Mary Clark - Let Me Call You Sweetheart

“No way. Robin’s own father passed along the warning and in essence admitted that Jimmy Weeks had that picture taken.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Probably that Frank Green and I will bring Deidre Reardon up to the Catskills first thing tomorrow morning to positively identify that miniature frame. Arnott should be being cuffed right about now. They’ll keep him in the local jail, at least for the present. Then, once they start connecting the stolen goods to specific burglaries, they’ll begin arraigning him in different locations. My guess is they’re itching to try him first for the murder of Congressman Peale’s mother. And, of course, if he was responsible for Suzanne Reardon’s death, we’ll want to try him here.”

“Suppose he won’t talk?”

“We’re sending flyers to all the jewelers in New Jersey, naturally concentrating on Bergen County since both Weeks and Arnott live here. My guess is that one of those jewelers will recognize the more contemporary jewelry and tie it to Weeks, and that the antique bracelet will turn out to be from Arnott. When it was found on Suzanne’s arm it obviously had a new clasp, and the bracelet is so unusual some jeweler might remember it. The more we can find to use in confronting Arnott, the easier it should be to make him try to strike a deal.”

“Then you expect to leave early in the morning for the Catskills?”

“Yes. I’m certainly not going to leave Robin alone in the house in the morning again, but if it turns out that Frank wants to be on the road very early, I’ll see if the sitter will stay over.”

“I have a better idea. Let Robin stay with us tonight. I’ll drop her off at school in the morning, or, if you want, you can that Palumbo man pick her up. Our house has state-of-the-art security. You know that. I’ll be there, of course, and I don’t know whether you realize that even Grace has a gun in her table drawer. I taught her to use it years ago. Besides, I really think it would be good for Grace to have Robin visit. She’s been rather down lately, and Robin is such fun to have around.”

Kerry smiled. “Yes, she is.” She thought for a moment. “Jonathan, that really could work. I really should get some work in on another case I’ll be trying, and then I want to go through the Reardon file with a fine-toothed comb to see if there’s anything more I can pick up to use when we question Arnott. I’ll call Robin when I know she’s home from school and tell her the plan. She’ll be delighted. She’s crazy about you and Grace, and she loves the pink guest room.”

“It used to be yours, remember?”

“Sure. How could I forget? That’s back when I was telling Grace’s cousin, the landscaper, that he was a crook.”

The extended recess over, U.S. Attorney Royce returned to court for the afternoon trial session of the United States versus James Forrest Weeks. He went secure in the knowledge that behind her timid, unassuming facade, Martha Luce had the memory of a personal computer. The damning evidence that would finally nail Jimmy Weeks was spilling from her as she responded to the gentle prodding of two of Royce’s assistants.

Luce’s nephew/attorney, Royce admitted to himself, had possibilities. He insisted that before Martha began singing, the bargain she was striking had to be signed and witnessed. In exchange for her honest and forthright cooperation, which she would not later rescind, any possible federal or other criminal or civil charges would not be pressed against her either now or in the future.

Martha Luce’s evidence would come later, however. The prosecution case was unfolding in a straightforward way. Today’s witness was a restaurateur who in exchange for having his lease renewed admitted to paying a five-thousand-dollar-a-month cash bonus to Jimmy’s collector.

When it was the defense’s turn to cross-examine, Royce was kept busy jumping to his feet with objections as Bob Kinellen jabbed at the witness, catching him in small errors, forcing him to admit that he had never actually seen Weeks touch the money, that he really couldn’t be sure that the collector hadn’t been working on his own. Kinellen is good, Royce thought, too bad he’s wasting his talent on this scum.

Royce could not know that Robert Kinellen was sharing that same thought even as he grandstanded to a receptive jury.

Jason Arnott knew there was something terribly wrong the minute he walked in the door of his Catskill home and realized that Maddie was not there.

If Maddie’s not here and she didn’t leave a note, then something is happening. It’s all over, he thought. How long before they would close in on him? Soon, he was sure.

Suddenly he was hungry. He rushed to the refrigerator and pulled out the smoked salmon he had asked Maddie to pick up. Then he reached for the capers and cream cheese and the package of toast points. A bottle of Pouilly-Fuiss’ was chilling.

He prepared a plate of salmon and poured a glass of wine. Carrying them with him, he began to walk through the house. A kind of final tour, he thought, as he assessed the riches around him. The tapestry in the dining room-exquisite. The Aubusson in the living room-a privilege to walk on such beauty. The Chaim Gross bronze sculpture of a slender figure holding a small child in the palm of her hand. Gross had loved the mother-and-child theme. Arnott remembered that Gross’s mother and sister had died in the Holocaust.

He would need a lawyer, of course. A good lawyer. But who? A smile made his lips twitch. He knew just the one: Geoffrey Dorso, who for ten years had so relentlessly worked for Skip Reardon. Dorso had quite a reputation and might be willing to take on a new client, especially one who could give him evidence that would help him spring poor Reardon.

The front doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again, then continued persistently. Arnott chewed the last toast point, relishing the delicate flavor of the salmon, the pungent bite of the capers.

The back doorbell was chiming now. Surrounded, he thought. Ah, well. He had known it would happen someday. If he had only obeyed his instincts last week and left the country. Jason sipped the last of the wine, decided another glass would be welcome and went back to the kitchen. There were faces at all the windows now, faces with the aggressive, self-satisfied look of men who have the right to exercise might.

Arnott nodded to them and held up the glass in a mocking toast. As he sipped, he walked to the back door, opened it, then stood aside as they rushed in. “FBI, Mr. Arnott,” they shouted. “We have a warrant to search your home.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he murmured, “I beg you to be careful. There are many beautiful, even priceless objects here. You may not be used to them, but please respect them. Are your feet muddy?”

Kerry called Robin at three-thirty. She and Alison were at the computer, Robin told her, playing one of the games Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Grace had given her. Kerry told her the plan: “I have to work late tonight and be on the way by seven tomorrow. Jonathan and Grace really would like to have you stay with them, and I’d feel good knowing you’re there.”

“Why was Mr. Palumbo parked outside our school and why did he drive me home and why is he parked outside now? Is it because I’m in really big danger?”

Kerry tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Hate to disappoint you, but it’s just a precaution, Rob. The case is really coming to a head.”

“Cool. I like Mr. Palumbo, and, okay, I’ll stay with Aunt Grace and Uncle Jonathan. I like them too. But what about you? Will Mr. Palumbo stay in front of the house for you?”

“I won’t be home till late, and when I get there, the local cops will drive by every fifteen minutes or so. That’s all I need.”