The Shadow of Your Smile (22 page)

Monica raised her hand to stop the torrent of words. “Nan, you know how much I appreciate your concern, but I just don’t think anyone deliberately shoved me. I think that guy was so anxious to cross the street that he tried to get me out of his way. So if any of my friends call here asking how I am, please reassure them I’m fine, and I absolutely believe it was an unfortunate accident. Now please tell Alma I’m ready to get started. God help the poor parents who came in yesterday and then had to drag the kids in again today.”

Nan took a few steps toward the door, then hesitated. “Doctor, one more question. How is Sally Carter?”

It felt surreal to Monica to say that Sally’s mother was not only dead, but the victim of a homicide. “I don’t know anything more than that,” she said hurriedly, as she buttoned her white jacket and headed for the examining room.

For the next seven hours, she only gave herself a five-minute break for a cup of tea and two bites of a sandwich before the last little patient was gone at six o’clock. Alma left, saying, “Please take it easy over the weekend, Doctor.”

“I intend to. Thanks, Alma.” Monica went to her small private
office and took off her white coat. That was when Nan followed her in and asked the question that had been bothering her all day. “Dr. Monica, what happened when you met Olivia Morrow Wednesday? Did she really know your grandmother?”

Monica turned away as she felt her eyes begin to glisten. The crushing disappointment that Olivia Morrow was dead, her nearfatal accident, the near certainty that Sally might be headed for foster care, and finally the deepening knowledge that she cared far more for Ryan Jenner than she had realized were all sinking in.

She took a minute to swallow hard before she began to speak. Even though her voice was steady, she was forced to turn from the sympathy in Nan’s face as she told her about going to the Morrow apartment and finding that Olivia had passed away during the night. “So, I guess that if there was any substance to the story, I’ll never know it,” she concluded.

“What are the funeral arrangements?” Nan asked.

“When I spoke to Dr. Hadley, while we were waiting for the EMS squad, he said he would be taking care of them.”

“I have a copy of the
Times,
” Nan said. Maybe there’s something in the obituary section.” She ran out to her desk and returned with the newspaper opened to that page. “Doctor, there is a notice here about Ms. Morrow. There is a funeral Mass being offered for her tomorrow morning at St. Vincent Ferrer, at ten o’clock. If I were you I’d go to it. It says right here that she didn’t have any next of kin, but she must have had some friends. I’d like to go with you. Between us we might be able to talk to some of the people who attend the Mass and find out if she ever talked about you. Who knows what you may find out? You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Monica said slowly. “You said ten o’clock tomorrow, at St. Vincent Ferrer?”

“Yes. That’s at Sixty-sixth and Lexington.”

“I’ll meet you there at quarter of ten.” Monica reached into the closet for her coat. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” she quoted, wearily.

As they passed Nan’s desk on the way to the outside door, the phone rang. Nan ran to see who was calling. “It’s Dr. Jenner,” she said, her voice pleased.

“Let it ring,” Monica said, emphatically. “Let’s go.”

44
 

On Friday morning Scott Alterman took an early run in Central Park, got back to his rented apartment, showered, shaved, and dressed casually. Then at eight o’clock, feeling guilty, he called and left a message for his secretary to say that he had some pressing private business and would be in later in the day.

He made coffee and toast and scrambled eggs as he tried to replace his sense of guilt with a sense of purpose. He knew it was not wise to take time away from his new office on Wall Street. He had accepted a considerable amount of money to become a partner. However, the chance to comfort Monica after her accident reinforced his feeling that more than anything in the world he wanted to prove himself to her.

She knew how much her father wanted to find his roots, Scott thought, and I think that, far more than she realizes, she shares that need. She was heartsick last night when she told me that Olivia Morrow, the woman who might have known her grandparents had died. Learning everything I can about that woman might be the only way to follow the trail to Monica’s father’s parentage, and it’s a trail that could go cold very quickly. If it turned out that Olivia Morrow had any connection to the Gannons, then we’d really have something to go on.

Scott knew that he was consumed with his need to follow his instinct
that Monica’s father might have been the “issue” Alexander Gannon referenced in his will, and that she might be the legitimate heir to the money generated by Alexander Gannon’s genius.

How often, he mused, did adopted children share the same talents of their birth family? Monica’s father, Edward Farrell, had been a medical researcher who helped discover why some patients rejected implants, particularly the hip, knee, and ankle replacements that were the cash cows of companies like Gannon Medical Supplies.

The main headquarters of the company was in Manhattan, but the research laboratory was in Cambridge. When he was in his sixties, Edward Farrell had been invited to join the staff there. By then, Alex Gannon was dead, but Edward Farrell’s startling resemblance to him was a subject that came up from his co-workers over and over again until his retirement. It would be an irony of fate, Scott thought, if Monica’s father had indeed worked for the company founded by his birth father.

The constant reference to his similarity in appearance had been sufficient to make Edward Farrell begin a hobby of finding articles about Alexander Gannon and comparing their pictures at different ages.

Monica really doesn’t understand how fixated her father was on that subject, Scott thought, as he opened a lined pad and, over a second cup of coffee, began to list the starting points of his investigation. How much had Olivia known about Monica’s grandparents? Was there anyone who might still know about a family connection to the Gannons?

Monica had told him that Olivia Morrow’s physician of many years had rushed to the apartment after Monica and the clerk had found her dead. Clayton Hadley was the doctor’s name, Scott remembered. He wrote it on the pad.

Morrow’s apartment at Schwab House. Monica had the impression that Morrow had been a longtime resident there. I’ll talk to the
staff, Scott thought. They’d probably be familiar with any regular visitors.

Almost certainly Morrow had a cleaning woman or cleaning service. Follow that up, he told himself.

Who was the executor of her will and what were the contents of it? He’d put his secretary on that one.

Scott finished his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and tidied up the kitchen. Funny, he thought. That was just one more thing that didn’t work between Joy and me. I don’t think I’m a Felix Unger, but I do feel better when a place is orderly. When she walked in the door, Joy dropped everything she was carrying on the nearest chair or table. I used to wonder if her coat ever saw the inside of the closet.

There wasn’t a thing out of place in Monica’s apartment, he recalled.

He went into the small den that he used as an at-home office, turned on his computer, and began a search for Dr. Clayton Hadley. Then as he read the lengthy references he came to one that made him emit a soundless whistle. Hadley was on the board of the Gannon Foundation!

Monica had said that from what Dr. Hadley told her it must have been shortly after her phone call to Olivia Morrow that Hadley had gone to the apartment and checked on Olivia. A coincidence? Probably, Scott thought. Monica
did
tell me that Morrow sounded very feeble. Nevertheless, something that was not yet actual suspicion made Scott decide to call Dr. Hadley immediately. If he was Olivia Morrow’s longtime physician then he had to know a fair amount about her background, he thought, as he reached for the phone.

When he was put through to Hadley, as an experienced trial lawyer, it was obvious to him that the doctor was evading his questions and that his claim of knowing virtually nothing about Olivia Morrow’s background was patently a lie.

But I didn’t have to put him on guard by warning him that I’d find
a connection between Olivia Morrow and the Gannon Foundation, Scott told himself, as he hung up the phone. Maybe someday I’ll learn to sit back and bide my time. That call was the same kind of impulsive stupidity I engaged in when I went rushing down to Monica’s building and startled the wits out of her when she came out . . .

Cool it, he thought. Cool it.

Thoroughly dissatisfied with himself, he decided to walk to Schwab House and speak to some of the staff members, particularly those who had worked in the building for a long time.

When he arrived there, Scott waited until there was a lull in activity of people entering and leaving, then spoke to the doorman. The man readily told him the little he knew. Ms. Morrow was a lovely, quiet lady, always very gracious, always a thank-you when he held the door for her, always generous at Christmas. He’d miss her.

“Did she go out much?” Scott asked.

“For the last six months anyhow, when I put her in a cab, it was always to the doctor, the hairdresser, or to church on Sunday. We joked about it.”

Not very helpful, Scott thought, as he went inside and stopped at the concierge’s desk. He explained that he was an attorney, sure that the concierge would get the impression that he had been Morrow’s attorney. “I know she’s been here for many years and want to be sure that anyone who is close to her is notified of her passing,” he explained.

“She wasn’t one to have much company,” the concierge explained. “There was one lady on the eighteenth floor who used to go out to the theatre with her, but she passed away a few years ago. It’s been obvious to all of us that Ms. Morrow has been in very poor health and she didn’t go out much at all.”

As Scott was about to turn away, he thought to ask, “Did Ms. Morrow keep a car in the garage here?”

“Yes, she did. From what I understand she just about gave up
driving herself. When she didn’t take a cab to go someplace local, she used a service where the driver would take her in her own car. In fact she went out for a few hours on Tuesday.”

“This
past
Tuesday! You mean the day before she died?” Scott exclaimed. “Was she out long?”

“Most of the afternoon.”

Do you know where she went?”

“No, but I have the number of the service here. Quite a few of our residents use it.” The concierge reached into a drawer, pulled out some cards, and went through them. “Here it is,” he said, handing one over. “You can have this if you want it. I’ve got a few of them.”

The address of the driving service was only a few blocks away. Scott decided to walk over to it. He had long since learned that it was much better to try to get information in person rather than over the phone.

The clouds that had started to gather on his walk over to Schwab House had become thicker and darker. He moved quickly, not wanting to get caught in a downpour. What would make a very sick woman leave her home for hours? he wondered. A week earlier, Olivia Morrow had told the driver whose child was Monica’s patient that she had known Monica’s grandmother. Why did she wait until Monica’s phone call to disclose that to Monica, and even say she knew the identity of both her grandparents? Knowing that she was dying, why didn’t she do it sooner? That last day of her life, did Olivia Morrow visit someone else who also knew the truth?

As these questions rushed through his mind, nothing in Scott’s psyche warned him that by his call to Clayton Hadley, he had signed his own death warrant and that the process of eliminating him had already begun.

45
 

His throat dry, Peter Gannon invited Detectives Barry Tucker and Dennis Flynn into the living room of his apartment. Why are they here? he wondered. Did I do something crazy when I blacked out? I don’t think I took the car out. God, I hope I didn’t run someone over!