“When did you first meet her?”
“When she approached him about doing the article.”
“That was in Florida, wasn’t it—in Palm Beach?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I was down there on business for the foundation.”
“Some of the things she told me,” he went on, “didn’t square with your account of what happened the night the senator died.”
“Really? Such as what?”
“Such as the fact that the two of you had a tough time getting his clothes back together when you realized he was dead. Zipping up his pants, for instance.”
Her lips compressed, until the skin around them was white. Then she said, “What are you suggesting, Lieutenant?”
“That you didn’t tell me the truth about what actually went on that night.”
“What I told you is precisely what happened—in every respect.”
“Except for a few minor details. Were you actually in the room when he died or just before he did?”
“Of course I was.”
“Or maybe that’s stretching things a bit? Maybe you came in shortly afterward? And maybe the senator was already in trouble, or dead?”
Spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “How dare you make these accusations?”
“I’m making them because I keep uncovering conflicts in your stories—yours and Silk’s. If you were in the room, then what went on wasn’t what you described the first time we talked—the version you gave the police officers who came to the house.”
She stared at him, eyes glinting with anger.
“And if you weren’t in the room, why say that you were? What were you trying to hide? Silk admitted to me you had the problem with the senator’s pants before you called for help. Why was that? And why did you lie about it? What were your reasons for not wanting the truth to come out?”
“The truth did come out. We tried to loosen his clothing so that it would be easier for him to breathe. As I’ve already told you, we were both terribly upset. It was an emergency situation, and I’ll admit we were panicky. But what you’re implying is absurd.”
“Is it? What was the relationship between the senator and Miss Silk? It wasn’t just a writer interviewing an important figure, was it? There was something going on between them, isn’t that so? And you knew it.”
“I knew nothing of the kind. You’re as bad as those ghouls from the media. Running a bunch of hideous lies without a scrap of evidence to back them up.”
“And now you’re fishing, trying to find out what I’ve got.”
Behind the heavy horn-rims, her eyes flashed. “Let me assure you, Lieutenant, I don’t care what you’ve got or haven’t got. It’s apparent that this is nothing but one more attempt to smear the memory of a great man. And as far as Jessica Silk is concerned, it’s quite convenient, isn’t it, that the poor woman can’t be here to defend herself?”
“Whether she’s here or not, she gave me a statement.”
“Then you don’t need one from me, do you?”
“Oh, I think you’ll tell me the truth about what happened, sooner or later. I hope you realize you could be charged with obstructing justice if you don’t.” Which was bullshit, but he wanted to see how far he could push her.
Not far, as it turned out. “Then why don’t you charge me? You’ll have to if you expect me to answer any more of these outrageous questions about Senator Cunningham’s death.”
“Maybe I’ll do just that. And by the way, there are a few other things I want to ask about, as well. What does the name Orkis mean to you?”
“It means nothing. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“But of course you can’t remember everything, can you? Not every detail—that’s what records are for. Which is why I’d like to see a list of the foundation’s disbursements—if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. We’re a charitable organization and our activities are a matter of public record. They’re closely monitored by the federal authorities, as well as by those of the city and the state.”
She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a binder with a green cover, handing it to him. Gold letters on the cover read “The Cunningham Foundation.”
Tolliver leafed through it. “Okay if I keep this?”
“Yes. Although I can see no reason for you to go prying into our business.”
“I have a number of reasons. All of them to do with my investigation.”
“Your investigation seems to be little more than a shabby effort to disparage Senator Cunningham. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy. I’m not used to having people simply pop in on me without at least showing the courtesy of calling for an appointment. People are waiting for me. There are many important things I’m involved in.”
“I’m sure there are,” Ben said. He rolled up the binder and put it into his raincoat pocket, then got up to go, saying, “Don’t bother to see me out. I know the way.”
32
Out on the sidewalk, the same bored cop was slowly parading back and forth. Tolliver walked next door and rang the bell of the Cunningham mansion. A moment later, the door swung open and the butler he’d seen last time he was here peered out at him.
Ben displayed his shield. “Lieutenant Tolliver. Would you please tell Mrs. Cunningham I’d like to speak with her for a few minutes?”
“Is madam expecting you, sir?”
“No, she isn’t. But it’s important that I see her.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see if she’s in.” He shut the door.
The cop glanced over this way but continued to walk, exhibiting no curiosity. Ben noticed that the traffic along here was light, although looking down the street toward the park he could see taxis whizzing south on Fifth Avenue. The breeze was bending the naked branches of the trees.
The butler returned. “Madam will see you, Lieutenant. Please come this way.”
Tolliver followed him into a domed rotunda and, through it, down a long hallway. The butler opened another door and showed the visitor into a study. He took Ben’s raincoat and asked him to be seated, saying that Mrs. Cunningham would join him shortly. Then he backed out and closed the door.
The room was smaller than the one Ben had been in the morning after the senator’s death, when he’d met the family. This was cozy and intimate, with comfortable furniture covered in bright prints and with paintings he recognized as those of French Impressionists hanging on the walls. The paintings showed gauzy landscapes and gardens bursting with flowers. There was a delicate writing desk near a tall window and a corner fireplace with logs crackling on the hearth. It was a woman’s room, he realized, probably Mrs. Cunningham’s sanctuary.
The door opened and she walked into the room.
Ben stood up. “Sorry to barge in on you, ma’am. I appreciate your seeing me.”
“That’s all right, Lieutenant. Please sit down.” Clayton Cunningham’s widow was smartly dressed in a dark red wool suit, her silver hair carefully styled. But despite makeup, wrinkles were visible around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Ben also noticed she was heavy in the hips. Overall, she seemed the direct opposite of Jessica Silk, which probably had a lot to do with the senator’s interest in the journalist.
She took a chair facing him, crossing her legs. “I would have expected your investigation to be finished long ago.”
He sank back into his seat. “I still have questions about what happened the night of your husband’s death. There were conflicts in the account given me by Ardis Merritt.”
“Conflicts?”
“Yes. I also spoke to Jessica Silk, the writer who—”
She stiffened. “I know who she is—or was. What are your questions?”
“The two women’s stories don’t match. I’m not convinced Miss Merritt has been telling me the truth.”
“Then why don’t you discuss that with her?”
“I did, just a
few minutes ago.”
“And?”
“She was less than cooperative. Nevertheless, I need to file a report. I don’t want to embarrass anyone, but I want to find out what happened.”
“We’re already embarrassed, Lieutenant. Or at least I am. The publicity has been unspeakable.”
“I’m sure it’s been very painful for you. Losing your husband and then having to put up with all that churning by the media.”
She bit her lip and looked away.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few things.”
Her gaze swung back to him. “I do mind. But I’ll answer if I can.”
“How well do you know Miss Merritt?”
“Well enough, I suppose. My husband thought she was quite capable. She sometimes helped him in matters that were outside her duties with the foundation.”
“What matters were they?”
“Advice on what committees to serve on, the importance of various functions he was asked to attend. She also made many of his appointments, helped direct the public-relations agency, and so on.”
“Why didn’t his secretary handle those things?”
“She did, but with Ardis telling her what to do.”
“Wasn’t that rather unusual?”
“Ardis is an unusual person. Very determined, very efficient.”
“And very loyal.”
“Yes.”
“So of course she wouldn’t want to see his reputation harmed, would she?”
“Are you suggesting she deliberately attempted to mislead you? That she lied in order protect him—and the family?”
“I think it’s possible. Did you speak to her that night?”
“Yes, of course I did. She came to the house afterward to express her sympathy and to ask if there was anything she could do. I told her there wasn’t, and after she stayed with us for a time, she went back to her apartment in the foundation building.”
“What about the others? Did Clay speak to her—or Ingrid or anyone else—about what had happened?”
“We all did. We were stunned, couldn’t believe he was dead. He always seemed so strong, so vigorous. At dinner, he’d been his normal self, enjoying everyone’s company.”
“Were you present the whole time Miss Merritt was here?”
For the first time, Claire Cunningham showed a touch of annoyance. “Look, Lieutenant. I’m telling you that I have no knowledge of any attempt to distort or obscure the facts. Not by Ardis or by any member of the family.”
He decided to give her another jab, harder this time. “Did you know Jessica Silk?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to get me into a discussion of my husband’s personal life. I’ll admit it was difficult at times to be the wife of Clayton Cunningham. But that’s over now. He’s gone, and whatever he did or didn’t do will no longer trouble me.”
“Has the family been supportive to you?”
He didn’t really expect her to answer that, but apparently she’d become just angry enough to snap out a reply. “As much as I would have expected, which isn’t very much. As it is now, I no longer have a family. Either his or mine.”
“Excuse me?”
“I divorced my first husband to marry the senator, as you probably know. It was considered a scandal at the time. At least that’s what the newspapers made of it. My own children have never spoken to me since.”
“That must have been painful too.”
“I made my bed and now I’m forced to lie in it. Fortunately, it’s a very comfortable bed, thanks to the trusts that were set up for me when I married him. As far as my share of the estate is concerned, I’m quite sure I’ll come out very well, in spite of efforts by Clay and Ingrid to prevent that from happening.”
“They’re disputing your interest in the estate?”
“You can’t be surprised, Lieutenant. By now, you must have a good idea of what they’re like. But in the end, they won’t succeed. They wouldn’t dare push me too hard—I’m on the board of Cunningham Mining. I know far too much.”
“About what?”
Her mouth opened as she seemed to realize what she’d said. But she recovered quickly. “I have no further comments, Lieutenant. You came here to ask about Ardis Merritt, and if you have any other questions, they should be directed to her. But you’d better hurry, because she’ll be leaving soon.”
“She’s leaving the foundation?”
“Yes, in a few more weeks.”
“Because of the senator’s death?”
“In part. But also because her term was up, anyway. The foundation’s bylaws call for a new administrator to be appointed every four years.”
“I see.”
She moved her foot, and Ben wondered whether she’d touched a button concealed underneath the small Oriental rug that lay between her chair and his.
He was correct; a few seconds later, there was a knock at the door and then the butler entered the room. “Yes, madam?”
“We’ve finished our discussion, Raymond. Please show the lieutenant out.”
33
I don’t want you to get your hopes too high,” Dr. Chenoweth said. “Although she is definitely responding. The tests all show it.”
“I know that,” Peggy replied. “I saw it myself. But you don’t sound very encouraged. It is good news, isn’t it?”
The psychiatrist didn’t answer immediately. He seemed hesitant, which wasn’t like him. Nor was it in character for him to be anything but cheerful. Yet lately when he’d spoken with her, there were times when he sounded almost gloomy.
What was it that he seemed reluctant to share with her?
He glanced at the papers spread out before him, rubbing his short brown beard thoughtfully. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Peggy, when you came running in here the other day to tell me Jan seemed to understand what you’d been saying to her, I was as excited as you were. Since then, I’ve worked with her extensively, and yes, there are signs of cognition.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“It’s hard to say. I have mixed reactions to what I see. We’ve made progress, yes. But I also see danger signals.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Okay, let me explain. You’ll recall that when we went back into her room and spoke to her, she’d withdrawn again. She didn’t seem to be aware of anything we said to her.”
“Yes, but I certainly saw those tears. I know I did.”
“I don’t doubt that. Over the past few days, I’ve been running tests that confirm awareness. Yet what I’ve seen troubles me.”
“Why?”
“Because it seems as if your sister is making a conscious effort to hide her emotions.”
Peggy shook her head, perplexed. “Hide them? Why would she do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. But I’m reasonably sure that’s what’s going on. You see, we have ways of measuring her responses. We check pulse rate, skin temperature, even minute changes in pupil dilation. So we know she’s hearing us and that certain words are triggering reactions. The words that cause the greatest changes are all negative.”
“Such as?”
“Hurt, damage, injury, that kind of thing. Which is to be expected after what she’s been through. But the one that causes the strongest reaction of all is Cunningham.”
“Of course—that’s what happened when I told her the senator had died. She was saddened to hear the news and that made her cry.”
Chenoweth regarded her steadily. “You may be right, but now she’s doing the same thing as when she first came here—withdrawing deeper and deeper into herself. Hiding from the world, as it were. As far as her reaction to names or words is concerned, there is a measurable reaction, yes. But just what that is, I can’t tell. All the signs point to a phobic disorder that might lead to further withdrawal. In other words, whatever the basis for her anxiety, it might cause her to sink into a deeper state of catatonia.”
“Do you really thin
k that could happen?”
“I think it’s possible, yes. My concern is that she may go so far back into the recesses of her mind that we’d be unable to reach her again.”
“Because of this disturbance, or whatever it is?”
“Yes. What she’s doing is making an effort to escape.”
Peggy was silent for a few moments as she tried to digest what she’d been told. When she again spoke, she had to struggle to keep her voice from trembling. “What are you going to do about it, Doctor?”
“Everything I can to reassure her.”
34
Ben walked west to Fifth Avenue. There was a public phone on the corner and he went to it and asked information for the number of Cunningham Securities. He called the number, telling the switchboard he wanted to speak to Mr. Cunningham. Getting past the secretary took some doing, but eventually he was put through.
The voice on the telephone was smooth and unruffled. Tolliver could picture its owner, handling the bumptious cop courteously but at the same time with thinly disguised condescension. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“I want to stop in at your office,” Ben said. “Like to have another talk.”
“About what? My father is gone, the funeral is over. I think it’s time for all of us to get on with our lives.”
“That may be. But I haven’t finished my investigation.”
“Haven’t finished? Good Lord, what else is there to say or do? Anything more will just add grist for the media mills.”
“No reason for the media to be aware of my visit,” Ben said. “And anyway, this only partly relates to your father’s death. As you know, I’m attached to the district attorney’s office.”
There was a pause and then Cunningham said, “Yes, so I recall. Well, perhaps I could spare some time. Tell you what. If it’s agreeable to you, why don’t we have a bite of lunch together? Then it won’t cut into the business day. That sound all right?”
“Sure,” Ben said. He looked at his watch. “I’ll be there at twelve.”
“Fine. See you then.”
The offices of Cunningham Securities were on Wall Street, a few steps from the New York Stock Exchange. Ben left the Ford in a parking garage and walked back to the address. The streets here were narrow and winding, as they’d been ever since the Dutch owned the island. And at this time of day, the sidewalks were overflowing with pedestrians, the lofty old buildings disgorging armies of workers en route to lunch.
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