You belong to me (26 page)

Hundreds of pictures at twelve-fifty each, Susan thought; this could cost a fortune. "Wait a minute," she said. "The picture I want on the Seagodiva shows a single woman with the captain. Could you possibly go through those negatives and make a copy of all the pictures taken of a single woman posing with the captain?"

"On the leg from Mumbai to Athens in October two years ago?"

"That's right."

"We would, of course, need to be paid in advance."

"Of course." Dad could wire the money for me, from his office, Susan thought. I can pay him back later.

"Look," she said, "I need this picture as soon as possible. If the money is wired today, can you send the pictures by courier by tonight?"

"Certainly by tomorrow. You do realize we may be talking about as many as four hundred prints?"

"Yes, I do."

"I'm sure we'd be happy to offer a discount. Unfortunately you'd need to discuss it with Mr. Mayhew, and he won't be in until late this afternoon."

Susan interrupted the clerk. "I can't worry about that right now. Give me the information on the bank to which the money should be wired. It will be there by three o'clock your time today, at the latest."

"Oh, then I really am afraid that we can't complete the job until tomorrow. But you'd still have the pictures on Monday."

With that, Susan had to be satisfied.

She did manage to get back to sleep after the phone call, but not for long. By eight o'clock she was dressed and ready to leave for work. She had debated whether to wait until nine and try to reach her father at the office, but she was afraid he might not go directly there this morning. Keeping her fingers crossed that she would get him and not Binky, she phoned the house in Bedford Hills.

The new housekeeper answered. Mr. and Mrs. Chandler were weekending at the New York apartment, she told Susan. "They went down last evening."

That must be a relief for you, Susan thought. Binky had a reputation for not being able to keep household help.

She called the apartment and groaned inwardly when her stepmother answered. There was no trilling note in her voice this morning. "Good Lord, Susan, couldn't it have waited?" she asked petulantly. ""Your father's in the shower. I'll have him call you back."

"Please do that," Susan said shortly.

Fifteen minutes later, her father returned the call. "Susan, Binky is positively contrite. She was so sleepy when she answered the phone, she didn't even think to ask how you were."

Oh, please, Susan thought. Dad, are you so dense you don't realize that what she's letting me know, in case I missed it, is that I woke her up. "Tell her I was never better," she said, "but Dad-I mean Charles-I need a favor."

"Anything for my girl."

"Great. I need you to wire fifty-three hundred dollars to London as fast as possible. I can phone your office and give the information to your secretary if you want, but it needs to be done immediately. I'll pay you back, of course. I'll just need to transfer some funds from my investment account, and that will take a few days."

"Don't worry about that. I'm glad to do it, honey. But is something wrong? This sounds like an emergency. You're not sick or having trouble, are you?"

Very nice, Susan thought. You're sounding like a father. "No, nothing like that. I'm doing a little pro bono police work for a friend of mine. We need to try to identify someone from cruise ship pictures."

"That's a relief. Give me the information; I'll take care of it right away. You know, Susan, I wish you would call me for help more often. It makes me feel mighty good. I don't see enough of you and I miss you."

Susan felt a momentary wave of nostalgia wash over her, but it quickly abated when she heard Binky"s voice in the background.

Her father chuckled indulgently. "I'd better get off now, honey. Binky wants to get all her beauty rest, so I have to let her get back to sleep."

74

On Friday morning, Chris Ryan settled back in his ancient swivel chair and began to study the preliminary feedback he had gotten from his sources about Douglas Layton.

The initial piece of information checked out: Layton's educational background was exactly what he claimed it to be, so he wasn't one of those guys who say they graduated from a college they had seen only in pictures. The next item, however, was a clear indication to Chris that there was something funny about Layton: He'd had four different jobs since graduating from law school, and even though he seemed to have all the attributes that would guarantee he would make partner, it never had happened.

Chris arched his eyebrows as he read the details of Layton's present situation. He's definitely in the catbird seat now, he thought. A trusteeship with the Clausen Family Trust offered great potential, as well as the prospect of leading to a very cushy job, especially when old Hubert March, who appeared to be treating him as heir apparent, retired. From what Susan tells me, he's really buttering up Mrs. Clausen too, Ryan mused.

As he studied the report, he highlighted some points for further investigation. One significant point stood out: For someone who was paid to both preserve and spend impressive sums of money, Layton seemed to have precious little of his own. "What gives?" Chris muttered to himself. Here's a guy in his mid-thirties, single, with no apparent financial responsibilities, he thought. He has worked with good companies for good bucks, yet it looks like he's worth nothing. His car is leased; his apartment's a rental. Checking account deposits just about cover monthly expenses. There's no record of a savings account.

So what does Layton do with his money? he wondered. He could have a drug habit, of course. And if he does, chances are, like most addicts, he's finding a way to support it, and he's probably not relying just on his salary.

Chris smiled grimly. There was definitely enough here to justify a more probing investigation. He liked the moment when he picked up the scent and began the chase. I'll give Susan a call, he decided. She always wants to be in on everything from the beginning. And she'll probably derive a certain satisfaction from knowing she was right-as far as Doug Layton is concerned, there's something rotten in Denmark.

75

When Susan arrived at her office, there was a call from Pete Sanchez waiting on the answering machine. She listened with a sense of triumph to the news that they had found the ring. This could be important, she thought.

She sat at her desk for a minute, mentally putting together some of the pieces of the puzzle. The rings might not prove to be the key to solving these crimes, but clearly they connected all the victims. And if she was right, Tiffany's death had been caused not by the fact she owned the ring, but out of fear that she might have been able to identify the man who purchased several others like it at a souvenir shop in the Village.

I'll try out my theory on Pete and see what happens, she thought as she reached for the phone.

She could tell by Sanchez's voice that he was in excellent spirits. "The D.A.'s office is grilling the suspect," he told her happily. "One of my sources led us to a couple of witnesses who heard him threaten what he'd do to Tiffany, and he even said that he was on his way back to The Grotto to take care of her. He'll break. Anyhow, what's with that crummy ring?"

Susan chose her words carefully. "Pete, I may be dead wrong, but I think that these turquoise rings have everything to do with this case. One was found in the personal effects of a woman who vanished three years ago. Monday, a woman called in to my program and promised to show another one of them to me. We think she changed her mind and was going to mail it; she was hit by a van on the way to the post office. The police are still investigating, but it appears she was pushed. Tiffany promised to send her ring to me, then changed her mind and decided to keep it for sentimental reasons, then threw it away, but whoever murdered her didn't know that, and besides, I'm not sure-"

Sanchez interrupted: "Susan, the guy who hit on Tiffany is in custody. I don't see where a turquoise ring has anything to do with this case. We learned she was talking to you about the ex-boyfriend, a guy named Matt Bauer, and we've checked him out. Wednesday night he and his parents were in Babylon, visiting his girlfriend's home. They were going over wedding plans. He drove out with his folks and came back with them well after midnight. So he's clear."

"Pete, trust me. That ring may be significant. Have you got it there?"

"Right here."

"Wait a minute." Susan reached for her shoulder bag and from her wallet extracted the ring Jane Clausen had given her. "Pete, will you describe the ring you have?"

"Sure. Chips of turquoise set in a cheap band. Susan, these things are a dime a dozen."

"Any inscription on the inside?"

"Oh, yeah. Hard to read, though. Okay, it says, 'You belong to me.' "

Susan yanked open the top desk drawer and rummaged inside until she found her magnifying glass. She placed Regina Clausen's ring under the light to examine it closely. "Pete, have you got a magnifying glass?"

"Around here somewhere, I guess."

"Bear with me, please. I want to compare the writing on the inside of the bands. The one I'm holding has a broad capital Y, the t is narrow and uncrossed, and there's a big loop on the letter m."

"The Y and t sound alike. There's no loop on the m, though," Pete reported. "Susan, what is this about?"

"Pete, let's do it this way," Susan begged. "Please treat the ring as evidence and have your lab make enlarged photographs of it from every angle and fax them to me. And one more thing-I want to talk to Matt Bauer myself. Will you give me his phone number?"

"Susan, the guy's clean." Pete's tone was indulgent.

"I'm sure he is. Come on, Pete. I did some favors for you when I was in the D.A.'s office."

There was a moment of silence, then Sanchez said, "Got a pencil? Here's the number." After Susan read the number back to him, he said in a voice that was totally professional, "Susan, I'm sure we've got Tiffany Smith's killer, but if you're onto something else, I want to know about it."

"It's a deal," Susan promised.

She had barely replaced the receiver before Janet announced a call from Chris Ryan, who filled her in on what he had learned so far about Douglas Layton.

He concluded his observations by saying, "Susie, we're hot on the scent."

Yes, we are, Susan thought, and in more ways than you know. She asked Chris to keep her posted, then alerted Janet to be on the lookout for a fax from Yonkers.

76

For a brief moment on Friday morning, it appeared that Carolyn Wells came close to regaining consciousness. Her mind didn't clear so much as it focused on the moment. Carolyn was aware of a floating sensation, as though she were immersed in a dark and murky sea. Nothing was clear. Even the pain-and there was a lot of it-was unfocused, as though it was just there, throughout her body.

Where was Justin, she wondered. She needed him. What had happened to her? Why was there all this pain? It was so hard to remember. He had phoned her-He was angry at her-She had talked about a man she met on the ship- Justin had phoned her about it-Justin, don't be angry. I love you-there's never been anyone else, she cried, but of course no one heard her. She was still under water.

Why did she feel so sick? Where was she? Carolyn felt herself rise to the surface. "Justin," she whispered.

She was not aware that a nurse was leaning over her bed. She just wanted to tell Justin not to feel hurt, not to be angry at her. "Justin, please don't!" she begged, then she slipped under again, away from the pain and into the welcoming waves of darkness.

Having been told to report anything that Carolyn Wells said, the duty nurse phoned Captain Tom Shea at the 19th Precinct. Her call was put through to the room in which the captain was once again going over Justin Wells's account of his actions on Monday afternoon-how he had phoned his wife, expressed his anger over her call to the radio program, then had gone home to talk to her in person, and not finding her there, had changed topcoats and returned to the office. At no point had he actually seen her.

Shea listened to the nurse's report, then said, "Mr. Wells, why don't you listen to this yourself?"

Justin Wells's lips tightened and his face flushed as the nurse hesitantly repeated Carolyn's words.

"Thank you," he said quietly; then he replaced the receiver and stood up. "Are you detaining me?" he demanded of Shea.

"Not yet."

"Well, you'll find me at the hospital. When my wife regains full consciousness, she's going to need me there. Whether she remembers what happened to her or not, one thing I can promise you: no matter how hard you try to build a case against me, Carolyn knows that I'd kill myself before I'd harm her in any way."

Shea waited until Wells left, then called the desk sergeant. "Send a female officer over to Lenox Hill Hospital," he ordered. "Tell her to make damn sure that Justin Wells is never left alone with his wife in her hospital room."

For long minutes afterward he sat, mentally reviewing the case and wincing at the prospect of another session with Oliver Baker, who had phoned requesting an appointment. But Baker was turning out to be an important witness, he reflected. He had seen the envelope pulled from under Carolyn Wells's arm; he was positive it had been stamped and was addressed to "Dr. Something"; he had been sure that the man who grabbed it was wearing a Burberry coat.

Maybe Baker's memory got jogged a little more, Shea thought, hence the request for another meeting. As one of the handful of mourners at Hilda Johnson's funeral service a few hours earlier, he was itching to see that Justin Wells was brought to justice. What stranger, he reasoned, would Hilda have admitted to her apartment at night, unless it were someone who identified himself as the husband of the woman she had seen pushed in front of the van?

Wells was guilty-Shea was sure of it. And it infuriated him to think that Hilda's murderer had just walked out of this room, still a free man.

77

It would have been too difficult and caused too much comment to break the morning's appointments, especially when he was going away in a few days' time, so he was able to catch only a little of Susan's radio program. As he had expected, the listeners were still anxious to talk about Tiffany's death: