Mary Clark - Let Me Call You Sweetheart

When she was back in her office, Kerry asked her secretary to hold the phone calls and sat for a long time gazing into space. She could understand Frank Green’s alarm at the thought of her raising questions about his star witness in the Sweetheart Murder Case. Any suggestion that there might have been a miscarriage of justice certainly would result in negative publicity and no doubt would tarnish Frank’s image as a potential governor.

Dr. Smith is probably an obsessively grieving father who is able to use his great skill to re-create his daughter, she told herself, and Skip Reardon is probably one of the countless murderers who say, “I didn’t do it.”

Even so, she knew that she couldn’t let it rest at that. On Saturday, when she took Robin to visit the plastic surgeon Jonathan had recommended, she would ask him how many surgeons in his field would even consider giving a number of women the same face.

At six-thirty that evening, Geoff Dorso glanced reluctantly at the stack of messages that had come in while he was in court. Then he turned away from them. From his office windows in Newark, he had a magnificent view of the New York City skyline, a sight that after a long day on a trial was still soothing.

Geoff was a city kid. Born in Manhattan and raised there till the age of eleven, at which point the family moved to New Jersey, he felt that he had one foot on either side of the Hudson, and he liked it that way.

Thirty-eight years old, Geoff was tall and lean, with a physique that did not reflect the fact that he had a sweet tooth. His jet black hair and olive skin were evidence of his Italian ancestry. His intensely blue eyes came from his Irish-English grandmother.

Still a bachelor, Geoff looked the part. His selection of ties was hit-and-miss, and his clothes usually had a slightly rumpled look. But the stack of messages was an indication of his excellent reputation as an attorney specializing in criminal defense and of the respect he had earned in the legal community.

As he leafed through them, he pulled out the important ones and discarded the others. Suddenly he raised his eyebrows. There was a request to call Kerry McGrath. She had left two numbers, her office and her home. What’s that about? he wondered. He didn’t have any cases pending in Bergen County, her area of jurisdiction.

Over the years he had met Kerry at bar association dinners, and he knew she was up for a judgeship, but he didn’t really know her. The call intrigued him. It was too late to get her at the office. He decided he would try her now, at home.

“I’ll get it,” Robin called, as the phone rang.

It’s probably for you, anyhow, Kerry thought as she tested the spaghetti. I thought telephonitis didn’t set in until the teen years, she mused. Then she heard Robin yelling for her to pick up.

She hurried across the kitchen to the wall phone. An unfamiliar voice said, “Kerry.”

“Yes.”

“Geoff Dorso here.”

It had been an impulse to leave the message for him. Afterwards, Kerry was uneasy about having done it. If Frank Green heard that she was contacting Skip Reardon’s attorney, she knew he would not be so gentle as he had been earlier. But the die was cast.

“Geoff, this is probably not relevant, but…” Her voice trailed off. Spit it out, she told herself. “Geoff, my daughter had an accident recently and was treated by Dr. Charles Smith-“

“Charles Smith,” Dorso interrupted, “Suzanne Reardon’s father!”

“Yes. That’s the point. There is something bizarre going on with him.” Now it was easier to open up. She told him about the two women who resembled Suzanne.

“You mean Smith is actually giving them his daughter’s face?”

Dorso exclaimed. “What the hell is that about?”

“That’s what troubles me. I’m taking Robin to another plastic surgeon on Saturday. I intend to ask him about the surgical implications of reproducing a face. I’m also going to try to talk to Dr. Smith, but it occurred to me that if I could read the entire trial transcript beforehand, I’d have a better handle on him. I know I can get one through the office, it’s in the warehouse somewhere, but that could take time and I don’t want it getting around that I’m looking for it.”

“I’ll have a copy in your hands tomorrow,” Dorso promised. “I’ll send it to your office.”

“No, better send it to me here. I’ll give you the address.”

“I’d like to bring it up myself and talk to you. Would tomorrow night about six or six-thirty be all right? I won’t stay more than half an hour, I promise.”

“I guess that would be okay.”

“See you then. And thanks, Kerry.” The phone clicked.

Kerry looked at the receiver. What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. She hadn’t missed the excitement in Dorso’s voice. I shouldn’t have used the word “bizarre,” she thought. I’ve started something I may not be able to finish.

A sound from the stove made her whirl around. Boiling water from the spaghetti pot had overflowed and was running down the sides onto the gas jets. Without looking, she knew that the al dente pasta had been transformed into a glutinous mess.

Dr. Charles Smith did not have office hours on Wednesday afternoon. It was a time usually reserved for surgical procedures or hospital follow-up visits. Today, however, Dr. Smith had cleared his calendar completely. As he drove down East Sixty-eighth Street, toward the brownstone where the public relations firm Barbara Tompkins worked for was located, his eyes widened at his good luck. There was a parking spot open across from the entrance of her building; he would be able to sit there and watch for her to leave.

When she finally did appear in the doorway, he smiled involuntarily. She looked lovely, he decided. As he had suggested, she wore her hair full and loose around her face; the best style, he had told her, to frame her new features. She was wearing a fitted red jacket, black calf-length skirt and granny shoes. From a distance she looked smart and successful. He knew every detail of how she looked up close.

As she hailed a cab, he turned on the ignition of his twelve-year-old black Mercedes and began to follow. Even though Park Avenue was bumper-to-bumper as was usual in the rush hour, keeping up with the taxi was not a problem.

They drove south, the cab finally stopping at The Four Seasons on East Fifty-second. Barbara must be meeting someone for a drink there, he thought. The bar would be crowded now. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to slip in undetected.

Shaking his head, he decided to drive home instead. The glimpse of her had been enough. Almost too much, actually. For a moment he had really believed that she was Suzanne. Now he just wanted to be alone. A sob rose in his throat. As the traffic inched slowly downtown, he repeated over and over, “I’m sorry, Suzanne. I’m sorry, Suzanne.”

If Jonathan Hoover happened to be in Hackensack, he usually tried to persuade Kerry to join him for a quick lunch. “How many bowls of cafeteria soup can any human being eat?” was his kidding question to her.

Today, over a hamburger at Solari’s, the restaurant around the corner from the courthouse, Kerry filled him in on the Suzanne Reardon look-alikes and her conversation with Geoff Dorso. She also told him of her boss’s less than favorable reaction to her suggestion that she might look into the old murder case.

Jonathan was deeply concerned. “Kerry, I don’t remember much about that case except that I thought there wasn’t any question of the husband’s guilt. Whatever, I think you should stay out of it, especially considering Frank Green’s involvement-very public as I remember-in securing the conviction. Look at the realities here. Governor Marshall is still a young man. He’s served two terms and can’t run for a consecutive third, but he loves his job. He wants Frank Green to take his place. Between us, they’ve got a deal. Green is to be governor for four years, then he gets to run for the senate with Marshall ’s support.”