I'll Walk Alone (14 page)

Jennifer began to button her coat. “Thank you, Ms. Garcia,” she said.

“Detective Collins,” Maria began, then stopped. She had been about to say that she was in the room when Mrs. Aldrich absolutely told Alexandra Moreland to meet her here, not at Beekman Place. But who would take my word against hers? Maria Garcia asked herself. Besides, what difference does it make? I saw those photos in the paper. There’s no question. Whatever her reason, Ms. Moreland stole her own child.

“Did you want to tell me anything, Ms. Garcia?” Billy asked.

“Oh, no, no. I just wanted to wish you both a nice day.”

33

H
e had tried Gloria again and again that evening, but the phone just rang. Was she playing a game with him? He finally reached her at midnight and was quick to notice that at some point her defiant bravado had collapsed. Her voice sounded tired and listless when she answered. “What do you want?”

He was careful to keep his tone moderated and warm. “Gloria, I know how tough this has been for you.” He was about to add that it had been tough for him, too, but clamped his teeth over that sentence. It would have given her an opening and, worse than that, a golden opportunity to rekindle her sense of being entrapped.

“Gloria,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking. I’m not going to give you two hundred thousand as we agreed. I’m going to triple it. I’m going to give you six hundred thousand dollars in cash by the end of next week.”

He was delighted to hear her astonished gasp. Was she stupid enough to really fall for it? “You only have one more thing to do,” he continued, “and that is to show up in the Franciscan church one more time about quarter of five. I’ll let you know what evening.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll go to confession again?”

If she were in this room, I’d kill her right now, he thought. Instead he laughed. “I looked it up. You’re right about the seal of the confessional.”

“Aren’t you torturing Matthew’s mother enough? Why do you have to kill her?”

Not for the same reason I’m going to kill you, he thought. You know too much. I’d never be sure that so-called conscience of yours wouldn’t start bubbling to the surface. As for Zan, I won’t be happy until they are planning her funeral.

“Gloria, I’m not going to kill her,” he said. “That was just angry talk.”

“I don’t believe you. I know how much you hate her.” The edge of anger and even panic was creeping back into Gloria’s voice.

“Gloria, how did we start this conversation? Let me remind you. I’m going to give you six hundred thousand dollars in cash, in genuine U.S. dollars, that you’ll be able to put in a safe-deposit box and live on while you give yourself a chance to do the only thing you really want to do and that is to walk across the stage in a Broadway play or on a movie set. You’re a beautiful woman. Unlike most of the look-alike Barbie dolls in Hollywood, you’re also a chameleon. You can look and walk and talk like someone else. You remind me of Helen Mirren in
The Queen.
You’ve got that level of talent. I’m asking you for a week. At the most ten days. I’ll want you to go to that church, and I’ll let you know what to wear. The minute you leave, it’s all over. We’ll meet someplace nearby and I’ll give you five thousand dollars right away. That’s as much cash as you should carry in case your bags are opened in an airport.”

“Then what?”

“You go back to Middletown. You wait until about nine or ten o’clock that night, then drop Matthew off in a department store or mall. After that, you’re on a plane to California, or Texas, or wherever you like, to start your new life. I know you’re worried about your father. You can tell him you were on a mission for the CIA.”

“Not more than ten days.” Now her voice was tentative, almost convinced. Then she added, “But how will I get the rest of the cash?”

You’ll never have that problem, he thought. “I’ll have the money packaged and mailed to you anywhere you want.”

“But how can I trust that the package will arrive or that, if it does, that it won’t be stuffed with old newspapers?”

You can’t trust me, he thought. Reaching for the straight-up double scotch that he had promised himself he wouldn’t touch until after he spoke to her, he said, “Gloria, if that ever happened, and it won’t, you can go back to plan B. Get a lawyer, tell him your story, get him to arrange a book deal, and then go to the cops. In the meantime, Matthew has been found, nice and healthy, and the only thing he knows is that Glory took care of him.”

“I read him a lot of books. He’s smarter than a lot of kids his age.”

I’m sure you were a real Mother Teresa, he thought. “Gloria, this will be over soon and you’ll be rich.”

“All right. I’m sorry I got so upset before. It’s just that this woman who lives near here showed up with some stupid muffins this morning. I know she was just sniffing around to see what kind of person I am.”

“You didn’t tell me about her earlier,” he said quietly. “Did she see Matthew?”

“No, but she saw his toy truck and told me she was such a great babysitter if I ever needed one. I told her my sister had helped me move in and that it was her little boy’s truck.”

“That sounds all right to me.”

“The real estate agent is this woman’s big friend. I had told the real estate agent that I was coming in by myself at night. She’s another nosy one. I know she drove by early the morning after I got here.”

He felt himself begin to perspire.
For want of a horse the rider is lost…
Incongruous that he should remember that old saying right now. His mind explored the possible scenarios. The nosy blueberry muffin lady checking with her real estate friend. He didn’t want to think about that.

Time was running out.

It was hard to keep the reassuring note in his voice. “Gloria, you’re borrowing trouble. Just start counting down the days.”

“You bet I will. And not just for my sake. This little kid doesn’t want to stay hidden anymore. He wants to go look for his mother.”

34

k
evin Wilson arrived at his mother’s apartment at seven
P.M.,
just as the evening news on Channel 2 was ending. He had rung the bell twice, then let himself in with his own key. It was an arrangement that was long in place. “That way if I’m on the phone or still dressing, I don’t have to run to the door,” was the way his mother put it.

But when he walked in, diminutive, white-haired, seventy-one-year-old Catherine “Cate” Kelly Wilson was neither in her bedroom nor on the phone. She was glued to the television set and did not even look up as he entered the living room.

The three-room apartment he had bought for her was on Fifty-seventh Street, near First Avenue, a location which offered a crosstown bus stop on the corner, a movie theatre within walking distance, and, most important to her, St. John the Evangelist Church only one block away.

The unwillingness with which his mother had vacated the old neighborhood three years ago when it had become financially possible for him to buy her this new apartment still amused Kevin. Now, she loved it.

He went over to her chair and kissed her forehead.

“Hello, dear. Sit down a minute,” she said, switching the channels without looking up at him.
“Headline News
is coming on now and there’s something I want to see.”

Kevin was hungry and had been looking forward to going immediately to Neary’s Pub. It was not only a favorite dining spot, but also had the advantage of being directly across the street.

He settled down on the couch and looked around. The couch and the matching chair where his mother was sitting had been part of her original furniture, and no amount of persuasion had induced her to part with them when she moved. Instead Kevin had both pieces reupholstered for her as well as having her bridal bedroom set refinished. As she pointed out, “That’s ribbon mahogany, Kevin, and I’m not giving it up.” He’d also repaired her dining room furniture, which was “too good to throw out.” She did allow him to replace the threadbare, machine-made Oriental carpet with one in a similar design. He did not tell her how much the new one cost.

The result was a cozy apartment filled with pictures of his father and grandparents, various cousins, and lifelong friends. Whenever he walked into it, no matter how busy his day, it lifted his spirits. It felt like a home. It
was
a home.

That was just what Zan Moreland had pitched to him in her plea to withhold judgment on his decision between her and Bartley Longe until she could prove her innocence in the alleged kidnapping of her own child. People want to feel as though they’re living in a home, not a museum, she had told him.

Kevin realized that he had spent a good part of the day wondering why he hadn’t simply returned Moreland’s sketches and fabric samples to her with a brief note saying he had decided that Bartley Longe was the right person for the project.

What was keeping him from doing it? God knows he’d taken enough flak from his secretary, Louise, about how astonished she was that he would waste his time on a lying kidnapper. “I can tell you, Kevin, it took my breath away when that woman had the nerve to come here, and then ignore what I told her, that she could take her stuff, or I’d mail it to her. What did she do? Go running up to find you, and try to hold on to her chance of getting the job. Mark my words, she’ll be on Rikers Island in handcuffs before this is over.”

Not bothering to hide his annoyance, he had told Louise dryly, “If she’s arrested, I believe she’ll be out on bail.” Finally he had told Louise flat out to drop the subject altogether, which of course had brought on a wounded, reproachful attitude from her that she made doubly clear by calling him “Mr. Wilson” for the rest of the day.

“Kevin, watch! They’re showing those pictures of that Moreland woman picking up her child out of the stroller. The nerve of her, lying to the cops. Can you imagine how the father must be feeling all this time?”

Kevin sprang up and rushed across the room. There was a picture of Alexandra Moreland taking a little boy out of a stroller, and then one of her carrying him down the path. They stayed on the screen as the commentator continued, “She is seen here when she rushed back to Central Park after learning from police that her son was missing.”

Kevin studied the image. Zan Moreland looked in shock. The suffering in her eyes was unmistakable. That same look had been there this afternoon, he thought, when she begged him to give her the chance to prove her innocence.

Begged? That was too strong a word. And she had given him an out by saying that if he preferred Bartley Longe’s designs, she would understand.

She looks so wounded, he thought. He listened intently as the news announcer said, “Yesterday was Matthew Carpenter’s fifth birthday and now the speculation is about whether his mother gave him to someone to keep for her—or if he is no longer alive.”

In this past month or two Zan had been going back and forth to the apartments any number of times and putting hours upon hours of work into creating the designs for them, Kevin thought. I realize now that when I met her at Carlton Place yesterday, I could sense her suffering even though she seemed so calm. Why would she be in so much pain if she knew her child was safe? Is it possible she killed him?

No, it was not possible, he thought. I’d stake my soul on that. She’s not a killer.

Kevin realized that his mother had stood up. “It’s hard not to believe that kind of solid evidence,” Catherine Wilson said. “But the look on Zan Moreland’s face when she found out her child was missing! Of course, you’re too young to remember, but when the Fitzpatrick baby fell out the window of our apartment building and was killed, that’s the expression I saw in Joan Fitzpatrick’s eyes, so much pain that you bled for her. That Moreland woman must be some actress.”

“If
she’s acting.” Kevin was surprised to hear himself defending her.

Startled, his mother looked at him. “What do you mean, if? You saw those pictures, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, and I don’t know what I mean. Come on, Mom, let’s eat. I’m starved.”

It was later, at their usual table in Neary’s, that Kevin told his mother over coffee that he had been considering hiring Alexandra Moreland to decorate three model apartments.

“Well, of course this ends that,” Catherine Wilson said decisively. “But tell me, what’s she like?”

Her face would haunt you, Kevin thought. Those expressive eyes, that sensitive mouth. “She’s about five eight, I would say. She’s very slender and graceful. She moves like a dancer. Yesterday her hair was loose on her shoulders, the way you see it in the pictures. Today, she had tied it back in a bun or chignon or whatever you call it.” He realized he was describing Zan to himself as much as to his mother.

“My God, you sound as though you have a crush on her,” his mother exclaimed.

Kevin thought for a long moment. That’s crazy, he decided, but there is something about Zan. He remembered the feeling of having her shoulder brush his when she was pointing out some of the aspects in Bartley Longe’s sketches that she felt would put off a prospective buyer. By then she had seen those photos from Central Park and she knew what she was up against.

“She asked me to give her time to prove that those photos are fakes,” he said. “I don’t have to make a decision between her and Bartley Longe yet. And I’m not going to. I’m sticking to my guns and giving her the chance she asked for.”

“Kevin, you’ve always been for the underdog,” his mother said. “But this may be carrying it too far. You’re thirty-seven years old and I was beginning to worry that I would be stuck with an Irish bachelor on my hands. But, for God’s sake, don’t get involved with someone in a hopeless situation.”

Just then their longtime friend Jimmy Neary stopped at their table to say hello. He’d caught Catherine’s last words. “I couldn’t agree more with your Mom, Kevin,” he said. “And if you’re ready to settle down, I’ve got a list a mile long of young ladies who already have their eye on you. Do yourself a favor. Steer clear of trouble.”