You belong to me (7 page)

Nothing like his father, Curley mused. The old guy was a tough one. So was Alex's mother. She'd bite your head off for nothing. Always on Alex when he was a lad. A miracle he turned out so fine. I hope this lady on Downing Street is fun, he thought. Alex Wright deserved to have some fun. He worked too hard.

As usual, Il Mulino was busy. The scent of good food mingled with the cheerful voices of the diners. The bar was filled with people waiting for tables. The overflowing harvest basket of vegetables at the entrance to the dining room gave a country like coziness to the restaurant's simple decor.

The maŒtre d' escorted them to a table immediately. As they wended their way through the crowded room, Alex Wright was stopped several times to greet friends.

Without consulting the wine list, he ordered a bottle of Chianti and one of Chardonnay. At her look of consternation, he laughed. "You don't have to have more than a glass or two, but I promise you, you'll enjoy sipping both. I'm going to be honest. I skipped lunch and I'm starving. Do you mind if we look at the menu right away?"

Susan decided on a salad and salmon. He chose oysters, pasta, and veal. "The pasta is what I would have had for lunch," he explained.

As the captain poured wine, Susan raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "I cannot believe that only an hour ago I was in my favorite, somewhat ragged caftan, planning a quiet evening at home," she told him.

"You could have worn the caftan," he suggested.

"Only if I was trying to impress you," she said, eliciting a laugh from Wright.

She studied him briefly as he waved at someone across the room. He was dressed in a conservative dark gray suit with a faint pinstripe, a crisp white shirt, and a small-patterned gray-and-red tie. He was attractive and impressive.

Finally she realized what it was that was puzzling her about him. Certainly Alex Wright had the authority and poise that were the product of generations of breeding, but there was something else about him that intrigued her. I think he's a little shy, she decided. That's what it is. She liked that about him.

"I'm glad I went to the cocktail party yesterday," he told her quietly. "I'd decided to stay home and do the Times puzzle, but I'd accepted the invitation and didn't want to be rude." His smile was fleeting. "I want you to know I'm grateful to you for coming out to dine with me on such short notice."

"You said you've known Binky quite a long time?"

"Yes, but only the way you know people who go to the same parties. Small ones. I can't stand the biggies. I hope I'm not stepping on your toes when I say she's an airhead."

"A very persuasive airhead," Susan said ruefully. "What do you think of that Disney castle my father built for her?"

They laughed.

"But you're still pretty hurt and uncomfortable about the situation?" he suggested. "Sorry; you're the psychologist, not me."

When you don't want to give an answer, ask a question, Susan reminded herself. "You've met my father and sister," she countered. "What about you? Any siblings?"

He told her that he was an only child, the product of a late marriage. "My father was too busy making money to court anyone until he was in his forties," he explained. "Then he was too busy amassing wealth to pay much attention to me or my mother. But I must assure you that with the human misery I read and hear about every day at the foundation, I count myself very lucky."

"In the grand scheme of things, you probably are," Susan agreed. "Me, too."

It wasn't until they were sipping espresso that Regina Clausen's name came up. Alex Wright couldn't tell her very much more than what he had said on the phone. He'd sat at the same table as Regina at a Futures Industry dinner. He found her to be a quiet, intelligent lady. It seemed impossible to think that someone with her background could just disappear.

"Do you put any stock in that call you got on the program?" he asked. "The one from the woman who sounded so nervous?"

She had already decided that she would not discuss with anyone the ring Regina Clausen's mother had given her. That ring, with the same "You belong to me" inscription "Karen" had mentioned, was the only tangible object that might link Regina's disappearance and Karen's experience with an aborted shipboard friendship. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.

"I just don't know," she told him. "It's too early to be sure."

"How did you ever happen to do a radio program in the first place?" he asked.

She found herself telling him how Nedda had introduced her to the former host. She also told him about having worked for Nedda while in law school, about quitting her job in the Westchester County District Attorney's office, and going back to school.

Finally, over brandy, Susan said, "I'm the one who's usually the listener. Enough about me. Much too much about me, in fact." Wright signaled for the check. "Not nearly enough," he said briskly.

All in all, it had been a very nice evening, Susan decided as she slipped into bed.

She saw that it was ten of eleven. She had been home twenty minutes. When she had tried to say good-bye at the front door of her brownstone, Alex said, "My father told me to always see a lady safely home. And then I assure you I'll be on my way." He had insisted on going upstairs with her and waiting while she opened her apartment door.

Nothing like a little old-fashioned courtesy, Susan thought as she turned off the light.

She was tired but found she could not stop reviewing the events of the day, going over what had happened and what had not happened. She thought about Donald Richards, author of Vanishing Women. He had been an interesting guest. Clearly he would have liked to be invited to the hoped-for meeting with "Karen."

Somewhat uncomfortably, Susan remembered her swift rejection of his hint that he would like to have input into anything Karen might disclose if she kept the appointment.

Would she ever hear from Karen again? she wondered. Would it be wise to make a plea on tomorrow's show for the woman to contact her, if only by phone?

As she started to fall asleep, Susan sensed a warning bell in her subconscious. She stared into the darkness, trying to pinpoint what it was that had set off her internal alarm. Clearly there was something that had happened or that she had heard earlier that day, something that she should have paid attention to. But what was it?

Realizing that she was too tired to focus now, she turned over and settled in for the night. She would think of it tomorrow; surely that would be plenty of time.

19

Hilda Johnson slept for five hours before she awoke at ten-thirty, feeling both refreshed and somewhat hungry. A cup of tea and a piece of toast would go down well, she decided, as she sat up and reached for her robe. She also wanted to see if they would show her again on the eleven o'clock news.

After she watched the news, she would get back into bed and say a rosary for Carolyn Wells, that poor woman who had been hit by the van.

She knew that Captain Tom Shea would be at the precinct station by 8 A.M. sharp. She would be there, waiting for him. As she knotted the belt of her chenille robe, Hilda mentally reviewed the face of the man whom she had seen push Mrs. Wells into the van's path. Now that the shock had worn off, she could remember his face even more clearly than she had seemed to at the time. She knew that in the morning she would have to give the police sketch artist a complete description of the man.

Nearly seventy years ago, she had been a good art student herself. Her grammar school teacher, Miss Dunn, had been very encouraging, saying Hilda had a real talent, especially for sketching faces, but then at age thirteen she had had to go to work, and that left no time for that sort of thing, she thought regretfully.

Not that she had given up sketching entirely, of course. Over the years she often had taken a pad and pen with her to the park and made pen-and-ink drawings that she would frame and give to her friends for their birthdays. She hadn't done it lately, though. There were only a few friends left, and besides, her fingers were too swollen with arthritis to hold a pen easily.

Still, if she could get that man's face down on paper now, while it was still fresh in her mind, it would be that much easier when she went to the police in the morning.

Hilda crossed to the secretary that had been her mother's, and which occupied a place of honor in her tiny living room. She opened the desk section below the mahogany-and-glass cabinet and pulled up a chair. In a drawer was a box of stationery her friend Edna had given her last Christmas. The sheets were large and sunny yellow, and there was lettering across the top that read, "A ban mot for you from Hilda Johnson."

Edna had explained that a ban mot was a clever saying, and the executive-size paper was something she knew Hilda would enjoy. "Not like those little cards that just about give you the space to write two lines."

It was also the perfect size for making a quick sketch to help Hilda anchor her memory of the thug who had grabbed that poor woman's manila envelope and then pushed her. With painfully stiff fingers, Hilda slowly began to draw. A face started to emerge-not a profile, but more like he was facing three-quarters of the way toward her. Yes, his hair had grown like this, she reminded herself. She drew his ear, well-shaped, close to his head. His eyes had been far apart, and they narrowed as he focused on Wells, his lashes, long, his chin, determined.

When Hilda put the pen down, she was satisfied. Not bad, she thought, not bad at all. She glanced at the clock; it was five of eleven. She turned on the television, then went into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

She had just lit the gas beneath it when the buzzer sounded from downstairs. Who in the name of God at this hour? she wondered as she went into the tiny foyer and picked up the receiver of the intercom.

"Who is it?" She did not attempt to conceal her irritation.

"Miss Johnson, I'm so sorry to disturb you." The man's voice was low and pleasant. "I'm Detective Anders. We have a suspect in custody who may be the person you saw push Mrs. Wells today. I need to show you his picture. If you recognize him, we can hold him. Otherwise we'll have to let him go."

"I thought no one believed me when I said someone pushed her," Hilda snapped.

"We didn't want it to leak that we were on the tail of a suspect. May I come up for just a minute?"

"I guess so."

Hilda pushed the buzzer that unlocked the lobby door. Then with a feeling of self-satisfaction, she went back to the desk and looked at her sketch. Wait till Detective Anders sees this, she thought.

She heard the old elevator when it lumbered to a stop on her floor; after that she made out the faint sound of footsteps.

She waited until Detective Anders rang the bell before she opened the door. Must be getting cold, she thought-his coat collar was turned up, and he wore a slouch hat pulled down low on his forehead. Plus he was wearing gloves.

"This will only take a minute, Miss Johnson," he said. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

Hilda cut short his apology. "Come in," she said briskly. "I've got something to show you too." As she led the way to the desk, she did not hear the soft click of the closing door.

"I did a sketch of the guy I saw," she said triumphantly. "Let's compare it with the picture you have."

"Of course." But instead of a sketch, the visitor laid down a driver's license with a photo ID.

Hilda gasped. "Look! It's the same face! That's the man I saw push that woman and grab the envelope."

For the first time, she looked directly up at Detective Anders. He had removed his hat, and his coat collar was no longer turned up around his neck.

Hilda's eyes widened in shock Her mouth opened, but the only sound that came from it was a feint murmur: "Oh, no!" She tried to step back, but she bumped into the desk behind her. Her face went ghastly pale as she realized that she was trapped.

Beseechingly she raised her hands. Then in futile protest she turned her palms outward to shield herself from the knife her visitor was about to plunge into her chest.

He jumped back to avoid the spurting blood, then watched as her body sagged and crumbled to the threadbare carpet. A fixed, staring look began to settle in Hilda's eyes, but she managed to murmur, "God- won't- let you- get- away-"

As he reached over her to take his driver's license and her sketch, her body shuddered violently, and her hand fell on his shoe.

Shaking the hand off, he walked calmly to the door, opened it, checked the hallway, and in four paces was at the fire exit staircase. When he reached the lobby, he opened that door a crack, saw no one coming, and an instant later was on the street, heading home.

The realization of how narrow had been his escape washed over him. If the cops had believed that old bag and gone to talk to her that afternoon, she might have drawn the sketch for them. It would have been in all the papers tomorrow.

As he walked, his right foot began to feel heavier and heavier. It felt almost as if Hilda Johnson's thick-fingered hand were still lying on it.

Had her dying words put a curse on him? he wondered. They had reminded him of the mistake he had made earlier today-the mistake that Susan Chandler, with her trained prosecutor's mind, might just possibly uncover.

He knew he couldn't let that happen.

20

Susan's sleep was restless, filled with troubling dreams. When she awoke she remembered fragments of scenes in which Jane Clausen and Dee and Jack and she were all present. She remembered that at one point Jane Clausen had been pleading, "Susan, I want Regina," while Dee stretched out her hand and said, "Susan, I want Jack."

Well, you had him, Susan thought. She got out of bed and stretched, hoping to relieve the familiar clutch at her heart. It bothered her deeply that after all these years, a dream like that could bring all the memories flooding back. Memories of herself at twenty-three, a second-year law student working part-time for Nedda. Jack, a twenty-eight-year-old commercial photographer, just beginning to make a name for himself. The two of them in love.