The Shadow of Your Smile (30 page)

“Who was the decorator?” Roth asked.

“I don’t know her name.”

“You didn’t have meetings with her? She didn’t show you any sketches or samples?”

“I’m not a detail man,” Peter said wearily. “I liked what she was doing at the offices in Time Warner.”

“Didn’t you talk to her about how much the project would cost?” Roth asked.

“The foundation paid for it, because it was sponsoring my theatre projects. What I mean is, the foundation voted a grant that included the expenses of my office.”

“I see, Mr. Gannon. Then you claim you never knew there was a false bottom in your desk?”

“I swear, I swear I didn’t know that.” Peter buried his face in his
hands, hoping to shut himself away from the persistent questions Harvey Roth was asking him.

“And you don’t know the name of the decorator who bought the desk for your office?”

“No, I don’t,” Peter said, wearily. “Let me say it again. I don’t know her name. I asked Greg’s secretary to have her take care of my new production office. I don’t think I even
met
the woman. She did the job while I was away with Renée.”

Where did we go that time? he wondered. Oh, I remember. Paradise Island. He managed to choke back a desperate fit of laughter.

“How can I learn who the decorator is?” Roth persisted.

“The secretary at my brother’s office would know. She handles that kind of thing.”

“What is her name?”

“Esther Chambers.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

Peter looked at Roth. He thinks I’m lying. He thinks I killed Renée. Peter knew he had to ask the questions that had been swirling through his mind during the sleepless night in the cell. “If I told someone that I thought—let’s say it straight, that I
knew
—my brother was doing insider trading, would that person have an obligation to report it to the SEC?”

“Read the facts about the master financial crook, Bernie Madoff, Mr. Gannon,” Roth said matter-of-factly. “When his sons learned what he was doing, they knew they had to report it immediately. Of course, they were employees of his firm so that changes the picture. It depends on the person to whom you disclosed that information.”

I can’t drag her into it, Peter thought.

“Mr. Gannon, why did you say you’re sure your brother was involved in insider trading?”

“A couple of years ago, at a cocktail party for the Wall Street
types, I overheard a guy from Ankofski Oil and Gas thank Greg for the money. He told Greg he had been able to take the kids to Europe for their spring break. That was about a month after Ankofski was taken over by Elmo Oil and Gas, and the stock tripled.”

“What was your brother’s response?” Roth asked.

“He went wild. He said something like, ‘Shut up, you fool, and get out of here.’ ”

“Did your brother know you had overheard that conversation?”

“No, he didn’t. I was standing behind him. I didn’t want him to know that I heard it. But I
do
know that Greg’s hedge fund made a fortune on that takeover. It’s not that everything isn’t bad enough already, but could criminal charges be filed against me if Greg is ever caught and it came out that I knew what he was up to?”

He saw the contempt in Harvey Roth’s eyes. “Mr. Gannon, I would suggest that you concentrate on assisting me in preparing a defense for you on the charge of murder. I will do everything in my power to give you the best defense I can, but it would be most helpful if you can try to recall what happened in those fifteen hours between the time you blacked out and the time you woke up on your couch. Let’s talk about the shopping bag that contained the money. One that fits the exact description of the one you told the police that you gave Ms. Carter was found in the wastebasket under your desk.”

“Why would I hide the money and leave the shopping bag where anyone could find it?” Peter asked, with a spark of anger.

Roth nodded. “That has occurred to me. On the other hand, by your own admission you were drunk. Let me tell you how we are going to proceed. Our investigative staff will go to the bar where you met Ms. Carter and question any patrons we can learn were there. They will also go to other bars in the area. We hope we may find someone who saw you alone after you left Ms. Carter.”

“
If
I left Ms. Carter, you mean,” Peter said. “That is really what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Without answering, Roth got up to leave. “We are trying to get your bail reduced from five million to two million dollars.”

“I think my brother will put it up for me,” Peter said.

“I hope so. If not, there is another source who will guarantee it.”

“Susan?” Peter asked.

“Yes. Against all odds, she believes firmly in your innocence. You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Gannon, to have a champion like Susan in your corner.”

Peter watched Roth as he walked away from him, then felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” the guard ordered brusquely.

58
 

On Saturday night, before she went to bed, Monica had double-locked and bolted the door to the patio, then wedged a chair under the knob on the kitchen side. She had talked to some of her friends and asked about their alarm systems, and afterward she left an urgent message for one company asking for the immediate installation of a state-of-the-art system, including security cameras on the patio.

That done, she hoped to feel somewhat more secure, but her dreams had been filled with memories of her father. Fragmented as they were, she remembered that in one of them she had been with him in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She woke with the sensation of his hand in hers.

Did I ever really appreciate him? she asked herself, as she got up and began to make coffee. Looking back I can begin to understand how much he loved Mom. He never looked at another woman after she died, and he was such a handsome man.

That year that she was so sick, I was ten years old. I never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. I just wanted to come straight from school to be with her. After she was gone, Dad made me join school activities, and that first year he brought me to New York on so many weekends. We went to plays and concerts and museums and did the fun, touristy stuff. But we were both so sad about Mom . . .

He was a great storyteller, Monica remembered with a smile, as
she decided to boil an egg and have a slice of whole wheat toast instead of an English muffin. When we went to Rockefeller Center at Christmastime, he told me all about the first tree that was ever put up there. It was a little one the workmen had put up because it was during the Depression and they were so grateful just to have jobs. He knew the history behind every place we visited . . .

He loved history, but he didn’t have any concept of his background, his own history. Knowing that I was so close to learning about it has finally made me understand how important that was to him. I used to joke with him about it. “Dad, you may be the illegitimate son of the Duke of Windsor. What would Queen Elizabeth think about that?” I thought I was being funny.

If only Olivia Morrow had lived
one
more day! If only she had lived one more day . . .

While the egg boiled, Monica called the hospital. Sally had slept through the night. Her temperature was only slightly elevated. She hadn’t coughed much. “Every day, she’s so much better, Doctor,” the nurse reported, happily. “But you should know that some reporters were trying to get up here to take her picture. The security desk got rid of them.”

“I would hope so,” Monica said, fervently. “You have my cell phone. Call if there’s any change with Sally, and if any reporters manage to sneak upstairs, don’t let them anywhere near Sally.”

Shaking her head, she scooped the egg into a cup and put it on a plate with the toast. The thoughts of her father would not leave her mind. It’s Sunday morning. Dad and I always went to St. Patrick’s for the ten fifteen Mass there, when we came to New York for the weekend, she remembered. And after that we’d have brunch, and it was his surprise to me where we were going for the afternoon. Being away from home and doing different things like that helped both of us.

Maybe I’ll go to the ten fifteen at the cathedral, she mused. It would make me feel closer to Dad. I need that feeling right now.

I wonder what Ryan and his girlfriend are planning to do today?

Stop it, Monica warned herself. Make some plans for your own afternoon. Going to that movie last night was one miserable letdown. It was terrible. What do the critics see in something that makes absolutely no sense? Maybe I’ll call a few people and, if they’re free, have them in for dinner. I haven’t cooked for company in the last three weeks. I always love doing that, but these past few weeks have been so crazy . . .

But somehow the idea was not appealing.

But I
will
go to St. Pat’s this morning, she decided fifteen minutes later, as she finished a second cup of coffee, enjoying the luxury of lingering over it as she read the newspapers that had been delivered to the door.

At ten fifteen, she was in the cathedral, kneeling in a pew toward the front left side of the main altar, the area that her father had always chosen. Yesterday at this time, I was in St. Vincent’s listening to Father Dunlap eulogize Olivia Morrow, then talk about me. No one could help, and I guess no one ever will. I know what I was trying to remember that had to do with Sally, she suddenly recalled: it’s that I told Susan Gannon Sally almost didn’t make it.

It wasn’t by a miracle or the power of prayer that Sally survived. The reason is that the kid who was her babysitter was smart enough to bring her to the hospital in time, and that we had the medicine to save her.

The choir was singing, “I have heard you calling in the night.” I guess I’ve answered enough calls in the night, Monica thought wryly. I went to that beatification hearing, and testified that there had to be some medical reason why Michael O’Keefe is still alive. When Ryan saw the file, he said that there was absolutely no way Michael’s brain tumor wasn’t terminal. Ryan’s a neurosurgeon. I’m not, but I am a good pediatrician. I know perfectly well there are no medical facts
that justify Michael’s recovery. Sister Catherine spent her life taking care of disabled children. She opened seven hospitals for them. I’m proud of myself that I was there for Sally, and that I helped Carlos to beat the leukemia.

I took an oath that I was testifying about the case to the best of my ability and knowledge. Am I being stubbornly blind? I need to see Michael. It’s been three years. I want to see him again.

Monica tried to focus on the Mass, but her thoughts kept drifting. The O’Keefes had moved to Mamaroneck from their Manhattan apartment shortly after Michael was diagnosed with brain cancer. It was only when Michael seemed to be fully recovered that they had triumphantly brought him back to her office . . .

“Go in peace, the Mass is ended,” the Archbishop pronounced.

As Monica left the cathedral, the choir was singing “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee.” She fumbled for her cell phone and dialed information. The O’Keefes’ phone number was listed. She dialed it and the call was picked up on the first ring. “This is Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said, “is this Mrs. O’Keefe?”

“Yes, it is,” a warm voice responded. “It’s nice to hear from you, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. I’m calling because I am very anxious to see Michael again. Would you mind if I came up to visit you? I promise I won’t stay long.”

“That’s absolutely fine. We’re home all day. Do you want to come this afternoon?”

“I’d very much like to come this afternoon.”

“Has it anything to do with Sister Catherine’s beatification?”

“It has everything to do with it,” Monica said quietly.

“Then come right up. Will you be driving yourself?”

“Yes.”

“We look forward to seeing you, Dr. Monica. Isn’t it funny that a
neurosurgeon, Dr. Ryan Jenner, was here only yesterday afternoon? He also wanted to meet Michael before he speaks to the beatification committee. What a wonderful person he is. I’m sure you must know him?”

Monica felt a stab of pain. “Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “I know him quite well.”

Two hours later, Monica was in Mamaroneck having a sandwich and coffee with Richard and Emily O’Keefe. Michael, their energetic eight-year-old son, had politely visited with Monica and had answered her questions with only a tinge of restlessness. He told her that his favorite sport was baseball, but that in the winter he liked to go skiing with his father. He never, ever felt dizzy, the way he used to when he was real sick.

“His last MRI was only three months ago,” Emily told Monica. “It was absolutely clear. They’ve all been perfect after that first year.” She smiled at her son, who was now fidgeting. “I know. You want to go to Kyle’s. It’s okay, but Dad will walk you over there, and he’ll pick you up later.”

Michael broke into a grin, revealing two missing front teeth. “Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Farrell,” he said. “Mom told me that you really helped me to get better.” He turned and scampered out of the dining room.

Richard O’Keefe got to his feet. “Wait up, Mike,” he called.