The Second Time Around (13 page)

I called the diner in Caspien from the car and spoke to Milly. She told me that the accident had happened around 6:00
A.M
. in the county park near his home.

“From what I hear the police think the guy must have been drunk or something,” she said. “He had to go way over to the side of the road to hit the doctor. Isn't that awful? Say a prayer for him, Carley.”

I certainly would.

When I got home, I changed into a comfortable light sweater, slacks, and sneakers. At five o'clock I poured a glass of wine and got out some cheese and crackers, put my feet up on the hassock, and let myself think about the day.

Seeing Maggie who had only a few months to live brought back vivid memories of Patrick. I wondered if, given a choice, it would have been worse to have had Patrick for four years and then lose him? Was it easier to let him go after only a few days rather than having him become the soul and center of my life, as Maggie was to Rhoda and Marty Bikorsky? If only . . . If only . . . If only . . . If only the chromosomes that formed Patrick's heart had not been flawed. If only the cancer cells that had invaded Maggie's brain could have been destroyed.

Of course, positing “if only” questions is pointless because there are no answers. It didn't happen that way, so we'll never know. Patrick would be ten now. In my mind and heart I can see him as he would have looked if he had lived. He'd have dark hair, of course. Greg, his father, has dark hair. He'd probably be tall for his age. Greg is tall, and judging by my parents and grandparents, I must have a recessive gene for tallness. He'd have blue eyes. Mine are blue, Greg's are a kind of smoky blue. I'd like to think that his features would be more like mine because I look like my dad, and he was
the nicest man—as well as one of the nicest looking—anyone could ever know.

It's funny. My baby who lived only a few days remains so real to me, while Greg, with whom I went to graduate school for a year and was married to for a year, has become so vague and unimportant. If anything, the only lasting imprint I have of him is to wonder how I could have been so foolish as to be unaware how superficial he was from the start. You know that old poster. “He ain't heavy, he's my brother.” How about “He ain't heavy, he's my son.” Five pounds and four ounces of beautiful baby boy, but with his wounded heart too heavy for his father to carry.

I hope there is a second time around. I'd like to have a family someday. I keep my fingers crossed that my eyes will be open, that I won't make another mistake. That worries me about myself. I'm too quick to judge people. I instinctively liked and felt sorry for Marty Bikorsky. That's why I went to see him. That's why I believe he's innocent of setting that fire.

Then I began to think about Nicholas Spencer. Two years ago when I met him, I instinctively liked and admired him. Now I'm only seeing the tip of the iceberg of what he has done to people's lives, not only by destroying their financial security with his inflated stock, but destroying their hope that his vaccine would prevent and cure cancer in the people they love who are dying.

Unless there is another answer.

The man with the reddish brown hair who had taken Dr. Spencer's records is part of that answer. I am sure of
it. Was it possible that Dr. Broderick was attacked because he could identify him?

After a while I went out, walked to the Village, and had linguini with clam sauce and a salad at an unpretentious little cafe. It helped with the headache I was getting, but unfortunately did nothing for the heartache. I felt weighted down with guilt that my visit may have cost Dr. Broderick his life. But later, when I went home, I did get to sleep.

I awoke feeling better. I love Sunday morning, reading the Sunday papers in bed while I sip a cup of coffee. But then I flipped on the radio to catch the nine o'clock news and heard the bulletin. Earlier that morning some kids in Puerto Rico, fishing from a boat near where wreckage of Nicholas Spencer's plane had been found, hooked a charred and bloodstained strip of a man's blue sports shirt. The newscaster said that missing financier Nicholas Spencer, who was alleged to have looted millions of dollars from his medical research company, had been wearing a blue sports shirt when he left Westchester County Airport several weeks prior. The remnant was being tested and would be compared with similar shirts from Paul Stuart, the Madison Avenue haberdasher where Spencer shopped. Divers would go down again to look for the body, concentrating on that location.

I called Lynn at her apartment and could tell immediately that I had woken her up. Her voice sounded sleepy and annoyed, but it changed quickly when she realized it was me. I told her about the news bulletin, and for a long moment she said nothing, then she whispered,
“Carley, I was so sure they'd find him alive, that this was all a nightmare and I'd wake up and find him still here with me.”

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said indignantly. “What kind of person do you think—?”

I interrupted. “Lynn, I meant do you have a housekeeper or anyone staying there to help you while you're recovering?” This time it was my voice that was sharp. Why in the name of God would she think that I would insinuate she had a guy around?

“Oh, Carley, I'm sorry,” she said. “My housekeeper is usually off on Sunday, but she's coming in a little later.”

“Would you like company?”

“Yes, I would.”

We agreed that I'd come up around eleven. I was just leaving when Casey phoned. “Have you heard the latest about Spencer, Carley?”

“Yes, I have.”

“That should pretty much stop all the speculation that he's still alive.”

“I guess so.” Nicholas Spencer's face filled my mind. Why had I expected that he would suddenly reappear and straighten everything out, that it had all been a terrible mistake. “I'm on my way to see Lynn now.”

“I'm on the run, too. Don't let me hold you up. Talk to you later, Carley.”

*   *   *

I suppose I had a mental image of sitting quietly with Lynn, but that wasn't what happened. When I got
there, I found Charles Wallingford at her side and two men who turned out to be attorneys for Gen-stone also in the living room with her.

Lynn was dressed in beautifully cut beige slacks and a pastel print blouse. Her blond hair was brushed back from her face. Her makeup was light but artfully applied. The bandages on her hands had been reduced to a single wide piece of gauze taped to each of her palms. She was wearing transparent step-in slippers, and I could see the padding protecting her blistered feet.

I kissed her cheek somewhat awkwardly, received a frosty greeting from Wallingford, and when I introduced myself, a polite acknowledgment from the lawyers, both serious-looking, conservatively dressed men.

“Carley,” Lynn said, apologetically, “we're just going over the statement we're preparing for the media. It won't take long. We're sure we'll be getting a lot of calls.”

Charles Wallingford and I exchanged glances. I could read his mind. What was I doing observing them while they prepared a statement for the media? I
was
the media. “Lynn,” I protested, “I shouldn't be here. I'll come another time.”

“Carley, I want you here.” For an instant Lynn's ice-queen composure broke. “No matter what went wrong that Nick couldn't face, when he started the company, I'm sure he believed in the vaccine and believed that he was giving people a chance to be part of its financial success story. I want people to understand I wasn't part of a scheme to defraud anybody. But I also want people
to understand that initially, at least, Nick didn't set out to defraud. This isn't about doing a good PR job. Trust me.”

I still wasn't happy to be included in this planning session, but reluctantly retreated to a chair near the window and looked around the room. The walls were a sunny yellow, the ceilings and molding white. The two couches were slipcovered in a yellow and green and white print. There were matching needlepoint-covered chairs facing each other beside the fireplace. The tall English desk and occasional tables were finely polished antiques. The windows to the left offered a view of Central Park. It was a warm day, and the trees were starting to bloom. The park was filled with people, walking and jogging or just sitting on the benches enjoying the day.

I realized that the room had been decorated to give it an indoor-outdoor feeling. It was vibrant and springlike and somehow less formal than I'd expected from Lynn. In fact, the apartment was not at all what I expected in the sense that while it was certainly spacious, it was more like a comfortable family home than a CEO's showplace.

Then I remembered that Lynn had said it had been bought by Nick and his first wife, and that she had wanted to sell it and move. Lynn and Nick had been married only four years. Was it possible that Lynn had not redecorated it to her own taste because it was not where she wanted to stay? I'd have given odds that was the answer.

A few moments later the doorbell chimed. I saw the
housekeeper pass the living room to answer it, but I don't think Lynn heard it at all. She and Charles Wallingford were intensely comparing notes, and then she began to read aloud: “From what we understand, it would seem that the scrap of clothing found early this morning two miles from Puerto Rico was from the shirt my husband was wearing when he flew out of Westchester Airport. In these three weeks I have clung to the hope that somehow he survived the crash and would return to defend himself against the allegations being lodged against him. He passionately believed that he was on his way to finding a vaccine that would both prevent and cure cancer. I am certain that any money he withdrew, even without authorization, would have been used for that purpose and that purpose only.”

“Lynn, I'm sorry, but I have to tell you the response to that statement is going to be, ‘Who do you think you're kidding?' ” The tone of voice was gentle, but Lynn's cheeks flamed, and she dropped the sheet of paper she'd been holding.

“Adrian!” she said.

If you were in the financial world, the newcomer needed no introduction, as the television hosts used to say when announcing their celebrity guests. I recognized him immediately. He was Adrian Nagel Garner, the sole owner of Garner Pharmaceutical Company, and a world-class philanthropist. He was not very tall, in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and plain features—the sort of unassuming man you probably wouldn't notice in a crowd. Nobody knew how rich he was. He never allowed personal publicity, but, of course, word
gets around. People spoke in awe about his home in Connecticut, which contained a splendid library, an eighty-seat theater, a recording studio, and a sports bar, just to name a few of the amenities. Twice divorced and with grown children, he was currently said to be linked romantically with a British blueblood.

It was his company that had planned to pay $1 billion for the right to distribute Gen-stone's vaccine if it was approved. I knew one of his executives had been elected to serve on the Gen-stone board, but he had not been in evidence at the stockholders' meeting. I am sure that the last thing Adrian Nagel Garner wanted was for his company to be linked any further in the public mind to the disgraced Gen-stone. Frankly, I was shocked to see him in Lynn's living room.

It was evident that his visit was a total surprise to her as well. She seemed uncertain what to expect. “Adrian, what a nice surprise,” she said. She was almost stammering.

“I'm on my way upstairs to have lunch with the Parkinsons. When I realized this was your building as well, I had to stop off. I heard the news this morning.”

He glanced at Wallingford. “Charles.” There was a distinct coolness in his greeting there. He nodded to the lawyers, then glanced at me.

“Adrian, this is my stepsister, Carley DeCarlo,” Lynn said. She still sounded rather flustered. “Carley is working on a cover story about Nick for
Wall Street Weekly.
”

He remained silent and looked at me quizzically. I was angry at myself for not leaving the minute I saw
Wallingford and the lawyers here. “I stopped in to see Lynn for the same reason you did, Mr. Garner,” I said crisply, “to tell her how sorry I am that it seems definite Nick did not get out of the plane alive.”

“Then we don't agree, Ms. DeCarlo,” Adrian Garner said sharply. “I don't think it seems definite at all. For every one person who believes that this piece of shirting material is proof of his death, there'll be ten others who'll say Nick left it in the area of the wreckage with the hope that it would be found. The shareholders and employees are angry and bitter enough already, and I think you will agree that Lynn has already been sufficiently victimized by that anger. Short of Nick Spencer's body being found, she should not say anything that might be interpreted as an attempt to convince people of that fact. I believe the dignified and appropriate response would be for her to simply say, ‘I don't know what to think.' “

He turned to her. “Lynn, you must do what you think appropriate, of course. I wish you well, and I wanted you to know that.”

With a nod to the rest of us, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country departed.

Wallingford waited until we heard the click of the outside door, then said heatedly, “I find Adrian Garner pretty damn high-handed.”

“But he may be right,” Lynn said. “In fact, Charles, I think he is.”

Wallingford shrugged. “There's nothing ‘right' about this whole mess,” he said, then looked chagrined. “Lynn, I'm sorry, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

“The hardest part is that I loved Nick,” Wallingford said. “I worked with him for eight years and considered it a privilege. It's still so unbelievable.” He shook his head and looked at the lawyers; then he shrugged. “Lynn, I'll keep you posted on anything we hear.”