Do You Promise Not to Tell? (20 page)

Every month, the elevator maintenance man came to Churchill’s to make sure the company’s lifts were running well and safely. Liam O’Shea was actually due on the seventeenth of the month, but today he was twenty-four hours early. He wanted to take tomorrow off to go to the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Working in the sub-basement, one by one Liam checked the motors and wiring of the various elevators, getting, at last, to the freight elevator. At the bottom of the shaft lay what he could tell was a very expensive woman’s scarf.
Hermès-Paris
was printed prominently in the design.

Liam thought of turning the scarf in to auction house security. They must run a lost-and-found. But temptation lured. Mary had always wanted a scarf like this one. He had even checked out the prices at Christmastime last year, planning to splurge and buy his wife something she would never buy for herself. But with three kids in parochial high school, and with college coming up for all of them, he just couldn’t rationalize spending $250 for a scarf.

The women who came to Churchill’s probably had drawers of scarves, Liam reasoned, when his hardworking Mary had never had anything so fine in all her life. Was that fair?

He packed up his toolbox and carefully folded the silken scarf into a small square which he slipped into his jacket pocket. His Mary would get a St. Patty’s Day surprise this year. She deserved it.

The best thing to do was to get rid of the evidence. But how?

Dean dwelled on Farrell’s threat. That was the last thing he needed. A bad reputation. He had carefully cultivated his position on Range’s good side. Trying to sabotage Farrell’s story wasn’t worth jeopardizing his standing with the executive producer.

He didn’t want to destroy the videotape. At some point it might be to his advantage to be able to get his hands on it. But Dean didn’t want to have it in his actual possession anymore.

Then it occurred to him. He knew where to send it. There it would sit, with thousands of companions, undisturbed and undetected.

Wednesday, St. Patrick’s Day

“If I’d waited for you to ask me to come over for a home-cooked meal, I’d have starved to death. Though I admit, this is some pathetic dinner for St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t know how to make corned beef and cabbage.”

Jack looked at Farrell expectantly, hoping for a flippant answer. But there was none. Farrell twisted the spaghetti around her fork and sipped her wine, unable to stop thinking about the violent death of Meryl Quan.

“Some more merlot?” Jack asked.

Farrell nodded.

“Jack, I’ve just got this cold, frightened feeling inside. A feeling of impending doom. Someone just walked right into Churchill’s and murdered Meryl Quan. Just like I think someone walked right into Olga’s apartment and meant to kill her.”

“And you think they’re connected—how?” Jack prompted.

“Meryl was in the office the day I told Clifford Montgomery my suspicions about the auctioned egg being a forgery. B. J. told me that Meryl said her boss was very upset after my visit.” Farrell thought for a moment. “Olga was in possession of the real Fabergé egg that B. J. and I went out to Westwood to shoot
just before the fire. Coincidence? I don’t think so.” Farrell downed the rest of the merlot. “So now we have one murder and one attempted murder.”

“Make that two murders.”

Farrell looked at him sharply. “How so?”

Jack told Farrell about the vicious murder of Misha in the tiny jewelry workshop in Brighton Beach.

“Did they ever find a body?” asked Farrell.

“Judging from all the blood left behind, if they find anything, it will only be part of a body. Misha Grinkov doesn’t exist in one piece anymore.”

Farrell stopped to digest what Jack had told her. “Why didn’t you tell me all this about Misha before?”

“Before, things seemed fairly removed from you and your safety.”

“And now?”

Jack rose from his chair and walked around the table to her. He pulled her to her feet and led her over to his living-room couch. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her softly, then firmly on the mouth, and he felt her arms circle willingly around his neck.

“And now?” she whispered again.

“It may not be long before things start getting a bit too close to you.”

Thursday

Every day since Patricia Devereaux had told her the identity of the seller of the crescent brooch, Nadine had had Victor drive her over to Pascack Valley Hospital.

“Come back in about an hour, dear. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”

Nadine watched as Victor drove off in the Mercedes. He had shown little interest in having anything to do with the sick woman inside who was his newfound aunt. Nadine was disappointed with her son’s indifference.

Nadine walked down the long hallway to Olga’s room, smiling at the nurse who staffed the desk outside her room. She sat down and began to talk soothingly in Russian to her older sister.

“Please, Olga. Please, dearest one. You must hold on. I’ve longed for a sister my whole life. And now—now that we finally have a chance to know one another, we cannot lose that gift. I will take good care of you. You can come live with me. I have a big house with plenty of room. Our papa in heaven will be so happy if he knows that his two girls are together at long last.”

Nadine took Olga’s delicate hand, so like her own, and held it tightly.

“Please, Olga. Please. You must try.”

Nadine felt a weak squeeze.

Farrell stood before Range Bullock’s desk and pleaded her case. The executive producer was unmoved.

“As long as you don’t have the real Moon Egg, or at least the videotape of it, I don’t see how we can go with the story.”

“But Range, B. J. and I both saw it with our own eyes, and you yourself saw the videotape,” Farrell pleaded.

Range was shaking his head. He said out loud what Farrell could not bring herself to say. “That’s all well and good, but we no longer have any documentable evidence, now, do we?” He paused, and then drove home his point. “With the growing spate of lawsuits against network news divisions recently, you can understand why I am hesitant about sticking our necks out on this story. KEY News does not need a multimillion-dollar defamation suit with Churchill’s.”

Farrell was not dissuaded. She considered revealing her suspicions about Dean and the missing tape, but thought better of it. Stick to the story. “We’re talking about two murders and an attempted murder here.”

“Can you prove the murders are related to the Fabergé egg?”

Farrell was silent.

“Look,” Range relented slightly. “I’m not saying
that this isn’t a great story.
If
you can prove it. As it stands now, it’s too soft.”

“I’m not through with this yet,” Farrell resolved as she strode out of the Fishbowl.

Range watched her walk across the studio floor and found himself wishing that Farrell had shown this much tenacity in the months before he had made his decision to let her go.

Robbie unloaded the latest carton of videotapes that had arrived via the KEY News traffic desk. It contained a dozen tapes shot at the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Stacking the tapes, he carried them over to his video monitor, and one by one inserted them into the machine, taking computer notes on what was recorded on each tape.

Marching bands, ruddy-faced police officers, bagpipes, and lots and lots of people wearing green. One St. Patty’s Day like so many others.

Robbie popped in the seventh tape, fully expecting more of the same. Instead, a very old woman holding a spray of sparkling diamonds appeared on the television monitor.

Friday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Russian Peasant Folk Belief

“Whoever fasts on this Friday
will be saved from unjust murder.”

“Please, Olga. Just try to take a little of this broth. It’s important so that we can get you off the intravenous feedings,” the night nurse urged.

“My throat is sore. I cannot swallow.”

“That’s from the oxygen,” said the nurse. “But now that you’re off it, your throat will get better in a few days.”

“That is when I eat, then.”

The nurse smiled to herself. Tough old cookie. For weeks, no one had thought she was going to make it and now, just over twenty-four hours after coming out of her coma, Olga’s stubborn streak was shining through. How strong the human spirit is!

“All right, dear. We’ll try again tomorrow. Good night.” The nurse smoothed the blanket on the hospital bed and left to tend to her next patient.

Olga lay with her eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep. The intermittent call of the hospital paging system penetrated her fragmented dreams.
“Ma ijtso. Ma ijtso.”

A visitor leaned close over Olga’s sleeping body. “Yes, old soul, ‘your egg.’ Your egg is the reason you must die.”

The visitor’s back blocked the view from the doorway. The night nurse, coming back into the room with a fresh pitcher of water, could not see the pillow poised in the visitor’s hands. “Isn’t it wonderful to see her doing so well?” she chirped to the old woman’s frequent guest.

Fluffing the pillow, the visitor turned to smile. “I just want her to be as comfortable as possible.

“She’s been through so much.”

Saturday

Charlie was closing up for the night, locking the front door of the deli. Out of habit he looked in the direction of the Consignment Depot. What he made out in the dusk’s light made his heart sink.

Pat was walking down the path in front of her shop, accompanied by that guy she had been seeing routinely for several weeks now. Charlie watched as the man opened the car door for her and Pat got inside. Where were they going? What would they do in their next hours together?

you’re a fool to let this get to you,
he told himself.
You don’t know if she really cares about the guy. She isn’t being disloyal to you. She doesn’t even know how you pine for her. You’ve never let her know how much you care about her.

Why haven’t you told her? Because you’re afraid, you coward. Afraid that someone like her could never go for someone like you.

Charlie walked to the alley behind the deli and deposited a large, black trash bag into a heavy metal garbage can. He continued to beat himself up.
So now you’re going home to spend another Saturday night with the remote control and a six-pack of Budweiser. You’ve got to do something, man! Make a stand. Just see if there is any way that Pat could possibly care
for you
—
could stop thinking of you like a brother and more like a
. . .

Maybe if she knew that you had wealth. You’ve never let her know that you could take care of her, give her a wonderful life, let her quit her job if she wanted. She only thinks of you as Choo-Choo Charlie, the guy with the bald spot covered with a baseball cap, slicing salami and liverwurst at the deli
.

No wonder she wasn’t impressed.

Fifth Sunday of Lent

There was still time to get Olga. But doing it at the hospital was out.

Misha, Meryl, and, eventually, Olga. And now, unfortunately, another.

Tony, the Churchill’s doorman. He could point a finger. He recognized anyone who came into Churchill’s with any regularity. He could name names.

It was uncertain that Tony had noticed anything unusual, dressed in his cossack costume, adding color to the event as he stood guard during the Paradise auction. He might not have been watching as Meryl strode across the gallery to exit down to the storerooms. But he could have been. His eyes seemed to be looking in their direction.

No, it wasn’t a certainty, but it was a possibility. A strong possibility that could not be ignored.

“It’s been almost a week, Jack, since they found Meryl’s body. What the hell are the police doing?”

“Hey, Farrell, any chance we could just enjoy the first springlike day this year?” Jack popped the other half of his third Krispy Kreme into his mouth.

Farrell and Jack sat on a bench in Strawberry Fields, the Central Park memorial to John Lennon, at West 72nd Street. Across Central Park West, the Gothic Dakota, home to the wealthy, famous, and accomplished, loomed above the trees.

Jack was right. It was a beautiful day, the first tantalizing taste of the spring to come. It had been a rough winter and Farrell was relieved that it was over. But Meryl Quan would not be here to savor the budding trees, the chirping birds, the warm breeze.

Of course, Meryl hadn’t expected not to be here, Farrell reflected. She had lived through the previous spring not knowing that it would be her last. Meryl had had every right to think she would have scores of springs to come: riding in convertibles with the tops down; falling in love and watching tulips and daffodils bloom; even getting married and having babies of her own. Meryl had been cheated of all that.