Sidney Sheldon - The Naked Face

But McGreavy hadn’t, Judd thought. He turned his mind to Carol and remembered her brightness and her affection and her deep pride in what she was doing, and Angeli was speaking to him and he saw that they had arrived at his apartment building.

Five minutes later Judd was in his apartment. There was no question of sleep. He fixed himself a brandy and carried it into the den. He remembered the night Carol had strolled in here, naked and beautiful, rubbing her warm, lithe body against his. He had acted cool and aloof because he had known that that was the only chance he had of helping her. But she had never known what willpower it had taken for him to keep from making love to her. Or had she? He raised his brandy glass and drained it.

The city morgue looked like all city morgues at three o’clock in the morning, except that someone had placed a wreath of mistletoe over the door. Someone, thought McGreavy, who had either an overabundance of holiday spirit or a macabre sense of humor.

McGreavy had waited impatiently in the corridor until the autopsy was completed. When the coroner waved to him, he walked into the sickly-white autopsy room. The coroner was scrubbing his hands at the large white sink. He was a small, birdlike man with a high, chirping voice and quick, nervous movements. He answered all of McGreavy’s questions in a rapid, staccato manner, then fled. McGreavy remained there a few minutes, absorbed in what he had just learned. Then he walked out into the freezing night air to find a taxi. There was no sign of one. The sons of bitches were all vacationing in Bermuda. He could stand out here until his ass froze off. He spotted a police cruiser, flagged it down, showed his identification to the young rookie behind the wheel, and ordered him to drive him to the Nineteenth Precinct. It was against regulations, but what the hell. It was going to be a long night.

When McGreavy walked into the precinct, Angeli was waiting for him. “They just finished the autopsy on Carol Roberts,” McGreavy said.

“And?”

“She was pregnant.”

Angeli looked at him in surprise.

“She was three months gone. A little late to have a safe abortion, and a little early to show.”

“Do you think that had anything to do with her murder?”

“That’s a good question,” McGreavy said. “If Carol’s boyfriend knocked her up and they were going to get married anyway—what’s the big deal? So they get married and have the kid a few months later. It happens every day of the week. On the other hand, if he knocked her up and he didn’t want to marry her—that’s no big deal, either. So she has the baby and no husband. That happens twice every day of the week.”

“We talked to Chick. He wanted to marry her.”

“I know,” replied McGreavy. “So we have to ask ourselves where that leaves us. It leaves us with a colored girl who’s pregnant. She goes to the father and tells him about it, and he murders her.”

“He’d have to be insane.”

“Or very foxy. I vote for foxy. Look at it this way: supposing Carol went to the father and broke the bad news and told him she wasn’t going to have an abortion; she was going to have his baby. Maybe she used it to try to blackmail him into marrying her. But supposing he couldn’t marry her because he was married already. Or maybe he was a white man. Let’s say a well-known doctor with a fancy practice. If a thing like this ever got out, it would ruin him. Who the hell would go to a headshrinker who knocked up his colored receptionist and had to marry her?”

“Stevens is a doctor,” said Angeli. “There are a dozen ways he could have killed her without arousing suspicion.”

“Maybe,” McGreavy said. “Maybe not. If there was any suspicion and it could be traced back to him, he’d have a hard time getting out of it. He buys poison—someone has a record of it. He buys a rope or a knife—they can be traced. But look at this cute little setup. Some maniac comes in for no reason and murders his receptionist and he’s the grief-stricken employer demanding that the police find the killer.”

“It sounds like a pretty flimsy case.”

“I’m not finished. Let’s take his patient, John Hanson. Another senseless killing by this unknown maniac. I’ll tell you something, Angeli. I don’t believe in coincidences. And two coincidences like that in one day make me nervous. So I asked myself what connection there could be between the death of John Hanson and Carol Roberts, and suddenly it didn’t seem so coincidental, after all. Suppose Carol walked into his office and broke the bad news that he was going to be a daddy. They had a big fight and she tried to blackmail him. She said he had to marry her, give her money—whatever. John Hanson was waiting in the outer office, listening. Maybe Stevens wasn’t sure he had heard anything until he got on the couch. Then Hanson threatened him with exposure. Or tried to get him to sleep with him.”

“That’s a lot of guesswork.”

“But it fits. When Hanson left, the doctor slipped out and fixed him so he couldn’t talk. Then he had to come back and get rid of Carol. He made it look like some maniac did the job, then he stopped by to see Mrs. Hanson, and took a ride to Connecticut. Now his problems are solved. He’s sitting pretty and the police are running their asses off searching for some unknown nut.”

“I can’t buy it,” Angeli said. “You’re trying to build a murder case without a shred of concrete evidence.”

“What do you call ‘concrete’?” McGreavy asked. “We’ve got two corpses. One of them is a pregnant lady who worked for Stevens. The other is one of his patients, murdered a block from his office. He’s coming to him for treatment because he’s a homosexual. When I asked to listen to his tapes, he wouldn’t let me. Why? Who is Dr. Stevens protecting? I asked him if anyone could have broken into his office looking for something. Then maybe we could have cooked up a nice theory that Carol caught them and they tortured her to try to find out where this mysterious something was. But guess what? There is no mysterious something. His tapes aren’t worth a tinker’s damn to anybody. He had no drugs in the office. No money. So we’re looking for some goddam maniac. Right? Except that I won’t buy it. I think we’re looking for Dr. Judd Stevens.”

“I think you’re out to nail him,” said Angeli quietly.

McGreavy’s face flushed with anger. “Because he’s as guilty as hell.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“I’m going to give Dr. Stevens some rope,” McGreavy said. “And while he’s hanging himself, I’m going to be digging into every little skeleton in his closet. When I nail him, he’s going to stay nailed.” McGreavy turned and walked out.

Angeli looked after him thoughtfully. If he did nothing, there was a good chance that McGreavy would try to railroad Dr. Stevens. He could not let that happen. He made a mental note to speak to Captain Bertelli in the morning.

Chapter Four

THE MORNING NEWSPAPERS headlined the sensational torture murder of Carol Roberts. Judd was tempted to have his telephone exchange call his patients and cancel his appointments for the day. He had not gone to bed, and his eyes felt heavy and gritty. But when he reviewed the list of patients, he decided that two of them would be desperate if he canceled; three of them would be badly upset; the others could be handled. He decided it was better to continue with his normal routine, partly for his patients’ sake, and partly because it was good therapy for him to try to keep his mind off what had happened.

Judd arrived at his office early, but already the corridor was crowded with newspaper and television reporters and photographers. He refused to let them in or to make a statement, and finally managed to get rid of them. He opened the door to his inner office slowly, filled with trepidation. But the blood-stained rug had been removed and everything else had been put back in place. The office looked normal. Except that Carol would never walk in here again, smiling and full of life.