The Shadow of Your Smile (15 page)

“Clay,” Langdon began, trying to keep his voice reassuring, “you have to be all right, for your sake
and
for mine. Think about all the money you have in that Swiss bank account and the life you can lead with it. And think about what will happen to you and to me if you don’t stay calm.”

“I hear you. I hear you. I’ll be all right. I promise.”

Langdon heard the click in his ear as the other phone rang. With his handkerchief he dried the perspiration from his forehead and his hands.

The intercom came on. “Doctor, Mrs. Waters is here,” Beatrice announced. “And she’s so happy. She wants me to point out to you immediately that today she’s only four minutes late. She said she knew that would make your day.”

27
 

Andrew and Sarah Winkler had lived all their married lives in a comfortable apartment on York Avenue and Seventy-ninth Street in Manhattan, a block from the East River. Childless, they had never been tempted to move to the suburbs. “God forbid,” Andrew would say. “When I see a pile of leaves, I want them to belong to someone else.” Andrew, a retired accountant, and Sarah, a retired librarian, were perfectly content with their lifestyle. Several evenings a week they were at Lincoln Center or a lecture at the 92nd Street Y. Once a month they treated themselves to a Broadway show.

A fixture in their daily routine was their after-breakfast walk. They never broke that personal commitment unless the weather was extreme. “Mist is okay, but not a downpour,” Sarah would explain to her friends. “Cold okay, but not below twenty degrees; warm okay, but not if the thermometer hits ninety. We don’t want to turn into couch potatoes, but neither do we want to die of frostbite or heatstroke.”

Sometimes they would stroll in Central Park. Other days they would choose the pedestrian path along the East River. This Thursday morning they had opted for the river walk, and set out for it in their matching all-weather jackets.

It had rained unexpectedly during the night, and Sarah remarked to Andrew that the weatherman never gets anything right and that
it made you wonder how much they got paid to stand up in front of the camera and point to the map, waving their arms to show wind currents. “Half the time when they say rain is a possibility, if they opened the window they’d be drenched,” she commented, as they approached the area of Gracie Mansion, the official residence of the mayor of New York. “But at least it cleared up nicely this morning.”

She broke off her commentary on the exasperating unpredictability of meteorologists by suddenly clutching her husband’s arm. “Andrew, look! Look!” They were passing a bench along the path. Partially wedged under it was an oversized garbage bag, the kind used on construction sites. Protruding from the bag was a foot with a woman’s high-heeled shoe dangling from it.

“Oh my God, my God . . . ,” Sarah moaned.

Andrew reached in the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone and dialed 911.

28
 

On Thursday morning, Monica went straight to the hospital, after her nearly sleepless night. Sometime around three
A.M
. she had tried to assuage her crushing disappointment at the death of Olivia Morrow by promising herself that she would hire a detective if necessary to investigate any possible connection Morrow might have had with her birth grandparents.

But even so, the sense of missed opportunity haunted her, and it didn’t make matters easier when Ryan Jenner stopped at the pediatric floor looking for her. “Monica, how did that interview at the Bishop’s Office go?” he asked.

“Pretty much as I expected. I talked about the possibility of spontaneous remission and they talked about miracles.” As she spoke, Monica unwillingly realized how good it felt to be so close to Jenner, to relive for the moment the sensation of sitting next to him in the restaurant on Friday night, their shoulders touching at the crowded table.

“I’ll be honest, Monica, I can’t get the Michael O’Keefe file out of my head. It does include everything from the first CAT scan you ordered to the MRIs and CAT scans a year later showing the total disappearance of the cancerous tumor, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely. The whole works.”

“Would you lend the file to me for a few days? I really want to study it. I still find it hard to believe what I saw.”

“That was my reaction, too. After the doctors in Cincinnati confirmed my diagnosis, the O’Keefes took Michael home. I phoned from time to time and all they said was that he was holding his own. In the beginning he continued to have seizures, but then they moved to Mamaroneck and stopped coming to my office. Mrs. O’Keefe did not want more medical procedures, even MRIs, because they frightened Michael. But when she finally
did
bring him in, I knew I was looking at a healthy little boy, and the tests confirmed it.”

“Then is it okay if I borrow the file? I can stop by late this afternoon at your office for it. And I
will
be on time.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be there until about six.” As Ryan turned to go she asked, “How was the theatre?”

He stopped and turned back. “Great. It was the revival of
Our Town
. That’s always been one of my favorite plays.”

“I played Emily when I was in high school.” Why am I telling Ryan that? Monica asked herself. Is it because I want to prolong this conversation?

Ryan smiled. “Well, I’m glad you were acting. I still get a lump in my throat at the end, when George throws himself on Emily’s grave.” As he turned again to leave, he gave her the quick smile that she knew would instantly be replaced by his usual serious expression.

She had been standing by the nurses’ desk. She turned back to it. Rita Greenberg was sitting there, her eyes on Ryan’s retreating figure.

“He sure is cute, isn’t he, Doctor?” Rita sighed. “He has so much authority, and yet he seems a little shy.”

“Um-hum,” Monica answered noncommittally.

“I think he likes you. This is the second time he came down looking for you this morning.”

Good Lord, Monica thought. That’s all I need, to have the nurses
talking about an office romance. “Dr. Jenner wants to look at the file of one of my patients,” she said crisply.

It was clear that Rita had gotten the implied rebuke. “Of course, Doctor,” she said, her voice equally crisp.

“I’m off. You know where to get me,” Monica said as she felt the stirring of her cell phone in the pocket of her jacket.

It was Kristina Johnson. “Doctor,” she said, her voice frightened, “I’m in a cab on the way to the hospital. Sally is really, really sick.”

“How long has she been sick?” Monica asked, the question rushing from her lips.

“Kind of since yesterday. She was wheezing, but then she slept pretty well. But this morning it kept getting worse, and I got really scared. She was gasping for breath.”

In the background Monica could hear the combined coughing and sobbing of little Sally Carter. “How far from the hospital are you?” she snapped.

“We’re on the West Side Highway. We should be there in fifteen minutes.”

It suddenly occurred to Monica that Renée Carter, Sally’s mother, should have been the one calling her. “Is Ms. Carter with you?” she asked sharply.

“No. She hasn’t been home in two days, and I haven’t heard from her.”

“I’ll meet you in the emergency room, Kristina,” Monica said. She turned off her cell phone and dropped it in her pocket.

Rita Greenberg had been listening. “Sally’s had another asthma attack.” It was not a question.

“Yes. I’m going to admit her, and before I release her again I’m going to have Family Services look into that situation. I only wish I had done it last week.”

“I’ll have a crib all set up,” Rita promised.

“Put her in the alcove again. The last thing she needs is to pick up a bug.”

Fifteen minutes later Monica was standing at the entrance to the emergency room when the cab pulled up. She ran over to it, opened the door, and reached inside. “Give her to me.” Not waiting for Kristina to pay the driver she raced back into the hospital. Sally was wheezing and gasping. Her lips were blue and her eyes were rolling back in her head.

She can’t breathe, Monica thought as she carried her to a cubicle and laid her on a stretcher. Two nurses were waiting for her. One of them swiftly undressed Sally and Monica saw that the labored gasps of breath were coming from her lips not her chest. It’s gone into pneumonia, Monica thought as she reached for the oxygen mask the nurse was holding out to her.

An hour later she was settling Sally in the intensive care unit on the pediatric floor. The oxygen mask was still in place. Intravenous fluids and medicine were dripping into Sally’s arm. Her hands had been tied to keep her from pulling the needle out. Her frightened wails had given way to sleepy moans.

Kristina Johnson, her eyes welling with tears, had followed them and was waiting for Monica to leave the side of the crib. Monica looked at the young girl’s tired, worried face and the admonition she had intended to give died on her lips.

“Sally is a very, very sick baby,” she said. “Kristina, am I right that you said her mother has not been home in the last day or two?”

“She left night before last. Yesterday was supposed to be my day off. But when I woke up I could see that her bed wasn’t slept in. I haven’t heard from her at all.”

Kristina began to cry. “If anything happens to Sally it’s my fault, but Doctor, I was afraid if I brought Sally in yesterday, Ms. Carter would be furious. And Sally didn’t really seem that sick until she
was going to bed last night. So I put on the vaporizer and I slept on the couch in her room and I was sure her mother would come home and look in, then maybe we’d bring Sally to the hospital if she started wheezing any harder and . . .”

Monica stopped the flow of words. “Kristina, this is
not
your fault. Why don’t you go back to Ms. Carter’s apartment and get some rest. I’m going to stay here until I’m sure Sally is breathing properly. In the morning, if Ms. Carter still has not shown up, I would suggest you leave a note for her and go home. I intend to take up her absence with the authorities.”

“Is it all right if I visit Sally tomorrow?”

“Of course it is.”

A warning alarm from the crib made Monica spin around. As an intensive care nurse rushed toward them, Sally’s labored breathing stopped.

29
 

She was about five four, give or take an inch, nice figure, early thirties, short reddish brown hair, expensive clothes,” Detective Barry Tucker told his wife when he called her to say he’d be late getting home. “The body was found by some old couple who told me they walked every day after breakfast.”

He was back at headquarters, having a cup of coffee and grinned at her response. “Yeah, honey, I know I could use a walk every day. Maybe even a run. But the city of New York pays me to arrest criminals, not take walks.”

Again he listened. He was a rotund man in his early thirties with a benevolent expression. “No jewelry, no purse,” he answered. “We figure it was a robbery that got out of hand. She may have been fool enough to put up a struggle. She was strangled. Never had a chance.” His tone now edged with impatience, he said, “Listen, honey, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave. Good . . .”