The Shadow of Your Smile (21 page)

When he removed the pillow, he saw that while she was struggling Olivia had bitten her lip. A single drop of blood was on the pillow he had used to suffocate her. Nervously he had considered switching it with the one under her head, but he realized that the sight of the blood there might raise questions. Instead he went to the linen closet. Neatly stacked on the middle shelf he found two other complete sets of sheets and pillowcases. Each set consisted of two sheets and four pillowcases. One set was cream-colored, the other pale pink. The set on the bed was a shade of peach.

Hadley decided he had to take the chance to replace the soiled pillowcase with one of the pink ones. It’s not much different, he had consoled himself, and if anyone notices, they’ll probably think the other peach pillowcase was lost at the laundry. He knew Olivia sent her sheets out to the laundry weekly because she had joked to him that one of her luxuries was fine cotton sheets, which she had professionally washed and ironed. When he changed the pillowcase, he was horrified to realize that the blood had also gone through to the pillow itself. Panicked, he knew it would be noticed if he tried to take it with him. He decided that the best he could do was to have the new pillowcase on it and hope it would never be noticed.

He had folded the stained pillowcase and tucked it in the pocket of his topcoat, then had begun to search the apartment for the Catherine file. Olivia had made him executor of her estate and given him the combination to her safe, so that when the time came the will would be probated without delay. It was a very simple document. There were a few small bequests to longtime service people in the
building and her cleaning woman. The contents of her apartment, her car, and her jewelry were to be sold. The money from them together with her small portfolio of stocks and bonds were to be left to various Catholic charities. In the will she noted that she had already made and paid for arrangements with The Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel. She didn’t wish to have a viewing, but after a funeral Mass at St. Vincent Ferrer, to be cremated. Her ashes were to be buried in her mother’s grave in Calvary Cemetery.

The will was in the safe, as well as her few pieces of jewelry—pearls and a small diamond ring and earrings—certainly not worth more than a few thousand dollars.

But to his dismay, the Catherine file was not there. Acutely aware that the concierge might be noticing how long he was staying, Clay Hadley had searched every inch of Olivia’s apartment without success. The Catherine file was missing.

What had she done with it? Clay had asked himself, desperately. Was there any chance she had destroyed it then changed her mind about revealing the truth when she heard from Monica Farrell? It was the only reasonable explanation he could imagine. On the way out of the building, the clerk at the desk had stopped him. “How is Ms. Morrow, Doctor?” he asked solicitously.

Weighing his words carefully, Clay had said, “Ms. Morrow is a very, very sick woman.” Then in a husky voice added, “She’s not going to be with us for more than a few days or a week.”

The next evening, after he received the call that Olivia had been found dead, he had sat with Monica Farrell in Olivia’s living room. When the Emergency Medical Services group arrived Monica had not stayed long. She had nothing to tell them except that she had come because she had an appointment with Olivia Morrow. In retrospect, Clay prided himself on how well he had handled the medics, explaining that he was Olivia’s longtime doctor, that she was terminally ill, that only last night he had begged her to go to a
hospice . . . Then, when the mortician from Campbell’s arrived, the medics toe-tagged her body, and he signed the death certificate.

After a sleepless night and frantic phone call to Doug, Clay had kept himself busy blotting out any trace of suspicion of his connection to Olivia’s death for the rest of Thursday. He called in the obituary notice to the
Times,
called the small list of people in her address book, arranged for the funeral Mass, and called a liquidator he had met socially and arranged to meet him at the apartment and inventory the contents. Then, having felt he had done everything he could to present the picture of a solicitous friend and executor, he took a sleeping pill and went to bed.

At nine o’clock on Friday morning, the first phone call he received when he reached his office was from a man he did not know, Scott Alterman. “He’s inquiring about Olivia Morrow,” his secretary informed him.

Who is this guy? Hadley wondered, his stomach in knots. “Put him on,” he said.

Scott introduced himself. “I am a friend of Dr. Monica Farrell. I believe you met her in Olivia Morrow’s apartment Wednesday evening.”

“Yes, I did.” Where is this going? Hadley wondered.

“Only the night before her death, Ms. Morrow had told Dr. Farrell that she knew her grandmother. By that it was clear that she meant her birth grandmother. From what you told Dr. Farrell at that time, you have been a longtime friend of Ms. Morrow’s, as well as her physician and the executor of her estate. As such, you must have some knowledge of Ms. Morrow’s family history?”

Hadley tried to keep his voice steady. “That’s entirely true. I became her mother’s cardiologist, then Olivia’s. Olivia was an only child. Her mother died many years ago. I never met anyone else at all who was a relation.”

“And Ms. Morrow never spoke about her background to you?”

Be close to the truth, but no specifics, Hadley warned himself. “I know that Olivia told me her father died before she was born and her mother remarried. By the time I met them, her mother had been widowed a second time.”

Then came the question that made Hadley’s mouth go dry. Scott Alterman asked, “Dr. Hadley, haven’t you been on the board of the Gannon Foundation for many years?”

“Yes, that’s true. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know yet,” Alterman said. “But I’m sure there’s an answer to be found and I warn you, I will find it. Good-bye, Dr. Hadley.”

42
 

Peter Gannon woke up on Friday morning with a hangover that put any previous hangover he had ever experienced to shame. His head was bursting, he was nauseous, and he had the crashing feeling that his world was about to disappear from under him.

He knew he would have to declare bankruptcy. There was no way he could pay off the backers of his play. Why was I so sure that this one was going to be a hit? he asked himself. Guaranteeing them half of what they invested was stupid, but it was the only way they’d put up any money. I’ll be a pariah to them now.

For long minutes he stood in a hot shower, then, wincing, turned on the cold water. As he shivered under the needlelike impact of the freezing spray against his skin, he forced himself to deal with the fact that he would have to admit to Greg that he had once told Renée Carter he was sure Greg was involved in an insider trading fraud. Not only that, but I told her that except for the charities we support because of Clay in cardiology research and Doug in psychiatric research, a lot of our donations from the foundation are small and strictly for show. If she hadn’t decided to blackmail me about the baby, no doubt she would’ve threatened to expose the fraud. God, if they were ever investigated! Peter did not finish the thought.

Greg will simply have to give me a million dollars to pay off Renée, and he’ll have to do it now. I saw her Tuesday night. For all I
know she’s already thought about how much she’d collect for being a snitch. I gave her two million dollars when she left town almost two and a half years ago to keep her mouth shut, and that was supposed to be it. She said she would give up the baby for adoption.

Renée. Unsteadily, Peter got out of the shower and reached for a bath towel. I was drinking all Tuesday afternoon, he thought. I was afraid to tell her that all I could scrape up was one hundred thousand dollars, not a million. Then, when I was waiting for her in the bar, I had those two scotches. I should have told her that the hundred thousand was all I could give her for now. I should have strung her along . . .

What happened then? he asked himself. She got mad when I gave her the bag with the hundred thousand, and that was all she’d ever get. Final payment. No more money. I’d have her charged with extortion. Then, when she ran out and started down the street, I ran after her and grabbed her hand. She dropped the bag, slapped me, and her fingernail nicked my face.

What happened then?

I don’t remember, Peter thought miserably. I just don’t remember. Oh, God, he thought, as he slipped into a bathrobe,
where did I go?
What did I
do
? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I woke up on the couch in the office on Wednesday afternoon. That was fifteen hours later. Then I started thinking that Sue might lend me the money and I met her at Il Tinello. After Sue turned me down, I got drunk again. Renée hasn’t called me back yet, or has she? I’ve been having blackouts. Maybe I didn’t hear the phone . . .

Peter looked into the mirror over the bathroom sink. Some mess, he observed. Eyes bloodshot. I never did shave yesterday. Wonder what Sue thought when I met her?

Sue. Renée was the straw that broke the camel’s back in our marriage. I had sworn to Sue I’d quit womanizing, then she read in the gossip column that I’d been seen with Renée. The mistake of my life,
four years ago. Sue wouldn’t believe I was sick of Renée and breaking up with her. Crazy, the way the ball bounces. Sue had three miscarriages in the twenty years we were married and Renée managed to get pregnant just when she knew I was about to break off with her. Of course she did it on purpose, he thought angrily, but at least Sue never knew about the baby. That would have been hell for her . . . And now, divorced or not, he hoped Sue never finds out.

Why didn’t Renée give up the baby for adoption? When I paid her off, she said she would. She sure wasn’t into kids. She did it because she wanted to have a hold over me. A hold called Sally, whom I’ve never met, nor ever
want
to meet. Why did Renée come back to New York? Guess she’d not gotten her claws into another rich boyfriend in Vegas and needs me to feather her nest again.

If only I could prove the kid isn’t mine, but Renée was smart enough to have saved DNA from me and had it matched with the baby’s. She’s mine, like it or not.

Peter Gannon reached for his shaving soap and razor. As he started to shave, he winced when the blade hit the spot where Renée’s nail had caught him. What happened after she slapped me? he asked himself again.

A half hour later, dressed in a casual shirt, sweater, and khakis, a cup of coffee in his hand, Peter forced himself to pick up the phone to dial his brother, Greg.

Before he could complete the connection, the concierge called on the intercom. “Mr. Gannon, Detective Tucker and Detective Flynn are here to see you. May I send them up?”

43
 

On Friday morning, after she spoke to Ryan Jenner in the hospital, Monica tried to phone Renée Carter and when there was again no answer went down to see Sandra Weiss, the director of Family Services in the hospital. “I have to talk about my patient Sally Carter,” she began.

“I was about to call you,” Weiss told her somberly. “We have just heard from the police. The body of a woman found on the pedestrian walkway near the East River yesterday has been identified as Renée Carter, Sally’s mother.”

Monica stared at her. “Renée Carter is dead?” she asked numbly.

“Yes. The police are trying to locate the next of kin. Until then we’ll take custody of Sally. When you’re ready to discharge her, if no relatives have been found, we’ll place her in foster care, for the present.”

Renée Carter dead! Shocked, Monica could only visualize the petulant woman who had had so little interest in her baby. Who would the next of kin turn out to be? she wondered. What’s going to happen to Sally?

Even though she needed to get to the office where she knew patients were already waiting, she stopped to see Sally again before she left the hospital. The little girl was still sleeping, and not wanting to wake her up, Monica stood at the crib wistfully for a long minute, then hurried away.

When she reached the office, the waiting room was beginning to fill up. Nan followed her into her private office and cornered her. “I heard the report on the radio last evening, Dr. Monica,” she said, breathlessly. “I almost died. I tried to call you right away. Thank God you put that message on the phone to say you were all right. But the first thing I did was to tell John Hartman, the retired detective who lives down the hall from me, about it. He says he’s going to call one of his detective friends and tell him to have the security cameras around the hospital checked. Maybe that guy who pushed you was following you? Maybe it had something to do with that picture of you standing in front of the hospital that I showed you. You didn’t think that it meant anything.”