by Nancy Geary
“Neither of which I was.”
“And now you’ve learned about yourself, about interrogation strategies, about dealing with a difficult suspect, and, perhaps, about your own weaknesses. Few of us get to learn all of that and still survive to tell the tale.”
“I was thinking of Aidan,” she blurted out. “I lost my concentration because I was thinking of him. This guy, Calvin, was talking about depression, about fighting mental illness, and I got distracted. I empathized. It was as if I was listening to Aidan’s torment instead of a suspect in a murder investigation.” The words spilled from her lips, yet it felt good to admit the truth.
There was a long pause. “You’ll meet a lot of people with a lot of problems—emotional, physical—victims of abuse and abusers—those who have overcome economic or social handicaps, as well as those who have succumbed to the basest temptations. But it’s a rare day when you won’t find some aspect of an individual that isn’t sympathetic. Humans aren’t monsters. Or at least the monsters are extremely rare. The world is full of tragedy, and oftentimes the explanations for even heinous crime sound pitiful, reasonable. My point is that you’ve got to learn. If what happened today was the result of a lack of focus, you learn to focus. Training. Discipline. You’ve got what it takes. I know that. Apparently your supervisors know that, too.”
“But—”
“Just don’t quit,” he interrupted. “I know the feelings you’re having right now—we’ve all had them—but don’t run away. Whether you were a little too sure of yourself, or whether you let your guard down, it’s over. You’ve got to get a good night’s rest and start tomorrow ready to protect and defend, as they say. Hold your head up high and move on to the next witness, the next piece of evidence. You’re an O’Malley, and that heritage will serve you well when things get tougher than they should be.”
She sighed. “Thanks.” The word sounded silly, but she couldn’t think of something eloquent to say. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“I’m your father, Lucy. I exposed you to this profession. I realize you didn’t ever see much choice.”
“It’s a good choice.”
He chuckled again and then fell silent. She couldn’t tell whether he wanted to say good-bye, or whether there was something else on his mind. After a short pause, he spoke again. “By the way, Lucy, we all think about Aidan every week, every day, sometimes every minute. But he would’ve hated for something to happen to you on account of him.” He lowered his voice, perhaps so as not to be heard by anyone other than her. “Aidan’s agony broke my heart. Every parent wants the best for their kids, and we didn’t help him. We couldn’t help him.”
Few can. Lucy thought again of Calvin, of his desperation at the thought of living without Dr. Reese by his side.
“Don’t give up. Don’t give in to fear or self-doubt. Don’t be ashamed of your mistakes.”
Again there was a long silence. Then Lucy heard her mother in the background. “Tell her to put slices of onion on her chest. Thick slices. Use yellow onions, not Vidalia, and certainly not red ones. It’ll soothe her nerves. And tell her to add just a touch of brandy to hot milk. Hot, though not boiling. If it curdles—”
“Will you please—” It sounded as though her father had his hand over the receiver, but the conversation came through nonetheless.
“And tell her we’re all praying for her. And tell her that her mother loves her, make sure to tell her that.”
The voice was back on the line. “Lucy, your mother wants me to tell you—”
“I heard it all,” she interrupted.
“All right then. I’ve said my piece. Now you take care.”
“Dad,” she said, just before he hung up.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. Thanks for everything. I needed this call more than you realized.”
“Not more than I realized, Detective, but I’m glad. You’re still my little girl. And I love you.”
With that the line went dead.
21
Wednesday, May 21st 8:05 a.m.
The moment Lucy pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the Homicide Unit, the applause rang out. Two rows of smiling faces, the detectives, public affairs personnel, and administrative assistants all clapped enthusiastically. Several people put their fingers in their mouths and made high-pierced whistles. Only when the noise subsided did Jack step forward from the line to shake her hand. “Am I sure glad to see you.”
She made no attempt to hide the tears of relief that streamed down her cheeks. All the dread she’d been experiencing since she’d awoken that morning washed away. Her squad and her department were willing to stand by her, and she vowed never to let them down again. “Lucky I forgot my mascara this morning,” she said, as she rubbed her eyes. “Seriously, though. Although I’m sure I’ll be teased mercilessly for my display of emotion, I can’t tell you what it means to have your encouragement. I didn’t fully appreciate until yesterday that I’ve landed myself in the best squad in the country. I’m not sure I deserve to be here, but—”
“Stop fishing for compliments, O’Malley,” Jack called out playfully.
She smiled. He’d even protected her from a public self-flagellation. “As for Harper, you’re either the best friend a cop could have or the best cop a friend could have.”
“How about both?” someone called out.
Jack waved his hand dismissively. He was obviously uncomfortable with the attention coming his way.
Janet, the administrative assistant, stepped forward and hugged her, too. “We’re all glad to see you reporting for duty.”
As the line fell out of formation, her colleagues patted her on the back or the shoulder. The distraction was over, and work beckoned.
Jack and Lucy walked together toward their desks.
“You know how careless I was,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t blame you for a moment if you want to request a change of partner.”
He stopped. Turning, she looked up into his face and tried to read his expression even as she fought back more tears.
“If you think that each and every one of us here hasn’t made a mistake or two, hasn’t misjudged a situation or ignored procedure, you’d be terribly wrong. And from where I’m sitting, I’ll take a partner from a family of cops any day of the week over someone who jumped aboard the police academy bus after watching too many Law and Order reruns. It’s in your blood, O’Malley, and mine, too. We’ll be just fine.” He leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms in front of him. “Now, I believe we still have a murder to solve,” he said, smiling.
“So I guess that means there’ll be no wallowing in my own self-pity and doubts?”
“Not on my shift, Detective.”
They both laughed, in part from the humor of the banter between them and in part from the recognition that they had survived intact as a team. She was thankful for the emotional release.
“What’s the news on Calvin?” Lucy asked after a moment.
Jack cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Other than the handguns, the search of his place came up empty. There’s nothing at all to link him to Reese’s murder, and his blood type doesn’t match the sample either. He was type O.”
“What about the ECT story?”
“He was hospitalized Friday for a second course of it, but was discharged Saturday afternoon shortly before four.”
His short-term memory had been wiped out and he was back on the street.
“I told Dr. Bradley, the psychiatrist at Friends who treated Calvin, that we’d be by at ten. He’d conferred with Reese several times over Calvin’s care—and dosage or wattage or whatever it’s called in ECT jargon. He also met with Calvin before and after each treatment was administered.”
Somehow it didn’t feel right. If Calvin hadn’t harmed Reese at all, why had he reacted the way he did? Had he felt cornered and lashed out in fear? She shook her head. The what ifs, how, and why, would have to be addressed at another
time. Looking back was a luxury afforded other professions, not theirs.
“Let’s head over to Ellery’s office.” He walked toward the door.
“Any news on the dinner at Le Bec-Fin?”
“Yeah. I checked with the maître d’. There were a number of reservations for three people at eight o’clock on Saturday night. When I showed him a photo of Morgan, he remembered her instantly. Told me she came for dinner with a younger woman and caused a bit of a problem.”
“What happened?”
“She’d ordered some two-hundred-dollar bottle of Cabernet and when the waiter asked for proof of age from her companion, she got up and demanded to see the maître d’. As he tells it, she explained that it was a very special occasion and asked if he’d make an exception. He said no, that he could lose his license. She was insistent, did the ‘Who’s ever going to find out?’ routine, but it sounds as though he’d heard that before and he held firm. So finally she returned to the table. After she left, the maître d’ realized that she’d ordered a second bottle and he wondered what was going on. He did a little investigating on his own, and it turned out she’d offered her waiter an extra hundred in his tip to pour two glasses and be quiet about it. Poor guy was fired.”
“When was that?”
Jack shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking, but the waiter wasn’t terminated until Tuesday.”
Lucy thought for a moment. “But what about the third person? Wasn’t the reservation for three?”
“Absolutely. But the third person didn’t show up. The maître d’ was pretty irritated. It had been a last-minute reservation, and he’d done a fair amount of rearranging to squeeze them in as it was.”
“What was the name on the reservation?”
“Nichols.” Although relatively common, Nichols happened to be the surname of the president of the Rabbit Club. Could it be coincidence? Lucy wondered. “Did you get a first name?”
“No,” Jack replied. “And the name didn’t ring any particular bells with the maître d’. The number for confirmation was a cell phone, registered to a pharmaceutical company in Radnor. I tried calling twice but got no answer.”
“Voice mail?”
“We’re doing a voice match now with the message from Reese’s answering machine.”
“What was your impression?”
“To the naked ear—or whatever the expression might be—it sounds the same.”
8:46 a.m.
They were in the parking lot when the duty officer came running up, waving a manila envelope. Al was assigned to desk duty after he’d taken a bullet in his hip and never regained full mobility. The several hundred yards had winded him. “Hey, Lucy. This came for you.” He handed her the package. The return address belonged to a prominent downtown law firm. “It just arrived by courier. I thought it might be important enough to try and catch you.”
“Thanks,” she said, immediately realizing what it was. The Haverill attorney had tracked down the insurance policy and made a copy for her as she’d requested. It was the document that confirmed Archer’s $5 million inheritance.
“By the way, I’m really glad you’re okay,” Al added, looking at the pavement. He kicked a cigarette butt aside.
“She’s better than okay,” Jack said. “Although all this display of humanity is unnerving, at least to me. Who thought we had such a bunch of sentimentalists?” He winked. “Let’s go, O’Malley.”
She settled into the passenger seat of Jack’s Taurus, fastened her seat belt, and then undid the clasp on the envelope. He started the engine, adjusted the radio station, and flipped the car into reverse as he hummed along to a Celine Dion ballad. How quickly life returned to normal.
She removed the multipage document and quickly skimmed the fine print. According to the signature line, the policy had been purchased a decade before. At that time, Archer had been designated sole beneficiary. She glanced through the next several paragraphs until something caught her eye. The original value was ten million, not the five that Rodman had said. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. She continued to read, then paused and read the last page again. It was an addendum dated March 31 and in it, the beneficiary had been changed. Instead of just Archer, a second person was named: Avery Herbert. Next to the name, someone had scribbled in the margin in pencil, “Social security number and address to be provided by the insured.” Apparently that hadn’t happened.
Less than two months before her murder, Morgan had cut Archer’s inheritance in half so as to include someone else in her legacy.
Avery Herbert, Avery Herbert, she mulled the name in her mind. Then the significance registered. She’d seen that very name on the flagged page of the Social Register in Morgan’s office. She flipped back the pages of her notepad to the earliest stage of this investigation. Avery Aldrich Herbert, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Foster Herbert from Gladwyne. Her memory served her well. Who was this person? What was Morgan’s connection to the daughter of this couple? And was this the Avery of the letter Gertrude Barbadash had given her? If so, apparently a lot of cash was coming her way.
Jack stopped at a light and station surfed, settling for a Moody Blues classic. Lucy summarized the information from the insurance policy.
“So what do you make of that?”
“Avery could be a godchild or a niece, I suppose,” he replied. “Maybe given what had happened with her own family, she’d had a close relationship later on in life with another kid. Maybe that had provided some kind of solace for her earlier choice about her son.”
“Neither Archer nor his father was in communication with this woman. Years had passed. They know nothing about what she was up to,” Lucy said, thinking aloud. “She could have had another family, more children, anything, and they wouldn’t have known. Avery could be a daughter. The Herberts could be adoptive parents.”
“You think this woman abandoned one child and gave up another? What kind of parent would do that?”
Lucy was wondering the same thing, although she had no answer. Somebody desperate, somebody sick. Neither description seemed to apply to the successful, respected psychiatrist that Morgan appeared to have been. “Do we have any idea who is the beneficiary of her estate?”
“Not yet.”
She scribbled a note to herself to follow up. “It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why spend a fortune on premiums at her age for one child she doesn’t know and another child who belongs to a different family? I assume Dr. Reese had assets. Why not leave those to Archer and this Avery Herbert and call it a day?”
“There’s a big difference between ‘assets’ and ten million cash. Maybe she wanted to make a statement.”
“Yeah,” Lucy mumbled. She thought of her lunch with Rodman, his disdain for inherited wealth. Morgan had clearly disagreed with his philosophy. She wanted her money to liberate her son, to give him freedom to do what he wanted to do.
“Nancy Moore came by yesterday,” Jack said, changing the subject. “With her husband. The guy was a jerk of the first order. He introduced himself three times as ‘Attorney Moore.’ I finally had to tell him that I wouldn’t forget. I can’t stand when lawyers do that. Why isn’t he just plain old Mr. Moore?”
“Makes him sound more important, I guess. Everyone wants a title.”
“Whatever. Anyway, you were en route to the ER when she showed up so Ben sat in with me.”
Was that his way of reminding her yet again not to fly solo? He’d made his point. Or if he hadn’t, Calvin had done it for him. “What did she have to say?”
“Not a whole lot more than what you learned. She wasn’t surprised about Calvin. She’d thought he was certifiably nuts and had begged Morgan not to see him as a patient, but the doctor was pretty dismissive of her concerns. For a while he stopped coming around—consistent with what he told you about conducting his therapy over the phone—but then he returned. She said Morgan wouldn’t discuss it and didn’t want her approach to therapy to be second-guessed.”
“What about
Ellery?”
“Apparently he took a backseat. Let the women duke it out. Even after his gun was stolen, he didn’t get involved. According to Moore, he’s fiercely ambitious. He was working overtime to try to get the appointment to run the Wilder Center. Took on a bunch of new research projects. Scheduled a lot more speaking engagements. As she described it, he became quite the man about town, meeting with various important faculty members and trustees of the University of Pennsylvania, doing everything he could to gain the spotlight over his contenders, chief of whom was Morgan.”
“How did Morgan respond to the nomination?”
“Apparently she kept it to herself. As you said, her schedule was pretty packed to begin with. There weren’t many more hours in the day to fill.” He turned into the parking lot adjacent to the Spruce Street office building. “Okay, here we are.”
9:25 a.m.
“I’m sorry, but you’ve just missed him.” Dr. Ellery’s secretary seemed genuinely disappointed to be the bearer of bad news. A middle-aged woman, she wore her graying hair in a topknot, red Lucite glasses on a chain around her neck, and a pink and green dirndl that accentuated her substantial bosom. “He’s giving a press conference today at the Union League. He had some personal matters to attend to before then, and had me cancel all his morning patients.” She forced a smile. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Uh . . . yes. Miss . . . ?”
She produced a black plaque with a faux veneer base from her top drawer and put it out on the counter of the reception desk. BETTY GRAHAM was printed in gold letters. “Despite what the doctors say, I don’t want just anyone to know who I am.”
“How long have you worked for Dr. Ellery?” Jack asked.