stairs.
Hank coming in early Saturday evening. We have so little time together, Vince fretted as he opened the door to his apartment. When they were married, he and Alice had been living in Great Neck. There hadn’t been much point in his commuting after they split up, so when they sold the house he’d taken this apartment at Second Avenue and Nineteenth Street. The Gramercy Park area. Not Gramercy Park, of course. Not on his salary.
But he liked his apartment. On the ninth floor, his windows offered a typical midtown view. To the right a peek of the Park with its elegant brownstones, straight down the murderous traffic on Second Avenue, across the street a blend of residential and office buildings with storefront restaurants, delis, Korean produce markets, a video store.
He had two bedrooms, two baths, a fair-sized living room, a dinette, a minuscule kitchen. The second bedroom was for Hank, but he’d put bookshelves and a desk in it and it also served as a study.
The living room and dinette were furnished in Alice-in-Mistakeville decor. The year before they broke up, she’d gone pastel modern in the living room. Pale peach and white sectional, pale peach carpet, peach and teal no-arms easy chair. Glass tables. Lamps that looked like bones in a desert. She’d wished that stuff on him, taking all the traditional furniture that he liked. One of these days, when he got around to it, Vince was going to get rid of everything and buy good old-fashioned, comfortable furniture. He was sick of feeling as though he’d stumbled into Barbie’s Dream House.
Hank hadn’t arrived yet. Vince stripped, stood under a hot shower, pulled on underwear, a sweater, chinos, and loafers. He opened a beer, stretched out on the sectional, and reviewed the case.
This was one baffling investigation. Look under any rock and you’ll find a new clue.
Boxer. Erin had threatened to go to the police about him. Yesterday, Darcy Scott had called saying she thought she had a picture of Nan Sheridan at Belle Island with a maintenance man in the background who might have been Boxer. They’d picked up the picture and were checking it out.
Miss Durkin had seen someone who sure as blazes sounded like that looney, Len Parker, hanging around Christopher Street, and she thought he had followed Erin Kelley the night she disappeared.
There was a direct connection between that con man Jay Stratton and Nan Sheridan. A direct connection between Jay Stratton and Erin Kelley. Vince heard the turn of a key in the latch. Hank bounded in. “Hi Dad.” Dropped his overnight bag. Quick hug.
Vince felt the tousled hair brush his cheek. He always had to check himself from showing the fierce love he felt for his son. The kid would be embarrassed. “Hi, pal. How’s it going?”
“Great. I think. I aced the chemistry.”
“You studied hard enough.”
Hank took off his school jacket, flung it into space. “Boy, it’s great to have midterms over.” He took long steps into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Dad, it looks as though you could use Meals-on-Wheels.” “I know. It’s been quite a week.” Inspiration seized Vince. “I found a terrific new pasta restaurant the other night. It’s on West Fifty-eighth Street. We can take in a movie after.”
“Great.” Hank stretched. “Oh boy, it’s good to be here. Mom and Blubber are sore at each other.”
It’s none of my business, Vince thought, but couldn’t help himself. “Why?”
“She wants a Rolex for her birthday. A sixteen, five Rolex.” “Sixteen thousand five hundred dollars? And I thought she was expensive when I was married to her.”
Hank laughed. “I love Mom, but you know her. She thinks big. What’s going on with the serial murder case?”
The phone rang. Vince frowned. Not again on Hank’s night, he thought, observing that Hank’s reaction was to look interested. “Maybe there’s been a break,” Hank said as Vince picked up the phone.
It was Nona Roberts. “Vince, I hate to call you at home, but you did give your number. I was out on location all day and stopped by the office just now. There’s a message from Dr. Nash. His editor doesn’t want him talking about personal ads now when his own book is scheduled for fall publication. Have you any other ideas about a shrink who might be particularly tuned in to this subject?”
“I deal with a few who are members of AAPL. That’s an organization of shrinks who are specialists in psychiatry and law. I’ll try and get one of them for you by Monday.”
“Thanks a lot. Again, forgive me for bothering you. I’m off to Pasta Lovers for another bowl of that spaghetti.”
“If you get there first, ask for a table for three. Hank and I are just leaving.” Vince realized he sounded presumptuous. “Unless, of course, you’re with your own friends.” Or friend, he thought.
“I’m by myself. That sounds great. See you there.” The phone clicked in his ear. Vince looked at Hank. “Is that okay with you, Chief?” he asked. “Or would you have preferred just the two of us?”
Hank reached for the jacket that had landed on the armless easy chair. “Not at all. It’s my duty to check out your dates.”
XIX SUNDAY March 10
Darcy left for Massachusetts at seven o’clock Sunday morning. How many times had she and Erin driven up together to see Billy, she wondered as she steered the car onto the East River Drive. Sharing the driving, stopping midway for carry-out coffee at McDonald’s, always deciding they really ought to get around to buying a thermos like the one they had had in college. The last time they’d agreed on that, Erin had laughed. “Poor Billy will be dead and buried before we ever get that thermos.”
Now it was Erin who was dead and buried.
Darcy drove straight through and got to Wellesley at eleven-thirty. She stopped at St. Paul ’s and rang the doorbell of the rectory. The monsignor who had celebrated Erin ’s funeral mass was there. She had coffee with him. “I left word at the nursing home,” she told him, “but I wanted you to know as well. If Billy needs anything, if he starts sinking, or if he becomes conscious and aware, please send for me.”
“He’s not going to become aware anymore,” the monsignor said quietly. “I think that’s a special mercy for him.”
She attended the noon mass and thought of the eulogy less than two weeks ago. “Who can forget the sight of that little girl pushing her father’s wheelchair into this church?”
She went to the cemetery. The ground had not yet settled over Erin ’s grave. The dark brown soil was still uneven; a glaze of frost over it shimmered in the slanting rays of the weak March sun. Darcy knelt, removed her glove, and placed her hand on the grave. “ Erin. Erin.”
From there she went to the nursing home and sat by Billy’s bed for an hour. He did not open his eyes, but she held his hand and kept up a steady stream of small talk. “Bertolini’s is crazy about the necklace Erin designed. They want her to do a lot more work for them.”
She talked about her own business. “Honestly, Billy, if you saw Erin and me rummaging through attics looking for goodies, you’d think we were crazy. She has a great eye and has picked out some furniture that I would have missed.” As she left, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. “God bless, Billy.”
There was a faint pressure on her hand. He does know I’m here, she thought.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised.
Her car was a Buick station wagon with a cellular built-in phone. The traffic was slow heading south, and at five o’clock she called the Sheridan home in Darien. Chris answered. “I’m running later than I expected,” she explained. “I don’t want to interfere with your mother’s plans-or your plans, for that matter.”
“No plans,” he assured her. “Just come along.”
She pulled into the Sheridan property at quarter of six. It was almost dark, but outside lights illuminated the handsome Tudor mansion. The long driveway had a roundabout at the main entrance. Darcy parked just past the bend. It was obvious that Chris Sheridan had been watching for her. The front door opened and he came out to
