The Second Time Around (26 page)

“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.”

A
llan 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?”

I thought I might have the answer to that. Vivian had suspected that Nick Spencer's phone had been tapped. I wondered if something made her realize right after she called me that her phone was tapped as well. It would explain a panic-driven escape, but not her failure to contact her family in some way. And then I mentally echoed her father's question:
Where did she go? And was she followed?