Mary Clark - I 've Heard That Song Before

In the harsh morning light, Slater could see that it looked as if Kay was losing weight. Her cheekbones seemed more prominent, her eyes enormous. Afraid of what he might hear, he asked what had happened to upset her so much.

“What happened? Nothing very much. It’s just that it seems Peter’s loving stepmother claims she has been protecting him for years, and now she needs a little help in return.”

“What do you mean, Kay?”

“She is willing to sell me an object that could hurt Peter very much if it fell into the hands of the wrong person-meaning the prosecutor. The price is one million dollars, and she must have it today.”

“What object?” Slater snapped. “Kay, what are you talking about?”

Kay bit her lip. “I can’t tell you what it is, so don’t ask me any questions about it. She needs that money today because her wonderful son Richard is deeply in debt after making losing bets. I know Peter opened a joint account for us. How much is in it? Is there enough for me to write a check to her?”

“Kay, you’re not using your head. A check takes time to clear. The only way I can get money that fast is to wire it directly into her account. Are you sure you want to do this? You know how Peter feels about Richard’s gambling. He’d want no part of subsidizing it. Maybe Elaine’s bluffing.”

“She-is-not-bluffing! She-is-not-bluffing!” Kay shouted, then clasped her hands to her face as a flood of tears rushed down her cheeks.

Startled, Slater watched as she impatiently brushed the tears away in an effort to control her emotions. “I’m sorry. It’s just-”

“All right, Kay,” he said soothingly. “All right. Don’t do this to yourself. I’ll wire the money to her.”

“I don’t want Peter to know,” Kay said, her voice low but controlled. “At least not yet. He goes to that sleep disorder center tonight. He’s got enough to deal with without having to worry about this, too.”

“He doesn’t have to know yet. I have power of attorney to transfer money. But realize something: Once that money is transferred, you can’t get it back. Will she turn this object over to you before the transfer?”

“I doubt it very much. Let me finish this cup of coffee, then I’ll call her. I don’t want to sound upset when I’m talking to her.”

Slater watched as Kay folded her hands around the cup as if to warm them. They sat at the table for a few minutes, not speaking, both sipping their coffee. Then Kay shrugged. “I’m all right now.” She dialed Elaine’s number and waited as the telephone rang repeatedly. “There’s some satisfaction in knowing that I’m waking her,” she said bitterly. “She was falling apart when she first came in here last night, but when I promised to get the money to her today, she managed to cheer up really fast. Oh, here she is.”

Slater watched Kay’s expression harden as she and Elaine talked. It was obvious, as he listened to one side of the conversation, that Elaine was not parting with whatever it was that she was holding until the money transaction was complete.

What could it be? he wondered.

Elaine was still living in the mansion the night Susan disappeared, Slater thought. The master suite is just around the corridor from Peter’s old room.

Was it possible that she saw Peter come home that night wearing a bloodstained shirt?

It was possible, he concluded, nodding slightly.

Slater remembered the sleepwalking episodes he had witnessed years before, when he accompanied Peter on vacation trips. There had been the one incident outside the ski lodge when he woke Peter too quickly and Peter had lashed out at him. The three or four other times he’d witnessed him sleepwalking, when Peter returned to his bed he immediately fell into a deep sleep. Elaine could have gone into his room and retrieved the shirt from the hamper without his even being aware of her presence, he decided.

Kay hung up the phone. “She doesn’t trust me. She says her banker will call her the minute the money is in the account, and only then will she come over here with the package I’m talking about.”

“Is it the formal shirt he was wearing that night, Kay?” Slater asked.

“I won’t answer that. I can’t.”

“I understand. All right. I’m on my way to New York now. I have to sign some papers to transfer the money.”

“Money! That’s the cause of most crimes, isn’t it? Love or money. Susan needed money, didn’t she?”

Slater stared at her. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Oh, of course I don’t know it.” She avoided his eyes by turning her head. Then, in a surprised tone, she said, “Oh, Gary, I didn’t hear you come in!”

“I stopped to speak to the guard outside the front door, Mrs. Carrington. I offered him a cup of coffee, then came into the house right there.”

Meaning he used the front door, Slater thought. He should know better. Had he been standing in the hall, and if so, how much did he hear? He knew the same thought was occurring to Kay.

Kay stood up. “I’ll walk you to the door, Vince.”

She did not speak again until they were in the reception area, then in a whisper asked, “Do you think he overheard what we were saying?”

“I don’t know, but he had no business coming in the front entrance. I think he saw my car, spotted us through the kitchen window, then backtracked and used that as an excuse to try to eavesdrop.”

“That’s what I think, too. Call me when the transfer is done and I’ll-” Kay hesitated, “and I’ll complete the transaction.”

At noon Slater called Kay to tell her that the million dollars was in Elaine’s bank account.

At twelve thirty, Kay called him back, her voice angry and upset. “She won’t give it to me. She said she sold it too cheap. She said her pre-nup was much too small. She wants to discuss an amount that would be appropriate for her future needs.”

This is one way of getting out of the Bergen County Jail,” Peter Carrington observed to Conner Banks as, shackled and manacled, escorted by two sheriff’s officers and four private security guards, he was led through the lobby of Pascack Valley Hospital and up to the Sleep Disorders Center on the second floor.

“Not the way I’d necessarily choose myself,” Conner told him.

“It’s obvious you think this is nonsense,” Peter said.

“I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that I wish you were going home instead of coming here.”

“Well, it seems as if I’m here for the night. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

It was eight P.M. Banks had read up on what to expect from this experiment. Peter would be interviewed by a sleep specialist, answer a series of questions, then be put into a bedroom in the testing suite. A polysomnogram recording would be made of his heart rate, brain waves, breathing, eye muscles, leg movement, and all five stages of sleep. A television camera in the bedroom would also monitor him all night. In the morning he would be transported back to jail.

A special bolt and chain had been put on the outside of the door of Peter’s bedroom. Banks and three of the guards would sit on chairs in the corridor, while the fourth one, accompanied by a hospital technician, would watch the video monitor that showed the interior of the room with Peter in bed. The sheriff’s officers stood outside his door.

At one A.M. the knob on the bedroom door turned. The guards sprang up, but the chain they had installed on the outside prevented the door from opening more than an inch. The tugging from the other side lasted for more than a minute, then the door closed again.

Banks hurried to the monitor; he could see Peter sitting on the bed. He was looking directly in the camera, his face expressionless, his eyes staring. As Banks watched, Peter attempted to reconnect himself to the breathing tube, then lay down and closed his eyes.