We'll Meet Again
Page 3
Molly raised her hand in protest. “Please give me a chance to talk,” she said quickly.
She’s so pale and thin, Fran thought. She looks as though she’s been sick. She’s different, and it’s not just about being older. Fran studied her appearance for clues. The once-golden hair was now as dark as Molly’s eyebrows and lashes. Longer than Molly had worn it in school, it was caught with a clip at the nape of her neck. The fair complexion was this morning the shade of alabaster. The lips that Fran remembered as easily smiling were straight and somber, as though they had not smiled in a long time.
Gradually the questions being hurled at her stopped until finally there was silence.
Philip Matthews had left the car and was standing at her side. “Molly, don’t do this. The parole board won’t like it—” he urged, but she ignored him.
Fran studied the lawyer with interest. This generation’s F. Lee Bailey, she thought. What’s he like? Matthews was of average height, sandy haired, thin faced, intense. The image of a tiger protecting its young flashed through her mind. She realized she would not have been surprised if he physically dragged Molly into the car.
Molly cut him off. “I have no choice, Philip.”
She looked directly into the cameras and spoke clearly into the microphones. “I am grateful to be going home. In order to be granted parole, I had to concede that I was the sole cause of my husband’s death. I have admitted that the evidence is overwhelming. And having said that, I now tell all of you that, despite the evidence, I feel in my soul that I am incapable of taking another human being’s life. I know that my innocence may never be proven, but I hope that when I am home, and there is some quiet in my life, maybe then a full memory of that terrible evening may come back. Until that time I’ll never have peace, nor will I be able to start to rebuild my life.”
She paused. When she spoke again, her voice had become firmer. “When my memory of that night finally began to return, even a little, what I recalled was that I found Gary dying in his study. Just lately, another distinct impression from that night has come to me. I believe there was someone else in that house when I arrived home, and I believe that person killed my husband. I do not believe that person is a figment of my imagination. That person is flesh and blood, and I will find him and make him pay for taking Gary’s life and destroying mine.”
Ignoring the shouted questions that followed her declaration, Molly turned and ducked into the car. Matthews closed her door, hurried around, and got into the driver’s seat. Leaning her head back, Molly closed her eyes as Matthews, his hand resting on the horn, began to inch the car through the mob of reporters and photographers.
“There you have it, Charley,” Fran said into the microphone. “Molly’s statement, a protestation of innocence.”
“A startling statement, Fran,” the anchor replied. “We will follow this closely to see what, if anything, develops. Thank you.”
“Okay, Fran, you’re clear,” the control room told her.
“What’s your take on that speech, Fran?” Joe Hutnik, a veteran crime reporter for the Greenwich Time, asked.
Before Fran could answer, Paul Reilly from the Observer scoffed, “That lady’s not so dumb. She’s probably thinking about her book deal. No one wants a killer to profit from a crime, even if it is legal, and the bleeding hearts will love to believe that somebody else killed Gary Lasch and that Molly is a victim too.”
Joe Hutnik raised an eyebrow. “Maybe, maybe not, but in my opinion, the next guy who marries Molly Lasch should be careful not to turn his back on her if she gets sore at him. What do you say, Fran?”
Fran’s eyes narrowed in irritation as she looked at the two men. “No comment,” she said crisply.
3
As they drove down from the prison, Molly watched the road signs. Finally they left the Merritt Parkway at the Lake Avenue exit. It’s all familiar, of course, but I don’t remember much about the drive to the prison, she thought. I only remember the weight of the chains, and that the handcuffs were digging into my wrists. As she sat in the car now, she looked straight ahead and felt rather than saw Philip Matthews’s sideward glances at her.
She answered his unasked question. “I feel strange,” she said slowly. “No—‘empty’ is a better word.”
“I’ve told you this before: it was a mistake to keep the house, and a bigger one to go back to it,” he said. “And it’s also a mistake not to let your parents come up and be with you now.”
Molly continued to stare straight ahead. The sleet was beginning to coat the windshield faster than the wipers could remove it. “I meant what I said to those reporters. I feel that now that this is over, living at home again I may recover my memory of every detail of that night. Philip, I didn’t kill Gary—I just couldn’t have. I know the psychiatrists think I’m in denial about what happened, but I’m certain they’re wrong. But even if it turned out they are right, I’d find a way to live with it. Not knowing is the worst.”
“Molly, just suppose your memory is accurate, that you found Gary injured and bleeding. That you went into shock, and that your memory of that night will eventually come back to you. Do you realize that if you are right, and you do remember, then you’ll become a threat to the person who did kill him? And that the killer may even now view you as a very real threat, since you’ve just announced that you feel that once you’re home you may remember more about another person being in the house that night?”
She sat in silence for a minute. Why do you think I told my parents to stay in Florida? Molly thought. If I’m wrong, nobody will bother me. If I’m right, then I’m leaving the door wide open for the real killer to come after me.
She glanced at Matthews. “Philip, my father took me duck hunting when I was little,” she said. “I didn’t like it a bit. It was early and cold and rainy, and I kept wishing I were home in bed. But I learned something that morning. A decoy gets results. You see, you, like everyone else in the world, believe I killed Gary in a moment of madness. And don’t deny that that is what you believe. I heard you and my father discussing the fact that you had almost no hope of getting an acquittal by suggesting that Annamarie Scalli had done it. You said I had a good shot at a passion/provocation manslaughter conviction because the jury would probably believe I had killed Gary in a fit of rage. But you also said there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t be a murder conviction and that I’d better grab the manslaughter plea if the prosecutor would allow it. You did discuss that, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Matthews acknowledged.
“So if I killed Gary I’m very lucky to get off so easily. Now, if you and everyone else in the world—including my parents—are right, I’m absolutely safe in claiming that I believe I may have felt another presence in the house the night Gary died. Since you don’t believe another person was there, then you don’t really think anyone will come after me. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” he said reluctantly.
“Then no one has to worry about me. If, on the other hand, I’m right, and I do frighten someone enough, it could cost me my life. Well, believe it or not, I’d like that to happen. Because if I’m found murdered, somebody might actually open an investigation that doesn’t automatically assume I killed my husband.”
Philip Matthews did not answer.
“That is right, isn’t it, Philip?” Molly asked, her tone almost cheerful. “If I die, then maybe someone will look closely enough into Gary’s murder to actually find the real killer.”
4
It’s good to be back in New York, Fran thought as she looked down from her office onto Rockefeller Center. The bleak, sleet-filled morning had evolved into a cold, gray afternoon, but still she loved what she was seeing, loved watching the brightly dressed skaters, some so graceful, others barely able to stay upright. The peculiar mix of the gifted and the plodders, she thought. Then, looking beyond the skating rink toward Saks, she studied how the store windows on Fifth Avenue lighted the March gloom.
I’m ready to go home too, she decided as she reached for her jacket. It’s been a long day, and it isn’t over yet. She was scheduled to be on air at 6:40 to give an updated report of Molly Lasch’s release from prison. After that she could go home. She already loved her apartment on Second Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street with its views of both the midtown skyscrapers and the East River. But returning to the still-unpacked boxes and crates, knowing that eventually she had to sort out the contents, was disheartening.
At least her office was in order, she thought with some comfort. Her books were unpacked and within easy reach on the shelves behind her desk. Her plants relieved the monotony of the standard office furniture she’d been given. The insipid beige walls were brightened with colorful reproductions of Impressionist paintings.
When she and Ed Ahearn had arrived back at the office this morning, she’d checked in with Gus Brandt. “I’m going to give it a week or two, then try to set up a meeting with Molly,” she’d explained after she discussed with him Molly Lasch’s unexpected statement to the press.
Gus had chewed vigorously on the nicotine gum that was giving him absolutely no relief in his personal antismoking campaign. “What are the chances she’ll open up to you?” he’d asked.
“I don’t know. I stood to one side when Molly made her statement, but I’m pretty sure she saw me. Whether or not she recognized me is something else. It would be great to have her cooperation on the story. Otherwise I’ll have to work around her.”
“What did you think of that statement?”
“In person, I’d say Molly was very convincing when she suggested there was someone else in the house that night, but I think she’s whistling in the dark,” Fran said. “Of course, some people will believe her, and maybe her real need is to create that sense of doubt. Will she talk to me? I just don’t know.”
But I can hope, Fran thought, remembering that conversation as she raced down the hall to the makeup room.
Cara, the makeup artist, snapped a cape around her neck. Betts, the hairdresser, rolled her eyes. “Fran, give me a break. Did you sleep in your ski cap last night?”
Fran grinned. “No. Just wore it this morning. Perform a miracle, the two of you.”
As Cara applied base makeup and Betts turned on the curling iron, Fran closed her eyes and thought of her lead sentence: “At 7:30 this morning, the doors of Niantic Prison opened and Molly Carpenter Lasch walked down the driveway to make a brief but startling statement to the press.”
Cara and Betts worked with lightning speed, and a few minutes later, Fran was deemed camera ready.
“A new me,” she confirmed as she studied the mirror. “You’ve done it again.”
“Fran, it’s all there. It’s just that your coloring is monochromatic,” Cara told her patiently. “It needs accentuating.”
Accentuating, Fran thought. That was the last thing I ever wanted. I was always accentuated. The shortest kid in kindergarten. The shortest kid in the eighth grade. The peanut. She’d finally grown all in a spurt, during her junior year at Cranden, and she’d managed to reach a respectable five five.
Cara was taking off the cape. “You look great,” she pronounced. “Knock ’em dead.”
Tom Ryan, a seasoned newsman, and Lee Manners, a brightly attractive former weather girl, were the anchors of the six o’clock news. At the end of the show, as they unsnapped their mikes and stood up, Ryan commented, “Good piece on Molly Lasch, Fran.”
“Call for you, Fran; pick up on four,” a voice from the control room directed.
To Fran’s surprise, it was Molly Lasch. “Fran, I thought I recognized you at the prison this morning. I’m glad it was you. Thanks for the report you just did. At least you sound as though you may have an open mind about Gary’s death.”
“Well, I certainly want to believe you, Molly.” Fran realized she was keeping her fingers crossed.
Molly Lasch’s voice became hesitant. “I wonder, do you think you’d be interested in investigating Gary’s death? In exchange, I’d be willing to let you make me a subject for one of the news feature programs on your network. My lawyer tells me that just about every one of the networks has called, but I’d rather go with someone I know and feel I can trust.”
“You bet I’m interested, Molly,” Fran said. “In fact, I was planning to call you about exactly that.”
They agreed to meet the next morning at Molly’s house in Greenwich. When Fran replaced the receiver, she raised her eyebrows at Tom Ryan. “Class reunion tomorrow,” she said. “This should be interesting.”
5
The corporate headquarters of Remington Health Management Organization was located on the grounds of Lasch Hospital in Greenwich. Chief Executive Officer Dr. Peter Black always arrived at his office there at 7 A.M. sharp. He claimed that the two hours of work he got in before the staff arrived were the most productive of his day.
Uncharacteristically on that Tuesday morning, Black had turned on the television to NAF.
His secretary, who had been with him for years now, had told him that Fran Simmons had just started working for the network, and she had reminded him of who Fran was. Even so, it had been a surprise to see that she was the reporter covering Molly’s release from prison. Fran’s father’s suicide had occurred only weeks after Black accepted Gary Lasch’s offer to join the hospital, and for months the scandal had been the big story in town. He doubted that anyone who had lived in Greenwich at the time had forgotten it.
Peter Black had been watching the news program this morning because he’d wanted to see his former partner’s widow.
Frequent glances at the screen to be sure he did not miss the segment he was awaiting had finally forced him to put down his pen and take off his reading glasses. Black had a thick head of dark brown hair, prematurely gray at the temples, and large gray eyes, and conveyed a friendly demeanor that newly hired members of his staff found comforting—that is, until they made the serious mistake of crossing him.
At 7:32, the event he’d been anticipating began. With somber gaze he watched Molly walk beside her lawyer’s car to the gate of the prison. When she spoke into the microphones, he pulled his chair closer to the set and leaned forward, intent on taking in every nuance of her voice and expression.
As soon as she began to speak, he raised the volume on the set, even though he could hear her words perfectly. When she was finished, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. An instant later he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Whitehall residence.”
The maid’s slight English accent always annoyed Black. “Put me through to Mr. Whitehall, Rita.” He deliberately did not give his name, but there was no need to—she knew his voice. He heard the phone being picked up.
Calvin Whitehall did not waste time in greetings. “I saw it. At least she’s consistent about denying she killed Gary.”
“That’s not what worries me.”
“I know. I don’t like having the Simmons woman in the picture either. If necessary, we’ll deal with it,” Whitehall said, then paused. “I’ll see you at ten.”
Peter Black hung up without saying good-bye. The prospect of something going wrong haunted him for the remainder of the day as he attended a series of high-level meetings concerning Remington’s proposed acquisition of four other HMOs, a deal that would make Remington one of the major players in the remarkably lucrative health maintenance field.
6
When Philip Matthews had driven Molly home from prison, he’d wanted to go into the house with her, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Please, Philip, just leave my bag at the door,” she’d directed. Then she’d added wryly, “You’ve heard that old Greta Garbo line, ‘I vant to be alone’? Well, that’s me.”
She’d looked thin and frail, standing on the porch of the handsome home she’d
shared with Gary Lasch. In the two years since the inevitable break with his wife, who was now remarried, Philip Matthews had come to realize that his visits to Niantic Prison had become perhaps more frequent than was professionally appropriate.
“Molly, did you arrange for anyone to shop for you?” he’d asked. “I mean, do you even have any food in the house?”
“Mrs. Barry was to take care of that.”
“Mrs. Barry!” He knew his voice had risen two decibels. “What’s she got to do with it?”
“She’s going to start working for me again,” Molly had told him. “The couple who have been checking on the house are gone now. As soon as I knew I was getting out, my parents contacted Mrs. Barry, and she came over and supervised sprucing up the house and stocked the kitchen. She’ll begin coming in three days a week again.”
“That woman helped to put you in prison!”
“No, she told the truth.”
All through the rest of the day, even when he was in conferences with the prosecutor about his newest client, a prominent real estate dealer accused of vehicular homicide, Philip could not shake off his growing sense of apprehension over knowing that Molly was alone in that house.
At seven o’clock, as he was locking his desk and debating whether or not to call Molly, his private phone rang. His secretary was gone. It rang several times before curiosity overcame his initial inclination to let the answering machine pick up.
It was Molly. “Philip, good news. Do you remember my telling you that Fran Simmons, who was at the prison this morning, went to school with me?”
“Yes, I do. Are you okay, Molly? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine. Philip, Fran Simmons is coming over tomorrow. She’s willing to do an investigation into Gary’s death for a show she works on called True Crime. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if by some miracle she can help me prove there was someone else in the house that night?”