“What was the name of the doctor who treated your hand, Ned?” Carson asked quietly.
THIRTY-THREE
A good night’s sleep means that all parts of my brain come awake at the same time. It doesn’t happen all that often, but I was blessed enough that when I woke up on May 1, I felt bright and alert, which as the day evolved turned out to be a lucky thing.
I showered, then dressed in a lightweight gray pinstriped suit that I bought at the end of last season and had been dying to wear. I opened the window to get some fresh air, and also to find out the temperature outside. It was a perfect spring day, warm with a little breeze. I could see flowers pushing through the soil in the pots on my neighbor’s windowsill, and above there were blue skies with puffs of fluffy clouds drifting by.
Every May 1 when I was growing up, we had a ceremony at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church in Ridgewood in which we crowned the Blessed Mother. The words of the hymn we used to sing then drifted through my head as I applied a touch of eye shadow and lip blush.
O Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today,
Queen of the angels, Queen of the May . . .
I knew why that tune was coming back to me now. When I was ten, I was chosen to crown the statue of the Blessed Mother with a wreath of flowers. Each year the honor alternated between a ten-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl.
Patrick would have been ten next week.
It’s funny how, even long after you’ve accepted the grief of losing someone you love and truly have gotten on with your life, every once in a while something comes up that plays “gotcha,” and for a moment or two the scar tissue separates and the wound is raw again.
Enough, I told myself, firmly closing my mind to that kind of thinking.
I walked to work and got to my desk at twenty of nine, filled a cup with coffee, and went into Ken’s office where Don Carter was already seated. I wasn’t there long enough to have my first sip of coffee before things started to heat up.
Detective Clifford of the Bedford Police called, and what he had to say was a real shocker. Ken, Don, and I listened on the speaker phone as Clifford informed us that they had traced the e-mails, including the one I hadn’t kept but had told them about—the one telling me to prepare myself for judgment day.
All three had been sent from Westchester County. The first two had come from a library in Hastings, the other from a library in Croton. The sender had used “Hotmail,” a free Internet service, but had entered what they believe must have been false information on his ID.
“What does that mean?” Ken asked.
“The sender gave his name as Nicholas Spencer and used the address of the Spencer home in Bedford that burned down last week.”
Nicholas Spencer! We all gasped and looked at each other. Could it be possible?
“Wait a minute,” Ken said. “They have tons of recent pictures of Nicholas Spencer in the newspaper files. Did you show some of them to the librarians?”
“Yes, we did. Neither one of them recognized Spencer as someone who used one of their computers.”
“Even on Hotmail you have to give a password,” Don said. “What kind of password did this guy use?”
“He used a woman’s name. Annie.”
I ran out to get the original e-mails from my desk and read the last one:
When my wife wrote to you last year, you never bothered to answer her question and now she’s dead. You’re not that smart. Have you figured out who was in Lynn Spencer’s house before it was torched?
“I’ll bet anything that guy’s wife’s name was Annie,” I said.
“There’s just one more thing that we think may be interesting,” Detective Clifford said. “The librarian from Hastings distinctly remembers that a disheveled guy who used the computer had a serious burn on his right hand. She can’t be sure he sent these e-mails, but she couldn’t help noticing him.”
Before he hung up, Clifford assured us that he was widening the net and alerting libraries in other Westchester towns to be on the lookout for a guy using the computer who was in his fifties, around six feet tall, may be disheveled and has a burn on his right hand.
He had a burn on his hand! I was sure that the man who had been sending me e-mails in which he claimed to have seen someone run down the driveway of the Spencer home was the one with the burn on his right hand. It was an exciting piece of news.
Marty and Rhoda Bikorsky deserved a nugget of hope. I phoned them. God, if we could only realize what’s really important in our lives, I thought as I heard their stunned reaction to the fact that the sender of the e-mails was possibly using Nick Spencer’s name and had a burned hand. “They’ll get him, won’t they, Carley?” Marty asked.
“He may just turn out to be a lunatic,” I cautioned, “but, yes, I’m sure they’ll get him. They’re sure he lives around there somewhere.”
“We’ve had another piece of good news,” Marty said, “and this has really knocked our socks off. The growth of Maggie’s tumor slowed up last month. It’s still there, and it’s still going to take her, but if it doesn’t accelerate again, we’ll have one more Christmas with her almost for sure. Rhoda’s already starting to plan the gifts.”
“I’m so glad.” I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “I’ll stay in touch.”
I wanted to sit for a few minutes and savor the joy I’d heard in Marty Bikorsky’s voice, but instead it was necessary to make a call that I knew would quickly dissipate it. Vivian Powers’s father, Allan Desmond, was listed in the Cambridge, Massachusetts, directory. I called him.
Like Marty Bikorsky, the Desmonds let the answering machine filter their messages. Like Marty, they picked up before I could disconnect. I began by saying, “Mr. Desmond, I’m Carley DeCarlo from Wall Street Weekly. I interviewed Vivian the afternoon of the day she disappeared. I’d very much like to meet you, or at least talk to you. If you’re willing—”
I heard the receiver being picked up. “This is Vivian’s sister Jane,” a strained but well-bred voice said. “I know my father would like very much to talk with you. He’s staying at the Hilton Hotel in White Plains. You can reach him there now. I just spoke with him.”
“Will he take my call?”
“Give me your number. I’ll have him call you.”
Less than three minutes later my phone rang. It was Allan Desmond. If ever a man sounded weary, it was he. “Miss DeCarlo, I have agreed to hold a press conference in just moments. Could we possibly speak a little later?”
I did a quick calculation. It was nine-thirty. I had some calls to make, and I was due at the Gen-stone office in Pleasantville to talk with the employees there at three-thirty. “If I drove up, would you be able to have a cup of coffee around eleven?” I asked.
“Yes, I would.”
We agreed that I’d call him from the lobby of the Hilton.
Once again I paused to calculate time. I was sure I wouldn’t be with Allan Desmond for more than forty minutes to an hour. If I left him by twelve, I could be in Caspien by one o’clock. I felt in my bones that it was time for me to try to persuade Dr. Broderick’s wife to talk to me.
I punched in the number of Dr. Broderick’s office, figuring that the worst that could happen would be that she’d turn me down.
The receptionist, Mrs. Ward, remembered me and was quite cordial. “I’m so happy to say that the doctor is improving a little each day,” she said. “He’s always kept in shape and is basically a strong man, and that’s helping him now. I know Mrs. Broderick feels he’s going to make it.”
“I’m so glad. Do you know if she’s at home?”
“No. She’s at the hospital, but I do know that she’s planning to be here for the afternoon. She’s always worked in the office, and now that the doctor’s doing better, she’s coming in for a few hours each day.”
“Mrs. Ward, I’m going to be in Caspien, and it’s very important that I speak to Mrs. Broderick. It’s about the doctor’s accident. I’d rather not say more than that right now,
but I’m planning to stop at your office around two o’clock, and if she can give me fifteen minutes, I think it would be worth her while. I gave her my cell phone number when I spoke to her the other day, but let me give it to you again. Also, I’d appreciate it if you would call me if Mrs. Broderick absolutely refuses to see me.”
I had one more call to make, and that one was to Manuel and Rosa Gomez. I reached them at their daughter’s house in Queens. “We have read about the disappearance of Miss Powers,” Manuel said. “We are so troubled that something has happened to her.”
“Then you don’t believe that she is joining Mr. Spencer in Switzerland?”
“No, I do not, Miss DeCarlo. Of course, who am I to say?”
“Manuel, you know that cobblestone walkway that leads to the pond, just behind the left pillar at the gate?”
“Of course.”
“Is that a spot where anyone was likely to park a car?”
“Mr. Spencer parked his car there regularly.”
“Mr. Spencer!”
“Especially during the summer. Sometimes when Mrs. Spencer had friends at the pool, and he was coming from New York on his way to Connecticut to see Jack, he’d park there where his car wouldn’t be noticed. Then he’d slip upstairs to change.”
“Without telling Mrs. Spencer?”
“She might have been aware of his plans, but he said that if he got talking to people, it was hard to get away.”
“What kind of car did Mr. Spencer drive?”
“A black BMW sedan.”
“Did any other people who were friends of the Spencers park on those cobblestones, Manuel?”
There was a pause, and then he said quietly, “Not during the day, Miss DeCarlo.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Allan Desmond looked as if he hadn’t slept in three days, and I’m sure he hadn’t. In his late sixties, his pallor was as gray as his steel gray hair. He was a naturally thin man, and that morning he looked pinched and exhausted. Still, he was trimly dressed in a suit and tie, and I had the feeling he was one of those men who probably never was without a tie except on the golf course.
The coffee shop wasn’t crowded, and we chose a table in the corner where no one could possibly overhear our conversation. We ordered coffee. I was sure he hadn’t eaten a thing all morning and took a chance, saying, “I’d like a Danish, but only if you’ll have one, too.”
“You’re very subtle, Miss DeCarlo, but you’re right—I haven’t eaten anything. A Danish it is.”
“Cheese for me,” I told the waitress.
He nodded to her affirmatively.
Then he looked at me. “You saw Vivian on Monday afternoon?”
“Yes, I did. I had phoned to try to get her to agree to see me, but she refused. I think she was convinced that I was out to do a hatchet job on Nicholas Spencer, and she wouldn’t have any part of it.”
“Why wouldn’t she have wanted to take the opportunity to defend him?”
“Because, unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out like that. It’s sad to say, but there is a segment of the media who, by eliminating part of an interview, can turn a positive endorsement into a scathing putdown. I think Vivian was heartsick about the terrible press Nick Spencer was getting and didn’t want in any way to give the appearance of contributing to it.”
Vivian’s father nodded. “She was always fiercely loyal.” Then his face twisted in pain. “Do you hear what I’m saying, Carley? I’m talking about Vivian as though she’s not alive. That absolutely terrifies me.”
I wish I could have been a convincing liar and said something comforting, but I simply could not. “Mr. Desmond,” I said, “I read the statement you gave to the media about having been on the phone with Vivian frequently in the three weeks since Nicholas Spencer’s plane crashed. Did you know that she and Nicholas Spencer were romantically involved?”
He took a sip of coffee before answering. I didn’t have the feeling that he was trying to figure out a way to sidestep the question; I think he was trying to look back and sort out an honest response. “My wife says I never answer a question directly,” he said, “and perhaps I don’t.” A brief smile flickered across his lips and disappeared as quickly as it had come. “So let me give you some background. Vivian is the youngest of our four daughters. She met Joel in college, and they were married nine years ago, when she was twenty-two. Unfortunately, as you must know, Joel died of cancer a little over two years ago. At that time we tried to persuade her to return to Boston, but she took the job with Nicholas Spencer. She was very excited about being part of a company that was going to bring out a cancer vaccine.”
Nick Spencer had been married to Lynn a little over two years before Vivian went to work for him, I thought. I bet that marriage was already going south.
“I’m going to be absolutely honest with you, Carley,” Allan Desmond said. “If—and it’s a very strong if—Vivian did become romantically involved with Nicholas Spencer, it did not happen immediately. She went to work for him six months after Joel died. She came home on weekends at least once a month. Her mother or I or one of her sisters made it a point of speaking to her virtually every evening during this time. If anything, we were all concerned about the fact that she always seemed to be home. We urged her to join a bereavement group, sign up for courses, and work toward a master’s degree at night—in short, do something just to get out of the house.”
The Danish had arrived. Needless to say it looked absolutely wonderful, and I could read the warning label that came with it: one thousand calories. Clog your veins. Have you thought about your cholesterol level?
I cut off a piece and picked it up. Heavenly. It’s a treat I almost never allow myself. So it’s bad for me. It was just too good to worry about that.
“I think you’re going to tell me that at some point the picture changed,” I said.
Allan Desmond nodded.
I was glad to see that as he was answering my questions, he was absentmindedly also eating the Danish.
“I would say that at the end of last summer Vivian seemed different. She sounded happier even though she was very concerned that some unforeseen problems had showed up with the cancer vaccine. She didn’t go into it, though. I gathered it was privileged information, but she did say that Nicholas Spencer was deeply worried.”
“Did she ever indicate in any way that there was an intimate relationship developing or already going on between them?”
“No, she did not. But her sister Jane, the one who spoke to you earlier, picked up on it. She said something like ‘Viv’s had enough heartbreak. I hope she’s smart enough not to fall in love with her married boss.’ “
“Did you ever directly ask Vivian if she was involved with Nick Spencer?”
“I jokingly asked her if there was an interesting man on her horizon. She told me I was an incurable romantic and said that if anyone ever did show up, she’d let me know.”
I sensed that Allan Desmond was getting ready to ask me questions, so I quickly slipped in one more to him. “Throwing out the romance factor, did Vivian ever tell you how she felt about Nicholas Spencer?”
Allan Desmond frowned, then looked me straight in the eye. “In the last seven or eight months when Vivian spoke about Spencer, you would have thought that he walked on water. Which is why, if she had sent us a note saying she was joining him in Switzerland, I would not have approved, but with all my heart I would have understood.”
I watched as tears came to his eyes “Carley, I would so happily have that note delivered to me now, but I know it’s not going to happen. Wherever Vivian is, and I pray God she is alive, she is not able to communicate with us, or she would have done so by now.”
I knew he was right. As our coffee grew cold, I told him about meeting with Vivian and hearing her plan to live with her parents until she found a place of her own. I told him about her phone call to me saying that she thought she could identify the man who had taken Dr. Spencer’s records.
“And shortly
after that, she vanished,” he said.
I nodded.
We both left the Danishes half-eaten. I know we shared the visual image of that beautiful young woman whose home had not been her sanctuary.
That thought gave me an idea. “It’s been terribly windy, lately. Did Vivian have any trouble with her front door?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because the fact that her front door was open almost seemed like an invitation for a neighbor who was passing by to be curious and ring the bell to see if there was a problem. That, in fact, is what happened. But if that door happened to blow open because the catch was not fastened, Vivian’s disappearance might not have been noticed for another day at least.”
I could visualize Vivian at the doorway watching me drive away.
“You could be right. I know that her front door needed to be firmly closed before the lock would click,” Allan Desmond said.
“Let’s assume that the door was blown open, not left open,” I said. “Was the overturned lamp and table an attempt to make her disappearance look like a burglary and kidnapping?”
“The police think she deliberately left the appearance of foul play. She called you Saturday afternoon, Miss DeCarlo. How did she sound?”
“Agitated,” I admitted. “Worried.”
I think I sensed their presence before I saw them coming. Detective Shapiro was one of the grim-faced men. The other was a uniformed police officer. They came over to the table. “Mr. Desmond,” Shapiro said. “We’d like to talk to you privately.”
“You’ve found her?” Allan Desmond demanded.
“Let’s say we’ve traced her. Her neighbor, Dorothy Bowes, who lives three doors away from Ms. Powers, is a good friend of your daughter’s. She’s been on vacation. Your daughter had a key to her house. Bowes got home this morning to find her car missing from the garage. Has she ever had any psychiatric problems?”
“She ran away because she was frightened,” I said. “I know she did.”
“But where did she go?” Allan Desmond asked. “What would have frightened her so much that she would run away?”
The Second Time Around Page 18