“Well, from something you said, I had an idea that you had been with him longer than that.”
“No.”
“Because I wanted to know if you were there when Dr. Smith either operated on his daughter, Suzanne, or had a colleague operate on her. I can tell you what she looked like. In your office I saw two patients and asked their names. Barbara Tompkins and Pamela Worth are both dead ringers for Dr. Smith’s daughter, at least as she looked after extensive plastic surgery, not as she was born.”
She heard the woman gasp. “I didn’t know Dr. Smith had a daughter,” Mrs. Carpenter said.
“She died nearly eleven years ago, murdered, as the jury decided, by her husband. He is still in prison and continues to protest his innocence. Dr. Smith was the principal witness against him.”
“Ms. McGrath,” Mrs. Carpenter said, “I feel terribly disloyal to the doctor, but I think it’s very important that you speak to Barbara Tompkins immediately. Let me give you her number.” Then the nurse explained about the frightened woman’s call.
“Dr. Smith is stalking Barbara Tompkins!” Kerry said, as her mind raced with the possibilities of what such an action might mean.
“Well, following her, anyhow,” Mrs. Carpenter said defensively.
“I have both her numbers, home and office.”
Kerry took them. “Mrs. Carpenter, I must talk to Dr. Smith and I doubt very much that he will agree to see me. Is he going to be in tomorrow?”
“Yes, but he has a very full schedule. He won’t be done until sometime after four o’clock.”
“I’ll be there then, but don’t tell him I’m coming.” A question occurred to Kerry. “ Does Dr. Smith own a car?”
“Oh, yes. His home is in Washington Mews. He lives in a converted carriage house and it has a garage, so it’s easy for him to keep one.”
“What kind of car does he drive?”
“The same one he’s always driven. A four-door Mercedes sedan.”
Kerry gripped the phone. “What color is it?”
“Black.”
“You say ‘always driven.’ You mean he always selects a black Mercedes sedan?”
“I mean he drives the same one he’s driven for at least twelve years. I know, because I’ve heard him talking about it to one of his patients who happens to be a Mercedes executive.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Carpenter.” As Kerry returned the receiver to its cradle, Joe Palumbo reappeared. “Hey, Kerry, was Skip Reardon’s mother in here to see you?”
“Yes.”
“Our Leader saw and recognized her. He was rushing out to a meeting with the governor. He wants to know what the hell she was doing in here asking for you.”
55
When Geoff Dorso got home on Thursday night, he stood at the window of his condominium and stared at the New York skyline. All day the memory of how he had sarcastically called Kerry “Your Honor” had been plaguing him, but he resolutely had pushed it out of his mind. Alone now, and at the end of his day, he had to face it.
What a hell of a nerve I had, he thought. Kerry was decent enough to call me and ask to read the transcript. She was decent enough to talk to Dr. Smith and Dolly Bowles. She made the trek to Trenton to meet Skip. Why shouldn’t she worry about losing her judgeship, especially if she honestly doesn’t believe that Skip is innocent?
I had no right to speak to her that way, and I owe her an apology, he thought, although I wouldn’t blame her if she hung up on me. Face it, he told himself. You were convinced that the more she looked into the Sweetheart Murder Case, the more she would believe that Skip was innocent. But why should he be so sure? She certainly has the right to agree with the jury and with the appeals court, and it was a cheap shot to insinuate that she was being self-serving.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. It was November 2. In three weeks it would be Thanksgiving. Another Thanksgiving in prison for Skip. And in that time Mrs. Reardon would be going in for another angioplasty. Ten years of waiting for a miracle had taken its toll on her.
One thing, however, had come out of all this, he reminded himself. Kerry might not believe in Skip’s innocence, but she had opened two lines of inquiry that Geoff would follow up on. Dolly Bowles’ story of “Poppa’s car,” a black four-door Mercedes, was one, and the other was Dr. Smith’s bizarre need to duplicate Suzanne’s face in other women. At least they both were new angles on what had become a very familiar story.
The ringing of the phone interrupted his thoughts. He was tempted not to answer it, but years of listening to his mother jokingly say, “How can you not answer the phone, Geoff? For all you know it’s news about a pot of gold,” made him reach for it.
It was Deidre Reardon calling to tell him about her visit with Skip, and then with Kerry McGrath.
“Deidre, you didn’t say that to Kerry?” Geoff asked. He made no effort to conceal how upset he was with what she had done.
“Yes, I did. And I’m not sorry,” Mrs. Reardon told him. “Geoff, the only thing that’s keeping Skip going is hope. That woman singlehandedly put out that hope.”
“Deidre, thanks to Kerry I have some new angles that I’m going to pursue. They could be very important.”
“She went down to see my son, looked into his face, questioned him and decided he was a killer,” Mrs. Reardon said. “I’m sorry, Geoff. I guess I’m getting old and tired and bitter. I don’t regret a word of what I said to Kerry McGrath.” She hung up without saying good-bye.
Geoff took a deep breath and dialed Kerry’s number.
When Kerry got home and the sitter had left, Robin looked at her critically. “You look bushed, Mom.”
“I am bushed, kiddo.”
“Tough day?”
“You could call it that.”
“Mr. Green on your back?”
“He will be. But let’s not talk about it. I think I’d rather forget it for the moment. How was your day?”
“Fine. I think Andrew likes me.”
“Really!” Kerry knew that Andrew was considered the coolest boy in the fifth grade. “How do you know that?” “He told Tommy that even with my face banged up, I’m better looking than most of the dorks in our class.”
Kerry grinned. “Now that’s what I call a compliment.”
“That’s what I thought. What are we having for dinner?”
“I stopped at the supermarket. How does a cheeseburger sound?”
“Perfect.”
“No, it’s not, but I try. Oh well, I guess you’ll never have much reason to brag about your mother’s home cooking, Rob.”
The phone rang and Robin grabbed it. It was for her. She tossed the receiver to Kerry. “Hang up in a minute, okay? I’ll take it upstairs. It’s Cassie.”
When she heard Robin’s exuberant “I’m on,” Kerry replaced the receiver, carried the mail into the kitchen, laid it on the counter and began to sort through it. A plain white envelope with her name and address in block printing caught her eye. She slit it open, pulled out a snapshot, looked at it and went cold.
It was a color Polaroid of Robin coming down the walk outside their house. Her arms were full of books. She was dressed in the dark blue slacks she had worn on Tuesday, the day she had been frightened by the car that she thought was going to hit her.
Kerry’s lips felt rubbery. She bent over slightly as though reeling from a kick in the stomach. Her breath came in short, fast gasps. Who did this? Who would take Robin’s picture, drive a car at her, then mail the picture to me,
