Mary Clark - Let Me Call You Sweetheart

When Kerry bundled up her collar and thrust her hands in her pockets for the three-block walk to her car, she was aware neither of Smith’s probing eyes studying her from behind the grille in the study window, nor of the stranger parked on Fifth Avenue who picked up his cellular phone and called in a report of her visit in Washington Mews.

The U.S. attorney, in cooperation with the Middlesex and Ocean County prosecutor’s offices, obtained a search warrant for both the permanent residence and the summer home of the late Barney Haskell. Living apart from his wife most of the time, Barney resided in a pleasant split-level house on a quiet street in Edison, an attractive middle-income town. His neighbors there told the media that Barney had never bothered with any of them but was always polite if they met face to face.

His other home, a modern two-story structure overlooking the ocean on Long Beach Island, was where his wife resided year round. Neighbors there told the investigators that during the summer Barney was around a lot, had always spent a good amount of time fishing on his twenty-three-foot Chris-Craft, and that his other hobby was carpentry. His workshop was in his garage.

A couple of neighbors said his wife had invited them in to show off the massive white-oak hutch Barney had made to house their entertainment center last year. It seemed to be his pride and joy.

The investigators knew that Barney had to have had solid evidence against Jimmy Weeks to back up his attempted plea bargain. They also knew that if they didn’t find it quickly, Jimmy Weeks’ people would ferret it out and destroy it.

Despite the screeching protests of his widow, who cried that Barney was a victim, and that this was her home even if poor Barney’s name was on it, and that they had no right to destroy it, they took apart everything, including the oak hutch that was nailed to the wall of the television room.

When they had ripped the wood from the plaster, they found themselves looking at a safe large enough to house the records of a small office.

As the media gathered outside, television cameras recorded the arrival on the scene of a retired safecracker now on the payroll of the United States government. Fifteen minutes later the safe was opened, and shortly afterwards, at 4:15 P.M. that afternoon, U.S. Attorney Royce received a phone call from Les Howard.

A second set of books for Weeks Enterprises had been found, as well as day-at-a-glance date books going back fifteen years, in which Barney had chronicled Jimmy’s appointments along with his own notations about the purpose of the meetings and what was discussed.

A delighted Royce was told that there were also shoe boxes with copies of receipts for high-tag items, including furs and jewelry and cars for Jimmy’s various girlfriends, which Barney had flagged “No sales tax paid.”

“It’s a bonanza, a treasure trove,” Howard assured Royce. “Barney sure must have heard that old adage, ‘Treat your friend as though he may become your enemy.’ He has to have been preparing since day one to barter his way out of prison by throwing Jimmy to us if they ever got indicted.”

The judge had adjourned the trial until the next morning rather than start with a new witness at four o’clock. Another break, Royce thought. After he hung up the phone, a smile continued to linger on his lips as he savored the splendid news. He said aloud, “Thanks, Barney, I always knew you’d come through.” Then he sat in silence while he considered his next move.

Martha Luce, Jimmy’s personal bookkeeper, was scheduled to be a defense witness. They already had her sworn statement that the records she had kept were totally accurate and the only set that existed. Given the choice of turning government witness in exchange for immunity from a long prison sentence, Royce decided that it shouldn’t be too hard to convince Ms. Luce where her best interests lay.

Jason Arnott had awakened late on Sunday morning with flulike symptoms and decided not to go to the Catskill house as planned. Instead he spent the day in bed, getting up only long enough to prepare some light food for himself. It was at times such as this that he regretted not having a live-in housekeeper.

On the other hand, he thoroughly enjoyed the privacy of having the house to himself without someone underfoot. He brought books and newspapers to his room and spent the day reading, in between sipping orange juice and dozing.

Every few hours, however, he compulsively pulled out the FBI flyer to reassure himself that no one could possibly tie him to that grainy caricature of a picture.

By Monday evening he was feeling much better and had completely convinced himself that the flyer was not a threat. He reminded himself that even if an FBI agent showed up at the door to subject him to routine questioning because he had been one of the guests at a Hamilton party, they would never be able to connect him to the theft.

Not with that picture. Not with his phone records. Not with a single antique or painting in this house. Not with the most scrupulous financial check. Not even with the reservation at the hotel in Washington the weekend of the robbery at the Hamilton home, since he had used one of his fake identities when he checked in.

There was no question. He was safe. He promised himself that tomorrow, or certainly by Wednesday, he would drive up to the Catskills and spend a few days enjoying his treasures.

Jason could not know that the FBI agents had already obtained a court order allowing them to tap his phone and were now quietly surveying his house. He could not know that from now on he wouldn’t make a single move without being observed and without being followed.

Driving north out of Manhattan ’s Greenwich Village, I Kerry was caught in the first surge of rush hour traffic. It was twenty of five when she pulled her car out of the garage on Twelfth Street. It was five past six when she turned into her driveway and saw Geoff’s Volvo parked in front of the other door of the two-car garage.

She had called home from the car phone as she was leaving the garage, and had been only partially reassured to talk to both Robin and Alison, the sitter. She had warned them both not to go out under any circumstances and not to open the door for anyone until she got home.

Seeing Geoff’s car made her realize that Alison’s car was gone. Had Geoff come because of a problem? Kerry turned off the engine and lights, scrambled from her car, slammed the door behind her and ran toward the house.

Robin had obviously been watching for her. The front door opened as she raced up the steps.

“Rob, is anything wrong?”

“No, Mom, we’re fine. When Geoff got here he told Alison it was all right to go ahead home, that he’d wait for you.” Robin’s face became worried. “That was okay, wasn’t it? I mean letting Geoff in.”

“Of course.” Kerry hugged Robin. “Where is he?”

“In here,” Geoff said as he appeared at the door of the kitchen. “I thought that having had one Dorso home-cooked meal on Saturday night, you might be game for another tonight. Very simple menu. Lamb chops, a green salad and baked potato.”

Kerry realized she was both tense and hungry. “Sounds wonderful,” she sighed as she unbuttoned her coat.

Geoff quickly moved to take it from her. It seemed natural that as he put it over one arm, he slid the other arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Hard day at the factory?”

For a brief moment she let her face rest in the warm spot beneath his neck. “There have been easier ones.”

Robin said, “Mom, I’m going upstairs to finish my homework, but I do think since I’m the one in danger, I should know exactly what’s going on. What did Dr. Smith say when you saw him?”