Mary Clark - Let Me Call You Sweetheart

Spare me, Kerry thought, smiling tightly. She turned from him as Bob released Robin. Now he stretched out his hand to her. “Kerry, what a nice surprise.”

“It’s usually a surprise when we see you, Bob.”

“Mom,” Robin implored.

Kerry bit her lip. She hated herself when she jabbed at Bob in front of their daughter. She forced a smile. “We’re just leaving.”

When they were settled at their table and their drink orders taken, Jimmy Weeks observed, “Your ex-wife sure doesn’t like you much, Bobby.”

Kinellen shrugged. “Kerry should lighten up. She takes everything too seriously. We married too young. We broke up. It happens every day. I wish she’d meet someone else.”

“What happened to your kid’s face?”

“Flying glass in a fender bender. She’ll be fine.”

“Did you make sure she had a good plastic surgeon?”

“Yes, he was highly recommended. What do you feel like eating, Jimmy?”

“What’s the doctor’s name? Maybe he’s the same one my wife went to.”

Bob Kinellen seethed inwardly. He cursed the lousy luck of meeting Kerry and Robin and having Jimmy ask about the accident. “It’s Charles Smith,” he said finally.

“Charles Smith?” Weeks’ voice was startled. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“Well, I hear he’s retiring soon. He’s got big-time health problems.”

Kinellen looked startled. “How do you know that?”

Jimmy W. looked at him coldly. “I keep tabs on him. You figure out why. It shouldn’t take too long.”

That night the dream returned. Again, Kerry was standing in a doctor’s office. A young woman was lying on the floor, a cord knotted around her neck, her dark hair framing a face with wide unfocused eyes, a mouth open as though gasping for breath, the tip of a pink tongue protruding.

In her dream, Kerry tried to scream, but only a moaning protest came from her lips. A moment later Robin was shaking her awake. “Mom. Mom, wake up. What’s wrong?”

Kerry opened her eyes, “What. Oh my God, Rob, what a rotten nightmare. Thanks.”

But when Robin had returned to her room, Kerry lay awake, pondering the dream. What was triggering it? she wondered. Why was it different from the last time?

This time there had been flowers scattered over the woman’s body.

Roses. Sweetheart roses.

She sat up suddenly. That was it! That was what she had been trying to remember! In Dr. Smith’s office, the woman today, and the woman a couple of weeks ago, the ones who had resembled each other so closely. She knew now why they seemed so familiar. She knew who they looked like.

Suzanne Reardon, the victim in the Sweetheart Murder Case. It had been nearly eleven years ago that she had been murdered by her husband. It had gotten a lot of press attention, crime of passion and roses scattered over the beautiful victim.

The day I started in the prosecutor’s office was the day the jury found the husband guilty, Kerry thought. The papers had been plastered with pictures of Suzanne. I’m sure I’m right, she told herself. I sat in at the sentencing. It made such an impression on me. But why in the name of God would two of Dr. Smith’s patients be look-alikes for a murder victim?

Pamela Worth had been a mistake. That thought kept Dr. Charles Smith sleepless virtually all Monday night. Even the beauty of her newly sculpted face could not compensate for her graceless posture, her harsh, loud voice.

I should have known right away, he thought. And, in fact, he had known. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. Her bone structure made her a ridiculously easy candidate for such a transformation. And feeling that transformation take place under his fingers had made it possible for him to relive something of the excitement of the way it had been that first time.

What would he do when it wasn’t possible to operate anymore? he wondered. That time was rapidly approaching. The slight hand tremor that irritated now would become more pronounced. Irritation would yield to incapacity.

He switched on the light, not the one beside his bed, but the one that illuminated the picture on the wall opposite him. He looked at it each night before he fell asleep. She was so beautiful. But now, without his glasses, the woman in the picture became twisted and distorted, as she had looked in death.

“Suzanne,” he murmured. Then, as the pain of memory engulfed him, he threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the image. He could not bear to remember how she had looked then, robbed of her beauty, her eyes bulging, the tip of her tongue protruding over her slack lower lip and drooping jaw…

On Tuesday morning, the first thing Kerry did when she got to her office was to phone Jonathan Hoover.

As always, it was comforting to hear his voice. She got right to the point. “Jonathan, Robin had her checkup in New York yesterday, and everything seems to be fine, but I’d be a lot more comfortable with a second opinion, if another plastic surgeon concurred with Dr. Smith that there won’t be any scarring. Do you know anyone who’s good?”

Jonathan’s voice had a smile. “Not by personal experience.”

“You certainly never needed it.”

“Thank you, Kerry. Let me make some inquiries. Grace and I both thought you should get a second opinion, but we didn’t want to interfere. Did something happen yesterday that made you decide on this?”

“Yes and no. I have someone coming in right now. I’ll tell you about it when I see you next.”

“I’ll get back to you with a name this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Jonathan.”

“You’re welcome, Your Honor.”

“Jonathan, don’t say that. You’ll jinx me.”

As the phone clicked, she heard him chuckle.

Her first appointment that morning was with Corinne Banks, the assistant to whom, as trial chief, she had assigned a vehicular homicide case. It was on the court calendar for next Monday, and Corinne wanted to review some aspects of the prosecution she intended to present.

Corinne, a young black woman of twenty-seven, had the makings of a top-drawer trial lawyer, Kerry thought. A tap at the door, and Corinne came in, a large file under her arm. She was wreathed in smiles. “Guess what Joe dug up,” she said happily.

Joe Palumbo was one of their best investigators.

Kerry grinned. “I can hardly wait.”

“Our oh-so-innocent defendant who claimed he never was involved in another accident has a real problem. Under a phony driver’s license, he has a string of serious traffic violations, including another death by auto fifteen years ago. I can’t wait to nail that guy, and now I’m confident that we can.” She laid down the file and opened it. “Anyhow, this is what I wanted to talk about…”

Twenty minutes later, after Corinne left, Kerry reached for the phone. Corinne’s mention of the investigator had given her an idea.

When Joe Palumbo answered with his usual “Yup,” Kerry asked, “Joe, have you got lunch plans?”

“Not a one, Kerry. Want to take me to Solari’s for lunch?”

Kerry laughed. “I’d love to, but I have something else in mind.

How long have you been here?”

“Twenty years.”

“Were you involved with the Reardon homicide about ten years ago, the one the media called the Sweetheart Murder?”

“That was a biggie. No, I wasn’t on it, but as I remember it was pretty open and shut. Our Leader made his name on that one.”

Kerry knew that Palumbo was not enamored of Frank Green.

“Weren’t there several appeals?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. They kept coming up with new theories. It seemed like it went on forever,” Palumbo replied.