?”
“Yes, long before. I never did understand that, although I’m sure it’s what got her into trouble, eventually.”
“You gave the police all the information you could, of course?”
“Yes, as much as I knew—which wasn’t a great deal. It was as if she’d become another person. Living in that fancy apartment, all the clothes and the jewelry.”
“And she never told you where it was all coming from?”
“No, never. I tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t.”
“Did you have any idea, any hunch of your own?”
“Sure. The same one the police had. I thought there were two possibilities. Either somebody was keeping her or she’d become a call girl.”
“You say that’s what the police thought, too?”
“From the questions they asked me, yes. Although frankly, I don’t think they much cared. Their attitude was, so she was a hooker and somebody beat her up—so what? I mean, they didn’t say that, but it was pretty clear that was the way they were thinking. One of them did tell me they were sorry, but he also said they were having a tough enough time trying to handle their case load as it was.”
“Pretty callous, hmm? And yet you can understand that, too.”
“Up to a point. But it was certainly obvious that no one gave a damn. Except my mother and me. And the Cunninghams, of course. I don’t know what we would have done without them. Jan didn’t even work for them anymore, hadn’t for over a year. And yet they stepped right in and gave us all this help.”
He nodded. “Very kind of them.”
“It’s almost saintly, that people could be so generous. Did you hear about the death of Senator Cunningham, by the way?”
“Yes, I read about it in this morning’s Times. Sad that he’s gone.”
“A real tragedy.” A thought struck her. “God, I hope that won’t—”
“Have anything to do with providing support for your sister? It won’t, I’m sure. When she came here, I was told the foundation would be taking care of the expenses for however long treatment might be needed.”
Peggy shook her head in wonder. “What great people.”
“Would you like to see Jan now?”
She got to her feet. “Yes, of course.”
Chenoweth led her down a corridor and through two sets of double doors, then down another hallway to the familiar room. On the way, they passed other staff members and also a number of patients, male and female, walking through the halls. Many of the patients seemed quite normal, although some of the older ones showed signs of senility.
The door of Jan’s room was open and when Peggy looked in, she saw her sister sitting as always in the same chair beside the window, her eyes staring blankly, hands folded in her lap. She was wearing a blue bathrobe over pajamas and there were slippers on her feet.
“Remember what I told you,” Jay said quietly. “Your love can do more than any treatment we could possibly provide.” He gave her a reassuring pat on the arm and went on down the corridor. Peggy took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
Despite her resolve, the sight was disheartening. Virtually the only one of her sister’s features she’d recognize was the auburn hair. Jan’s skin was milky white and there was a vivid red scar that snaked its way down her right cheek. Her face was gaunt, her eyes dull and sunken. It was hard to reconcile this woman’s appearance with what Peggy remembered.
But the important thing was to try. She forced herself to speak in a warm tone. “Good morning, Jan. It’s so good to see you.” She bent over and kissed her sister on the forehead.
She smiled to herself. If Jan could have seen this display of affection before she’d become ill, she would have laughed herself silly. What Peggy had told Dr. Chenoweth about the rivalry between the sisters wasn’t the half of it. There’d always been plenty to be jealous about, too; Jan was the more popular, not just the better-looking of the Demarest girls.
Peggy took off her coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. She pulled another chair close and sat down, reaching out to take Jan’s hand. The flesh felt waxy and lifeless, as if the hand belonged to a corpse.
“It’s a nice fall day outside,” Peggy said. She looked out the window to where a nurse was walking with an old man, supporting him with a hand under his arm. He was all bundled up in an overcoat, with a scarf around his neck and a cap pulled down on his head. The wind was still kicking up, gusts bending the pine trees.
“The sun is shining,” Peggy continued, feeling somewhat inane, as if she was talking to an inanimate object. “Wouldn’t you like to be out there? You used to love to go for walks in the fall, remember?”
Jan continued to stare at nothing. She made no reply.
10
The police report said Jessica Silk’s address was on Sutton Place. Under different circumstances, Ben might have called her before going there, but to do that now would only give her a chance to try ducking him. Better to surprise her, have his talk with her and get out. He drove crosstown on Fifty-fourth Street and at the end of the last block before the East River, he turned left.
He remembered reading a piece in the Sunday Times about how this locality had been a collection of ramshackle buildings until the early twenties, when the Vanderbilts and the Morgans had moved here from Fifth Avenue to get away from the nouveaux riches. They’d built the elegant apartment buildings and town houses designed by architects like Mott Schmidt and Delano & Aldrich, and today the area remained one of the most exclusive places to live in the city. Ben parked in front of a stately apartment house and went past the green-uniformed doorman into the lobby.
The space seemed more like a large, comfortable living room than a public entrance. There were sofas and chairs upholstered in muted colors, thick green plants in Chinese vases, and a wall mural of what appeared to be a fishing village on the Mediterranean coast. The doorman followed him inside and Ben showed him his shield and told him why he was there.
The man went to a telephone and spoke into it. When he hung up, he said to take the elevator to 22B.
On the way up, Ben thought of his discussion with Ardis Merritt about what had happened in the senator’s office the night before. And then he recalled what the TV reporter had tried to peddle to him and felt a jab of anger all ove
r again. He knew whores who had more integrity.
When he stepped off the elevator, Miss Silk was standing in her open doorway, waiting for him. She was tall and dark-haired, wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. High cheekbones, hazel eyes, a faintly cynical expression on her wide mouth: She was a knockout, no matter which way you looked at her. No wonder the old man had agreed to having her interview him. Or whatever.
“You always just burst in on people, Lieutenant?”
“Sorry, but I have to make out a follow-up report on Senator Cunningham’s death. Routine procedure. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Uh-huh. Come on in.”
He followed her through a foyer, thinking he’d been right; she looked great from this angle, as well. She led him into a large room whose windows faced the river and the Queensboro Bridge. The view was similar to the one from his own apartment, only better, because this apartment was on a much higher floor.
He glanced around. The furnishings were contemporary: sofa and chairs in eggshell leather, chocolate carpeting, and wildly abstract paintings on two of the walls.
Silk picked a cigarette out of a box on a glass coffee table and ignited it with a heavy silver lighter. She blew out a cloud of smoke and studied him more openly than he had her. “You want a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“It is a little early in the day, isn’t it? Against all convention. So I think I’ll have one. Take off your coat and sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
He stripped off the raincoat and sank down into the cushions of the sofa. As he did, she went to an ebony-faced bar on the far side of the room and poured whiskey from a decanter into a squat glass, no ice. Watching her, he wondered how a free-lance magazine writer could afford an apartment like this. Or whether there might be another source of income.
“Nice place you have here,” he said.
She put the stopper back into the decanter. “Compliments of my ex-husband. Part of our divorce agreement, along with very generous alimony. That answers your question, doesn’t it? Even though you didn’t ask it?”
He made no reply. Her irritation was understandable, and he wasn’t here to rankle her.
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