Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (25 page)

tered nastily.

Ours is a truly heartwarming relationship.

When I presented myself at Tim’s desk, he seemed only marginally happier to see me than his partner had been. ‘‘I thought you were going to call before you came over here next time,’’ he grumbled.

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I didn’t remember telling him anything of the sort (but maybe I
did
allow him to think it). Anyway, I let it pass; I was here to make points, wasn’t I? ‘‘I believe I have some

thing that just might make you change your attitude,’’ I announced.

‘‘Chocolate or jelly?’’

It was a few seconds before I caught on. ‘‘Ohhh, you mean donuts. I didn’t even want to take the time to stop off.
That’s
the kind of information I’ve got for you.’’

‘‘Yeah, I can imagine. Okay, sit down. Corcoran just went out for some breakfast. He’s bringing me back a Dan

ish, and if you’ve really got something good, maybe I’ll share. Want some coffee in the meantime?’’

Having had the pleasure of the precinct coffee, I courte

ously declined the offer. Besides, now that I was here, I couldn’t wait to tell him my news.

‘‘Hold it a minute,’’ Fielding commanded before I had a chance to open my mouth. ‘‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with the victim coming out of her coma, would it?

Because I already know all about that.’’

I assured him it would not, although, I told him, I’d heard the good news, too.

‘‘It really looks like she’s gonna make it, huh?’’ he said, pleased. And then: ‘‘But, of course, it figures, it wouldn’t be
all
good news.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’ It was almost reflexive. I
knew
what he meant.

‘‘I’m talking about the amnesia. Your client
did
tell you about it, didn’t he? She finally comes out of the damned coma, and she
still
can’t tell us who did this to her; the poor girl doesn’t even know what world she’s in!’’

‘‘Look, that could be very temporary. She could get her memory back tomorrow—today, even; I mean, you hear about that sort of thing all the time.’’

‘‘Yeah, sure,’’ Fielding responded gloomily.

‘‘Now, are you ready for something that
doesn’t
follow Murphy’s Law?’’ I put to him then. And, saving my real coup for later, I proceeded to talk about the Roger Hyer business.

When I was through, Fielding tilted back in his chair, his hands locked behind his head, an ironic smile flitting briefly across his lips. ‘‘Well, how do you like that guy?’’ he mut

tered. ‘‘You shoulda heard him—he was in here yesterday,

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you know. He sat right where you’re sitting now, swearing up and down he had no idea his ex was involved with anyone else. Didn’t it occur to that idiot there was a strong possibility the truth would come out?’’

‘‘I guess not. Like you said, he’s an idiot.’’

‘‘Of course, this doesn’t mean Hyer’s our perp. Although

I admit I wouldn’t be sorry if it turned out that way, consid

ering what an obnoxious S.O.B. he is. Could be, though, that the only reason he denied knowing about the engage

ment was that he’s afraid it would give him a motive.’’

‘‘I’ve kind of come to the same conclusion myself—that maybe it means something, but on the other hand, it’s just as likely it doesn’t.’’

‘‘Yeah. You could say the same for that alibi of his. Cor

coran and I drove out to see his bartender buddy last night, and I’m not at all convinced the guy’s legit. Well, I’m gonna have to have another talk with Hyer anyway, just to see what he has to say for himself now. Christ, I’d love to nail that little scuzball!’’

At the world ‘‘little,’’ I broke into a grin. I mean, Tim isn’t exactly Michael Jordan himself. But, mindful of those points I was trying to rack up, I grinned on the inside, where it didn’t show.

‘‘Well, Dez, I have to apologize for not rolling out the red carpet for you this morning,’’ Fielding was saying. ‘‘You really came through this time. Which entitles you to one half of an only slightly stale prune Danish—provided it gets here in this century.’’

‘‘Oh, that wasn’t my news—not my
hot
news, anyway.
That
has to do with the will.’’

I’d uttered the magic word. Abruptly returning his chair to its upright position, Fielding leaned toward me. ‘‘What
about
the will?’’

I filled him in on Claire and Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell.

‘‘What did they say?’’

‘‘I didn’t call. I thought that was probably something you should handle.’’

There was a moment of stunned silence before he re

sponded. ‘‘Thanks, Dez. And I mean that.’’ Then he eyed me suspiciously. ‘‘And in return for this magnanimous act of yours, you want . . . ?’’

‘‘To see the apartment, that’s all.’’

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‘‘I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’d have gotten to see the place without giving away the store. I was gonna call and tell you you could come up on Saturday if you wanted to.’’

Oh,
Shit!
‘‘How come, all of a sudden?’’

‘‘Well, the other night something occurred to me—proba

bly out of desperation. When I first questioned Eric Foster, I asked him if he knew of any dentists or doctors his sisters saw over in London. He said he didn’t have any idea—he moved out to the suburbs when the girls were pretty young, you know.’’

‘‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’’

‘‘Anyhow, I started thinking that maybe if he came across the
name
of a doctor or dentist, he just might recog

nize it—even if he didn’t know whether either of the women had ever been the man’s patient. So I asked him if he’d mind going up to the apartment and browsing through

some of his sisters’ old checkbook stubs—from back when they were living in England.’’

‘‘You might have something there,’’ I said admiringly. Fielding actually appeared slightly embarrassed by my almost-compliment. ‘‘You should see the records those women kept,’’ he went on quickly. ‘‘In most cases, all they included were names and amounts—not even a date. And there’s no notation at all about what the checks were for. I have my doubts they’d be bothered writing down ‘M.D.’

or ‘D.D.S.’—or whatever they’re called over there. At any rate, there’s at least a chance Foster may spot a name that rings a bell.’’ He inhaled deeply, then let out a long, slow sigh. ‘‘We could sure use a set of dental records right now. Or maybe a line on some special physical characteristic that only one of ’em had—
anything
!’’

‘‘Like a mole next to the navel?’’ I put in facetiously, grinning.

‘‘Does your client tell you
everything
?’’

‘‘As a matter of fact, it was Larry Shields who men

tioned it.’’

‘‘Anyway,’’ Fielding summed up, ‘‘we’ve made arrange

ments with Foster to meet him at the apartment on Satur

day morning at eleven-thirty.’’

‘‘And I’m invited?’’

‘‘Yeah. Now maybe you’ll finally get off my ass.’’ He muttered the words, but his eyes were definitely twinkling.

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‘‘Okay, Dez,’’ he said, smiling, ‘‘how about we give Leibow

itz, Leibowitz and whoever a call?’’

‘‘O’Donnell,’’ I supplied, handing him the phone number.

He was picking up the receiver when, at that moment, his partner sauntered in.

‘‘Well, well, look who’s still here,’’ Corcoran snickered in this high-pitched voice he has which is so totally incon

gruous coming out of such a large and loathsome person.

‘‘I was hoping you’d be gone by now. But this just hasn’t been my morning.’’ Before I had a chance to zing one
his
way, he turned to Fielding. ‘‘They were out of prune, so I got you a cheese,’’ he said, handing him a stained brown paper bag. ‘‘And by the way, our new leader requests our presence in his office; ‘chop chop,’ was how he put it. Think you can tear yourself away from Miss Chubbette here?’’

Fielding tossed his partner an appropriately black look.

‘‘I’d better get going,’’ he told me. ‘‘The lieutenant isn’t particularly crazy about being kept waiting. I’ll call the law

yers as soon as I get a chance, and I’ll let you know what’s what. Oh, and why don’t you take the Danish?’’

‘‘Thanks, but that’s okay,’’ I said, declining with an ef

fort. ‘‘I’ve gotta get going, too.’’

I stopped at Jackie’s desk on the way to my office. One look at her face, and I knew I was in trouble. I knew why, too.

On her strict instructions, I normally call if I’m going to be detained at all. But that morning I was in such a hurry to get to the station house that I didn’t take the time to stop and phone her. Besides, I figured I wouldn’t be very late. And besides
that,
I guess this was one of those very rare times I was subconsciously trying to show some balls and assert myself with Jackie. I mean, isn’t one of the perks of being self-employed not always having to answer to somebody else?

‘‘I was afraid something was really wrong,’’ she informed me in this accusatory tone. ‘‘For all I knew, you could have gotten yourself shot.’’ She glanced at her watch. ‘‘It’s five of eleven; I’ve been trying to reach you since ten. Another few minutes and I would have put in a call to your super.’’

‘‘I’m sorry. I had some business to take care of, and it took longer than I thought it would.’’ Then I added truth

fully, ‘‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’’

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‘‘Look, the next time you’re going to be late, just pick up the phone and let me know. I don’t think that’s a lot to ask, do you?’’

I conceded that it wasn’t. After all, the best secretary in the world—especially since she was also a good and con

cerned friend—deserved some consideration. And why was

it so important to show some damned balls in the office, anyway?

‘‘Um, any messages?’’ I asked timidly.

‘‘Wouldn’t I have
told
you if you had any?’’

Wisely, I beat it at that point, giving Jackie a chance to cool off and, I hoped, even forget what a trial I was to her. I spent most of the balance of the day closeted in my office, waiting to hear from Tim. I must have checked the clock every five minutes until he finally got in touch with me at a little after three.

‘‘You had a damned good hunch there, but unfortunately

it didn’t pan out,’’ he said dejectedly. ‘‘I just got off the phone with that law firm. Meredith and Mary Ann Foster don’t happen to be clients of theirs.’’

And I’d been so sure! ‘‘Neither of them?’’ I asked weakly.

‘‘That’s right. But listen, it’s not the end of the world,’’

he consoled, sounding a lot more optimistic than I knew he felt. ‘‘Could be the Foster woman’ll be able to fill us in herself soon,’’ he offered, presenting me with my own contention.

But I no longer believed it. Any more than Fielding did. There was no way it would turn out to be that easy. Peter came to dinner that night.

While the lasagna finished baking, we sat in the living room, sipping red wine and nibbling zucchini puffs. ‘‘I have to apologize for not returning your calls,’’ he said, referring to a couple of messages I’d left that morning and the night before. ‘‘I’ve been so wrapped up in what’s been happening with Mary Ann that—’’

‘‘I understand,’’ I interrupted. ‘‘I was just anxious to know if everything was okay.’’

‘‘Everything’s terrific! The brain damage seems to be minimal! Her left hand is partially paralyzed and the vision in her left eye is blurred, but there’s a possibility that with therapy both those things could clear up. And if they don’t,

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well, I’m still pretty grateful. The doctors were telling me how lucky she is a bullet in that part of the brain didn’t do a lot more damage to the optic nerve. And they said how pleased they were it didn’t impair her motor skills to a lot greater extent than it did. So when I think about how bad things could have been . . .’’ He broke off with a shudder. Even in my most optimistic moments, I couldn’t have hoped for anything better—at least as far as the victim’s physical condition was concerned. ‘‘Thank God!’’ I ex

claimed. After which I silently prayed, ‘‘Just let it be Mary Ann!’’

A moment later, Peter said softly, ‘‘She still has no idea who she is, though. That first night, I was hoping she was just a little confused with having been in a coma for so long, but now they claim it’s more than that.’’