You belong to me (17 page)

In the hours since her body had been discovered, a team of detectives had spoken to every single tenant in the building. With only four apartments to the floor and only twelve floors, that hadn't been too much of a task.

Most of the tenants were like Hilda-elderly, longtime residents. They were all adamant that they hadn't buzzed in a deliveryman or anyone else late Monday evening. Those who had been in and out of the building during the time in question swore they had neither seen a stranger loitering nearby nor allowed anyone to come in when they used their keys to enter the lobby.

Hilda Johnson must have let someone into the building herself, and then into her apartment, Shea concluded. So it had to be someone she believed she could trust. From what he knew of Hilda-and since he had been at this precinct he had come to know her fairly well-he had trouble imagining who that person might have been. Why wasn't I on duty Monday afternoon? he asked himself again, fuming at fate. It had been his day off, and he and Joan, his wife, had driven to Fairfield College in Connecticut, where their daughter was a freshman. It was only when he watched the eleven o'clock news that night that Tom learned about the accident and saw Hilda interviewed.

If only I bad called her then, was the thought that nagged him. If I hadn't gotten an answer I'd have suspected trouble right away, and if I had talked to her, I might have gotten a description of the person she thought had shoved Carolyn Wells in front of the van.

It was only a quarter of one now, but Tom could feel weariness in his whole body-the kind caused by angry self-recrimination. He was sure Hilda's death could have been avoided, and now he was back to square one on solving not just her murder, but what could well be another attempted murder. He had been a cop for twenty-seven years, since he was twenty-one; he could think of nothing in all that time that depressed him more than this.

His phone rang, interrupting his mental self-flagellation. It was the desk sergeant, telling him that a Dr. Susan Chandler wanted to talk to him about Carolyn Wells's accident on Park Avenue.

Hoping she might be another eyewitness to the incident, Shea quickly responded, "Send her in." A few moments later, he and Susan were studying each other with cautious interest.

Susan immediately liked the man sitting across the desk from her-his lean, clean-cut face; the alert, intelligent expression in his dark brown eyes; the long, sensitive fingers that were silently tapping the desk.

Sensing that this was not the kind of police officer who wasted time, she got right to the point. "Captain, I have to be back in my office at two. You know how traffic can be in New York; since it took me forty minutes to get up here from Broadway and Forty-first, I'll make this brief."

She quickly summarized her background and even felt a fleeting amusement that the faint disapproval on Shea's face when she said she was a psychologist was replaced by a look of camaraderie when she told him that for two years she had been an assistant district attorney.

"My interest in Carolyn Wells is that I am certain it was she who called in to my radio program Monday morning with potentially valuable information about Regina Clausen, a woman who has been missing for several years. During the call, Wells made an appointment to come in and see me. She failed to keep the appointment, however; then later, according to one witness, she may have been pushed in front of a van on Park Avenue. I need to find out if there is any connection between her-for now, let's call it an accident-and the call she made to me."

Shea leaned forward as a look of deep interest filled his face. Oliver Baker had said that the block printing on the manila envelope Carolyn Wells had been carrying was large, and that he was pretty sure he had glimpsed the word "Dr." on the first line of the address. Maybe Dr. Susan Chandler was putting him on the track to something, perhaps even a connection between Hilda Johnson's insistence that Carolyn Wells had been pushed and Hilda's own murderer.

"Have you received a manila envelope that could have been from her in the mail?" Shea asked.

"Not as of yesterday. The mail wasn't in when I left my office this morning. Why?"

"Because both Hilda Johnson and one other witness saw Carolyn Wells carrying a manila envelope, and the second witness thought it was addressed to Dr. Something. Did you expect her to send anything to you?"

"No, but then she might have decided to mail in the picture and ring she promised to give me. Let me play the tape of her call for you."

When it was finished, Susan looked across the desk and noted the intensity of Captain Shea's expression.

"You're sure that woman is Carolyn Wells?" he demanded.

"I'm absolutely positive," she replied.

"You're a psychologist, Dr. Chandler. Would you agree that that woman is afraid of her husband?"

"I would say that she is nervous about his reaction to what she told me."

Captain Shea picked up the phone and barked out an order. "See if we have any record of a complaint against a Justin Wells. Probably something domestic. About two years ago."

"Dr. Chandler," he said, "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you came in. If I get the report I expect-"

He was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. He picked up the receiver, listened, and then nodded.

He hung up and looked at Susan. "It's what I thought. I knew that what you told me rang a bell. Dr. Chandler, two years ago Carolyn Wells swore out a complaint against Justin Wells, which she later withdrew. In the complaint she contended that, in a jealous rage, her husband had threatened to kill her. Would you know if Wells had learned of that call she made to your program?"

Susan knew she had no choice but to tell the exact truth. "He not only learned of it, he phoned on Monday afternoon, requesting a copy of the tape; then, when I called him about it last night, he denied any knowledge of the request. I tried to deliver the tape to his office this morning, and he refused to see me."

"Dr. Chandler, I can't thank you enough for this information. I must ask you to leave this tape with me."

Susan stood up. "Of course. I have the master tape at the studio. But Captain Shea, what I really wanted to ask you to follow up was the possibility that there was a connection between the man Carolyn Wells met on the ship and Regina Clausen's disappearance. There was a turquoise ring with the inscription 'You belong to me' in Regina Clausen's belongings." She was about to tell him about the calls from Tiffany, and her report that someone in Greenwich Village sold and perhaps even made rings just tike that, when Shea interrupted.

"Dr. Chandler, it's a matter of record that Justin Wells was-and probably is-fiercely jealous of his wife. The tape shows she's afraid of him. My guess is that she didn't tell her husband anything about her relationship with the guy she met on the ship. I think when Wells heard about that program, he went nuts. I want to talk to him. I want to know where he was between four and four-thirty Monday afternoon. I want to know who told him about the call to your program, and how much that person told him."

Susan knew that everything Captain Shea said made sense. She glanced at her watch; she had to get back to her office. But something still wasn't right. Every instinct in her body told her that even if Justin Wells, in a fit of jealous rage, did push his wife in front of that van, there still might be a connection between the man Carolyn had met on the trip and Regina Clausen's disappearance.

As she left the police station, she decided there was one link she would follow up herself: She would track down Tiffany, whose phone number she had and who worked at The Grotto, "the best Italian restaurant in Yonkers."

49

Jim Curley had been sure something was up when he picked up his boss at noon at the Wright Family Foundation and was told to stop by Irene Hayes Wadley & Smythe, an elegant Rockefeller Center florist. Once there, instead of sending Jim inside, Wright had had him wait while he got out of the car himself and went inside the shop, carrying a box under his arm. He returned fifteen minutes later, trailed by a florist who carried a lavish bouquet in a large vase.

The vase was wedged in a carton to give it stability, and Wright instructed the florist to put it on the floor of the backseat, where he could be sure it wouldn't tip over.

With a smile, the florist thanked Wright, then closed the door. Wright, his voice buoyant, had said, "Next stop SoHo," then gave Jim an unfamiliar address. Noting the perplexed look on the driver's face, he had added, "Before you die of curiosity, we're going to Dr. Susan Chandler's office. Or at least, you're going there to deliver these flowers. I'll wait in the car."

Over the years, Jim had delivered flowers to many attractive women for his boss, but he never before had known Alex Wright to personally select them.

With the informality that came with long years of service, Jim had said, "Mr. Alex, if I may say so, I liked Dr. Chandler. She's a nice woman and really attractive. I found there was something warm and natural about her, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, Jim," Alex Wright had responded, "and I agree."

Jim had pulled the car into an illegal parking spot on Houston Street, sprinted around the corner to the office building, caught an elevator just as the door was closing, and on reaching the top floor, hurried down the corridor to the office that displayed the discreet sign, DR. SUSAN CHANDLER. There he had deposited the flowers with the receptionist, refused the proffered tip, and rushed back to the car.

Once again he took advantage of his long-established loyalty to ask a question: "Mr. Alex, isn't that the vase that was on the table in the foyer, the Waterford your mother brought back from Ireland?"

"You've got a good eye, Jim. The other night when I escorted Dr. Chandler to her door, I could see that she had a vase very similar to that one, only smaller. I thought it could use a companion piece. Now you'd better step on it. I'm already late for lunch at the Plaza."

. . . At two-thirty, Alex was back at his desk at the offices of the Wright Family Foundation. At quarter of three his secretary announced a call from Dee Chandler Harriman.

"Put it through, Alice," he said, a note of curiosity in his voice.

Dee's voice was both warm and apologetic. "Alex, you're probably busy giving away five or six million dollars, so I won't keep you but a minute."

"I haven't given away that much money since yesterday afternoon," he assured her. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing too difficult, I hope. Somewhere around dawn I made a momentous decision. It's time to move back to New York. My partners at the modeling agency out here are willing to buy me out. A neighbor who's renting in my building has been salivating for my condo and will take it right off my hands. So here's why I'm calling: Can you recommend a good real estate agent? I'm in the market for a four- or five-room co-op on the East Side, preferably somewhere between Fifth and Park, and definitely in the mid-seventies."

"I'm not going to be a lot of help, Dee. I've been living in the same house since I was born," Alex told her. "But I could inquire about a broker for you."

"Oh, thank you, that would be such a help. I hate to bother you, but I had the feeling you wouldn't mind. I'm arriving there tomorrow afternoon. That way I can start looking on Friday."

"I'll come up with a name for you by then."

"Then give it to me over a drink tomorrow night. My treat."

She hung up before he could respond. Alex Wright leaned back in his chair. This was an unexpected complication. He had heard the change in Susan's voice when he told her he had invited her sister to the dinner at the library. That was why he had sent the flowers today and had taken such pains to make them special.

"Do I need this?" he muttered aloud. Then he remembered that his father had been fond of saying that any negative situation could be turned into a plus. The trick, Alex thought wryly, was to figure out how to make that happen in this case.

50

With weary resignation, Jane Clausen entered the hospital room. As she suspected, her doctor had insisted that she go in for immediate treatment. The cancer that was inevitably winning the battle with her body seemed intent on not giving her the strength or the time to take care of all that needed tending to. Jane wished she could just say "No more treatment," but she wasn't ready to die-not quite yet. She had a sense that some unfinished business might actually be taken care of, if she were only given the time, now when she had a glimmer of hope that she might learn the truth about Regina's fate. If the woman who had phoned in to Dr. Chandler's program would only come forward and show the picture of the man who had given her the turquoise ring, they would have a starting point at last.

She undressed, hung her clothes in the small wardrobe, and put on the gown and robe Vera had packed for her. Another bout of chemotherapy would begin in the morning.

When dinner was served, she accepted only a cup of tea and a slice of toast, then got into bed, took the painkiller the nurse brought her, and began to drift off.

"Mrs. Clausen."

She opened her eyes and saw the solicitous face of Douglas Layton bending over her.

"Douglas." She wasn't sure if she was pleased that he had come, but she did find some comfort in his obvious concern.

"I called you at home because we needed your signature on a tax form. When Vera told me you were here, I came right over."

"I thought I signed everything at the meeting," she murmured.

"One of the pages was overlooked, I'm afraid. But it can wait. I don't want to bother you with it now."

"That's foolish. Give it to me." I wasn't feeling well at the meeting, Jane thought. I'm surprised I didn't miss more.

She reached for her glasses and glanced at the form Douglas was offering. "Oh, yes, that one." She took the pen he gave her and wrote her signature, carefully, making an effort to keep it even on the line.

Tonight, in the dim light in the hospital room, Jane Clausen thought how much Douglas looked like the Laytons she had known in Philadelphia. A fine family. Yet how quick she had been to mistrust him yesterday. That was the trouble, she thought. Her illness and all the medication were robbing her of judgment. Tomorrow she would phone Dr. Chandler and tell her she was sure she had been wrong in her suspicions about Douglas-wrong, and terribly unfair to him.