The Crasher (44 page)

Silence. Ginny was shaking so much, she almost dropped the phone.

“Are you still there, you silly little Ginny?” Johnny’s voice was tender. He’d forgiven her for her stupidity—for now.

“Did… the… did the dinner go on? Did your father have a good time?”

“And did you enjoy the play, Mrs. Lincoln?” Johnny shook his head, laughing. What a crazy, kooky girl. “You can imagine how
I felt about you when the police were counting heads. I was relieved like hell that you weren’t there, but worried to death
where you’d got to. Promise me you’ll stay away from crashing for a while.”

“Don’t worry.” Couldn’t he sense her terror through the phone? “Johnny, I think I’ve got a problem.”

Anxiety made him snap. “What?”

“I left my cloak at the library… a very special one-of-a-kind cloak I made hoping to impress you and your—”

“Oh, God, Ginny, I don’t believe it. How could you do a thing like that? Of course, no one will claim it—”

She started to cry.

“Don’t, Ginny, don’t. We’ll work it out. Did anyone see you arriving in it?”

“Yes, Oz, the photographer, remember the guy who cut in at the wedding?”

“The one you were so charming to? Well, that’s a big help. It certainly means the end of your days as a crasher, but after
tonight that’s not too bad a fate. I just can’t think how you could have left it behind. How you—” He saw a cab across the
street. “Look, I’ve got to go but I’ll keep you posted. Go to sleep. I’ll come by in the morning…”

“With the surprise?”

“Surprise?” He frowned, then remembered he’d told her he had a surprise for her, his plan to take her to the Literary Lions
event as a bona fide guest. “No, Ginny,” he said. “You blew that.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Why d’you think I wanted you all dressed up and waiting for me at six o’clock this evening? Figure it out for yourself.”
He quietly put the phone down.

She stared into space. He’d planned to take her to the library after all. If only she’d known; if only he’d let her know.

The loft seemed ominously silent and empty. Svank. She couldn’t believe it. Svank dead. Had Poppy been there? She hadn’t seen
her, although she remembered Stern saying he’d seen “Mr. High and Mighty.”

She walked backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards across the loft, a horrible realization coming to her. Other than
Stern himself, only two people knew he had nothing to do with the murder. She, Ginny Walker, the invisible guest, the crasher—and
the real murderer.

Alex. Had it really been Alex in the hallway, fighting with Svank, pushing him over the balustrade to his death? Now she was
really going to be sick. She rushed to the bathroom, vomiting.

Afterwards, she stared at the toilet. She lifted the lid of the cistern. The Villeneva jewels were no longer there.

Muriel Stern, all one hundred and seventy-four pounds of her, was in a terrible rage. To those who really knew her—and few
did—it showed in the way she continually puckered up her face as if about to cry (although no one had ever recorded seeing
a tear escape from Muriel).

It showed in the increasing speed and noise of her huffing and puffing as she walked, still in her bathrobe, backward and
forward, tapping every piece of furniture she encountered, throughout her twenty-two room, L-shaped, hermetically sealed apartment.

The apartment had one of the most spectacular views of the East River, but more important as far as Muriel was concerned,
it was situated more or less midway between two of New York’s leading medical establishments, New York Hospital to the north
and New York University’s Tisch Hospital to the south.

Leroy Samson, senior partner of Samson, Kaunitz, Farquahar and Stern (no relation), knew Muriel as well as anyone, including
her husband; certainly well enough to know that until Muriel stopped moving and slumped into one of her specially designed
orthopedic chairs, he would do best to remain silent while his very important client digested the information
he had given her over the telephone at seven A.M.,less than half an hour ago that morning.

As her lawyer, executor of her will, unofficial financial advisor and official legal advisor to her family’s far-flung conglomerate
of fashion and textile businesses, Leroy Samson knew how to remain so silent and still that he would be almost invisible to
Muriel, and so he remained for the next fifteen or so minutes.

He was also totally relaxed, an unusual condition for those in Muriel’s presence, and a major asset in dealing with her.

Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, Samson even made a little bet with himself that as agitated as Muriel appeared
to be, she was probably timing her perambulations, in order that they could substitute for the daily twenty-minute cardiovascular
treadmill walk she continually complained about, but faithfully carried out in her private gym each morning.

He made another bet, which he had no doubt he would win. It concerned the first words out of her mouth to him, which would
not be a greeting, but a familiar wail.

Sure enough, upon her collapsing into the chair came what he had anticipated: “Leroy, what have I done to deserve this?”

Right on cue Samson leapt up and began to stroke Muriel’s shoulder as she reclined, body shuddering, eyes closed, saying soothingly
as he stroked, “Nothing, my dear, absolutely nothing, but you must not work yourself up so much; you must think of yourself,
the company. It is obviously a preposterous mistake, which will be corrected as soon as possible.”

Because of Muriel’s well-known “precarious health,” Samson knew that she and Arthur Stern slept in separate rooms at opposite
ends of the vast apartment. He also knew that Muriel kept to a regular bedtime of ten-thirty—except on very special occasions
(invitations to the White House, for instance).

It was for both those reasons he’d decided not to wake her the night before when he’d first been wakened himself to learn
of her husband’s arrest. She wouldn’t know Arthur hadn’t come home till their also well-advertised regular-as-clock-work
eight A.M. BREAKFAST. Tossing and turning during an almost sleepless night, he’d correctly guessed the morning would come
soon enough.

With her eyes still closed, but her voice firm and authoritative, Muriel asked, “Have you called Morgenthau? What did he say?”

It was typical of the woman that she expected him to have already contacted the New York district attorney. Other people,
whoever they were, could be called at any hour of the day or night. Only Muriel’s “do-not-disturb” edict could not be violated.
Because the district attorney and his talented Pulitzer prize-winning wife had also dined with the Sterns, Samson knew Muriel
would take it absolutely for granted that the D.A. would get busy on her husband’s behalf and move to dismiss the charges.

“I’m sure he’s well aware of the facts,” Samson began in the same soothing voice. “I gave a very clear message to Matthew
Mossop—”

“Who’s he?”

Samson hesitated, knowing he’d made a mistake. It was no use fudging a title with Muriel. She was like a dog with a bone over
details. “He’s a good man, chief of the trial division and in close touch with the D.A.”

Muriel opened her eyes, fixing them on the lawyer. “Trial,” she repeated incredulously as if hearing the word for the first
time. “Then if you’ve explained who Arthur is, and who he is married to, why isn’t Arthur here, home with me now? How dare
they stop him coming home? Where did you say he was?”

He was well used to Muriel’s playing dumb. It never paid to let her get away with it. He had told her over the phone where
her husband was and she never forgot a thing. Now was the time to tell her what was in store.

“As you will recall from our conversation this morning, Arthur was held”—he paused, rephrasing the sentence so as not to make
another mistake—“was asked to spend the night
for further questioning at the midtown south precinct. He has to appear at eleven o’clock before Judge Imiouse and—“

“Isn’t that the greedy Greek appointed by Giuliani, the one who used to work for you, and so for us?”

Samson inwardly sighed “His second or third cousin, I believe. Arthur will, of course, plead not guilty and I am confident—”

Muriel let out a short, shrill scream. “I can’t believe the words I’m hearing under my own roof about my own husband. Trial!
Not guilty! Of course, Arthur isn’t guilty. He’s too gutless to swat a fly.” Again her face puckered up. “Of course, it would
have to be the loathsome Svank who finally bit the dust. Arthur and he never got on and, you know”—she glared at Samson as
if it was his fault—“Arthur was fool enough to let everyone know it… said Svank insulted him, then typically cut off his nose
to save his face and wouldn’t supply one of Svank’s chains until I got wind of it.”

Again she glared at Samson. “At least, thank God, we won’t have to put up with reading anymore about Svank climbing to the
peaks of whatever trash passes for New York society nowadays. He was shot, you say, then was pushed over the library balcony?
Did they find a gun on Arthur? Of course not.” She tossed her head in disgust.

Samson hesitated. There was no need at this point to tell Muriel Arthur had actually been found holding the gun. “The papers
say it was the fall that killed Svank. No one is talking about a gun at this point.”

Muriel moaned and shut her eyes again. “Oh, my God, the papers. Of course, it’s in the papers… thank God we took the company
private again and I don’t have to worry about the stock. Is… was Arthur mentioned?”

He nodded soberly. There was no way he was going to tell her about the cluster of reporters and TV cameras from New York 1
and other channels already camped outside on Beekman Place. Luckily his driver, an ex-New York cop, had spotted them as they
turned the corner, so he’d come into the apartment house the little-known back way he’d used before
when plotting a secret business deal. It wouldn’t take long for the media vultures to find it, but it wasn’t necessary to
tell her and so add to her agitation—yet.

Muriel was suddenly all business. “Now I’m fully awake after the rudest awakening in history, let’s review the facts. Arthur
was in the wrong place at the wrong time, giving advice, he says, to a new fashion designer when he witnessed two men fighting,
one of whom fell to his death—Svank. The name of this young designer escapes him, and there appears to be no such person present
at the library willing to corroborate his story. I’m not surprised the police don’t buy it, but it’s probably true.”

Muriel gave Samson the smile he liked to see the least. “Why else would he be on a deserted floor, so far away from the party,
giving advice I’m sure to a young, probably blonde bimbo who wouldn’t know a pattern from a paper bag. Perhaps a night enjoying
the hospitality of the New York police precinct isn’t such a bad idea for Arthur after all. It may have even done him some
good. We both know Arthur can be a fool. It’s got him into trouble before, but nothing like this.”

She crossed her arms the way she did in the boardroom before delivering a question to which she expected the answer she wanted
to hear. “So what comes next?”

Samson was ready. “I’ve already asked Caulter—William Caulter—to represent Arthur at the arraignment this morning. He’s the
best defense lawyer there is. There’s no question in my mind that Arthur will be released on bail, and Caulter and I will
see that this terrible situation is resolved and brought to a speedy conclusion, with Arthur’s reputation as an outstanding
member of the community untarnished and—”

“Spare me the sanctimonious slop.” Muriel spat the words out.

Although he didn’t show it, Samson was furious. Despite his lack of experience in a criminal court, he felt he had every justification
for saying what he had just said. He meant every word, for it was ludicrous to think of a man like Stern committing
a murder, or indeed, even getting into a physical fight. Muriel was right. Arthur was gutless.

Once the facts were presented and evaluated in the cool light of day, the not guilty plea entered and bail set, he was confident
Caulter with his pack of ex-FBI guys would speedily make mincemeat of the prosecution’s circumstantial case and he’d happily
help the Sterns sue the city for millions for so quickly making an arrest.

All the same, when he’d called Caulter after seeing Arthur the night before, Caulter hadn’t taken the matter lightly. He’d
made it perfectly clear then, and again around five-thirty that morning, that the climate for the D.A. to pursue a case involving
a “big shot” was dangerously ripe, because of recent accusations in the media of “light sentences” when “money talks.”

The gun Arthur was holding, which, it turned out, belonged to Svank, was a major problem; and as Caulter had explained convincingly,
the police would never have arrested someone like Arthur unless they felt they had enough evidence for the D.A.’s office.
That was the reason the D.A.’s “riding desk”— the all-night mobile unit—had been contacted the night before, and a young assistant
D.A. dispatched to question Arthur further.

Arthur’s rude stonewalling and sticking to the designer story had only firmed up their decision to go ahead.

In Caulter’s opinion the D.A.’s office would proceed quickly with a prima facie case because of the identity of the victim,
Svank, one of the country’s biggest industrialists.

“There’ll be plenty of pressure to get a quick conviction on this one,” Caulter had said languidly as the new day finally
dawned. Hearing Samson sigh, he’d added quickly, “Don’t worry, Sam, it won’t fly.”

Now Muriel was growling, “It all depends what kind of bail they want. Perhaps letting Arthur stew may finally teach him a
lesson he’ll never forget.”

Samson couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew Muriel was a tyrannical despot, a formidable businesswoman,
but talking about allowing her husband to “stew” when accused of murder! It was inconceivable.

He wasn’t going to put up with it. “This isn’t a matter of letting Arthur stew for a misdemeanor, Muriel,” he said sharply.
“Murder is a serious accusation. Of course, we know Arthur didn’t do it, isn’t capable of any such thing, but we can’t let
him ‘stew,’ as you put it. We have to fight with everything in our power—”