The Lost Years (23 page)

What more can be coming? Peter asked himself. “Put him through, Nancy,” he said.

“Assistant Prosecutor Peter Jones speaking,” he said briskly.

“First, Mr. Jones, thank you very much for accepting my call,” a smooth voice with a distinct New York accent said. “I’m Joshua Schultz and I practice criminal defense in Manhattan.”

“Yes, I have heard of you,” Peter said. And from what I’ve heard you’re no great shakes in court, he thought.

“Mr. Jones, I am contacting you with information that I believe is of the utmost importance in the Jonathan Lyons murder case. I represent a defendant named Wally Gruber, who is charged with a residential attempted burglary in Riverdale and also a residential burglary in Mahwah. My client is in custody at Rikers Island, and there is a detainer from New Jersey for the Mahwah case.”

“I’m aware of the Mahwah case,” Peter Jones said tersely.

“I have spoken to my client and he recognizes that he has little defense to the case in your jurisdiction. We have been informed that his fingerprints have been recovered from the scene. We have also been made aware that there is an ongoing investigation by the New York City police regarding other house burglaries in which the owners
had parked their cars at the Manhattan garage where Mr. Gruber was employed prior to his recent arrest.”

“Go on,” Peter said, unable to even guess where the conversation was going.

“Mr. Jones, I am proffering to you that my client has informed me that when he was on the second floor of the Mahwah home during that burglary, he heard a gunshot coming from the house next door. He hurried to the window and saw someone running out of that house. I am not going to divulge now whether it was a man or woman, but I
can
say that the person’s head and face was covered by a scarf, which the person then pulled down, and that my client was able to see the face clearly. Mr. Gruber explained to me that there is a lamppost halfway down the front walkway that illuminated the area.”

There was a long pause as Peter Jones digested the fact that Schultz was obviously referring to the murder of Jonathan Lyons. “What are you trying to tell me?” he demanded.

“What I am saying to you is that Mr. Gruber has seen the picture of Kathleen Lyons in the newspaper, and he is emphatic that she is
not
the person who ran from the house. He is confident that he could sit with your composite officer and assist in producing a very accurate sketch of the person he saw. Of course, in exchange for his cooperation, he would expect considerable assistance from you in receiving reduced sentences in both New York and New Jersey.”

Peter felt as if the world was caving in on him. “It sounds pretty convenient that Mr. Gruber just happened to be there on that night and at that moment,” he said sarcastically. “The owners of the house next door to the Lyons residence were away for several weeks and that burglary could have been committed at any time during that period.”

“But, Mr. Jones, it
wasn’t
committed, as you put it, at any time during that period.” Schultz’s voice was now equally sarcastic. “It
was being committed at the same time that Jonathan Lyons was being murdered. And we can prove that to you. Mr. Gruber drove his own car to New Jersey that night, but he was using stolen license plates and a stolen E-ZPass tag. At my request, his cousin went to a storage unit that Mr. Gruber rents and retrieved the plates and the tag. I have them. The tag is from an Infiniti sedan owned by an Owen Morley, a long-time customer of the garage where Mr. Gruber worked. Mr. Morley is in Europe this month. The tag will show a debit for that night. I am sure that if you check the account tied to the E-ZPass tag he used, it will corroborate my client’s admission that he drove across the George Washington Bridge from New Jersey to New York approximately forty-five minutes after Jonathan Lyons was shot.”

Peter Jones struggled to choose his words carefully and to sound calm. “Mr. Schultz, you must understand that your client’s credibility is at best highly suspect. Based upon what you have told me, however, I believe that I have an ethical obligation to interview him. We will see where it goes. Mr. Gruber might have been there at the same time, but how do I know that he isn’t simply going to invent a face and claim it’s the one he saw leaving the Lyons home?”

“Mr. Jones, this is a fascinating case that I was following even before Mr. Gruber retained me. It seems to me that if Mrs. Lyons was not involved, then that shot might have been fired by someone else who was close to the victim. From what I have read, this case has no markings of a random intruder. I believe that it is very possible that if a high-quality composite is made, the face may end up being recognized by the family or friends of the victim.”

“As I just told you,” Peter snapped, “I recognize my ethical duty to follow up on this, but I am certainly not promising you anything in advance. I want to speak to Mr. Gruber, and I want to see those license plates. We will check out the E-ZPass charge to Mr. Morley’s account. If, after that, we decide to have him sit down with our
composite officer, we will see where the sketch takes us. You have my word that any meaningful cooperation will be brought to the attention of his sentencing judges. I absolutely refuse to get any more specific at this point.”

Schultz’s voice became angry and cold. “I don’t think Mr. Gruber will be very responsive to such a vague offer. Perhaps I should simply give this information to Mr. Scott, who represents Kathleen Lyons. It is most ironic that he is the victim in this burglary, and I assume he would have to advise Mrs. Lyons to obtain new counsel. But I have read that the families are close friends, and I am sure any information that would assist in exonerating this innocent woman would be most welcome. And I have no doubt that Mr. Scott would ensure that my client’s cooperation is brought to the attention of the sentencing judges.”

Peter sensed that Schultz was about to hang up. “Mr. Schultz,” he said emphatically, “you and I are both experienced criminal lawyers. I have never laid eyes on Mr. Gruber, but I do know he is a criminal and looking to benefit himself. It would be totally irresponsible of me to make more specific promises at this point and you know it. If any information he gives us turns out to be of importance, I assure you that his cooperation will be brought to the attention of his sentencing judges.”

“Not good enough, sir,” Schultz retorted. “Let me suggest something. I will wait two days before contacting Mr. Scott. I suggest that you reflect further on my offer. I will call you again on Friday afternoon.

“Have a good day.”

O
n Wednesday morning one of Lillian’s prepaid phones rang at six o’clock. Knowing who would be on the other end of the line, she reached across the pillow to pick it up from the night table. Although she was already awake, she still resented the early-morning intrusion. Her “Hello” was abrupt and sullen.

“Lillian, did you phone Richard last night?” the caller asked, his tone frigid and even threatening.

Lillian debated about whether to lie, then decided it was not worth it. “He knows I have the parchment,” she blurted out. “Jonathan told him he gave it to me. If I don’t sell it to him, he’ll go to the police. Do you realize what that could mean? When the cops were here, I had to admit that the night Jonathan died I was having dinner only twenty minutes from his house in New Jersey. We both know that Kathleen killed him, but if Richard tells them I have the parchment, they could turn it all around and say I went to the house, that Jonathan let me in, then I killed him and took the parchment.”

“You’re getting hysterical and jumping to absurd conclusions,” the caller snapped. “Lillian, how much is Richard going to pay you?”

“Two million dollars.”

“And I am offering you four million dollars. Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t you see why I’m doing this?” she screamed. “Because if
I don’t sell it to Richard, he’ll go straight to the detectives. He’s already seen the parchment. He trusts Jonathan’s judgment that it’s authentic. Jonathan told him that he gave it to me. And of course Richard would deny he ever tried to buy it from me. He’ll tell them he’s been trying to persuade me to give it back.”

“Richard has already denied to both Mariah and those detectives just last night that he ever
saw
the parchment. If he changes his story they’ll start suspecting him. You should call his bluff and tell him to get lost.”

Lillian pushed herself up to a sitting position. “I have a splitting headache. I can’t deal with this much longer. I already lied to the cops when I told them that Jonathan was going to try to sneak out and meet me for dinner the night he was shot. I already told Alvirah I didn’t speak to Jonathan during those last five days, and I’m sure she’s passed that on to Mariah and the cops.”

“Lillian, listen to me. I have an alternate plan that can make this a win-win situation for you. I’ll give you four million dollars for the parchment. Stall Richard until Friday. I can have a first-class expert make a perfect copy of it on two-thousand-year-old parchment, and you can give that one to Richard. He’ll pay you two million, so you end up with six million dollars. That should help dry your tears over Jonathan. And when Richard finds out that it’s a fake, he’ll just think that Jonathan was wrong about it. What do you expect he’s going to do? Go to the police? He’d be knee-deep in trouble himself. Don’t forget, we’re talking about a parchment that was stolen from the Vatican Library. Dear Richard will just have to swallow the whole thing.”

Six million dollars, Lillian thought. If I decided to give up teaching, I could travel. Who knows? I might even meet a nice guy who doesn’t have a crazy wife.

“Where is the parchment, Lillian? I want it today.”

“It’s in my safe-deposit box at the bank a couple of blocks from here.”

“I warned you that the police may very well be getting a search warrant for your apartment and any safe-deposit box in your name. You’ve got to get that parchment out of your box now. Be at the bank when it opens at nine o’clock. Don’t even think about bringing it back to your apartment. I’ll call you in an hour and tell you where to meet me after you’re finished at the bank.”

“What about the four million dollars? When do I get it and how do I get it?”

“I’ll wire it to an overseas account and I’ll have the paperwork for you when I give you the copy Friday morning. Look, Lillian, we have to trust each other. Either one of us could blow the whistle on the other. You want the money. I want the parchment. You give Richard the phony parchment Friday afternoon and collect your money from him. Then everybody’s happy.”

K
athleen was sitting up in bed, a tray with tea and juice and toast in front of her. The smell of the toast made her think of sitting at the breakfast table with Jonathan. He was with her now, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was sitting on a chair next to the bed, and his head and arms were leaning against her legs.

Any minute now he will start to bleed, she thought.

She pushed aside the tray, unaware that the nurse grabbed it in time to prevent the tea and juice from spilling.

A voice asked, “What do you want, Kathleen? Why are you doing that?”

Kathleen was clawing at the pillow, trying to yank the pillowcase off.

She did not realize that the nurse made a gesture to stop her, then stepped back.

Her fingers shaking, Kathleen pulled the pillowcase free and tied it around her face.