Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about returning the O’Keefe file,” Nan reassured him. “Dr. Farrell had me run over and pick it up from your office.”

“Why did she do that?” Ryan asked, astonished. “I certainly intended to bring it back myself. May I please speak with her?”

By the uncomfortable pause, he knew that Monica’s secretary had been told to say she was unavailable to him.

“I’m afraid she’s already gone, Doctor,” Nan said.

In the background, Ryan could clearly hear Monica saying good-bye to a patient. “Then tell Dr. Farrell, for me, to keep her voice down when she’s asking you to lie for her,” he said sharply, and with a decisive click, hung up the phone.

On Monday morning Monica made an exceptionally early visit to the hospital because she knew her office schedule was packed. When she arrived, Nan and Alma were already there, gearing up for a busy day. Nan’s first question was about Sally.

“She’s really good,” Monica answered, gratefully. “Almost too good, in fact. I won’t have much justification for keeping her in the hospital longer than a few more days.”

“No relatives showed up over the weekend?” Alma asked.

“No. From what I read in the newspapers, even if Peter Gannon gets out on bail, he’s forbidden to go near her. No one seems to know anything about Renée Carter’s background, although, putting it bluntly, if her relatives are anything like her, Sally is better off never meeting them.”

At ten o’clock, as she was about to go on to the next patient, Nan called her on the intercom. “Doctor, would you please step into your consulting room?”

It had to be important. Nan would never have interrupted her for a casual visitor. Alarmed, Monica darted down the corridor to her private office. Two men were standing there waiting for her.

“We can see how busy you are, Doctor, so we’ll make this brief,” the taller man said, reaching behind her to shut the office door. “I’m Detective Carl Forrest. This is my partner, Detective Jim Whelan. We have come to the definite conclusion that last Thursday evening you were deliberately pushed in front of that bus. Security tapes at the hospital show a man whom we know to be mob-connected followed you when you left the hospital. We’re certain he was the one who pushed you.”

“Who is he?” Monica asked, bewildered. “And why on earth would he want to kill me ?”

“His name is Sammy Barber. Do you know him, Doctor?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m not surprised,” Forrest said. “He’s a hit man for hire. Do you have any idea why someone would want to hurt or kill you? Think about it. Have you had any problems about a missed diagnosis, say, where you lost a child?

“Absolutely not!”

“Dr. Farrell, do you owe anyone money, or does anyone owe you money?”

“No. No one.”

“How about a rejected boyfriend? Is there anyone like that in your life?”

Forrest caught the hesitation in Monica’s face. “There is someone, Dr. Farrell, isn’t there?”

“But it was in the past,” Monica protested.

“Who was he?”

“I can tell you, you’re going nowhere asking about him and I certainly don’t want you to put his new job in jeopardy by giving anyone the impression that he’s a stalker.”

“Dr. Farrell, why would you suggest that this person is a stalker?” Forrest asked sharply.

Calm down. Get your bearings, Monica told herself. “The man I’m talking about was married to a close friend. He was also my father’s attorney. He developed a crush on me just before I left Boston. I hadn’t seen him in four years. He is now divorced and recently moved to Manhattan. He is very interested in trying to help me trace my father’s background. My father was adopted. I consider him a friend, nothing more, nothing less.”

“What is his name?”

“Scott Alterman.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last Thursday evening. He heard on the radio about the bus almost hitting me and called. I guess he could tell by my voice that I was pretty shaken up. He came to my apartment and stayed for about an hour.”

“He came immediately after the accident?”

“Yes, but you must get something straight. In one hundred million years Scott Alterman would never harm me. I’m sure of that.”

“Have you spoken to him since Thursday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Manhattan, on the West Side. I don’t have his address.”

“We’ll find it. Do you know where he works?”

“As I told you, Scott is an attorney. He just started at a New York law firm. It’s one of those with three or four names. One of them is Armstrong. Look, I really have to get back to my patients,” Monica said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “But what about this Sammy Barber? Where is he?”

“He lives on the Lower East Side. We’ve already confronted him about being on the security tape. He denies having anything to do with you, but we are keeping a twenty-four-hour tail on him.”

Forrest reached in his pocket and took out the mug shot of Barber. “Here is his picture, so you know what he looks like. He knows we’re watching him, so I don’t think he’ll try again. But, Doctor, please be careful.”

“I will. Thank you.” Monica turned and hurried back down to the examining room, where a six-month-old was now screaming. When they started talking about Scott, I never even thought to mention that the watering can had been moved the other night, she thought. But before I tell anybody, I’m going to ask Lucy if she pushed it aside when she swept the patio.

Scott would never, ever want to harm me, she thought. Then the uncomfortable memory of how he had suddenly appeared on the street when she was hailing a cab to go to Ryan’s apartment came back to her.

Is it possible, she asked herself, is it even remotely possible that Scott is still obsessed with me and would hire someone to kill me?

At two o’clock on Monday afternoon, Arthur Saling phoned Greg Gannon and twenty minutes later arrived at Gannon’s office. Esther tried to keep from looking at the sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. She knew it was the letter she had sent him.

“Mr. Saling, it’s so nice to see you,” she began. “I’ll tell Mr. Gannon that you are here.”

It was not necessary to announce him. The door of Greg’s office had opened, and Greg was hurrying to meet Saling with a welcoming smile and extended hand. “Arthur, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you got one of those poison-pen letters a former employee is sending out. Thank you so much for bringing it to me. A number of our clients have received them. They’re being turned over to the FBI. The man who has been sending them is demented. They’re about to arrest him.”

“I don’t want any part of having to testify at a trial,” Arthur Saling said anxiously.

“Absolutely not,” Greg agreed, as he put a friendly arm around Saling’s shoulders. “We’ve got plenty of evidence and this nutcase will be forced to plead guilty. He’s married and has a family. What the FBI agent told me is that he’ll probably end up getting probation and being ordered to undergo psychiatric treatment. That will be easier for both the poor guy and his family.”

“How kind of you,” Arthur Saling said. “I’m not so sure I’d be that benevolent if somebody was trying to ruin my good name.”

With a sigh that was partly relief, partly compassion for Arthur Saling, Esther watched the men disappear into Greg Gannon’s private office. As the door closed behind them, she was sure that Saling was about to put Greg in control of his portfolio. I did my best to warn him, she thought. There are none so blind as those who will not see.