The Shadow of Your Smile (20 page)

The restaurant turned out to be an English-style pub. The bar was directly inside the entrance, and Barry could see that the dining room beyond it held no more than a dozen tables. A neighborhood kind of place, he thought. I bet they get a lot of repeat customers. Let’s hope Carter was one of them. From what he could see, all the tables seemed to be taken, and most of the stools at the bar were occupied.

He walked to the end of the bar, waited until the bartender came to take his order, then slid his gold badge and a picture of Renée across the counter.

“Do you recognize this lady?” he asked.

The bartender’s eyes widened. “Yes, sure I do. That’s Renée Carter.”

“When was the last time she was here?”

“Night before last, Tuesday, around ten thirty, give or take ten minutes.”

“Was she alone?”

“She came in alone, but some guy was waiting for her. He pulled out a stool for her to sit here at the bar, but she said they should get a table.”

“What was her attitude toward the man she met?”

“Snippy.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No. I don’t think he’s ever been here before.”

“What did he look like?”

“Late forties, early fifties. Dark hair. Really good-looking guy, and his clothes didn’t come off a pipe rack, I can tell you that.”

“What was his attitude toward Renée Carter?”

“Not happy. I could tell he was nervous. He polished off two scotches before she even got here.”

“So then they went to a table?”

“Yeah. Most of the tables were empty by then. We close the kitchen at ten. While they were still standing at the bar, he ordered two scotches and said something to her like, ‘I assume you still have a taste for single malt?’ ”

“What did she say?”

“She said something like, ‘I can’t afford single malt scotch anymore, but it’s clear
you
can.’ I mean, it sounded stupid coming from someone who was all dolled up like Renée Carter was.”

“All right. So they went to the table. How long did they stay there?”

“Not long enough to finish their drinks. I mean, I kept my eye on them, because by then it was slow and I had nothing better to do. I saw him hand her the big shopping bag he’d been carrying—you know, one of those gift bags. She grabbed it from him, got up so fast she almost knocked over the chair, and hightailed it out of here with an expression on her face that would have stopped an eight-day clock. He threw fifty bucks on the table and rushed out behind her.”

“Would you recognize that man if you saw him again?”

“Oh, sure. I never forget a face. Detective, did something happen to Renée?”

“Yes. She was the victim of a homicide after she left this restaurant. She never got home that night.”

The bartender’s face blanched. “Oh, God, that’s a shame. Did she get mugged?”

“We don’t know. How often did Renée Carter come here?”

“Maybe once or twice a month. Mainly for a nightcap, and she was never alone. Always with a guy.”

“Do you know the names of any of the men she was with?”

“Sure, some of them anyhow. I’ll make a list.”

The bartender reached for a pad and picked up a pen. “Let’s see,” he murmured to himself. “There’s Les . . .” Aware that other people at the bar were looking at him, he clamped his lips firmly shut, then straightened up and hurried down the length of the bar to where a man was sitting alone sipping a beer.

Sensing the bartender might have remembered something about Renée Carter, Barry Tucker followed him down past the row of barstools. He got there in time to hear him say, “Rudy, you were here Tuesday night and you noticed Renée Carter leaving in a hurry. I just remembered, you said something about being surprised that the guy with her had the price of a drink. Do you know his name?”

Rudy, a florid-cheeked man, began to laugh. “Sure I do. Peter Gannon. He’s the guy they call ‘the loser-producer.’ You must have read about him. He’s laid more eggs on Broadway than Perdue has chickens.”

40
 

On Friday morning Monica awoke at quarter of six and for long minutes lay in bed, quietly searching out the aching parts of her body. Her left arm and leg were badly scraped. Besides that the impact of the fall had made her lower back feel bruised and sore. She promised herself that for the next week or so she would take the time each morning to soak in the Jacuzzi instead of taking a quick shower.

That decided, she turned her attention to the events of the previous evening. After Scott Alterman had called, realizing that some of her friends might have heard the same broadcast, the first thing she did was to change the message on her telephone. “Hi, this is Monica. I know you may have heard the report about my accident. I’m really fine, but am going to take it easy, so I won’t be returning messages this evening. But thanks anyway for calling.”

Then she had turned off the ringer of the phone. Feeling relieved at having thought to avoid the concerned calls she knew she would be receiving, she had gone into the bathroom. There she had stripped off her damaged clothes, sponged the dried blood from her arm and leg, coated the injured areas with an antibiotic salve, and still shivering from the aftermath of her nearly fatal encounter, changed into pajamas and a woolly robe.

When Scott arrived, his concern for her had been so obviously genuine that for the present it took away the hurtful realization that
Ryan Jenner had a close relationship with another woman. Scott had taken her hand and insisted she lie down on the couch. “Monica, you’re pale as a ghost and your hands are freezing,” he told her. He piled pillows behind her head, covered her with an afghan, and fixed a hot toddy for her. Then, realizing she had not had any dinner, he looked into the refrigerator, selected tomato and cheese, and grilled a delicious sandwich for her. “My specialty,” he said cheerfully.

It was good to see him, Monica acknowledged now, as she decided to give herself another ten minutes before getting up. She hadn’t intended to tell him about Olivia Morrow, but found herself explaining to him the events of the past few days and her disappointment that Morrow had died before Monica could talk with her about her grandmother.

Scott, however, had been quick to say, “Monica, I will bet you the ranch that Olivia Morrow has a connection to the Gannons. Trust me. I’m going to find out. Your father believed that Alexander Gannon might have been his father. There were plenty of articles about Alexander Gannon, and a number of them had biographical information in them. Seeing the pictures your dad had collected, and comparing photos of him and Gannon at the same age throughout their lives was startling.” He spoke quickly, obviously excited that Monica might allow him to help her.

Before he left, Scott had said, “Monica, I’m going to say this once and then never refer to it again. I am desperately sorry I was stupid enough to ask you out while I was still married to Joy. If you’ll allow me to see you now, it will be as a friend. On my word of honor, I will not in any way make you uncomfortable. Let’s do it this way. I’m going to follow up on Olivia Morrow, and in two weeks I’ll call you for dinner. And I’m going to ask Joy to phone you. Would that be okay?”

I told him it would be fine, Monica thought. And it
will
be, if he’s sincere about simply wanting to resume our friendship and nothing
more. Scott was a good friend to Dad when he was so sick, and I’ll never forget how helpful he was when Dad passed away.

Having settled that in her mind, Monica sat up. Wincing at the pain that shot through her arm and leg, she got out of bed slowly, went into the bathroom, and turned on the taps in the Jacuzzi.

The very warm swirling water did help the stiffness and by the time she was dressed, she was feeling better. She put on a small pot of coffee and as it perked, she went into the bedroom. I look like a ghost, she thought, as she dabbed on some blush, then twisted her hair and fastened it up with a clip.

Leave it like that. It looks good.

The memory of Ryan saying that to her less than two weeks ago, when little Carlos pulled that same clip out, caused a sudden lump in her throat, and she felt her eyes stinging with tears she had no intention of shedding. I’ll phone Nan and ask her to bring the O’Keefe file over to Ryan’s office, she decided. I don’t want to run into him, and from now on there’s no real reason I should. It’s a big hospital.

Her final decision, as she sipped the coffee, was to downgrade the possibility that she had been deliberately pushed. As I told Scott, if that man was just trying to shove me aside so he could make the light, he was probably horrified that I might have been run over. No wonder he ran away. Most people would in that situation.

In a cab on the way to the hospital, Monica made the call to Nan, then phoned ahead to inquire about Sally Carter. She was relieved to learn that Sally had had a good night, but outraged that there had still been no visit from her mother. I’ll notify Family Services this morning, she vowed.

Her first stop at the hospital was to visit Sally. She was sleeping quietly, and Monica decided not to risk waking her up. The nurse on duty reported that Sally’s temperature had gone down to only a degree above normal, and that the asthma attack had passed. “Doctor, last night, after you left, when she woke up, I thought she was crying
for Mommy, but actually she was saying, ‘Monny.’ I think it’s possible that when she was here last week she heard other kids calling you Dr. Monica.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” a familiar voice said. “I’ve heard that’s the effect you have on your patients.”

Monica turned swiftly. It was Ryan Jenner. “I doubt Sally knows my name,” she said, then catching the look the nurse was giving her and Ryan, she added, “Dr. Jenner, may I speak with you in private?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone immediately as formal as hers. She walked with him to the corridor. “I’ve sent the file on Michael O’Keefe to your office,” she told him.

“It just came. Your secretary told me you’d probably be here checking on Sally. Monica, I just heard about what happened last night. Is it possible that you were pushed? My God, I can’t imagine how frightening it must have been.”

“I’m all right. Ryan, I have to ask you not to visit me on this floor, unless of course it involves a patient. I get a feeling that there’s some gossip about us.”

He looked at her. “And you don’t like that?”

“No, I don’t. And I should think that you certainly wouldn’t, either.”

Without waiting for him to reply, she went back inside the Pediatrics Ward and began to make her rounds of the other small patients in her care.

41
 

After his initial panic attack at the realization that he had murdered Olivia Morrow, Dr. Clayton Hadley composed himself by reviewing over and over again every detail of his final visit to Olivia.

Tuesday evening he had told the clerk at the desk that Ms. Morrow was feeling very ill, and he had asked Olivia to be sure to leave the bolt of her front door unlocked so that she would not have to get out of bed to let him in. If the bolt had been on, the risk would have been much greater—she would have had to physically let him in herself. But the bolt was not on, so he had been able to slip into the apartment noiselessly.

She had been asleep when he tiptoed into her bedroom, but woke instantly when he stood over her. Olivia had a night-light near the bathroom door and he could see that as soon as she recognized him, her expression of surprise turned into one of fear.

She slept on two pillows on her queen-sized bed, and two other pillows were next to her. Long ago when he had visited her at home, after she had suffered a mild heart attack, she explained that she sometimes brought a cup of tea and the newspaper back to bed in the morning and piled those extra pillows behind her back.

As he reached for one of those spare pillows, the thought that ran through his head was,
She knows I’m going to kill her.
He remembered
saying, “I’m sorry, Olivia,” as he held the pillow over her face.

Frail as she was, he was shocked at how fiercely she tried to push it away. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but to him it seemed an eternity before her emaciated hands finally relaxed and fell limp on the coverlet.