The Shadow of Your Smile (9 page)

Wrapped in a bathrobe, Rosalie Garcia woke her sleeping husband up at six
A.M
. on Monday. “Tony, the baby has a fever. He’s caught my cold.”

Tony struggled to open his eyes. The night before, he had driven a couple to a wedding in Connecticut, and then waited to drive them home, which meant he’d had three hours’ sleep. But as what Rosalie was saying sank in, he was instantly awake. Tossing back the covers, he rushed into the tiny second bedroom of their walk-up apartment on East Fourth Street. A sleepy Carlos, his face flushed, ignoring his bottle, was fretfully moving around the crib. With a gentle hand, Tony touched his son’s forehead and confirmed that it was unnaturally warm.

He straightened up and turned to his wife, understanding the panic he saw in her eyes. “Look, Rosie,” he said soothingly. “He doesn’t have leukemia anymore. Remember that. We’ll get some aspirin into him and at eight o’clock we’ll call Dr. Monica. If she wants to see him, I’ll take him right over. With that cold you can’t go out.”

“Tony, I want her to see him. Maybe it’s just a cold but . . .”

“Honey, she told us that we should remember to treat him as a kid who bumps his head or gets a cold or has an earache, because he is a normal, healthy kid now. His immune system is perfect.” But even as he was speaking, Tony knew that neither he nor Rosalie
would have any peace of mind until Dr. Monica Farrell had seen Carlos.

At seven o’clock he phoned and reached Nan as she was walking into the office. She told him to bring Carlos over at eleven, because that was when the doctor would be back from the hospital.

At ten thirty Tony bundled a sleepy Carlos into a warm jacket and cap and put him in his stroller. He tucked blankets around him, then snapped in the protective plastic shield that kept out the wind. With long strides he began to walk the ten blocks to Monica’s office. He had vetoed the suggestion that he take a cab there. “Rosie,” he had said, “I can get there faster walking, and round-trip in the traffic it could cost up to thirty dollars. Besides, Carlos likes the feel of being pushed in the stroller. He’ll end up taking a nap.”

When he reached Monica’s office twenty minutes later, she was just taking off her coat. She took one look at the fear in Tony’s eyes, then quickly unsnapped the plastic shield and, as Tony had done earlier, felt the small forehead of Carlos Garcia. “Tony, he has a fever, but not much of a fever,” she said reassuringly. “Before we even get his hat off, let me assure you of that. Alma will get Carlos set up for me to look at him, but my diagnosis as of this moment is that all he needs is baby aspirin and maybe an antibiotic.” She smiled. “So stop looking like that and don’t have a heart attack on me. I’m a pediatrician, not a cardiologist.”

Tony Garcia smiled back as he tried to blink away the sudden moisture in his eyes. “It’s just, Doctor . . . You know.”

Monica looked at him and suddenly felt infinitely older than the young father. He’s not more than twenty-four, she thought. He looks like such a kid himself and so does Rosalie and they’ve gone through such hell these two years. She touched his shoulder. “I know,” she said gently.

Thirty minutes later, Carlos, again dressed in his outerwear, was back in the stroller. Tony had samples of an antibiotic and a prescription
for a three-day dosage of it in his pocket. “Now remember,” Monica cautioned, as she walked with him to the outer door, “I can just about promise you he’ll be running you ragged again in a couple of days, but if his fever
does
go up I want you to call me on my cell phone day or night.”

“I will, Dr. Monica, and thanks again. I can’t tell . . .”

“Then don’t. I can’t hear you anyhow.” Monica nodded her head to the waiting room, which now had four little patients, among them a pair of screaming twins.

Tony, his hand on the outer door, stopped. “Oh, just quick, Dr. Monica. I drove a very nice elderly woman last week. I showed her Carlos’s picture and told her how you had taken care of him and she told me she knew your grandmother.”

“She knew my grandmother!” Monica looked at him astonished. “Did she say anything about her?”

“No. Just that she knew her. Tony pulled open the outer door. “I’m holding you up. Thanks again.”

He was gone. Monica was tempted to run after him but then stopped herself. I can call him later, she thought. Could this person possibly have known my paternal grandmother? Dad didn’t have a clue who his birth mother was. He was adopted by people in their midforties. They’ve been gone for years and so are Mom’s parents. Dad and Mom would both be in their midseventies now. If their parents were still alive they’d be over 100 years old. If this lady knew my adoptive grandparents she must be really old herself. She must be mistaken.

But all through the rest of her busy day, Monica had a nagging sense that she ought to call Tony and ask for the name of the woman who had claimed to know her grandmother.

16
 

Sammy Barber had used the weekend to do some serious thinking. The guy he was dealing with was big-time. When he’d arranged the meeting in the diner, he had not given his name, only his cell phone number, and of course that was one of those prepaid untraceable ones. But it was obvious he wasn’t used to making this kind of deal. The stupid guy drove to the diner in his own car and thought he was being smart by parking it down the block!

Sammy had followed him and used the camera on his cell phone to photograph Douglas Langdon’s license plate, then, through one of his contacts, traced down his name.

He had not told Langdon that he knew who he was when he had called to raise the price for the hit on Dr. Farrell because he had wanted to decide his next step first. When he had called Langdon, Sammy had phoned the cell number he had been given. But over the weekend, Langdon had ignored his demand, so Sammy knew exactly what he would do next.

Langdon was a shrink, but better than that he was on the board of the Gannon Foundation and that was worth millions and millions of dollars. If he was desperate enough to order a hit on that doctor, he must be in big trouble, Sammy reasoned. He ought to be able to dip into that foundation and get a million-dollar grant approved for Sammy Barber’s favorite charity. Meaning myself. Of course, it
wouldn’t be put that way. Langdon could skim a million off a legit grant. It must happen all the time.

Sammy bitterly regretted that he had not taped his meeting with Langdon, but he was sure he could make Langdon think he had. And of course at their next face-to-face meeting he would be sure that a tape was running.

On Monday morning at eleven o’clock, Sammy showed up in the lobby of the Park Avenue building where Douglas Langdon’s office was located. When the security desk phoned to confirm his appointment, Langdon’s secretary, Beatrice Tillman, emphatically said, “I have no record of an appointment with Mr. Barber.”

When the person at the desk passed the word to Sammy, it was the response he was expecting. “She doesn’t know that the doctor talked to me over the weekend and told me to come in. I’ll wait till he’s available.” He saw the mistrust in the security officer’s eyes. Even though he’d worn his new jacket and slacks and his one tie, he was fully aware that he didn’t have the look of someone who had thousands of bucks to throw away on a shrink.

The guard gave that message to Tillman, waited, then put the phone down and reached for a pass. He scribbled Langdon’s name and suite number and handed it to Sammy. “The doctor isn’t expected for another fifteen minutes, but you can go upstairs and wait for him.”

“Thanks.” Sammy took the pass and sauntered over to the elevator bank, where another guard allowed him to go through the turnstile. Mickey Mouse security here, he decided disdainfully.

Nice offices, though, he thought when he entered suite 1202. Not big, but nice. It was clear that the shrink’s secretary still wasn’t sure if she bought his story but she asked him to sit down in the reception area near her desk. Sammy took care to settle himself so that Langdon would not see him when he opened the door.

Ten minutes later Langdon came in. Sammy watched as he started
to greet the secretary, who interrupted him and, her voice too low for Sammy to hear, said something to him. Langdon turned and Sammy chortled to himself at the look of sheer panic that crossed his face.

He stood up. “Good morning, Doctor. It’s really nice of you to see me on such short notice and I do appreciate it. You know how sometimes my head gets all messed up.”

“Come in, Sammy,” Langdon said abruptly.

With a cheerful wave at Beatrice Tillman, whose face was a study in curiosity, Sammy followed the doctor down the hall into what he guessed was his private office. It was carpeted in deep crimson. The walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves. A handsome leather-topped desk dominated the room. A wide leather swivel chair was behind it. Two matching chairs finished in a red and cream fabric faced the desk.

“No couch?” Sammy asked, his tone bewildered.

Langdon was closing the door. “You don’t need a couch, Sammy,” he snapped. “What are you doing here?”

Without being invited, Sammy walked around the desk to the swivel chair and sat down on it. “Doug, I made you an offer and you didn’t get back to me. I don’t like to be disrespected.”

“You agreed to a twenty-five-thousand-dollar price and raised it to one hundred thousand,” a shaken Langdon reminded him.

“Twenty-five thousand for murdering Dr. Monica Farrell isn’t very much, I figure,” Sammy commented. “She’s not like some intern nobody ever heard of. She’s what would you say . . . distinguished?”

“You agreed to that price,” Langdon said, and now Sammy could hear the panic he’d expected in Langdon’s tone.

“But you didn’t get back to me,” Sammy reminded him. “So that’s why the price has gone up again. It’s now one million, payable in advance.”

“You’ve got to be crazy,” Langdon whispered.

“I’m not,” Sammy assured him. “I taped you the other night in the
diner and I’m taping you now.” He opened his jacket and exposed the wire he had attached to his cell phone. With a slow, deliberate movement he buttoned his jacket and got up. “What you or someone you know has on me wouldn’t mean much if it came to a trial. The cops would drop that charge in a minute in exchange for this tape and the other one. Now listen real carefully. I want one million dollars, then I do the job. I’ve figured out how to make it look like a burglary gone sour. So get the money, and you can sleep at night. You have to be smart enough to know that when the job is done, I won’t be sending any tapes to the cops.”

He got up, brushed past Langdon, and put his hand on the doorknob. “Have it by Friday,” he said, “or I go to the police myself.” He opened the door. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said, in a voice loud enough that he hoped the secretary could hear. “You’ve been a big help. Like you say, I can’t blame all my problems on my old lady. She did her best for me.”

17
 

Esther Chambers had had a dismal weekend. Her visit from Thomas Desmond of the Securities and Exchange Commission and his partner had thoroughly unsettled her. When she had found them waiting for her in her lobby on Wednesday evening, she had allowed them to come up to her apartment as Desmond had requested.

There, in the privacy of her home, he had told her that her boss had been watched for some time by the SEC and that criminal charges against him for insider trading might be forthcoming.

He had also told her that she had been thoroughly checked and that her finances had shown that in no way was she living beyond her income, so they felt confident that she was not engaged in any illegal activities. They told her that they wanted her to work with them and provide them with information about Greg’s business dealings. They stressed that confidentiality was of the utmost importance and that she would almost certainly be called to testify before a Grand Jury.

“I simply cannot believe that Greg Gannon would be guilty of insider trading,” she had told Desmond. “Why should he? The investment firm has always been very successful, and for years he’s received a big salary as chairman of the board of the Gannon Foundation.”