We'll Meet Again

His instincts were right, and whatever it was that Black had to say sent Cal into a rage. “What did you say when she asked why Gary sent for you? If she picks up that scent…Why did you even see her in the first place? You know you can’t do anything but hurt yourself. It doesn’t take any brains to know that.”

When Cal slammed down the phone, he looked almost apoplectic. It rang again almost immediately, and his sharp tone quickly softened when he realized who the caller was. “Yes, Doctor, I’ve spoken to Peter, as a matter of fact just a moment ago…No, he didn’t tell me anything special. Should he have?”

Lou knew that the caller had to be Adrian Logue, the ophthalmologist, or whatever he claimed to be, who lived at the farmhouse in West Redding. For some reason that Lou didn’t understand, both Whitehall and Black-and before that, Gary Lasch-always treated Logue with kid gloves. Over the years, Lou had occasionally driven Cal out to the farmhouse. It was never a long stay, though, and Lou always had waited in the car.

He’d seen Logue up close only once or twice-a skinny, mild-looking, gray-haired guy, who by now must be in his seventies. It was clear to Lou from watching his boss’s expression that whatever the doctor was telling Cal was sending him over the edge.

It was always a bad sign when Cal went cold instead of exploding. As Lou watched, Cal ’s face froze into a tight, icy mask, and his eyes took on the veiled, slit-eyed look that reminded Lou of a tiger about to spring.

When Cal spoke, his voice was controlled but awesome in its confidence and authority. “Doctor, I have every respect for you, but you had absolutely no right to insist Peter Black go through with this procedure, and he had no right to follow your wishes. I can’t think of anything more unnecessarily risky, particularly at this time. Under no circumstances can you be present when the reaction sets in. As usual, you will have to be satisfied with the videotape.”

Lou couldn’t hear what Dr. Logue was saying, but he could tell the pitch of his voice was rising.

Cal interrupted him. “Doctor, I guarantee that you will have the tape tonight.” He hung up the phone abruptly and gave Lou a look that made him know he was in serious trouble.

“I believe I indicated to you that Fran Simmons was a problem,” he said. “It’s time to address that problem.”

62

As soon as Fran left Peter Black’s office, she placed a call to Philip Matthews. He was in his office, and from his tone of voice she could tell he was deeply concerned about something.

“Where are you, Fran?” he asked.

“In Greenwich. I’ll be starting back to New York soon.”

“Any chance you could come to my office this afternoon around three? I’m afraid that things are getting worse for Molly.”

“I’ll be there,” Fran said, then pushed the END button on her car phone. She was approaching an intersection and braked as the traffic light changed. Left or right? She asked herself. She wanted to stop at the Greenwich Time office and try to catch Joe Hutnik.

But now a powerful need was compelling her to drive past the house in which she and her parents had lived for those four years. Peter Black’s scornful reference to her father had hurt her deeply. The pain, however, was not for herself, she realized, but for her dad. She wanted to see the house again. It was the last place she had spent time with him.

Let’s do it, she decided. Three blocks later she turned her car onto a tree-lined street that immediately seemed so familiar to her. They had lived in the middle of the block, in a Tudor-style brick and stucco house. She had intended simply to drive by it slowly, but instead she parked at the curb across the street from the house and stared at it with tear-filled eyes.

It was a lovely house, with leaded windows that gleamed in the sunlight. It looks pretty much the same, she thought, as she visualized the long, high-ceilinged living room with the handsome Irish marble fireplace. The library was small, she remembered. Her dad had joked that it was built to house ten books, but she thought it a great place to retreat to.

She was surprised to realize how many good memories were rushing through her mind. If Dad had only seen it through, she thought. Even if he had gone to prison, he would have been released years ago and been able to start over someplace else.

It didn’t have to happen-that was what had haunted her and her mother. Should they have been aware of something about him that last day? Could they have prevented it?

If only he had talked to us, Fran thought. If he had only said something!

And where did the money go? she asked herself. Why wasn’t there a trace of it, or at least some hint of an investment that hadn’t worked? Someday I’ll find the answer, she vowed as she started up the car.

She looked at her watch. It was twenty minutes of one. The odds were good that Joe Hutnik would be having lunch, but on the off chance that he might be in, she decided to stop by the Time.

Joe was, in fact, at his desk and was insistent that she was not interrupting; besides, he wanted to talk to her. “A lot of water under the bridge since last week,” he said gruffly as he waved her to a chair and closed the door.

“I would say so,” Fran agreed.

“The raw material for your program is expanding.”

“Joe, Molly is innocent of both those crimes. I know it. I feel it.”

Joe’s eyebrows came together. “Level with me, Fran. You’re kidding, right? ‘Cause if you’re not, then you’re kidding yourself.”

“Neither, Joe. I’m convinced she didn’t kill either her husband or Scalli. Look, you have your finger on the pulse of the town. What do you hear?”

“Very simple. People are shocked, sad, but not surprised. They all think Molly is off her rocker.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Then you’d better be afraid of something else. Tom Serrazzano, the prosecutor, is pressuring the parole board to revoke her parole. He knows he’s stuck with her having bail on the new charge, but he’s arguing that her statement when she got out of prison was inconsistent with her statement at her parole hearing that she had accepted responsibility for her husband’s death. Because she’s denying that now, he’s arguing that she perpetrated a fraud on the parole board and should be required to finish serving the whole sentence. And he just may get his way.”

“That means Molly could go right back to prison.”

“My guess is that it’s going to happen, Fran.”

“It can’t happen,” Fran murmured, as much to herself as to Hutnik. “Joe, I met with Dr. Peter Black this morning. I’ve been doing some digging into the hospital and the Remington HMO. Something is going on there; just what it is, I haven’t figured out yet. But I do know that Black was nervous when I got there. He almost broke out in hives when I asked why he thought Gary Lasch plucked him from a nondescript job to be his partner running Lasch Hospital and Remington Health Management, when his record was less than sterling and there were so many better-qualified candidates already in the area.”

“That’s odd,” Joe said. “As I remember it, the impression we were given around here was that it was a coup to persuade him to come work at the hospital.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t.” She stood up. “I’m on my way. Joe, I want to get copies of anything the Time wrote about the library fund drive my father was involved in, and anything written about Dad and the missing funds after he died.”

“I’ll see that you get it,” he promised.

Fran was grateful that Joe didn’t ask questions, but even so she felt she owed him an explanation. “This morning, when I was trying to pin Dr. Black down, he came up with a righteous-wrath defense. What right had I to question him? he asked. I was the daughter of a thief who stole the donations of half the people in town.”

“That was a lousy dig,” Hutnik said. “But I think it’s easy enough to figure out the reason for it. He’s got to be under a lot of pressure right now, and he doesn’t want anything new to come along that might threaten the Remington acquisition of the smaller HMOs. The truth is, at least according to my sources, the deal is in trouble,