I'll Walk Alone (30 page)

75

W
hen Zan opened the door for Kevin at 1:45, he looked at her for a long minute, then, feeling as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do, he put his arms around her. For long seconds they stood still, her hands at her side, her eyes searching his.

Kevin said firmly, “Zan, I don’t know how good your lawyer is, but what you need is a private detective agency to turn this situation around.”

“Then you
do
believe that I’m not a wacko?” Zan’s tone was tentative.

“Zan, this is me. I trust you. Trust me.”

“I’m sorry, Kevin. My God, you’re the first person to say you believe me. But it goes on. The Mad Hatter’s tea party goes on. Look around you.”

Kevin looked around the warm and tastefully decorated living room with its eggshell walls, roomy pale green sofa, striped chairs, and deep green and cream geometric carpet. Both the couch and the chairs had open boxes on them from Bergdorf’s.

“These just arrived this morning,” Zan said. “They’re charged to my account. I didn’t buy them, Kevin, I didn’t buy them. I spoke to a salesclerk in Bergdorf’s I know pretty well. She said she didn’t handle the sale Monday afternoon, but she recognized me and was a little hurt that I hadn’t asked for her. She said that I bought the same suit a few weeks ago. Why would I do that? The one I have is in the closet. Alvirah thought she saw me on the security camera in the church on Monday evening wearing a black suit with a fur collar. I didn’t wear that suit Monday evening. I wore it the next day, when I met you.” Zan threw up her hands in a gesture of despair. “Where does it end? How can I stop it? Why? Why?”

Kevin covered her hands with his. “Zan, hang on. Come on. Sit over here.” He guided her to the couch. “Have you ever noticed anyone following you?”

“No, but Kevin, I feel as if I’m living in a fishbowl. I’ve been arrested. Someone is impersonating me. The media is hounding me. I feel as if someone is walking in my footsteps, shadowing me, imitating me.
That person has my child!”

“Zan, let’s go back. I saw the photos of the woman you swear is not you in the paper, taking your son out of the stroller.”

“She was wearing the same dress that I have, the same everything.”

“That’s my point, Zan. When did you wear that dress on the street where you could be seen?”

“I went out on the street with Tiffany. Matthew was asleep in his stroller. I grabbed a cab to Sixty-ninth Street to go to the Aldrich town house.”

“That means even if someone saw you, and wanted to look like you, in the space of an hour or so, she would have had to find a dress that was exactly like yours.”

“Don’t you see? One of the columnists brought that up in the newspaper. They said it would be impossible for anyone to do that.”

“Unless someone saw you while you were getting dressed, and already had a dress identical to the one you chose to wear?”

“There was absolutely no one in the apartment except Matthew while I was getting dressed.”

“And this identical clothing continues to this day.” Kevin Wilson stood up. “Zan, do you mind if I look around the apartment?”

“No, take your time, but what for?”

“Just humor me.”

Kevin Wilson walked into the bedroom. The bed was made and piled with pillows. A picture of a smiling child was on the night table. The room was orderly, with a single dresser, a small writing desk, a slipper chair. The valance of the large picture window matched the blue and white pattern on the bed.

But even though Kevin’s subconscious was aware of the pretty bedroom, his eyes were darting around the room. He was thinking of the time three years ago when a client had bought a condo after a bitter divorce between the sellers. When the workmen started to pull out the wiring, they had discovered a spy camera in the bedroom.

Was it possible that Zan might have been under scrutiny when she chose the dress she was wearing the day Matthew disappeared? And was it possible that she was still under scrutiny from an unknown observer?

With that in mind, he went back to the living room. “Zan, have you got a stepladder?” he asked. “I need to take a look around this place.”

“Yes, I have one.”

Kevin followed her to the hall closet, then reached past her and took the ladder from her hands. She followed him into the bedroom as he stood on it and slowly, carefully, began to examine and run his finger over the crown molding on the bedroom walls.

Directly opposite her bed, and over the dresser, he found what he was looking for, the tiny eye of a camera.

76

T
he
Post
and the
Times
were delivered to the Aldrich town house every morning. Maria Garcia put them in the pocket on the side of the breakfast tray for Nina Aldrich, who enjoyed breakfast in bed. But before Maria brought up the tray, she looked at the headline with Zan Moreland’s cry, “i
AM NOT THE WOMAN IN THOSE PHOTOS,”
splattered across the front page.

Mrs. Aldrich lied to the police, Maria thought, and I know why. Mr. Aldrich was away and Bartley Longe dropped in on her. And
stayed.
And stayed a long time. She knew she was keeping that young woman waiting and she didn’t care. And then she lied bald-faced to those detectives. It was easier than to try to make an excuse for keeping Ms. Moreland waiting so long.

She brought up the tray and Nina Aldrich, propped up on pillows, grabbed the
Post
and saw the front page. “Oh, they did arrest her?” she said. “Walter will be furious if I’m dragged in to testify. But I’ll simply repeat what I told the detectives, and that will be that.”

Maria Garcia left the bedroom without answering. But by noon, she could stand it no longer. She had the card Detective Collins had given her and, being careful to see that Mrs. Aldrich was not on her way down in the elevator, dialed his number.

In the precinct, Billy Collins was waiting for Bartley Longe who, in a rage, had accepted Detective David Feldman’s invitation to come in to the Central Park Precinct. Billy picked up the phone. He heard a tremulous voice say, “Detective Collins, I’m Maria Garcia. I’m afraid to call you because I don’t have my green card yet.”

Maria Garcia, the Aldrich housekeeper, Billy thought. What now? His voice soothing and reassuring, he said, “Mrs. Garcia, I didn’t hear you tell me that. Is there something else that you want to say?”

“Yes.” Maria took a long breath, then nervously burst out, “Detective Collins, I swear on my mother’s grave that Ms. Moreland was told by Mrs. Aldrich to meet her here at the town house that day almost two years ago. I heard her and I know why she’s lying about it. Bartley Longe, the designer, had stopped in to see Mrs. Aldrich on Beekman Place. They were having an affair. She let poor Ms. Moreland do all the work to get the job and gave it to him instead when he started flattering her. But that day, she was leaving to meet Ms. Moreland here on Sixty-ninth Street when Mr. Longe arrived. She knew perfectly well that Ms. Moreland was waiting for her, and that she’d sit there waiting until Mrs. Aldrich decided to show up.”

Billy was about to respond when Maria Garcia gasped, “Mrs. Aldrich is on the way down. I have to go.”

There was a click in his ear, and Billy Collins was processing this new chink in the evidence in the case against Alexandra Moreland when, accompanied by his lawyer, a furious Bartley Longe arrived at the precinct.

77

A
t quarter of one on Saturday afternoon, Melissa phoned Ted. “Have you seen the papers?” she asked. “They’re all talking about how generous I am to offer that wonderful reward for your son.”

Ted had managed to beg off from seeing her again on Friday night on the basis of his ongoing flu-like symptoms. At Rita’s loyal insistence, he had called Melissa after her announcement to the media and groveled his gratitude to her.

Now, clenching his teeth, his voice robotic, he said, “Beautiful lady, I predict that a year from now, you’ll be the number one star on this planet, maybe in the universe.”

“You’re sweet.” Melissa laughed. “I think so, too. Oh, good news. Jaime-boy had a fight with his publicist again. Isn’t that a riot? The big all-is-forgiven scene lasted only twenty-four hours. He wants to meet you.”

Ted was standing in the living room of his handsomely furnished duplex apartment in the Meatpacking district, the apartment where he had lived for eight years. It had been his crowning achievement when he had been established enough to buy and furnish it. Bartley Longe and Zan Moreland, his assistant, had done the interior decorating. That was how he had met Zan.

That was running through his head as he reminded himself that he could not afford to offend Melissa. “When does Jaime-boy want to meet me?” he asked.

“Monday, I guess.”

“That would be
great.”
Ted’s reaction was genuinely enthusiastic. He was not up to meeting Jaime-boy today. And Melissa was flying to London to attend a celebrity birthday party. He knew that, concerned as she was with catching a flu bug, she still did not want to go unescorted to the party.

He felt an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Wouldn’t it be perfect if someone did somehow find Matthew, and Melissa had to shell out five million dollars?

“Ted, if you start feeling better, hop a plane to London, or else I’ll find someone else at the party. British guys are soooooooooooo attractive.”

“Don’t you dare.” His slightly stern voice, his “Daddy knows best,” was a good sign-off. Finally he was able to get off the phone. He opened the door of the terrace and went outside. The cold air snapped at him. He looked down.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be good to jump and be done with it, he thought.

78

W
hen Willy got back from his daily walk in Central Park, he realized that he was hungry. The problem was that he and Alvirah often liked to have lunch out on Saturdays, then drop in on a museum or go to a movie.

He tried to call her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. I should think that whatever that Tiffany Shields kid has to say, it would be said by now, he thought, but maybe Alvirah stopped to do a little shopping.

I won’t spoil my appetite, he decided when she still hadn’t returned. But fifteen minutes later, he was wavering. And then the phone rang.

“Willy, you just won’t begin to guess what I’m going to tell you,” Alvirah began. “I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it. But listen, I just left Detective Collins and Detective Dean at the Central Park Precinct. Let’s meet at the Russian Tea Room for lunch.”

“I’m on my way,” Willy promised. He knew that if he began to ask Alvirah questions, she would spill the beans immediately about what was exciting her and he’d rather hear it over the lunch table.

“See you there,” Alvirah confirmed.

Willy replaced the receiver and headed for the closet in the foyer. He pulled out his jacket and gloves. As he was opening the front door of their apartment, the phone rang. He waited in case it was Alvirah calling back. Instead, when he did not pick up, he heard the beginning of a message. “Alvirah, this is Penny Hammel. I tried you on your cell phone but you’re not answering. You won’t believe what I’m going to tell you, Alvirah,” she began. “I swear I think I’m right. This morning—”

Willy let the door close behind him on Penny’s message. Later, Penny, he thought as he rang for the elevator.

The message he did not wait to hear was Penny telling Alvirah that she was willing to bet that Matthew Carpenter was the child Gloria Evans was hiding in the farmhouse.

“What should I do?” Penny asked the answering machine. “Call the cops now? But I guess it would be better to hear from you because I have absolutely no proof. Alvirah,
call me!”