Mary Clark: The Lost Years

“Lloyd, please make him understand that if Mariah is still alive, this may be her only chance to survive.”

Willy had been making the bed and listening to Alvirah’s side of the conversation. “Honey, it sounds to me like you got this whole thing figured out. I hope they’ll listen to what you said. It sure makes sense to me. You know, I never said anything, but whenever we were with Greg at Jonathan’s dinners, I could never quite figure out what made him tick. He always acted like the others were the ones who knew the most about that ancient stuff, but a couple of times he came out with a comment that said to me he knew a whole lot more than he let on.”

Alvirah’s face crumpled. “I keep thinking about poor Kathleen and how awful it would be for her if Mariah is gone. Even with the Alzheimer’s, at some point it would sink in and it would kill her.”

Willy was about to place the decorative pillows against the headboard. His forehead deeply lined, his warm blue eyes clouded with concern, he said, “Honey, I think you’d better start getting ready to hear some very bad news about Mariah.”

“I won’t believe that,” Alvirah said forcefully. “Willy, I can’t believe that.”

Willy dropped the pillows and hurried to put his arms around her. “Hang on, sweetheart,” he said. “Hang on.”

The loud sound of the telephone ringing startled both of them. It was the doorman. “Willy, a Mr. Richard Callahan is here. He says he has to see you right away.”

“Send him up, Tony,” Willy said. “Thanks.”

As they waited for Richard to come up, the phone rang yet again. It was Lloyd Scott. “Alvirah, you were right. I’m at the prosecutor’s office and I’ve seen the composite. It’s a dead ringer for Greg Pearson. I’ve been talking to Simon Benet. He agrees that at this point your suggestion is probably the best option they have. We know Pearson is in his office. Benet is going to make the call to him in about a half an hour, after he’s sure the New York guys are in place to follow him.”

80

At quarter of twelve, the phone in Greg’s office rang. “Detective Simon Benet is on the line, sir,” his secretary said.

His palms sweaty, his mind and body tingling with fear and apprehension, Greg picked up the phone. Was Benet going to ask him to come in for another talk?

“Good morning, Mr. Pearson,” Benet said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all.” He sounds pretty friendly, Greg thought.

“Mr. Benet, it’s very important I get in touch with Professor Michaelson immediately. He’s not answering his home phone or his cell phone and he’s not at his office at the university. We’re contacting all of his friends to see if we can locate him. By any chance have you spoken to him recently or has he otherwise mentioned any travel plans he may have?”

A gigantic wave of relief swept over Greg Pearson. That Gruber lowlife never saw me. He must have seen that picture of all of us that was in the newspapers and decided to pick out Charles. And probably Albert told Benet that Charles was shopping the parchment. My anonymous call to Desmond Rogers did the trick.

Once again, he felt fully in control, master of his universe. His voice cordial, he said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Detective Benet. I haven’t spoken to Charles since we were at dinner at Mariah’s home on Tuesday evening. That was when you and Detective Rodriguez stopped by.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pearson,” Benet said. “If you do happen to hear from Professor Michaelson, I would appreciate it very much if you’d ask him to call me.”

“Of course I will, Detective, although I must say that I think it most unlikely that Charles would contact me. Our mutual friendship with Jonathan Lyons and my going on his archaeological expeditions was pretty much the basis of our connection.”

“I see. Well, I’ve already given you my card, but if you don’t have it handy, perhaps you’d like to jot down my cell number now.”

“Of course.” Greg took out his pen, wrote the number, exchanged a pleasant good-bye with Benet, and put down the phone. He took a long deep breath, then got up.

Time to visit the ladies and say good-bye, he thought. Then he smiled.

Maybe I’ll treat them to lunch first.

81

There are probably New York cops in plainclothes all over the place,” Alvirah said. “I didn’t ask for permission for us to follow Greg ourselves because I know I would have been told in no uncertain terms to stay out of it. But none of us can sit home at a time like this.”

They were in the car on West 57th Street, stopped in a no-parking zone a few yards from the busy entrance to the Fisk Building, where Greg had his office on the tenth floor. Richard, his face and lips deadly pale, his expression agonized, was in the front seat with Willy. Alvirah was perched on the edge of the backseat behind Richard.

“Honey, one of those traffic cops is going to chase us away any minute,” Willy said.

“If that happens, Richard can get out and keep an eye on that door,” Alvirah replied. “We’ll circle the block for as long as we have to. If Greg comes out and gets on the subway, Richard can follow him and stay in touch with us.”

“Honey, if he spots Richard, he won’t go to whatever hiding place he has.”

“With that hooded sweatshirt of yours covering Richard’s hair and with those dark glasses covering half of his face, unless Greg was two feet away from Richard, he wouldn’t recognize him.”

“If he gets on the subway, I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t see me,” Richard said, his voice deadly calm.

“I keep going over and over this,” Alvirah said. “If I hadn’t lost Lillian the other day, Mariah might not be missing now. I’ll never stop blaming myself because— there he is!”

Their eyes were riveted to the sight of Greg Pearson leaving the building. They watched as he walked the few steps to the corner and turned right on Broadway. Richard leapt out of the car. “He may be going into the subway,” he said.

Willy started the car but by the time they reached the corner, the traffic light was red. “Oh, God, please don’t let Richard lose him,” Alvirah moaned.

When they were finally able to make the turn, they could see Richard’s hooded figure turning onto 56th Street and heading west. “We can’t follow him there,” Willy said. “It’s a one-way street. I’ll have to turn on 55th and hope we can meet up with him.”

Alvirah’s phone rang. It was Richard. “I’m half a block behind him. He’s still walking.”

“Stay on the line,” Alvirah ordered.

Willy drove slowly, going west on 55th Street, stopping and starting to stay even with Richard’s pace.

“He’s crossing Eighth Avenue… Ninth Avenue… Tenth Avenue… He’s going into a luncheonette,” Richard told them. “Hang on.”

When Richard spoke again it was to report that Greg had come out of the luncheonette, carrying a brown paper bag. “It looks pretty heavy,” he said, a hopeful note entering his voice. “There’s a parking garage across the street. He’s going into it.”

“On that block he can only go east,” Alvirah said. “We can turn right at Eleventh Avenue and come back up 56th Street. We’ll pick you up there.”

Three minutes later they were turning onto 56th Street. Richard was crouched down between two parked cars. As they watched, an older black sedan came up the ramp from inside the garage. There was no mistaking that it was Greg at the wheel. As he turned left onto the street, Richard darted back into the car.