You belong to me (20 page)

I'll be okay, Joey. See you tomorrow," she called to him, and darted out.

It wasn't until she was outside that she remembered leaving her car in the far corner of the parking lot. What a pain, Tiffany thought. If that guy is hanging around, he could be a problem. Carefully she scanned every inch of the lot. There was one person out there, a guy who looked like he had just gotten out of his car and was probably headed to the bar. Even in the shadowy light, though, she could tell he wasn't the jerk who had tried to come on to her. This guy was tall and thinner.

Still, something made her feel funny, made her want to get out of there as quickly as possible. As she walked rapidly toward her car, she fumbled in her bag for her keys. Her fingers closed over them. She was almost there.

Then suddenly the guy she had seen across the lot was standing in front of her. There was something shiny in his hand.

A knife! she thought, the realization making her freeze almost in midstep.

No! she thought, disbelieving, as she saw him move toward her.

Why? she wondered, incredulous that this was happening.

"Please," she begged. "Please!"

Tiffany lived long enough to see her attacker's face, long enough for her excellent memory to help her recognize her killer as the classy guy she had glimpsed in that Village souvenir shop-the one who had bought those rings inscribed "You belong to me."

57

As he drove back to the city, traveling along the Cross Bronx Expressway, he could feel the perspiration pouring from him. It had been a close call. He had just stepped over the low wall that separated The Grotto's property from the locked gas station where he had parked his car, when he heard some guy yelling "Tiffany."

He had left his car on the other side of the station, and fortunately there was an incline and he didn't have to start the engine until he reached the road. Once there he turned right and merged with the traffic, so chances were no one had seen him.

Next week it would be all over, he reminded himself. He would choose someone to "See the jungle when it's wet with rain," and his mission would be completed.

Veronica, so trusting-she had been the first-now buried in Egypt: "See the pyramids along the Nile."

Regina. He had won her trust in Bali: "Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle."

Constance, who had replaced Carolyn in Algiers: "See the marketplace in old Algiers."

"Fly the ocean in a silver plane." He thought of Monica, the timid heiress he had met on the flight to London. He remembered how he had talked to her about the sun gleaming on the wing of the plane.

The rings had been a mistake, of course. He knew that now. They had been his private joke, like the connection between the names that he used on the special trips. He should have just kept his jokes to himself.

But Parki, who made the rings, was out of the way. Now Tiffany, who had seen him buying one of them, was gone. He was certain that, like Carolyn, she had recognized him at the end. Granted, Tiffany had seen him clearly and in his normal appearance in the souvenir shop, but even so it was unsettling that despite the shadowy light of the parking lot, she still had recognized him.

Well, these were feathers in the wind, and he could never recover them now, but surely they would blow away unnoticed. No matter how much he had tried to stay out of camera range, it was inevitable that he had been caught in the background of some photos taken on the cruise ships. Photos that people all over the world had no doubt framed, to remind themselves of their fabulous vacation- Photos that now went unnoticed on countless bedroom bureaus or study walls. He found the prospect both amusing and alarming.

After all, Carolyn Wells had been about to send a photo with him in the background to Susan Chandler. The thought of that narrow escape still unnerved him. He could imagine Susan opening that package, her eyes widening in surprise and horror when she recognized him.

At last he was at his garage. He drove down the ramp, stopped, got out and nodded to the attendant, who greeted him with the warmth reserved for longtime customers. It was almost one o'clock now, and he walked the short distance home, glad to feel the cool, bracing wind on his face.

A week from tonight, all this will be over, he promised himself. By then I will have begun the last leg of my journey. Susan Chandler will have been eliminated, and I'll be starting my final cruise.

He knew that once that was accomplished, the terrible burning inside him would go away, and finally he would be free-free to become the person his mother had always believed he was capable of being.

58

Early Thursday morning, Pamela Hastings stopped at the hospital to visit Carolyn Wells, hoping to find her greatly unproved. Instead she learned that her condition remained unchanged.

"She called for 'Win' again," Gladys, the head nurse on the morning shift, told her. "Only it sounded to me more like, 'Oh, Win,' as though she were trying to talk to him."

"Did her husband hear her when she spoke, Gladys?"

"No. He hasn't been here since yesterday afternoon."

"He hasn't?" Pamela was shocked. "Do you know if he has phoned? Is he ill?"

"We haven't heard from him."

"But that's crazy," Pam said, almost to herself. "I'll call him. May I look in on Carolyn?"

"Of course."

It had been only two and a half days since the accident, but Pamela felt such familiarity with the intensive care unit that it seemed as though she must have made this journey many times. Yesterday there had been curtains drawn around the bed of an elderly man who had come in with a massive heart attack. Today that bed was empty. Pamela decided not to ask; she felt sure the man had died during the night.

The part of Carolyn's face that was visible seemed even more swollen and braised this morning than it had yesterday. It still seemed impossible to Pam that this woman, swathed in bandages and clips, and linked to IVs and tubes, was her pretty, vibrant friend.

Carolyn's hands were lying on top of the coverlet. Pam entwined her own fingers with her friend's, noting the absence of Carolyn's simple gold wedding band. It made her think of Carolyn's aversion to a lot of items of jewelry. A few good costume pins and earrings and her grandmother's single strand of pearls were as much as she had ever seen her wear.

"Carolyn," she said softly. "It's Pam. Just wanted to see how you were doing. Everyone's asking about you. As soon as you're feeling better you'll have lots of company. Vickie and Lynn and I are planning your recovery party. Champagne, caviar, smoked salmon. You name it. The 'gang of four' knows how to party. Right?"

Pam knew she was prattling, but they had told her that it was possible Carolyn could hear her. She didn't want to talk about Justin. The thought occurred to Pam that if he had been the one who pushed Carolyn in front of that van, and she was aware of it, she might be terrified if in fact she was able to hear his voice, or even to sense his presence.

But I don't know what I can do about it, Pam thought. If only she would recover consciousness, even for a minute. "I've got to go, Car," she said, "but I'll be back later. Love you." She brushed Carolyn's cheek with her lips; she could detect no response.

Wiping tears away with the back of her hand, she left the ICU. As she passed the waiting room she was taken aback to see Justin there, slouched in a chair. He was unshaven and wearing the same clothes he had had on yesterday afternoon. Their eyes met, and he came out into the corridor. "Did Carolyn talk to you?" he asked eagerly.

"No, she didn't. Justin, what in God's name is going on? Why didn't you come back last night?"

He hesitated before answering. "Because although I'm not yet formally charged with anything, the police seem to think that I pushed Carolyn in front of that van."

He returned Pamela's stare. "You're shocked, aren't you, Pam? Shocked, but not surprised. That possibility has been running through your head, hasn't it?" His face crumbled and he began to sob. "Doesn't anyone understand how I feel about her?" Then he quickly shook his head and pointed to the ICU. "I'm not going back in there. If Carolyn was pushed and realized it, but didn't see the person, even she might think I did it. But I've got just one question for all of you: If she is involved with this guy, this 'Win' she keeps calling for, then why the hell isn't he here with her now?"

59

Chris Ryan had been an FBI agent for thirty years before he retired and set up his own small security firm on East Fifty-second Street. Now sixty-nine years old, with a full head of iron gray hair, a somewhat overweight frame, an affable expression, and merry blue eyes, he looked the perfect choice to play Santa Claus at his grandchildren's grammar school.

His easygoing personality and sardonic humor made him universally popular, but those who had dealt with him professionally had considerable respect for his investigating skills.

He and Susan had become friends when the family of a murder victim hired him to try to solve the crime independently of the police. As an assistant district attorney, she was directly involved with the case, and information Chris uncovered and shared with her helped her obtain a confession.

Ryan had been flabbergasted when she told him of her decision to quit her job in the prosecutor's office and go back to school. "You're a natural," he had told her. "A great trial lawyer. Why do you want to waste your time listening to a bunch of pampered whiners moan about their troubles?"

"Trust me. It's a little more than that, Chris," Susan had laughed.

They still saw each other for dinner every few months, so when Susan called him on Thursday morning, Chris was delighted. "Need a free meal?" he asked her genially. "There's a new steak house down the block. Corner of Forty-ninth and Third. Prime beef. Makes you glad to be raising your cholesterol count. When can you do it?"

"New steak house on Forty-ninth and Third, you say? Seems to me that's where Smith & Wollensky is located," Susan said. "And I happen to know that it's been there about seventy years and that some people think you own it." She laughed. "Sure I'll go, but first I have to ask a favor, Chris. I need a fast check on someone."

"Who?"

"A lawyer, Douglas Layton. He's with Hubert March and Associates. It's a legal and investment advice kind of firm. Layton is also a director of the Clausen Family Trust."

"Sounds successful. Are you thinking of marrying him?"

"No, I'm not."

Ryan leaned back in his swivel chair as Susan filled him in on the background, and explained that Jane Clausen had expressed concern to her about Layton. Then he listened intently as Susan told him about the events since the radio program on Monday on which Regina Clausen's disappearance was first discussed.

"And you say this guy did a disappearing act when you expected that woman who called herself Karen to show up in your office?"

"Yes. And something Layton said to Mrs. Clausen on Tuesday suggested he knew her daughter-a fact he's always denied."

"I'll get busy," Ryan promised. "There hasn't been anything interesting around lately. Just checking out guys for nervous brides-to-be. Nobody trusts anybody these days." He reached for a pad and pen. "As of now the clock is ticking. Where do I bill Mrs. Clausen?"

He caught the hesitation in Susan's voice. "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. I found a message from Mrs. Clausen on my machine this morning, saying she had had to go into the hospital for more chemotherapy but felt she had been unfair when she mentioned her suspicions about Layton to me. Clearly the implication was that I should forget about it, but I can't. I don't think she was unfair at all, and I'm worried for her. So bill it to me," Susan said.

Chris Ryan groaned. "Thank God for my pension. I kiss J. Edgar Hoover's picture on the first of every month. Okay. Consider it done. I'll get back to you, Susie."

60

Doug Layton's secretary, Leah, a no-nonsense woman in her early fifties, studied her boss with disapproving eyes. He looks as if he was out all night, she thought as Layton passed her and mumbled a perfunctory good morning greeting.

Without asking, she went to the coffeemaker, poured him a cup, tapped on his door, then opened it without waiting for a response. "I don't mean to spoil you, Doug," she said, "but you look like you could use this."

Clearly he was not up to lighthearted banter today. There was a note of irritability in his tone as he said, "I know, Leah. You're the only assistant who ever makes coffee for the boss."

She was about to tell him that he looked exhausted but decided she already had said enough. He also looks as though he's had a few too many drinks, she thought. He'd better watch his step-they won't put up with that around here.

"Let me know when you want a refill," she said tersely as she placed the cup in front of him.

"Leah, Mrs. Clausen is back in the hospital," Doug said quietly. "I saw her last night. I don't think she has very much time left."

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Leah suddenly felt guilty. She knew that to Doug, Jane Clausen was a lot more than just another client. "Will you still go to Guatemala next week?"

"Oh, absolutely. But I'm not going to wait to show her the surprise I was planning for her when I came back with my report."

"The orphanage?"

"Yes. She doesn't realize how rapidly they've been working to renovate the old facility and build the new wing. Mr. March and I agreed that it would give her so much pleasure to see it actually completed. She still doesn't know that the people running the orphanage begged us to name it after Regina."

"I bet that was your suggestion, wasn't it, Doug?"

He smiled. "Maybe. It was certainly my suggestion that we not only accept renaming the orphanage, but surprise Mrs. Clausen with the news. Even though the dedication isn't till next week, I don't think we should wait any longer to show the pictures to her. Get me the file, please."

Together they studied the eight-by-ten photos that depicted the ongoing construction of the new section of the orphanage. The most recent picture showed the completed building, a handsome, L-shaped, whitewashed structure with a green tile roof. "Room for two hundred more children," Doug said. "Equipped with a state-of-the-art clinic. You don't know how many of those infants arrive there malnourished. Now I'm proposing to add a residence on the grounds so that prospective parents can get to spend time with the babies they'll be adopting."