“Go on,” Lloyd said brusquely.
“We know he was on the bridge going back at ten fifteen. Mariah Lyons spoke to her father at eight thirty, and she panicked at ten thirty when she called him again and only got his voice mail. We know he was dead at that point. So, with this time frame, it is very possible that Gruber was in your bedroom emptying your safe when he claims he heard the shot.”
“All right. So what’s next?”
“Gruber gave us the name of the fence he says he used to get rid of the stolen jewelry. His name is Billy Declar and he runs some kind of dumpy secondhand furniture store in lower Manhattan. He lives in the back room. He’s got a long criminal record and was Gruber’s cell mate the one time he served a prison term in New York. We’re working with the Manhattan DA’s office to get a search warrant for his place.”
“When are you going to execute the search warrant?”
“They promised us they’d get it from the judge by three o’clock, and our guys will go right over there with them. For what it’s worth, according to Gruber, Declar has your wife’s jewelry intact. He was planning to take it to Rio in the next couple of weeks and sell it there.”
“Getting the jewelry back would be fine, but, obviously much more important, can Gruber give any kind of description of whoever he claims he saw leaving the house?”
“So far, he’s holding back on that because he’s still trying to make a deal, but I must tell you that he has already stated through his lawyer that it was not Kathleen Lyons. So, if the information about the fence turns out to be true, then Gruber will have established sufficient credibility for this office to arrange for him to sit down with our composite officer immediately and come up with a face.”
“I see.”
Jones knew that in the next minute, Lloyd Scott would be delivering an impassioned protest about the arrest of Kathleen Lyons. Hastily Jones added, “Lloyd, you must understand something. Wally Gruber is one of the most cunning crooks I have ever come across. The Manhattan DA is looking into other unsolved residential burglaries that he may have committed using the same kind of GPS tracker he put on your car. This guy knows if he can convince us that he was in your house at the approximate time of Professor Lyons’s death, it might work for him big-time.”
“I understand what you are telling me,” Lloyd Scott snapped. “Nevertheless, there was an ungodly rush to arrest and handcuff and incarcerate a frail, sick, and bewildered grieving woman, and you know it.”
Trying to keep his voice from rising, Scott paused, then added, “At this moment, I don’t care whether the jewelry is returned or not. I demand that you go immediately to the next step. I want Gruber to sit down with that composite officer and I want it to happen by tomorrow at the latest. If you don’t, I will immediately make such arrangements myself. And, frankly, I don’t care what you have to promise him. At the very least, you owe Kathleen Lyons that much.”
Before Peter Jones could respond, Lloyd Scott added, “I want to know right away what develops from that search warrant. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
As he heard the click that ended their conversation, Peter Jones saw his dream of becoming the next county prosecutor evaporating in front of his eyes.
61
At eleven o’clock, Alvirah was sitting on a chair near the receptionist’s desk in the beauty salon at Bergdorf Goodman waiting for, but not expecting, Lillian Stewart to keep her appointment there.
When she’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, she’d explained to the receptionist why she was there. “I’m an old friend. I help Ms. Stewart out by covering at her apartment when she has a repairman coming in. She’s not answering her cell phone, and she told me a couple of days ago that she had a refrigerator guy coming in today at one o’clock and she might need me to let him in.”
The receptionist, a trim sixtyish woman with ash-blond hair, nodded. “I understand. I waited my whole day off for the television guy and he never showed up. And you know what drives me crazy? They give you a window of time for when they’ll be there and it doesn’t mean a thing.”
“You’re so right,” Alvirah agreed. “Anyhow, since I couldn’t reach her, and you know how impossible it is to even get an appointment with anyone who fixes anything, never mind reschedule it, I decided to come over here and find out when she’ll be finished. If she has a long appointment, I’ll meet the repair guy. The way I figure it, with school starting next week, she’s probably getting the whole works done today.”
The receptionist smiled and nodded. “Yes, she is. Manicure, pedicure, haircut, coloring, highlights, and blow dry. She’ll be here at least three hours.”
“That’s my Lillian,” Alvirah said, smiling broadly. “She always looks so perfectly put together. How long has she been coming here?”
“Oh, my goodness.” The receptionist frowned in concentration. “She was already a regular client when I came to work here and that’s almost twenty years ago.”
At a quarter past eleven, Alvirah went back to the desk. “I’m getting a little worried,” she confided. “Is Lillian usually on time?”
“You can set your clock by her. She’s never forgotten any appointment before, but maybe something important came up. If I don’t hear from her in the next twenty minutes, I think I’ll have to cancel the rest of her appointments.”
“Maybe you should,” Alvirah said. “Maybe something important really did come up.”
“I just hope it wasn’t any big problem, like a death in her family.” The receptionist sighed. “Ms. Stewart is such a nice person.”
“I hope there wasn’t a death in her family,” Alvirah agreed quietly. Including Lillian’s own, she thought grimly.
62
After the call from Greg, Mariah sat on the edge of the bed in her apartment and tried to sort out her emotions. It was a relief to realize that she agreed with him. No matter how bad it was that Richard had tried to buy the parchment, she simply could not believe that he was a killer.
Was Greg right when he claimed that he sensed an attraction between her and Richard? In the past six years, ever since Richard had been on the first archaeological dig with her father, he’d come to the house at least once a month.
Was he the real reason why I always came home for those dinners? she asked herself. I don’t want to go there, she decided. She looked at the picture of her mother and father on the dresser. I felt so betrayed when I saw those pictures of Dad and Lillian. I feel the same sense of betrayal with Richard now.
She remembered an evening three years ago when she’d gone to the wake of a close friend’s husband. He had been killed in a car crash by a drunk driver speeding the wrong way on the Long Island Expressway. Her friend Joan was sitting quietly near the casket. When Mariah spoke to her, all she could say was, “I hurt so much. I hurt so much.”
That was the way I felt when I learned about Dad and Lillian, Mariah thought. That’s the way I feel now about Richard. I am beyond tears. I hurt so much.
Is Greg right that Charles Michaelson might have been one of the bidders for the parchment? That made sense too. He did something illegal years ago. I don’t know what it was, except that Dad was upset when he mentioned it. And Charles was the one who covered for Lillian whenever they were at our house…
She could hear him now. “Lillian and I went to see the new Woody Allen film. Try to catch it.” Or, “There’s a great new exhibit at the Met. Lillian and I…”
I could believe anything about Charles, Mariah thought. I’ve seen him explode when Albert disagreed with him about something. I guess he knew enough not to pull that sort of behavior with Dad or Greg. Or Richard.
She got up slowly, feeling as if everything was an effort, then remembered that she still hadn’t turned on her cell phone. She took it out of her purse and saw that there were seven new messages since last night. Alvirah had tried to reach her three times this morning, the latest only twenty minutes ago. Two of the other four were from Greg. Richard had called again last n
ight and early this morning.
Without taking the time to listen to any of the messages, she dialed Alvirah, who filled her in about going into Lillian’s apartment with the cleaning woman and then going to Bergdorf’s. “I called Columbia, and the head of Lillian’s department is going to file a missing person report with the New York City police,” Alvirah said. “They’re terribly worried. The New Jersey detectives already know she’s still not home. Mariah, I’m at home with a cup of tea in front of me, trying to figure this whole thing out, but I don’t think there’s much more we can do right now.”
“I don’t think so either,” Mariah agreed. “But let me tell you what Greg has found out. Charles has been shopping the parchment around to underground collectors. Greg has been doing his own check on Charles. He heard it from a friend of his who is a well-known collector.”
“Now, that gives me something to go on,” Alvirah said with satisfaction. “What are you up to today, Mariah?”
“I stopped at my office and now I’m in my apartment. I’m about to head back to New Jersey.”
“Do you want to have a quick bite of lunch?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’d better get home. This afternoon Lloyd will be able to get the psychiatric report on Mom.”
“Then I’ll call you later. Hang in there, Mariah. We love you.”
Later, as she was getting into her car, Mariah called Alvirah back. “I just heard from Lloyd Scott. There may be a witness who saw someone running out of the house right after Dad was shot. He was in the middle of robbing the Scotts’ house when he says he heard the shot and looked out the window. He claims he clearly saw the face and can describe the person to the prosecutor’s sketch artist. Oh, Alvirah, pray, pray.”
An hour after that conversation, Alvirah still had not moved from her chair at her dining room table. As she looked out unseeingly at Central Park, Willy finally broke into her reverie. “Honey, what’s going on in that mind of yours?”
“I’m not sure,” Alvirah said. “But I think it’s time for me to make a friendly visit to Professor Albert West.”
63
When Richard Callahan arrived at the receptionist desk of the prosecutor’s office, Detectives Simon Benet and Rita Rodriguez were waiting for him. After a curt greeting, they escorted him to an interrogation room at the end of the hall. Without referring to specific details, Simon coldly explained to him that, based upon certain developments that had occurred since they had initially asked him to give a statement, they now believed it would be appropriate to read him his Miranda rights.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to consult with an attorney… If you do choose to speak, you can decide to stop the questioning at any time.”
“I don’t need a lawyer and I do want to talk to you,” Richard Callahan said firmly. “That’s why I’m here. I am going to tell you the exact truth and we’ll take it from there.”
The detectives looked him over carefully. He was wearing a long-sleeved light-blue shirt, a sleeveless sweater, tan gabardine pants, and leather loafers. His features, strong and attractive, and dominated by intense blue eyes and a firm chin, had a calm but determined expression. His full head of salt-and-pepper hair had recently been trimmed.
Benet and Rodriguez had done a full background check on him. Thirty-four years old. The only child of two prominent cardiologists. Raised on Park Avenue. Attended Saint David’s School, Regis Academy, and Georgetown University. Two doctorates from Catholic University, one in Bible history, the other in theology. Entered the Jesuits at age twenty-six and left the order after a year. Currently teaching Bible history and philosophy at Fordham University. This guy was raised on Park Avenue, went to private schools, and wouldn’t know anything about applying for a school loan, Benet thought.
Annoyed at himself, but unable to shut off that sentiment, Benet continued his introspection about the man he now strongly considered to be a person of interest in the apparent disappearance of Lillian Stewart. He’s dressed like a guy coming out of a country club. He sure didn’t get those clothes at a discount store.
Simon Benet thought of his wife, Tina. She loved to read those captions in fashion magazines. “‘Understated elegance.’ ‘Saturday-night casual.’ They’re talking about us, honey,” she would joke.
Callahan reeks of privilege, Benet thought. When he was around people like Richard, he recognized that he would become momentarily envious and painfully aware of his own hardscrabble background. College at night. Police officer at twenty-three. Years of working those midnight shifts and holidays. Detective at thirty-eight after getting shot during a robbery. Three great kids but school loans that would take him years to pay off.
Never mind all that. I’m a damn lucky guy, he reminded himself. Ready to shut his mind off from any more distractions, he began his questioning of Richard.
“Where were you yesterday at nine thirty A.M., Mr. Callahan?” Benet asked. Two hours later, he, Rita, and Richard were still going back over every detail of his account of his activities.
“As I have told you,” Richard repeated, “or to reiterate again,” he added with a touch of sarcasm, “I was downtown in the office of my trustee at nine o’clock and spent the entire day hanging around outside the building and calling Lillian constantly.”
“Is there anyone who can verify what you’re telling us?”
“Not really. Around five o’clock I finally left and stopped in at my parents’ apartment.”
“And you claim that you are not aware that Lillian Stewart got off the subway at the Chambers Street station shortly after nine thirty yesterday morning, just about the time you were supposedly hanging around outside your trustee’s office nearby?”
“No, I have no idea when or where Lillian may have gotten out of the subway. You can check her cell phone. I called her every half hour all day and I also left messages on the landline in her apartment.”
“What do you think may have happened to her?” Rita asked, her voice concerned and thoughtful, in direct and intentional contrast to Simon’s hostile tone.
“Lillian told me that she had other offers for the sacred parchment. I believed her. I tried to convince her that whoever wanted to pay her illegally might get caught someday and she could end up in prison for selling stolen property. I told her that if she sold it to me, I would never tell anyone that I had gotten it from her.”
“And what would you have done with the parchment, Mr. Callahan?” Benet asked, his own voice sarcastic and disbelieving.
“I would have given it back to the Vatican, where it belongs.”
“You say you have something around two million, three hundred thousand dollars in your trust fund? Why didn’t you offer all of it to Lillian Stewart? Maybe that extra three hundred thousand dollars might have made a difference.”
“I would hope that you can understand that I wanted to have something left of my trust fund for my own life. And it would not have made a difference,” Richard said emphatically. “I was appealing to Lillian on two levels to sell it to me. First, the fact that it would be in both her best interest and mine for her to receive the money as a gift, since I am allowed under tax law to give away that amount of money without penalties. I told her that I would be returning the parchment to the Vatican. I said that I didn’t think that there would be any further stolen property investigation that she would have to worry about. I would simply say that the person who had had it was afraid to admit it to anyone but me.
“My other plea to her was that I knew that she and Jonathan loved each other very much. He trusted her with that parchment. I told her that she owed it to him to see that it was returned to the Vatican Library. I said that if we did it this way, she would have money for the future and I would take care of the rest of it.”
Richard stood up. “As of now, I have been answering the same questions for over two hours. Am I free to leave?”
“Yes, you are, Mr.
Callahan,” Benet said. “But we will be in touch with you shortly. You’re not planning to take any trips or otherwise leave the immediate area, are you?”
“For the most part I will be at home. You have my address. I am going absolutely nowhere, unless here in New Jersey you consider the Bronx to be outside of the immediate area.”
Richard paused, by now clearly upset. “I am very concerned that a woman I consider to be a friend is missing. I am completely floored that you obviously think that I had something to do with her disappearance. I assure you that I will be available to you at any hour of the day or night until the first day of class next week and then I will be in my lecture hall at Fordham University on the Rose Hill campus. If necessary, you can reach me there.”
He turned and walked out of the interrogation room, forcibly closing the door behind him.
Benet and Rodriguez looked at each other. “What do you think?” Benet asked.
“He’s either completely truthful or completely lying,” Rita said. “I don’t think there’s any in-between.”
“My gut says that he’s an accomplished liar,” Benet declared. “He claims he was hanging around all day outside an office until five o’clock, when he left to go to Mommy and Daddy’s Park Avenue apartment. Come on, Rita, get real.”
“Should we get him back tomorrow and see if he’ll take a lie-detector test?” Rita asked. “The way we talked to him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he lawyered up.”
“Let’s check with Peter about any polygraph. I’m not sure what he’s going to want to do.”
The Lost Years Page 20