antique tables, lamps, and carpets with long, comfortable upholstered couches that he’d covered in a heraldic pattern, copied from a medieval tapestry. The paintings were English landscapes. Nineteenth-century hunting prints and a silk-on-silk Tree of Life wall hanging complemented the Chippendale table and side chairs in the dining area.
It was a comfortable, inviting room, a room which in the past eight years many young women had eyed with hope.
Chris went into the bedroom, changed into a long-sleeved sport shirt and chinos.
A very dry martini, he decided. Maybe later he’d go out for a plate of pasta. Drink in hand, he switched on the six o’clock news and saw the same broadcast Darcy was watching.
His compassion for the dead girl and identification with the grief her family would experience was instantly replaced by horror. Strangled! A dancing shoe on one foot! “Oh, God,” Chris said aloud. Could whoever murdered that girl have been the one who sent the letter to his mother? The letter that said a dancing girl who lived in Manhattan would die on Tuesday night exactly the way Nan died. Tuesday afternoon, after his mother called, he’d contacted Glenn Moore, the police chief of Darien. Moore had gone to see Greta, had taken the letter, reassuring her it was probably from a crank. He’d then called Chris back. “Chris, even if it’s on the level, how do you begin to protect all the young women in New York?”
Now Chris dialed the Darien police station again and was put through to the chief. Moore had not yet heard about the death in New York. “I’ll call the FBI,” he said. “If that letter is from the killer, it’s physical evidence. I have to warn you, the FBI will probably want to talk to you and your mother about Nan ’s death. I’m sorry, Chris. I know what that does to her.”
At the entrance to Beefsteak Charlie’s restaurant in Madison Square Garden, Vince threw an arm around his son’s shoulders. “I swear you’ve grown since last week.” He and Hank were now eye to eye. “One of these days, you’ll be eating your blue plate off my head.”
“What the heck is a blue plate?” Hank’s lean face with a sprinkling of freckles across the nose was the one Vince remembered seeing in the mirror nearly thirty years ago. Only the color of his gray-blue eyes had come from his mother’s genes.
The waiter beckoned to them. When they were seated, Vince explained, “A blue plate used to be the special of the evening at a cheap restaurant. Seventy-nine cents bought you a hunk of meat, a couple of vegetables, a potato. The plate was sectioned to keep the juices from running together. Your grandfather loved that kind of bargain.”
They decided on hamburgers with everything piled on, french fries, salads. Vince had a beer, Hank a cola. Vince forced himself not to think about Darcy Scott and Nona Roberts going to the morgue to view the body of the murder victim. Rough as hell for both of them.
Hank filled him in about his track team. “We’re running at Randall’s Island next Saturday. Think you can make it?”
“Absolutely, unless…”
“Oh, sure.” Unlike his mother, Hank understood the demands of Vince’s job. “You working on anything new?”
Vince told him about the concern that a serial killer was on the loose, about the meeting in Nona Roberts’s office, about the belief that Erin Kelley might be the dead woman found on the pier.
Hank listened intently. “You think you ought to be in on this, Dad?” “Not necessarily. This may be a local homicide solely for the NYPD, but they have requested assistance from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico and I’ll help them as much as I can.” He signaled for the check. “We’d better get started.”
“Dad, I’m coming in again Sunday. Why don’t I go to the game alone? You know your gut is telling you to follow up on this case.”
“I don’t want to pull that on you.”
“Look, the game is sold out. I’ll make a deal with you. No scalping, but if I sell your ticket for exactly what you paid for it, I get to keep the money. I’ve got a date tomorrow night. I’m broke, and I can’t stand to ask Mom for a loan. She sends me to that hunk of blubber she married. So anxious for us to be buddies.”
Vince smiled. “I swear you’ve got the makings of a con man. See you Sunday, pal.”
On the way to the morgue, Darcy and Nona clasped hands in the squad car. When they arrived, they were taken to a room off the lobby. “They’ll come for you when they’re ready,” the cop who had driven them explained. “They’re probably taking photographs.”
Photographs. Erin, don’t worry. Send your picture if they request it. In for a penny, in for a pound. Darcy stared straight ahead, barely conscious of the room, of Nona’s arm around her. Charles North. Erin had met him at seven o’clock on Tuesday night. A little more than a few short days ago. Tuesday morning she and Erin had joked about that date.
Darcy said aloud, “And now I’m sitting in the New York City morgue waiting to look at a dead woman who I’m sure is going to be Erin.” Vaguely she felt Nona’s arm tighten around her.
The cop returned. “An FBI agent’s on the way. Wants you to wait for him before you go downstairs.”
Vince walked between Darcy and Nona, his hands firmly under their elbows. They stopped at the glass window that separated them from the still form on the stretcher. At Vince’s nod, the attendant pulled the sheet back from the victim’s face.
But Darcy already knew. A strand of that auburn hair had escaped concealment. Then she was seeing the familiar profile, the wide blue eyes now closed, the lashes dark shadows, the always smiling lips so still, so quiet. Erin. Erin. Erin-go-bragh, she thought, and felt herself begin to sink into merciful darkness.
Vince and Nona grabbed her. “No. No. I’m all right.” She fought back the waves of dizziness and made herself straighten up. She pushed away the supporting arms and stared at Erin, deliberately studying the chalky whiteness of her skin, the bruises on her throat. “ Erin,” she said fiercely, “I swear to you I will find Charles North. I give you my word he is going to pay for what he did to you.” The sound of racking sobs echoed in the stark corridor. Darcy realized they were coming from her.
Friday had been an extremely successful day for Jay Stratton. In the morning, he’d stopped at the Bertolini office. Yesterday, when he brought in the necklace, Aldo Marco, the manager, had still been furious at the delay. Today, Marco was singing a different tune. His client was ecstatic. Miss Kelley had certainly executed the concept they had in mind when they’d decided to have the gems reset. They looked forward to continuing to work with her. At Jay’s request, the twenty-thousand-dollar check was made out to Jay as Erin Kelley’s manager.
From there, Stratton went to the police station to file a complaint about the missing diamonds. The copy of the official report in his hand, he’d headed for the midtown office of his insurance company. The distressed agent told him that Lloyd’s of London had reinsured this packet of gems. “They’ll undoubtedly post a reward,” she said nervously. “Lloyd’s is getting terribly upset about the theft of jewelry in New York.”
At four o’clock, Jay had been in the Stanhope having drinks with Enid Armstrong, a widow who’d answered one of his personal ads. He’d listened attentively as she told him about her overwhelming loneliness. “It’s been a year,” she’d said, her eyes glistening. “You know, people are sympathetic and they take you out occasionally, but it’s a fact of life that the world goes two-by-two and an extra woman is a nuisance. I went on a Caribbean cruise alone last month. It was absolutely miserable.”
Jay made the appropriate clucking sounds of understanding and reached for her hand. Armstrong was mildly pretty, in her late fifties, good clothes but no style. He’d run into the type often enough. Married young. Stayed home. Raised the kids and joined the country club. Husband who became successful but mowed his own lawn. The kind of guy who made sure his wife was well provided for after he keeled over.
Jay studied Armstrong’s wedding and engagement rings. All the diamonds were top quality. The solitaire was a beauty. “Your husband was very generous,” he commented.
“I got these for our twenty-fifth anniversary. You should have seen the pinpoint he gave me when we got engaged. We were such kids.” More glistening eyes. Jay signaled for another glass of champagne. By the time he left Enid Armstrong, she was excited about his suggestion that they get together next week. She’d even agreed to consider having him redesign her rings. “I’d like to see you with one important ring that incorporates all these
