Let Me Call You Sweetheart (26 page)

Dr. Charles Smith sat for long hours after he forced Kerry to leave. "Stalker!" " Murderer!" "Liar!" The accusations she had thrown at him made him shudder with revulsion. It was the same revulsion he felt when he looked at a maimed or scarred or ugly face. He could feel his very being tremble with the need to change it, to redeem it, to make things right. To find for it the beauty that his skilled hands could wrest from bone and muscle and flesh.
In those instances the wrath he felt had been directed against the fire or the accident or the unfair blending of genes that had caused the aberration. Now his wrath was directed at the young woman who had sat here in judgment of him.
"Stalker!" To call him a stalker because a brief glimpse of the near perfection he had created gave him pleasure! He wished he could have looked into the future and known that this was the way Barbara Tompkins would express her thanks. He would have given her a face all right--a face with skin that collapsed into wrinkles, eyes that drooped, nostrils that flared.
Suppose McGrath took Tompkins to the police to file that complaint. She had said she would, and Smith knew she meant it.
She had called him a murderer. Murderer! Did she really think that he could have done that to Suzanne? Burning misery raced through him as he lived again the moment when he had rung the bell, over and over, then turned the handle and found the door unlocked.
And Suzanne there, in the foyer, almost at his feet. Suzanne-- but not Suzanne. That distorted creature with bulging, hemorrhaged eyes, and gaping mouth and protruding tongue--that was not the exquisite creature he had created.
Even her body appeared awkward and unlovely, crumpled as it was, the left leg twisted under the right one, the heel of her left shoe jabbing her right calf, those fresh red roses scattered over her, a mocking tribute to death.
Smith remembered how he had stood over her, his only thought an incongruous one--that this is how Michelangelo would have felt had he seen his Piet… lunatic who attacked it years ago in St. Peter's.
He remembered how he had cursed Suzanne, cursed her because she had not heeded his warnings. She had married Reardon against his wishes. "Wait," he had urged her. "He's not good enough for you," "In your eyes, no one will ever be good enough for me," she had shouted back.
He had endured the way they looked at each other, the way their hands clasped across the table, the way they sat together, side by side on the couch, or with Suzanne on Reardon's lap in the big, deep chair, as he had seen them when he had looked through the window at night.
To have to endure all that had been bad enough, but it was too much when Suzanne became restless and began seeing other men, none of them worthy of her, and then came to him, asking for favors, saying "Charles, you must let Skip think you bought me this... and this... and this..."
Or she would say, "Doctor, why are you so upset? You told me I should have all the good times I've missed. Well, I'm having them. Skip works too hard. He isn't fun. You take risks when you operate. I'm just like you. I take risks too. Now remember, Doctor Charles, you're a generous daddy." Her impudent kiss, flirting with him, sure of her power, of his tolerance.
Murderer? No, Skip was the murderer. As he stood over Suzanne's body, Smith had known exactly what had happened. Her loutish husband had come home to find Suzanne with flowers from another man, and he had exploded. Just as I would, Smith had thought when his eye fell on the card half hidden by Suzanne's body.
And then, standing there over her, a whole scenario had played itself out in his mind. Skip, the jealous husband--a jury might be lenient with a man who killed his wife in a moment of passion. He might get off with a light sentence. Or maybe even no sentence at all.
I won't let that happen, he had vowed. Smith remembered how he had closed his eyes, blotting out the ugly, distorted face in front of him and, instead, seeing Suzanne in all her beauty. Suzanne, I promise you that!
It had not been hard to keep the promise. All he had to do was take the card that had come with the flowers, then go home and wait for the inevitable call that would tell him that Suzanne, his daughter, was dead.
When the police had questioned him, he had told them that Skip was insanely jealous, that Suzanne feared for her life, and, obeying the last request she made of him, he claimed he had given her all the pieces of jewelry that Skip had questioned.
No, let Ms. McGrath say all she might want. The murderer was in jail. And he would stay there.
It was almost ten o'clock when Charles Smith got up. It was all over. He couldn't operate anymore. He no longer wanted to see Barbara Tompkins. She disgusted him. He went into the bedroom, opened the small safe in the closet and took out a gun.
It would be so easy. Where would he go? he wondered. He did believe that the spirit moves on. Reincarnation? Maybe. Maybe this time he would be born Suzanne's peer. Maybe they fall in love. A smile played on his lips.
But then, as he was about to close the safe, he looked at Suzanne's jewelry case.
Suppose McGrath was right. Suppose it hadn't been Skip but another person who had taken Suzanne's life. McGrath had said that person was laughing now, mockingly grateful for the testimony that had condemned Skip.
There was a way to rectify that. If Reardon was not the killer, then McGrath would have all that she needed to find the man who had murdered Suzanne.
Smith reached for the jewelry case, laid the gun on top of and carried both to his desk in the study. Then with movements he took out a sheet of stationery and unscrewed the top from his pen.
When he was finished writing, he wrapped the jewelry case and the note together and managed to force them into one the several Federal Express mailers that he kept at home for convenience. He addressed the package to Assistant Prosecutor Kerry McGrath at the Bergen County Prosecutor's Office, Hackensack, New Jersey. It was an address he remembered well.
He put on his coat and muffler and walked eight blocks to the Federal Express drop that he had used on occasion.
It was just eleven o'clock when he returned home. He took off his coat, picked up the gun, went back into the bedroom and stretched out on the bed, still fully dressed. He turned off all the lights except the one that illuminated Suzanne's picture.
He would end this day with her and begin the new life at the stroke of midnight. The decision made, he felt calm, even happy.
At eleven-thirty the doorbell began to ring. Who? he wondered. Angrily he tried to ignore it, but a persistent finger was pressed against it. He was sure he knew what it was. Once there had been an accident on the corner, and a neighbor had run to him for help. After all, he was a doctor. If there had been an accident, just this one more time his skill might be put to use.
Dr. Charles Smith unlocked and opened his door, then slumped against it as a bullet found its mark between his eyes.
... Tuesday, November 7th
On Tuesday morning, Deidre Reardon and Beth Taylor were already in the reception room of Geoff Dorso's law office when he arrived at nine o'clock.
Beth apologized for both of them. "Geoff, I'm so sorry to come without calling first," she said, "but Deidre has to go into the hospital for the angioplasty tomorrow morning. I know it will rest her mind if she has a chance to talk to you for a few minutes and give you that picture of Suzanne we talked about the other day."
Deidre Reardon was looking at him anxiously. "Oh, come on, Deidre," Geoff said heartily, "you know you don't have to make excuses for seeing me. Aren't you the mother of my star client?"
"Sure. It's all those billing hours you're logging," Deidre Reardon murmured with a relieved smile, as Geoff took her hands in his. "It's just that I'm so embarrassed at the way I barged into that lovely Kerry McGrath's office last week and treated her like dirt. And then to realize her own child has been threatened because Kerry's trying to help my son."
"Kerry absolutely understood how you felt that day. Come back to my office. I'm sure the coffeepot's on."
...
"We will only stay five minutes," Beth promised as Geoff placed a coffee mug in front of her. "And we won't waste your time saying it's been a glimpse of heaven to think that finally there's real, genuine hope for Skip. You know how we feel, and you know how grateful we are for everything you are doing."
"Kerry saw Dr. Smith late yesterday afternoon," Geoff said. "She thinks she got to him. But there are other developments as well." He told them about Barney Haskell's records. "We may at last have a chance to track the source of the jewelry we think Weeks gave Suzanne."
"That's one of the reasons we're here," Deidre Reardon told him. "Remember I said I had a picture that showed Suzanne wearing the missing set of antique diamond pins? As soon as I got home from the prison Saturday night I went to get it out of the file and couldn't find it. I spent all Sunday and yesterday ransacking the apartment, looking for it. Of course it wasn't there. Stupidly, I had forgotten that at some point I'd covered it with one of those plastic protectors and put it with my own personal papers. Anyway, I finally found it. With all the talk about the jewelry the other day, I felt it important for you to have it."
She handed him a legal-size manila envelope. From it, he extracted a folded page from Palisades Community Life, a tabloid- sized weekly paper. As he opened it Geoff noticed the date, April 24th, nearly eleven years ago and barely a month before Suzanne Reardon died.
The group picture from the Palisades Country Club took up the space of four columns of print. Geoff recognized Suzanne Reardon immediately. Her outstanding beauty leaped from the page. She was standing at a slight angle, and the camera had clearly caught the sparkling diamonds on the lapel of her jacket.
"This is the double pin that disappeared," Deidre explained, pointing to it. "But Skip doesn't know when he last saw it on Suzanne."
"I'm glad to have this," Geoff said. "When we can get a copy of some of those records Haskell kept, we may be able to trace the pin."
It almost hurt to see the eager hope on both their faces. Don't let me fail them, he prayed as he walked them back to the reception room. At the door he hugged Deidre. "Now remember, you get this angioplasty over and start feeling better. We can't have you sick when they unlock the door for Skip."
"Geoff, I haven't walked barefoot through hell this long to check out now."
After having taken care of a number of client calls and queries, Geoff decided to call Kerry. Maybe she would want to have a fax of the picture Deidre had brought in. Or maybe I just want to talk to her, he admitted to himself.
When her secretary put her through, Kerry's frightened voice sent chills through Geoff. "I just opened a Federal Express package that Dr. Smith sent me. Inside was a note and Suzanne's jewelry case and the card that must have come with the sweetheart roses. Geoff, he admits he lied about Skip and the jewelry. He told me that by the time I read this he'll have committed suicide."
"My God, Kerry, did--"
"No, it's not that. You see, he didn't. Geoff, Mrs. Carpenter from his office just called me. When Dr. Smith didn't come in for an early appointment, and didn't answer the phone, she went to his house. His door was open a crack and she went in. She found his body lying in the foyer. He'd been shot, and the house ransacked. Geoff, was it because someone didn't want Dr. Smith to change his testimony and was looking for the jewelry? Geoff, who is doing this? Will Robin be next?"
At nine-thirty that morning, Jason Arnott looked out the window, saw the cloudy, overcast sky and felt vaguely depressed. Other than some residual achiness in his legs and back, he was over the bug or virus that had laid him low over the weekend. But he could not overcome the uneasy sense that something was wrong.
It was that damn FBI flyer, of course. But he had felt the same way after that night in Congressman Peale's house. A few of the downstairs lamps that were on an automatic switch had been on when he got there, but the upstairs rooms were all dark. He had been coming down the hallway, carrying the painting and the lockbox that he had pried from the wall, when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He had barely had time to hold the painting in front of his face when light flooded the hallway.
Then he had heard the quavering gasp, "Oh, dear God," and knew it was the congressman's mother. He hadn't intended to hurt her. Instinctively he had rushed toward her, holding the painting as a shield, intending only to knock her down and grab her glasses so he could make his getaway. He had spent a long time talking with her at Peale's inaugural party, and he knew she was blind as a bat without them.
But the heavy portrait frame had caught the side of her head harder than he intended, and she had toppled backwards the stairs. He knew from that final gurgle that she made before she went still that she was dead. For months afterward he had looked over his shoulder, expecting to see someone coming toward him with handcuffs.
Now, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, the FBI flyer was giving him that same case of the jitters.
After the Peale case, his only solace had been to feast his eyes on the John White Alexander masterpiece At Rest, which he had taken that night. He kept it in the master bedroom of the Catskill house just as Peale had kept it in his master bedroom. It was so amusing to know that thousands of people trooped through the Metropolitan Museum of Art to gaze on its companion piece, Repose. Of the two, he preferred At Rest. The reclining figure of a beautiful woman had the same long sinuous lines as Repose, but the closed eyes, the look on the sensual face reminded him now of Suzanne.
The miniature frame with her portrait was on his night table, and it amused him to have both in his room, even though the imitation Faberg‚ frame was unworthy of the glorious company it kept. The night table was gilt and marble, an exquisite example of Gothic Revival, and had been obtained in the grand haul when he had hired a van and practically emptied the Merriman house.
He would call ahead. He enjoyed arriving there to find the heat on and the refrigerator stocked. Instead of using his home phone, however, he would call his housekeeper on a cellular phone that was registered to one of his aliases.
...
Inside what seemed to be a repair van of Public Service Gas and Electric the signal came that Arnott was making a call. As the agents listened, they smiled triumphantly at each other. "I think we are about to trace the foxy Mr. Arnott to his lair," the senior agent on the job observed. They listened as Jason concluded the conversation by saying, "Thank you, Maddie. I'll leave here in an hour and should be there by one."