Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

Peter shook his head. “How can I give him up?” he asked, his voice anguished. “How can I?”

“How can you not?” Susan demanded. “But it’s your decision to make and live with, Peter. I have to get back to the office. I’ll see you later.”

At two thirty on Tuesday, Barry Tucker went directly from the morgue, where he and Detective Flynn had viewed Scott Alterman’s body, to headquarters to report to Chief Stanton. Flynn went from the morgue back to Alterman’s apartment building to question the staff there.

“Dennis is trying to get a handle on Alterman’s activities, from the time he visited Monica Farrell on Thursday evening until he left his apartment late Saturday,” Tucker told the chief.

“Carl, do you think this looks like Scott Alterman was behind the attempt on Dr. Farrell’s life?” Stanton asked. “Does the medical examiner think he’s dealing with a suicide?”

“Too soon to tell. No marks on his body. We’ve contacted Alterman’s parents and siblings. They haven’t talked to him since last week. The ME thinks he may have been drugged before he fell into the river. Or was pushed. We won’t have the drug tests from the lab for at least a week. If he did order the hit on the doctor, he may have panicked, and overdosed himself. On the other hand,” Forrest speculated, “according to the doorman, when Alterman left his apartment building on Saturday night, he was in good spirits.”

“Which tells us nothing,” Stanton observed. “Sometimes when people decide to let go, they get a sudden sense of peace.”

“I’m wondering if Alterman wasn’t a little wacky,” Forrest said. “On Friday, in his office, his secretary and some of the other staff were talking about Monica Farrell almost being killed by the bus. Alterman told them he knew her and was going to prove that she was the heiress to a vast fortune.”

“That does sound whacky,” Stanton agreed. “I really do think that he was the guy who hired Sammy Barber. I just wish we could nail that lowlife, too.”

“So do I, but…” Carl Forrest stopped in midsentence and pulled out his cell phone. “It’s Flynn,” he said, then answered it. “What’s up?”

Jack Stanton watched as a look of astonishment came over Forrest’s face.

“You mean that Alterman rented a car and driver and went to a cemetery in Southampton, then to Greg Gannon’s house on Saturday?” Forrest asked, incredulously.

“I spoke to the driver,” Flynn reported. “Alterman had found out that an old lady, Olivia Morrow, who died last Tuesday night, had gone there last Tuesday afternoon. He got in touch with the driver and hired him for the same drive as the Morrow woman. She told the driver she had grown up in a cottage on the Gannon property. The house still belongs to Greg Gannon, Peter Gannon’s brother. The driver told Scott that Olivia Morrow didn’t go into the house, but Scott Alterman did on Saturday afternoon, and stayed for about an hour.”

Forrest went back to the call with Flynn. “Okay, Dennis. Thanks. Has the driver agreed to come in and make a statement?”

Forrest snapped the phone shut. “The driver can’t wait to give us the details. Flynn said he’s a real talker and is enjoying the situation.”

“I wish there were more like him,” Stanton observed. “This woman Olivia Morrow who died last week? See what you can find out about her.”

Fifteen minutes later, Forrest burst back into Stanton’s office without knocking. “Chief, you won’t believe this. The person who found Morrow dead was Dr. Monica Farrell. She told the medical team that responded to the emergency call at the apartment that she had had an appointment with Olivia Morrow that evening. She told them that Morrow was going to reveal some important information to her about her grandparents. It seems Farrell’s father was adopted, and had no idea of his background.”

The two detectives looked at each other. “Maybe Scott Alterman wasn’t wacky, after all,” Stanton said. “Maybe he had become dangerous to someone. And let’s take a good look at Olivia Morrow’s death. Find out who signed her death certificate.”

Harvey Roth’s normally calm voice was crackling with excitement when he phoned Peter Gannon. “Peter, we have two big breaks. A credible witness is prepared to say he saw you walking down York Avenue alone just after you and Renée left the bar. He said Renée was already gone. Our guys found him this morning and he made a statement to the cops.”

“Is that enough for reasonable doubt?” Peter asked.

“It’s a big help, let me tell you. That, and the fact that your clothes and car show no traces of Renée’s presence.”

“Thanks, Harvey. It’s going to take some time to digest this.”

“I can understand that. Peter, we’re a long way from being sure of an acquittal when you come to trial. We still can’t explain the money hidden in your desk and the shopping bag. But we are getting some breaks.”

Fifteen minutes later, Harvey Roth called back. “Peter, I just spoke to Esther Chambers. She traced that decorator who ordered the desk with the false bottom in the drawer. The fact is that she ordered two of them. One was for you, the other for Dr. Langdon. The decorator says she absolutely did not discuss the secret compartment in the desk with you, but distinctly remembers telling Langdon and your sister-in-law, Pamela, about it. Very interestingly, the decorator also said she believed there was something going on between them.”

Pam and Doug Langdon, Peter thought, his heart pounding. Of course it was possible that they were involved with each other! Would they have tried to stop Renée from exposing Greg’s insider trading? It’s possible. Of course it is. It makes sense. If the SEC ever goes after Greg, they’ll grab all his assets to pay off all the investors who lost money because of him, and that would include all the money and property and jewelry he’s given Pamela over the years.

A huge sense of relief was running through him. I might easily have left a set of keys to my office at the foundation, he thought. Doug and Pam have both been there, and know the layout. I never saw who was driving Greg’s car. It might have been Doug. My brother may be a thief, but I don’t believe he’s a killer.

“Peter, are you still there?” Harvey Roth asked, his voice now anxious.

“You bet I am,” Peter said. “You bet I am.”

At three thirty p.m., the moment Greg Gannon had been dreading for a long time arrived. Two federal officers, their manner brusque, walked past the secretary who was sitting at Esther’s desk and opened the door of his private office. “Mr. Gannon, stand up, and put your hands behind you. We have a warrant for your arrest,” one of them said.

Suddenly infinitely weary, Greg obeyed. As he listened to his rights being read, he looked down at the wastebasket. He had shredded the papers Arthur Saling had signed that had given him control over his portfolio. One last small decent thing to do, he thought grimly.

Everything is going to blow up now. They’ll look into the foundation, too. We’ve all been treating it like a piggy bank. We could all face charges on that. I know I’m going down, but I’m also going to hang Pam and Doug out to dry. I’m glad I finally found out about their little love nest on Twelfth Avenue. She probably has more jewelry stashed there. I don’t want either one of them left with so much as a penny.