I Heard That Song Before (25 page)

Slater watched as Kay folded her hands around the cup as if to warm them. They sat at the table for a few minutes, not speaking, both sipping their coffee. Then Kay shrugged. “I’m all right now.” She dialed Elaine’s number and waited as the telephone rang repeatedly. “There’s some satisfaction in knowing that I’m waking her,” she said bitterly. “She was falling apart when she first came in here last night, but when I promised to get the money to her today, she managed to cheer up really fast. Oh, here she is.”

Slater watched Kay’s expression harden as she and Elaine talked. It was obvious, as he listened to one side of the conversation, that Elaine was not parting with whatever it was that she was holding until the money transaction was complete.

What could it be? he wondered.

Elaine was still living in the mansion the night Susan disappeared, Slater thought. The master suite is just around the corridor from Peter’s old room.

Was it possible that she saw Peter come home that night wearing a bloodstained shirt?

It was possible, he concluded, nodding slightly.

Slater remembered the sleepwalking episodes he had witnessed years before, when he accompanied Peter on vacation trips. There had been the one incident outside the ski lodge when he woke Peter too quickly and Peter had lashed out at him. The three or four other times he’d witnessed him sleepwalking, when Peter returned to his bed he immediately fell into a deep sleep. Elaine could have gone into his room and retrieved the shirt from the hamper without his even being aware of her presence, he decided.

Kay hung up the phone. “She doesn’t trust me. She says her banker will call her the minute the money is in the account, and only then will she come over here with the package I’m talking about.”

“Is it the formal shirt he was wearing that night, Kay?” Slater asked.

“I won’t answer that. I can’t.”

“I understand. All right. I’m on my way to New York now. I have to sign some papers to transfer the money.”

“Money! That’s the cause of most crimes, isn’t it? Love or money. Susan needed money, didn’t she?”

Slater stared at her. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Oh, of course I
don’t
know it.” She avoided his eyes by turning her head. Then, in a surprised tone, she said, “Oh, Gary, I didn’t hear you come in!”

“I stopped to speak to the guard outside the front door, Mrs. Carrington. I offered him a cup of coffee, then came into the house right there.”

Meaning he used the front door, Slater thought. He should know better. Had he been standing in the hall, and if so, how much did he hear? He knew the same thought was occurring to Kay.

Kay stood up. “I’ll walk you to the door, Vince.”

She did not speak again until they were in the reception area, then in a whisper asked, “Do you think he overheard what we were saying?”

“I don’t know, but he had no business coming in the front entrance. I think he saw my car, spotted us through the kitchen window, then backtracked and used that as an excuse to try to eavesdrop.”

“That’s what I think, too. Call me when the transfer is done and I’ll—” Kay hesitated, “and I’ll complete the transaction.”

At noon Slater called Kay to tell her that the million dollars was in Elaine’s bank account.

At twelve thirty, Kay called him back, her voice angry and upset. “She won’t give it to me. She said she sold it too cheap. She said her pre-nup was much too small. She wants to discuss an amount that would be appropriate for her future needs.”

T
his is one way of getting out of the Bergen County Jail,” Peter Carrington observed to Conner Banks as, shackled and manacled, escorted by two sheriff’s officers and four private security guards, he was led through the lobby of Pascack Valley Hospital and up to the Sleep Disorders Center on the second floor.

“Not the way I’d necessarily choose myself,” Conner told him.

“It’s obvious you think this is nonsense,” Peter said.

“I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that I wish you were going home instead of coming here.”

“Well, it seems as if I’m here for the night. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

It was eight
P.M
. Banks had read up on what to expect from this experiment. Peter would be interviewed by a sleep specialist, answer a series of questions, then be put into a bedroom in the testing suite. A polysomnogram recording would be made of his heart rate, brain waves, breathing, eye muscles, leg movement, and all five stages of sleep. A television camera in the bedroom would also monitor him all night. In the morning he would be transported back to jail.

A special bolt and chain had been put on the outside of the door of Peter’s bedroom. Banks and three of the guards would sit on chairs in the corridor, while the fourth one, accompanied by a hospital technician, would watch the video monitor that showed the interior of the room with Peter in bed. The sheriff’s officers stood outside his door.

At one
A.M
. the knob on the bedroom door turned. The guards sprang up, but the chain they had installed on the outside prevented the door from opening more than an inch. The tugging from the other side lasted for more than a minute, then the door closed again.

Banks hurried to the monitor; he could see Peter sitting on the bed. He was looking directly in the camera, his face expressionless, his eyes staring. As Banks watched, Peter attempted to reconnect himself to the breathing tube, then lay down and closed his eyes.

“He was sleepwalking, wasn’t he?” Banks asked the technician.

“You’ve just witnessed a classic example of it,” the technician replied.

F
or the second morning in a row, Vincent Slater received a seven
A.M
. phone call; this time it was from Conner Banks. “We’ve got a problem,” Banks said without introduction. “Peter was sleepwalking last night, during his stay at the sleep clinic, and tried to open the door of his bedroom. It could be viewed as a violation of the terms of his release. As soon as the prosecutor hears about it, there’ll be another bail hearing. Krause will move to have the bail forfeited.”

Slater swung his legs over the bed and sat up. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want you to do anything except pray that the judge sees it our way—that Peter didn’t know what he was doing. Otherwise you can kiss another twenty-five million dollars good-bye.”

“You absolutely
cannot
let that happen!”

“Do you think I won’t give it my best shot? Vince, I’ve been telling you all along that this sleepwalking defense is madness. There is no way that the judge is going to buy it. He certainly wasn’t happy with allowing Peter to go to the sleep disorder center, even with the guards. My big worry is that it might look as if this is a stunt to boost Peter’s sleepwalking defense at trial. If the judge views it that way, your money is going to help the State of New Jersey reduce its budget shortfall.”

“Have you told Kay about this?” Slater asked.

“I didn’t want to disturb her yet. The last time I saw her was Monday, and she was pretty upset then.”

“I saw her yesterday and she was still very upset. Let me be the one to talk to her.”

“I’m sure the prosecutor will ask for an emergent hearing regarding Peter’s bail,” Banks told him. “You’d better warn Kay. She’ll want to be there. I’ll let you know what time it’s set for.”

Warn Kay, Slater thought as he showered and dressed. Yesterday she had me send one million dollars to Elaine’s account because she believes Elaine has something that could hurt Peter. Then Elaine upped the ante. Blackmail on top of blackmail.

It’s got to be the shirt, he thought.

Or could it be something else?

There was no use going into the Manhattan office today, he decided. If there was going to be an emergent bail hearing, he intended to be there. Rather than going into the city, he would work out of his office at the mansion, then drive Kay to the hearing.

It wasn’t easy to phone Kay and tell her what had happened at the sleep center, but he got the job out of the way. An hour later he drove through the gate of the Carrington estate. The security guard gave him a friendly wave. The guard stationed at the house nodded to him as he drove around the mansion and parked his car in the back. He used the key to his private office to enter the house. He was barely inside before his cell phone rang.

It was Nicholas Greco, requesting a brief meeting at his convenience.

“Mr. Greco,” Vincent said, “I can see no reason for our meeting, today or any other time. Peter Carrington has been indicted for murder because you located that maid who, for her own reasons, now claims that the sworn statement she made twenty-two years ago was a lie. Why would I be interested in exchanging a single word with you?”

“Mr. Slater, I am not in anyone’s employ at this time. For my own sake, I do not like to leave loose ends dangling when I work on a case. I understand that Peter Carrington may admit in court that it is possible he committed those crimes while he was unaware of his actions. But is it not also possible that there is, in fact, another answer? As his close friend and assistant, please give me half an hour. Hear me out.”

Without answering, Vincent Slater slammed the phone shut.

“Who was that, Vince?”

He turned around. Kay was standing in the doorway.

“Nobody important, Kay,” he told her. “One of those crank callers who somehow manage to get private numbers.”

W
hen the sheriff’s officers reported to Prosecutor Barbara Krause that Peter Carrington had attempted to leave his hospital room by forcibly pulling on the locked door, she immediately requested, and was granted, another emergent bail hearing just as Conner Banks had expected.

At 2:30 that afternoon, she and the defense attorneys and Peter Carrington once more stood before Judge Smith. And as before, the courtroom was filled with the media and dozens of spectators.

I sat with Vincent Slater in the row behind Markinson and Banks. It’s difficult to express how I felt. I guess the best way to put it is to say that I felt numb. In the space of a few days—by opening the possibility that Susan had been the woman I overheard in the chapel all those years ago—I had, according to Peter’s attorneys, established a motive for him to have murdered her. I had seen the stained shirt he was wearing the night Susan disappeared, and I had paid one million dollars to his stepmother to get it from her. It was blackmail, but I felt I had no choice. And then after paying that money, I’d been held up for more blackmail. I had also visited Susan Althorp’s closest friend and learned that Susan had referred to Gary Barr as “her pal.” So much was happening, and I was still trying to make sense of it.

I watched as Peter, my husband, my love, was led into the court, emotionally wounded and degraded, wearing shackles and manacles, paraded around for all the world to see on the evening news.

The prosecutor had a triumphant yet outraged air about her as she got up to speak. With every word she uttered, I hated her more.

“Your Honor, this is the second time that this man, who is indicted for two murders, and is a suspect in one other death, has violated the conditions of his bail. The first time, he left his home and went on the property of Susan Althorp’s family, which caused them enormous distress. One of the police officers who attempted to arrest him was seriously assaulted. Last night, Peter Carrington attempted to force open the door of his hospital room in yet another attempt to escape. The sheriff’s officers reported to me that he desperately pulled on the door for at least a minute. Fortunately, he was not successful.”

Peter, I thought, Peter. What are you thinking? Why is this nightmare happening to us?

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor was saying, “the state moves that the twenty-five-million-dollar bail posted by Peter Carrington for the purpose of allowing him to go to the Sleep Disorders Center overnight be forfeited. We ask that he now remain in the Bergen County Jail while he awaits trial. It is hard to imagine a person who would constitute a greater risk of flight than he does.”

Conner Banks had been waiting impatiently for the prosecutor to finish. Now it was his turn. I watched as he arose from his chair at the defense table and prepared to address the judge. He had a confident air about him that gave me a measure of hope. He glanced at the prosecutor as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard; then he began his argument.

“Your Honor, let’s talk about the risk of flight. If Peter Carrington wanted to leave the country, he could have done it over twenty years ago. Instead he has lived in his own home, tried to ignore the scurrilous rumors, cooperated with all the investigations, and now, knowing he would never willingly harm another human being, he has tried to find an explanation for the crimes he may have committed. Or that he may
not
have committed.”

It was far too soon for me to have any response from the child I was carrying, but I swear I felt a phantom kick of approval.

Conner continued with his argument: “The entire purpose of the neurological testing at the sleep disorder clinic was to determine whether Peter Carrington is a sleepwalker, and, if he is, to determine the severity and frequency of this problem. I have been informed by my client’s doctors that his neurological readings, when he is asleep, are highly irregular, and clearly indicative of a person with a serious sleepwalking disorder called parasomnia. The doctors who have viewed the tape of this incident have told me that, in their judgment, it was clearly a sleepwalking episode, and that he was totally unaware of his actions.”

He’s doing a good job, I thought. Please God, let the judge believe him.

“Your Honor,” Banks said, his voice rising, “we do not dispute that Peter Carrington got up and attempted to leave the room. However, given the substantial security measures that were in place, of which Peter Carrington was not only aware, but was paying for, it is abundantly clear that this episode was the result of his being afflicted with this terrible disorder. Your Honor, as per your previous order, he spent the night at the center, and now has been returned to jail. It would be a terrible injustice to forfeit the twenty-five-million-dollar bail as a result of actions over which he had no control.”