The Shadow of Your Smile

and then at Alma’s affirmative nod, Nan slipped the picture back into the envelope and dropped it in her desk drawer.

Later Nan confided to Alma, “There’s a retired detective from the District Attorney’s Office who lives down the hall from me. I’m going to show it to him. Mark my words, Alma, there’s something creepy about that picture.”

“Do you have the right not to show it to the doctor?” Alma asked.

“It’s addressed to ‘occupant,’ not directly to her. I will show it to her, but I’d like to get John Hartman’s opinion first.”

That evening, after phoning her neighbor, Nan walked down the hall to his apartment. Hartman, a seventy- year-old widower with iron gray hair and the weathered complexion of a lifelong golfer, invited her in and listened to her apologetic explanation of why she was bothering him. “Sit down, Nan. You’re not bothering me.”

He went back to his club chair, where the newspapers he’d obviously been reading were piled on the hassock at his feet, and turned the switch on the standing lamp to full strength. As Nan watched intently she saw a frown that deepened on his face, as holding the picture and the envelope with the tips of his fingers, he studied them both.

“Your Dr. Farrell isn’t a juror on some trial, is she?”

“No, she isn’t. Why?”

“There’s probably an explanation but in my business this is the kind of piece of mail we’d consider a warning. Does Dr. Farrell have any enemies?”

“Not one in the world.”

“That’s as far as you know, Nan. You’ve got to show her this picture, and then I’d like to talk to her.”

“I hope she doesn’t think I’m overstepping my bounds,” Nan said anxiously as she got up to go. Then she hesitated. “The only thing that I can think of is that someone from Boston calls her from time to time. His name is Scott Alterman. He’s a lawyer. I don’t know what happened between them but if he calls the office, she never gets on the phone with him.”

“He’d be a good place to start looking,” Hartman said. “Scott Alterman. I’ll do a little background work on him. I used to be a pretty good detective.” Then he hesitated. “Dr. Farrell’s a pediatrician, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Has she lost any patients lately? I mean, did a child die unexpectedly where the parents might blame her?”

“No, on the contrary, she’s being asked to testify about one of her patients who was terminal and not only is still living but is cured of brain cancer.”

“I didn’t think that was possible, but at least we know that family isn’t going to be responsible for stalking Dr. Farrell.” John Hartman bit his tongue. He had not planned to use that word but something in his gut was telling him that someone out there was stalking the young doctor who was Nan’s employer.

He reached out his hand. “Nan,” he said. “Give that back to me. Did anyone besides you handle the picture?”

“No.”

“I’ve got absolutely nothing important to do tomorrow. I’m going to take it down to headquarters and see if I can pick up any discernible fingerprints. It’s probably a waste of time, but then again you never know. You wouldn’t mind my taking your fingerprints, would you? Just for comparison purposes. It would only take a minute and I still have a kit in my desk.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” She tried to stifle her rising anxiety.

Less than ten minutes later, Nan was back in her own apartment. John Hartman had promised to return the picture to her by tomorrow evening. “You should show it to Dr. Farrell,” he said. “It’s up to you whether or not to say you gave it to me.”

“I’m not sure what I’ll do,” she had replied, but now as she locked and bolted her door she found herself thinking of how vulnerable Monica Farrell was in her apartment. That kitchen door to the patio has a big window, Nan thought. Anybody could slice out the glass and reach in and open the lock. I’ve already warned her she should have a much stronger grille over that window.

Nan did not sleep well that night. Her dreams were haunted by distorted images of Monica standing on the steps of the hospital, Carlos in her arms, with her long blond hair streaming on her shoulders, then coiling like tentacles around her neck.

7

It was late afternoon of the day after his meeting with Sammy Barber before fifty-two-year-old Douglas Langdon realized that the photograph he had snapped of Monica Farrell was missing. He was in his corner office on Park Avenue and Fifty-first Street when the nagging sensation that something was wrong became defined in his mind.

Glancing at the door to be sure it was closed, he stood up and emptied the pockets of his expensively tailored suit. His billfold was always in the right-hand back pocket of his trousers. He took it out and laid it on his desk. Except for a clean white handkerchief the pocket was now empty.

But I wasn’t wearing this suit last night, he thought hopefully. I was wearing the dark gray. Then, dismayed, he remembered he had dropped it in the cleaner bag for his housekeeper to give to the in-house valet service. I emptied out the pockets, he thought. I always do. The picture wasn’t there or I would have noticed it.

There was only one time he’d had any reason to reach for his billfold and that was when he paid for the coffee in the diner. He had either pulled the picture out then, or less likely, it might have slipped out of the pocket and fallen somewhere between the diner and where he had parked his car.

Suppose someone found it, he wondered. It has two addresses on the back. No name, but two addresses in my handwriting. Most people would just throw it away, but suppose some do-gooder tries to return it?

Every instinct told him the picture could cause trouble. Lou’s was the name of that diner in Queens where he’d met Sammy. He reached for the phone, and after a moment was speaking to Lou, the owner.

“We don’t have no picture-but wait a minute, a kid who works for me is here, and said something about a customer losing something last night. I’ll put him on.”

Three long minutes passed, then Hank Moss began with an apology. “I was just bringing out the orders for a table of six. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

The kid sounded smart. Doug Langdon tried to sound casual. “It’s not important, but I think I dropped my daughter’s picture last night when I was at the diner.”

“Is she blond, with long hair and holding a little kid?”

“Yes,” Doug said. “I’ll send my friend over for it. He lives near the diner.”

“I actually don’t have the picture.” Hank’s voice was now nervous. “I could see that one of the addresses on the back seemed to be an office, so I addressed it to ‘occupant’ and sent it there. I hope that was all right?”

“It was very thoughtful. Thank you.” Doug replaced the receiver, not noticing that his palm was moist and his whole body felt clammy. What would Monica Farrell think when she saw that picture? Fortunately both her home and office addresses were listed in the phone book. If her home address on East Thirty-sixth Street were unlisted, it probably would have tipped her off that someone might be stalking her.

There was, of course, a simple and plausible solution. Someone who knew her snapped that picture of her holding the kid, and thought she might like to have it.

“There’s no reason for her to be suspicious,” Doug said aloud softly, then realized he was trying to reassure himself.

The muted ring of the intercom interrupted his reflections. He pushed a button on the phone. “What is it?” he asked abruptly.

“Dr. Langdon, Mr. Gannon’s secretary called to remind you that you are to introduce him tonight at the dinner for Troubled Teens honoring him…”

“I don’t need to be reminded,” Doug interrupted irritably.