You belong to me (11 page)

Jane Clausen spoke slowly, frowning in concentration. Her words were measured. "It is to Douglas's credit that he received scholarships to Stanford University, then to Columbia Law School. Clearly he is very intelligent. His first job, with Kane and Ross, involved a great deal of traveling, and he's a gifted linguist, which is one of the reasons he moved so quickly into a position of power when he went with Hubert March's firm. He is now on the board of our foundation."

She is trying to be fair, Susan thought, but she's not just worried-I think she's afraid.

"The point is, Susan, Douglas definitely gave me the impression that he knew his cousins intimately. Thinking back, I realize that he told me that after I said I'd lost touch with them. Today, I realized he was eavesdropping when I spoke with you. The door was partially open, and I could see him reflected in the glass of the cabinet. I was terribly startled. Why would he do that? What reason has he to skulk around me?" ,

"Did you ask him?"

"No. I had a weak spell and wasn't up to confronting him. I don't want to put him on guard. I am going to have one particular grant audited. It was one we were reviewing at today's meeting, an orphanage in Guatemala. Doug is scheduled to go there next week and present a report at the next trustees' meeting. I questioned the amounts we've been giving, and Douglas blurted out that Regina had told him it was one of her favorite charities. He said it as though it had been thoroughly discussed between them."

"Yet he's denied knowing her."

"Yes. Susan, I needed to share this with you because I have suddenly realized one possible reason why Douglas Layton rushed out of this office yesterday."

Susan knew what Jane Clausen was about to tell her - that Douglas Layton had been afraid to come face to face with "Karen."

Jane Clausen left a few minutes later. "I think that tomorrow morning my doctor will want me to go into the hospital for some further treatment," she said as she was departing. "I wanted to share this with you first. I know that at one time you were an assistant district attorney. In truth, I don't know whether I brought my suspicions to you to receive insight from a psychologist, or to ask a former officer of the court how to go about opening an inquiry.

33

Dr. Donald Richards had left the studio right after the broadcast and belatedly he realized that Rena would have prepared lunch.

He found a pay phone and dialed his home number. "I forgot to tell you; I have to run an errand," he told Rena apologetically.

"Doctor, why do you always do this to me when I'm fixing something hot for you?"

"That's the kind of question my wife always asked me. Can you put it on a back burner or something? I'll be an hour or so." He smiled to himself. Then, realizing why his eyes felt strained, he took off his reading glasses and slipped them into his pocket.

When he reached his office an hour and a half later, Rena had his lunch ready for him. "I'll put the tray on your desk, Doctor," she said.

His two o'clock appointment was a severely anorexic thirty-year-old businesswoman. It was her fourth visit, and Richards listened and jotted notes on a pad.

The patient was opening up to him at last, talking about the painful experience of growing up overweight and never being able to stay on a diet. "I loved to eat, but then I'd look in the mirror and see what I was doing to myself. I began to hate my body, then I hated food for doing that to me."

"Do you still hate food?"

"I loathe it, but sometimes I think how great it would be to enjoy the act of dining. I'm dating someone now, someone really important to me, and I know I'm going to lose him if I don't change. He said he's tired of watching me push food around the plate."

Motivation, Don thought. It's always the first major step to any change. Susan Chandler's face flashed through his mind.

At ten of three, after he had seen the patient out, he phoned Susan Chandler, reasoning that she undoubtedly spaced appointments as he did-see a patient for fifty minutes, then take a ten-minute break before the next appointment.

Her secretary told him that Susan was on the phone. "I'll wait," he said.

"I'm afraid she has another call already waiting."

"I'll take my chances."

At four minutes of three he was about to give up; his own three o'clock patient was already in the reception area. Then Susan's voice, a bit breathless, came on. "Dr. Richards?" she said.

"Just because you're in your office doesn't mean you can't call me Don."

Susan laughed. "I'm sorry. I'm glad you called. It's been a bit hectic here, and I wanted to thank you for being a great guest."

"And I want to thank you for all the great exposure. My publisher was very happy to hear me talking about the book on your program for two days." He glanced at his watch. "I've got a patient coming in and you probably do too, so let's cut to the chase. Can you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Not tonight, I have to work late."

"Tomorrow night?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

"Let's say sevenish, and I'll call you at the office tomorrow when I figure out a place."

A planned date, he thought. Too late now.

"I'll be here all afternoon," Susan told him.

Richards jotted down the rime-sevenish-muttered a hasty good-bye, and put down the receiver. Even though he knew he had to hurry to see his patient, he took a moment to reflect on tomorrow night, wondering just how much he should disclose to Susan Chandler.

34

Dee Chandler Harriman had timed her call to Alex Wright with the hope of catching him at home. She had phoned from the modeling agency office in Beverly Hills at quarter of four. That meant it was quarter of seven in New York, a time that she thought Alex might be home. When he didn't pick up, she decided that if he were out to dinner, he might try to reach her later in the evening.

With that hope, Dee went directly from work to her condo in Palos Verdes, and at seven o'clock was listlessly preparing herself a meal of a scrambled egg, toast, and coffee. In the past two years, I've hardly ever stayed home in the evening, she thought. I couldn't without Jack. I had to be with people. But tonight, she realized, she was feeling more bored and restless than she was lonely.

I'm tired of working, Dee admitted to herself. I'm ready to move back to New York. But not to get another job. "I can't even fix a decent scrambled egg," she complained aloud, as she realized that the flame under the pan was too high and the egg was turning brown. She remembered how Jack had loved to fool around in the kitchen. That's another thing Susan is better at than I am, she thought. She's a good cook.

But that wasn't always a necessary talent. Anyone who married Alex Wright wouldn't have to worry about recipes and shopping lists, she told herself.

She decided to eat in the living room and was setting her tray on the coffee table when the phone rang. It was Alex Wright.

When she replaced the receiver ten minutes later, Dee was smiling. He had called because he was concerned. He said she sounded so down, and he thought she might want to chat. He explained that he had enjoyed his evening with Susan, and was about to invite her to a dinner Saturday night, celebrating a recent grant from the Wright Foundation to the New York Public Library.

Dee congratulated herself on her quick thinking. She had told him that, on the way to Costa Rica to board the cruise, she was going to stop in New York and would be there over the weekend. Alex had taken the hint and invited her to the dinner too.

After all, Dee told herself as she picked up the tray with the now-cold food, it isn't as if Susan is really involved with him yet.

35

After Jane Clausen left her office on Tuesday evening, Susan went over paperwork until nearly seven, then phoned Jed Geany at home. "Problem," she announced briskly. "I called Justin Wells to see about getting the tape to yesterday's program to him, and he absolutely denies having requested it."

"Then why would he have wanted it marked to his personal attention?" Geany asked, his tone reasonable. "Susan, I can tell you this. Whoever the guy was who called was nervous. Maybe Wells doesn't want anyone to know about his interest in the tape. Or maybe the reason he wanted it doesn't exist. That's possible. He's probably afraid now that we'll send him a bill for it. In fact, at first he asked for just the call-in section of the program. I think that's actually the only thing he was interested in."

"The woman who was hit by a van on Park Avenue yesterday is his wife," Susan said.

"See what I mean? He has other things on his mind, poor guy."

"You're probably right. See you tomorrow." She hung up the phone and sat pondering the situation. One way or another, I'm going to meet Justin Wells, she decided, and right now I'm going to listen to the call-in section of yesterday's program.

She took the cassette out of her shoulder bag, snapped it into the tape recorder with the second side up, and pushed the FAST-FORWARD button. At the call in section, she stopped the tape, pushed PLAY, and began to listen intently.

All the calls were run-of-the-mill, except for the one from the woman with the low, strained voice who identified herself only as "Karen," and who talked about the turquoise ring.

That has to be the call Justin Wells-or whoever it was-is interested in, she thought, but it's been a long day, and I can't figure out why now. She collected her coat, turned off the lights, locked the office door, and started down the corridor to the elevator.

They need to put in better lighting here, she decided. Nedda's office was completely dark, and the long hallway was deeply shadowed. Unconsciously, she quickened her steps.

The day had been tiring, and she was tempted to hail a cab. She resisted, however, and feeling somewhat virtuous, she began to walk home. On the way she found herself thinking through Jane Clausen's visit and the concern she had voiced about Douglas Layton. Mrs. Clausen was clearly very ill. Was that affecting her perception of Layton? Susan wondered.

It is possible that Layton had a meeting he couldn't change yesterday, she thought, and he may simply have been waiting for Mrs. Clausen to get off the phone before going into her office this morning.

But what about Mrs. Clausen's belief that he had known Regina and lied about it? Chris Ryan's name jumped into Susan's mind. A retired FBI agent she had worked with when she was in the Westchester County D.A.'s office, Chris now had his own security firm. He could do a little discreet digging about Layton. She decided that she would contact Mrs. Clausen in the morning and suggest that.

Susan looked about her as she walked. The narrow streets of Greenwich Village never failed to fascinate her. She loved the mix of turn-of-the-century townhouses on quiet streets, and the traffic-filled main arteries that suddenly twisted or changed direction like streams wandering through mountains.

As she walked, she found herself glancing around to see if she could catch a glimpse of a souvenir shop like the one today's caller-Tiffany-had talked about. She hadn't really thought much about her. Tiffany claimed she too had a turquoise ring similar to the one "Karen" had discussed, and she said that her boyfriend had bought it in Greenwich Village. Let her send it, please, Susan prayed. If I could just get to compare it with the one Mrs. Clausen gave me. Then, if it turned out that they were identical, and were made right around here, it might be a first step toward solving Regina's disappearance.

Amazing how much a cold walk clears the brain, Susan thought as she finally reached her front door. Inside the apartment, she followed the at-home ritual she had planned for the night before. It was eight o'clock. She changed into a caftan, went to the refrigerator, and got out the salad makings she had begun to prepare before Alex Wright's unexpected call.

Tonight is definitely stay-at-home time, she decided as she reached in the cupboard for a package of linguine. While the water for the pasta was heating, and the basil-and-tomato sauce was defrosting in the microwave, she turned on her home computer and checked her e-mail.

It was run-of-the-mill stuff except for a few comments on how interesting Dr. Richards was, and suggestions that Susan should have him back as a guest. On impulse, she checked to see if Richards had a website.

He did. With increasing interest, Susan zeroed in on the personal information: Dr. Donald J. Richards, born in Darien, Connecticut; raised in Manhattan; attended Collegiate Prep; B.A. Yale; M.D. and Ph.D. clinical psychology Harvard; M.A. criminology NYU. Father, late Dr. Donald R. Richards; mother, Elizabeth Wallace Richards, of Tuxedo Park, N.Y. No siblings. Married to Kathryn Carver (deceased).

A long list of published articles followed, as well as reviews of his book Vanishing Women. Then Susan found information that raised her eyebrows. A brief biography stated that Dr. Richards had spent a year between his junior and senior years in college, working on a round-the-world ocean liner as assistant cruise director, and under the heading of "recreation," that he frequently took short cruises. As his favorite ship, he had named the Gabrielle. Noting that that was the one on which he had met his wife.

Susan stared at the screen. "But that's the same ship Regina Clausen was on when she disappeared," she said aloud.

36

Pamela stayed with Justin Wells in the waiting room of the ICU at Lenox Hill Hospital until nearly midnight. At that time a doctor came out and urged them both to go home. "Your wife has stabilized somewhat," he told Justin. "Her condition may not change for weeks. You won't do her any favor if you get sick yourself."

"Has she tried to talk anymore?" Justin asked.

"No. Nor will she anytime soon. Not as long as she remains in this deep coma."

Justin sounds almost afraid that she'll talk-what's that about? Pamela wondered, then decided that she was so tired her brain was playing tricks. She took Justin's hand. "We're going," she said matter-of-factly. "We'll get a cab, and I'll drop you off."

He nodded, and like an obedient child, let her lead him out. He did not talk on the short ride to Fifth and Eighty-first Street, but sat hunched forward, his hands clasped together, his neck drooping as though all the force of his powerful body had drained away.