The Sky Is Falling (7 page)

“Dana—”

Dana’s mother watched in dismay as Dana and Kemal got into the car and drove away.

Peter Tomkins looked after them in astonishment. “Hey, what did I say?”

Eileen Evans sighed. “Nothing, Peter. Nothing.”

Kemal was silent on the ride home. Dana glanced at him from time to time.

“I’m so sorry, darling. Some people are just ignorant.”

“He’s right,” Kemal said bitterly. “I am a cripple.”

“You’re
not
a cripple,” Dana said fiercely. “You don’t judge people by how many arms or legs they have. You judge them by what they are.”

“Yeah? And what am I?”

“You’re a survivor. And I’m proud of you. You know, Mr. Charming was right about one thing — I’m hungry. I guess it wouldn’t interest you, but I see a McDonald’s ahead.”

Kemal smiled. “Awesome.”

After Kemal went to bed, Dana walked into the living room and sat down to think. She turned on the television set and started surfing the news channels. They were all doing follow-up stories on the Gary Winthrop murder.

“…hoping that the stolen van might offer some clues to the identity of the murderers…”

“…two bullets from a Beretta. Police are checking all gun shops to…”

“…and the brutal murder of Gary Winthrop in the exclusive northwest area proved that no one is…”

There was something at the back of Dana’s mind, teasing her. It took her hours to get to sleep. In the morning, when Dana awakened, she suddenly realized what had been bothering her.
Money and jewels were lying in the open. Why hadn’t the killers taken them
?

Dana got up and made a pot of coffee while she reviewed what Chief Burnett had said.

Do you have a list of the stolen paintings?

We do. They’re all well known. The list is being circulated to museums, art dealers, and collectors. The minute one of those paintings appears, the case will be solved.

The burglars must have known that the paintings couldn’t be sold easily
, Dana thought,
which could mean that the theft was arranged by a wealthy collector who intends to keep the paintings for himself. But why would a man like that put himself in the hands of two murderous hoodlums
?

On Monday morning when Kemal got up, Dana fixed breakfast and dropped him off at school.

“Have a good day, darling.”

“See you, Dana.”

Dana watched Kemal walk into the front door of the school, and then she headed for the police station on Indiana Avenue.

It was snowing again and there was a sadistic wind tearing at everything in its path.

Detective Phoenix Wilson, in charge of the Gary Winthrop murder, was a street-smart misanthrope, with a few scars to show how he had gotten that way. He looked up as Dana walked into his office.

“No interviews,” he growled. “When there’s any new information on the Winthrop murder, you’ll hear it at the press conference with everybody else.”

“I didn’t come to ask you about that,” Dana said.

He eyed her skeptically. “Oh, really?”

“Really. I’m interested in the paintings that were stolen. You have a list of them, I assume?”

“So?”

“Could you give me a copy?”

Detective Wilson asked suspiciously, “Why? What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like to see what the killers took. I might do a segment on the air.”

Detective Wilson studied Dana a moment. “That’s not a bad idea. The more publicity these paintings get, the less chance the killers will have to sell them.” He rose. “They took twelve paintings and left a lot more. I guess they were too lazy to carry them all. Good help is hard to find these days. I’ll get you a copy of that report.”

He was back in a few minutes with two photocopies. He handed them to Dana. “Here’s a list of the ones taken. Here’s the other list.”

Dana looked at him, puzzled. “What other list?”

“All the paintings Gary Winthrop owned, including the paintings the killers left behind.”

“Oh. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Out in the corridor, Dana examined the two lists. What she was seeing was confusing. Dana walked out into the frigid air and headed for Christie’s, the world-famous auction house. It was snowing harder, and the crowds were hurrying to finish their Christmas shopping and get back to their warm homes and offices.

When Dana arrived at Christie’s, the manager recognized her immediately. “Well! This is an honor, Miss Evans. What can we do for you?”

Dana explained, “I have two lists of paintings here. I would appreciate it if someone could tell me what these paintings are worth.”

“But of course. It would be our pleasure. Come this way, please…”

Two hours later Dana was in Matt Baker’s office.

“There’s something very strange going on,” Dana began.

“We’re not back to the Chicken Little conspiracy theory again, are we?”

“You tell me.” Dana handed Matt the longer of the two lists. “This has
all
the artworks Gary Winthrop owned. I just had these paintings appraised at Christie’s.”

Matt Baker scanned the list. “Hey, I see some heavy hitters here. Vincent van Gogh, Hals, Matisse, Monet, Picasso, Manet.” He looked up. “So?”

“Now look at
this
list,” Dana said. She handed Matt the shorter list, which had the stolen art on it.

Matt read them aloud. “Camille Pissarro, Marie Laurencin, Paul Klee, Maurice Utrillo, Henry Lebasque. So what’s your point?”

Dana said slowly, “A lot of the paintings on the complete list are worth more than ten million apiece.” She paused. “Most of the paintings on the shorter list, which were stolen, are worth two hundred thousand apiece or less.”

Matt Baker blinked. “The burglars took the less valuable paintings?”

“That’s right.” Dana leaned forward. “Matt, if they were professional burglars, they would also have taken the cash and jewelry lying around. We were meant to assume that someone hired them to steal only the more valuable paintings. But according to these lists, they didn’t know a thing about art. So why were they really hired? Gary Winthrop wasn’t armed. Why did they kill him?”

“Are you saying that the robbery was a cover-up, and the real motive for the break-in was murder?”

“That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

Matt swallowed. “Let’s examine this. Suppose that Taylor Winthrop
did
make an enemy and was murdered — why would anyone want to wipe out his entire family?”

“I don’t know,” Dana said. “That’s what I want to find out.”

Dr. Armand Deutsch was one of Washington’s most respected psychiatrists, an imposing-looking man in his seventies, with a broad forehead and appropriately probing blue eyes. He glanced up as Dana entered.

“Miss Evans?”

“Yes. I appreciate your seeing me, Doctor. What I need to see you about is really very important.”

“And what is it that’s so very important?”

“You’ve read about the deaths in the Winthrop family?”

“Of course. Terrible tragedies. So many accidents.”

Dana said, “What if they weren’t accidents?”

“What? What are you saying?”

“That there’s a possibility they were all murdered.”

“The Winthrops
murdered
? That seems very far-fetched, Miss Evans.
Very
far-fetched.”

“But possible.”

“What makes you think they might have been murdered?”

“It’s — it’s just a hunch,” Dana admitted.

“I see. A hunch.” Dr. Deutsch sat there, studying her. “I watched your broadcasts from Sarajevo. You are an excellent reporter.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Deutsch leaned forward on his elbows, his blue eyes fixed on hers. “So, not long ago, you were in the middle of a terrible war. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Reporting about people being raped, killed, babies murdered…”

Dana was listening, wary.

“You were obviously under great stress.”

Dana said, “Yes.”

“How long have you been back — five, six months?”

“Three months,” Dana said.

He nodded, satisfied. “Not much time to get adjusted to civilian life again, is it? You must have nightmares about all the terrible murders you witnessed, and now your subconscious mind imagines—”

Dana interrupted him. “Doctor, I’m not paranoid. I have no proof, but I have reason to believe the Winthrop deaths were not accidental. I came to see you because I was hoping you could help me.”

“Help you? In what way?”

“I need a motive. What motive could anyone have for wiping out an entire family?”

Dr. Deutsch looked at Dana and steepled his fingers. “There are precedents, of course, for such violent aggression. A vendetta… vengeance. In Italy, the Mafia has been known to kill entire families. Or it could possibly involve drugs. It might be revenge for some terrible tragedy that the family caused. Or it could be a maniac who might not have any rational motive to—”

“I don’t think that’s the case here,” Dana said.

“Then, of course, there’s one of the oldest motives in the world — money.”

Money
. Dana had already thought of that.

Walter Calkin, head of the firm of Calkin, Taylor & Anderson, had been the Winthrops’ family lawyer for more than twenty-five years. He was an elderly man, crippled with arthritis, but while his body was frail, his mind was still keen.

He studied Dana a moment. “You told my secretary that you wanted to talk to me about the Winthrop estate?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “It’s incredible to me what happened to that wonderful family. Incredible.”

“I understand that you handled their legal and financial affairs,” Dana said.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Calkin, in the last year, was there anything unusual about those affairs?”

He was looking at Dana curiously. “Unusual in what sense?”

Dana said carefully, “This is awkward, but — would you be aware of it if any member of the family was… being blackmailed?”

There was a momentary silence. “You mean, would I know if they were regularly paying out large sums of money to somebody?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I would, yes.”

“And
was
there anything like that?” Dana pursued.

“Nothing. I assume you’re suggesting some sort of foul play? I must tell you I find that utterly ridiculous.”

“But they are all dead,” Dana said. “The estate must be worth many billions of dollars. I would very much appreciate it if you could tell me who stands to receive that money.”

She watched the lawyer open a bottle of pills, take one out, and swallow it with a sip of water. “Miss Evans, we never discuss our clients’ affairs.” He hesitated. “In this instance, however, I see no harm in it, because a press announcement is going to be made tomorrow.”

And then there’s always one of the oldest motives in the world — money.

Walter Calkin looked at Dana. “With the death of Gary Winthrop, the last surviving member of the family—”

“Yes?” Dana was holding her breath.

“The entire Winthrop fortune goes to charity.”

THE STAFF WAS getting ready for the evening news.

Dana was in studio A at the anchor desk, going through last-minute changes for the broadcast. The news bulletins that had been coming in all day from wire services and police channels had been studied and selected or rejected.

Seated at the anchor table next to Dana were Jeff Connors and Richard Melton. Anastasia Mann started the countdown and ended 3-2-1 with her extended forefinger. The camera’s red light flashed on.

The announcer’s voice boomed out, “This is the eleven o’clock news live on WTN with Dana Evans” — Dana smiled into the camera — “and Richard Melton.” Melton looked into the camera and nodded. “Jeff Connors with sports and Marvin Greer with the weather. The eleven o’clock news begins right now.”

Dana looked into the camera. “Good evening. I’m Dana Evans.”

Richard Melton smiled. “And I’m Richard Melton.”

Dana read from the TelePrompTer. “We have a breaking story. A police chase ended earlier this evening after a holdup at a downtown liquor store.”

“Roll tape one.”

The screen flashed to the interior of a helicopter. At the controls of the WTN helicopter was Norman Bronson, a former marine pilot. Next to him sat Alyce Barker. The camera angle changed. On the ground below were three police cars surrounding a sedan that had crashed into a tree.

Alyce Barker said, “The chase began when two men walked into the Haley Liquor Store on Pennsylvania Avenue and tried to hold up the clerk. He resisted and pressed the alarm button to summon police. The robbers fled, but the police pursued them for four miles until the suspects’ car crashed into a tree.”

The chase was covered by the station’s news helicopter. Dana looked at the picture and thought:
The best thing Matt ever did was to get Elliot to buy that new helicopter. It makes a big difference to our coverage
.

There were three more segments, and the director signaled for a break. “We’ll be right back after this,” Dana said.

A commercial came on.

Richard Melton turned to Dana. “Have you looked outside? It’s a bitch out there.”

“I know.” Dana laughed. “Our poor weatherman is going to get a lot of hate mail.”

The red camera light flashed on. The TelePrompTer was blank for a moment, then began to roll again. Dana started to read, “On NewYear’s Eve I’d like —” She stopped, stunned, as she looked at the rest of the words. They read:…
us to get married. We’ll have a double reason to celebrate every New Year’s Eve
.

Jeff was standing next to the TelePrompTer, grinning.

Dana looked into the camera and said awkwardly, “We’ll — we’ll pause for another brief commercial.” The red light went off.

Dana stood up. “Jeff!”

They moved toward each other and embraced. “What do you say?” he asked.

She held him tightly and whispered, “I say yes.”

The studio echoed with cheers from the crew.