You belong to me (12 page)

"We're here, Justin," Pamela said when the taxi stopped and the doorman opened the door to let him out.

He turned and looked at her, his eyes dull. "All of this is my fault," he said. "I called Carolyn a little while before the accident. I know I upset her. She probably wasn't paying attention to the traffic. If she dies, I'll feel like I killed her."

Before Pamela could answer, he was out of the cab. But what could I tell him? she wondered. If Justin had reverted to one of his jealous or suspicious moods when he called, then indeed Carolyn would have been distracted and upset.

But she wouldn't have been so foolish as to show him that turquoise ring and talk about the man who gave it to her, would she? And why in the name of God would he have wanted a tape of the Ask Dr. Susan program, she wondered.That made no sense at all.

As the cab waited behind a car trying to park, another scenario came to Pamela's mind. Was it possible that the old woman on the television had been right, that Carolyn had been pushed? And if so, was Justin, for his own reasons, trying to set up the belief that she had been distracted and unwittingly stepped into the path of the van?

Then Pamela remembered something-something she had dismissed at the time. Two years ago, before she went on the cruise, Carolyn had said, "Justin's insecurity about our relationship is so deep that sometimes I'm afraid of him."

37

Sometimes at night he took long walks. He did it when everything built up to the point that it became necessary to ease the tensions. This afternoon had gone easily enough. The old man in the souvenir shop had died quietly. There's been nothing about his death on the evening news programs, he thought, so the odds were that when the store didn't reopen, nobody had cared enough to see if anything was wrong.

His goal tonight had been just to walk, however aimlessly, through the city streets, so he was almost surprised to find himself near Downing Street. Susan Chandler lived on Downing. Was she in now? he wondered. He realized that his walking here tonight, especially in a relatively unconscious state, was an indication that he could not allow her to keep making trouble. Since yesterday morning, he'd had to eliminate two people-Hilda Johnson and Abdul Parki, neither of whom he had ever intended to kill. A third, Carolyn Wells, was either going to die or would have to be eliminated should she ever recover. Even though she didn't know his real name, if she were able to talk, he had no doubt she would tell the doctors and the police that the man she knew as Owen Adams on the cruise was the one who had pushed her.

Even though the potential risk was slight, since all the credentials for Owen Adams were untraceable to him, he couldn't afford to let it go that far. The real danger was that Carolyn had recognized him, and if she recovered then there was no telling what could happen. They could conceivably meet at a cocktail party or in a restaurant. New York was a big city, but circles overlapped and paths crossed. Anything was possible.

Of course, as long as she was in a coma she posed no immediate danger. The real danger might be Tiffany, the girl who had called in to Dr. Susan Chandler's program today. As he walked along Downing Street, he cursed himself. He remembered his visit last year to Parki's shop-he had thought it was empty. From the sidewalk he hadn't been able to see that young couple standing behind the screen.

The minute he had noticed them, he knew he had made a mistake. The girl, one of those boldly attractive young women, had been eyeing him, sending signals that she found him attractive. It wouldn't matter, except he was sure she could recognize him if she saw him again. If Tiffany was the one who phoned in to Ask Dr. Susan today about the ring, and Tiffany and that girl from the shop were the same person, she had to be silenced. Tomorrow he would find a way to learn from Susan Chandler if this Tiffany person had sent the ring, and if so, what she had written to accompany it.

Another feather in the wind, he thought. When would it end? One thing for certain. By next week, Susan Chandler must be stopped.

38

On Wednesday morning, Oliver Baker was both nervous about being in the police station and thrilled by his role as witness. He had spent Monday night enthralling his wife and teenage daughters with his story of how if he had been a few feet nearer to the curb, he might have been the one to start across the street first and been hit by that van. Together they had watched the five, the six, and the eleven o'clock news on Monday night, on which Oliver had been one of the bystanders interviewed. "There but for the grace of God, go I, that was my feeling when I saw the van hit her," he had told the reporter. "I mean, I could see the look on her face. She was lying on her back, and in that split second she knew she was going to get hit."

A mild, eager-to-please man in his mid-fifties, Oliver was the produce manager at a D'Agostino's supermarket, a position he thoroughly enjoyed. He delighted in knowing the store's more upscale customers by name, and in being able to ask personal questions like, "Gordon enjoying his first year at prep school, Mrs. Lawrence?"

Seeing himself on television was one of the most exciting experiences Oliver had ever known, and now, to be asked to come into the police station to discuss the incident further, just added more drama.

He waited on a bench in the 19th Precinct station, the soft tweed hat his brother had brought him from Ireland in his hand. Looking around with downcast eyes, it occurred to him that someone might think he was in trouble himself, or perhaps had a relative in jail. That thought made his lips twitch, and he told himself to remember to tell that to Betty and the girls tonight.

"Captain Shea will see you now, sir." The desk sergeant pointed to a closed door past his desk.

Oliver quickly stood, straightened the collar of his jacket, and walked with swift but timid steps to the captain's office.

At Shea's brisk command to "Come in," he turned the handle and pushed the door slowly as though afraid of inadvertently hitting someone behind it. But a moment later, seated across the desk from the captain, Oliver lost his hesitancy in the exhilaration of telling his now-familiar story.

"You were not directly behind Mrs. Wells?" Shea interrupted.

"No, sir. I was somewhat to the left."

"Had you noticed her at all prior to the incident?"

"Not really. There were a lot of people at the corner. The light had just changed to red when I got there, so by the time it was about to change again, there was a pretty good crowd at the corner."

This is going nowhere, Tom Shea thought. Oliver Baker was the tenth witness they had interviewed, and like most of the accounts, his story differed somewhat from the others. Hilda Johnson had been the only one who definitely had insisted that Carolyn Wells had been pushed; now Hilda was dead. There was complete disagreement among the bystanders as to whether or not Mrs. Wells was carrying anything. Two were fairly certain they had noticed a manila envelope; three couldn't be sure; the remainder were certain it had not existed. Only Hilda had been adamant, claiming someone had yanked a manila envelope from under the victim's arm as she was pushed.

Oliver was eager to continue his story. "And let me tell you, Captain, I had bad dreams last night, thinking of that poor woman sprawled on the road."

Captain Shea smiled sympathetically at Oliver, encouraging him to continue.

"I mean," Oliver added, "as I was telling Betty-" He paused. "Betty's my wife. As I was telling her, that poor woman was probably just doing an errand, maybe going to the post office, and never knew when she left her home that she might not see it again."

"What makes you think she was going to the post office?" Shea snapped.

"Because she had a stamped manila envelope under her arm."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I think it started to slip, because just as the light changed, she began to turn, then lost her balance. The man behind her tried to steady her, I think, and that's how he happened to take the envelope. The old woman was all wrong about the way it happened. I wonder if that man mailed it for her? That's what I would have done."

"Did you get a look at him, at this man who took the envelope?" Shea asked.

"No. I couldn't take my eyes off Mrs. Wells."

"That man who took the envelope-did he try to help her?"

"No, I don't think so. A lot of people turned away- one woman almost fainted. A couple of men did rush to help, but they seemed to know what they were doing and yelled at everyone else to stay back."

"You have no impression of what this man looked like, the one who took the envelope as he was perhaps trying to steady Mrs. Wells?"

"Well, he had on a topcoat, a Burberry or one that looked like a Burberry." Oliver was proud that he had said "Burberry" instead of just raincoat.

When Oliver Baker had left, Captain Shea leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. His gut instinct was still telling him that there was a connection between Hilda Johnson's insistence that Carolyn Wells had been pushed and Hilda's own death only hours later. But nobody else on the scene corroborated Hilda's version. And there was always the possibility that Hilda's television appearance had attracted some nut to her.

In that case, he told himself, like many victims of circumstance, both Hilda Johnson and Carolyn Wells had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

39

On Wednesday morning, Doug Layton set his strategy into place. He knew he had a long way to go to placate Jane Clausen before he left on the trip, but during the sleepless early morning hours he had worked out a plan.

How often over the years had his mother talked to him-worried, troubled and anxious, tearful in her pleas that he stay out of any more trouble. "Look at the way your dad threw his life away, Doug. Don't be like him," she would say. "Be like your cousins."

Sure, Doug thought impatiently as he threw back the covers and got out of bed. Be like the cousins, who had generations of money behind the Layton name, who didn't have to worry about scholarships, who had virtually automatic entry into the best schools.

Scholarships-he smiled at the memory. It had taken a lot of doing to keep ahead of the game. Fortunately he had been smart enough to maintain his grades at an adequate level, even if it meant occasionally having to make unauthorized visits to the offices of the professors to get an advance glimpse at crucial tests.

He remembered the mathematics professor in prep school who found him in her office. He had been able to talk his way out of that situation by turning the tables and asking if anything was wrong. He told her that he had gotten an urgent message, ordering him to see her immediately. The teacher ended up apologizing to him, saying that one would think students with SATs looming before them might have better things to do with their time than to leave silly messages.

He always had been able to talk himself out of trouble. More than a test grade was in question now, however; this time the stakes were enormous.

He knew that Mrs. Clausen always had an early breakfast, and if she didn't have a meeting or doctor's appointment, she could be counted on to linger over a second cup of coffee at the small table at the window of the dining room. She once had told him that watching the strong tide of the East River gave her a certain comfort. "All life is governed by a tide, Douglas," she said. "When I become saddened, seeing the river reminds me that I cannot always control the events of my own life."

She had welcomed his occasional calls requesting a chance to drop by for a cup of coffee so they could go over a particular grant request before it came up at the board meeting. On all but one grant his advice to her had been sound, and she had learned to trust and depend upon him. On only one matter had he deliberately given her misinformation, and he had done it so carefully that she had no reason to suspect anything was amiss.

Jane Clausen hasn't got anyone left who is close to her, he reminded himself as he showered and dressed, careful to choose a conservative dark blue suit. That was something else-he had worn a jacket and slacks to the meeting yesterday. It had been a mistake; Mrs. Clausen did not approve of what she considered to be casual dress at board meetings.

I've had too much on my mind, Doug told himself with irritation. Jane Clausen is lonely and she's sick; it shouldn't be too difficult to calm her down.

In the taxi on the way to Beekman Place, he carefully rehearsed the story he would give her.

The concierge insisted on announcing him even though he said not to bother, that he was expected. When he stepped out of the elevator, the housekeeper was waiting at the apartment door, holding it open only a little. Her voice slightly nervous, she told him that Mrs. Clausen was not feeling well, and suggested he leave a message.

"Vera, I must see Mrs. Clausen for just a minute," Doug said firmly, his voice low. "I know she's at breakfast She had a weak spell in the office yesterday and was upset when I begged her to call the doctor. You know how it is with her when she's in pain."

Seeing Vera's uncertain look, he whispered, "We both love her and want to take care of her." Then he put his hands under her elbows, forcing her to step aside. In four long strides he was across the foyer and through the French doors that led to the dining room.

Jane Clausen was reading the Times. At the sound of his footsteps, she looked up. Doug had two immediate impressions: her initial expression of surprise at seeing him was replaced by a look akin to fear. The situation is worse than I realized, he thought. His second impression was that Jane Clausen could not be more than hours away from another hospital stay. Her skin tone was ashen.

He did not give her a chance to speak. "Mrs. Clausen, I've been terribly troubled that you misunderstood me yesterday," he said, his voice soothing. "I was mistaken when I said Regina had told me the orphanage in Guatemala was a favorite charity of hers, and, of course, I was mistaken when I suggested that you had told me that. The truth is that when he invited me to be on the board, Mr. March himself was the one who explained a great deal about that orphanage, and about how Regina happened to visit it and was so touched by the plight of the children there."