Mary Clark: The Shadow of Your Smile

On Tuesday morning, Forrest and Whelan went to Scott Alterman’s apartment and learned to their chagrin that he had not been seen there since Saturday evening, when, dressed in a business suit and tie, he had walked out of his apartment building.

“He was in a really good mood,” the doorman told the detectives. “Not a care in the world, if you know what I mean. I asked if he wanted me to call him a cab, but he said that he wasn’t going far, he could walk it.”

Their next stop was at his new office in the prestigious law firm of Williams, Armstrong, Fiske, and Conrad. “Mr. Alterman started with us only last week,” his secretary said. “On Saturday afternoon, he left a message on my office phone telling me to remind him on Monday that he wanted me to find out anything I could about the background of an Olivia Morrow who died last week.”

Forrest made a note of the name. “Have you any idea why he wanted you to do that?”

“Not really,” the secretary replied. “But I think it might have had something to do with a Dr. Monica Farrell. You probably heard. She was the young woman who was almost killed by the bus.”

“Dr. Monica Farrell.” Carl Forrest tried to keep his face impassive and his tone of voice even. “Yes, I know about her. What gives you the idea that Mr. Alterman was connected in some way to this woman Olivia Morrow who died?”

“Last week we were talking in the office about the kind of mentally disturbed people who won’t take their medicine and then try to kill innocent people like that young doctor. Mr. Alterman said he knew Dr. Farrell, and of course we asked him more about her.”

“What did Mr. Alterman say?” Forrest asked.

“He said that she didn’t know she was an heiress to a fortune, but that he was going to prove it.”

“He said what ?” Forrest asked, as Jim Whelan stared at the secretary. “How did you respond to that statement?”

“We really didn’t. We thought he was joking. Don’t forget, we really don’t know Mr. Alterman very well. He just started at the firm a week ago.”

“Of course. Please call me immediately if you hear from him.” Forrest and Whelan went down in the elevator together. They were leaving the building when Forrest felt the slight vibration of his cell phone in his breast pocket indicating that a call was coming through. It was from headquarters.

He answered it, listened, then said, “Okay, we’ll meet you at the morgue.” Then, standing in the inviting sunshine and crisp breeze of the October morning, he told Whelan. “A body has just been fished out of the East River. If the wallet with all the usual identification is accurate, we can stop looking for Scott Alterman.”

On Tuesday morning at five minutes of eleven, Monica Farrell, accompanied by two members of the board of directors of Greenwich Village Hospital, entered the vast lobby of the Time Warner Center and took the elevator to the floor where the Alexander Gannon Foundation and the Gannon Investment Firm shared connecting offices.

Justin Banks, the chairman of the board, and Robert Goodwin, executive director of development, were men in their sixties. Both of them, like Monica, were passionately dedicated to making Greenwich Village Hospital the finest medical center it could possibly become. Over the years, the hundred-year-old hospital had evolved from a small twenty-bed local clinic to the impressive award-winning facility it now was.

As Justin Banks was fond of saying, “At least half the population of Greenwich Village first saw the light of day in our hospital.” Now there was a pressing need for a state-of-the-art pediatric center, toward which Greg and Pamela Gannon had pledged fifteen million dollars with great fanfare at a black-tie dinner a year and a half ago.

When they arrived, a young receptionist invited them to wait in the conference room and offered them coffee. Banks and Goodwin refused, but Monica accepted. “I didn’t have my usual second cup this morning,” she explained, with a smile. “I had some early patients, and I was rushing.”

There was another reason why she had not taken time for a second coffee. Guessing he would be up, she had called Ryan on his cell phone at seven o’clock. He had assured her he was not only up, but about to leave for the hospital. Then she said, “Ryan, I really need to apologize. I was so terribly rude to you.”

“You were obviously mad at me,” he had said. “But I certainly understand that you don’t want to become the subject of gossip.”

“Nor do you.” She hadn’t intended to say that.

“Actually, I wouldn’t have minded, but there you are.”

And I got mad again, Monica thought, as she thanked the secretary for the coffee. I said that he wasn’t being fair to his girlfriend to talk like that.

“My girlfriend!” he had exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

“When I phoned you last Thursday evening to explain why I didn’t get back to my office to give you the file…”

“What do you mean you phoned Thursday night?”

“I phoned your apartment. Your significant other, or whoever she is, said you were there but you were changing. I assumed she would give you the message.”

“Oh, my God, I might have known. Monica, listen to me.”

As Monica heard Ryan’s angry but welcome explanation, she had felt as if a weight were lifting off her heart. Ryan was going to meet her at her office tonight. I’ll show him the pillow, too, and see what he thinks of it. The last words of their conversation puzzled her but he was laughing when he said them: “Okay, Monica, we both have to get moving, and I have one more job to do before I leave this apartment.”

I asked him what he meant, Monica thought, and he told me he had to throw out the rest of the lasagna. He said, “I’ll explain what I mean when I see you.”

She had taken the time to change into a suit because they were going out for dinner.

“Monica,” Justin Banks said, “I’m not much for personal compliments but you look absolutely lovely this morning. You should always wear blue.”

“Thanks. This outfit represents my fall shopping to date.”

Robert Goodwin was looking at his watch. “Ten after eleven. Let’s hope these people show up soon and have a check for us. They must have some money left. These are pretty fancy offices for a foundation. I happen to know the cost of the rents in this building.”

They heard footsteps coming toward them. A moment later three men entered the room. Monica was stunned to see that one of them was Dr. Clay Hadley. She could tell that he was equally shocked to see her. She had been at the dinner announcing the grant and had met Greg Gannon there. The other man now being introduced to them was Dr. Douglas Langdon.

“Dr. Hadley and Dr. Langdon are our board members,” Gannon explained. “My wife is not able to be with us today, and I’m sure you’re quite aware why my brother is not here. Let’s leave it at that.”

Gannon then sat at the head of the table, his demeanor solemn and unsmiling. “Let’s not waste each other’s time,” he said. “The fact is that the grant we so willingly pledged last year simply cannot be filled at this time. I don’t have to tell you how serious the economic climate has been, and like many other foundations, we were among the victims of a major scam, the Ponzi scheme that has been in the newspapers for months.”

“I’ve followed very carefully the Ponzi scheme I believe you are talking about,” Goodwin said, sharply. “The Gannon Foundation has not been listed as being involved.”

“Nor do we want it to be,” Greg Gannon replied, his tone equally sharp. “The other arm of our business is my investment firm. I don’t intend to have my clients worried that their money was lost, because it was not. The Gannon Foundation has given away millions over the years. Our record of generosity is extraordinary, but now it has come to an end. The foundation will be closing. We cannot honor our pledge to you.”