by Alexander Gannon’s genius.
How often, he mused, did adopted children share the same talents of their birth family? Monica’s father, Edward Farrell, had been a medical researcher who helped discover why some patients rejected implants, particularly the hip, knee, and ankle replacements that were the cash cows of companies like Gannon Medical Supplies.
The main headquarters of the company was in Manhattan, but the research laboratory was in Cambridge. When he was in his sixties, Edward Farrell had been invited to join the staff there. By then, Alex Gannon was dead, but Edward Farrell’s startling resemblance to him was a subject that came up from his co-workers over and over again until his retirement. It would be an irony of fate, Scott thought, if Monica’s father had indeed worked for the company founded by his birth father.
The constant reference to his similarity in appearance had been sufficient to make Edward Farrell begin a hobby of finding articles about Alexander Gannon and comparing their pictures at different ages.
Monica really doesn’t understand how fixated her father was on that subject, Scott thought, as he opened a lined pad and, over a second cup of coffee, began to list the starting points of his investigation. How much had Olivia known about Monica’s grandparents? Was there anyone who might still know about a family connection to the Gannons?
Monica had told him that Olivia Morrow’s physician of many years had rushed to the apartment after Monica and the clerk had found her dead. Clayton Hadley was the doctor’s name, Scott remembered. He wrote it on the pad.
Morrow’s apartment at Schwab House. Monica had the impression that Morrow had been a longtime resident there. I’ll talk to the staff, Scott thought. They’d probably be familiar with any regular visitors.
Almost certainly Morrow had a cleaning woman or cleaning service. Follow that up, he told himself.
Who was the executor of her will and what were the contents of it? He’d put his secretary on that one.
Scott finished his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and tidied up the kitchen. Funny, he thought. That was just one more thing that didn’t work between Joy and me. I don’t think I’m a Felix Unger, but I do feel better when a place is orderly. When she walked in the door, Joy dropped everything she was carrying on the nearest chair or table. I used to wonder if her coat ever saw the inside of the closet.
There wasn’t a thing out of place in Monica’s apartment, he recalled.
He went into the small den that he used as an at-home office, turned on his computer, and began a search for Dr. Clayton Hadley. Then as he read the lengthy references he came to one that made him emit a soundless whistle. Hadley was on the board of the Gannon Foundation!
Monica had said that from what Dr. Hadley told her it must have been shortly after her phone call to Olivia Morrow that Hadley had gone to the apartment and checked on Olivia. A coincidence? Probably, Scott thought. Monica
When he was put through to Hadley, as an experienced trial lawyer, it was obvious to him that the doctor was evading his questions and that his claim of knowing virtually nothing about Olivia Morrow’s background was patently a lie.
But I didn’t have to put him on guard by warning him that I’d find a connection between Olivia Morrow and the Gannon Foundation, Scott told himself, as he hung up the phone. Maybe someday I’ll learn to sit back and bide my time. That call was the same kind of impulsive stupidity I engaged in when I went rushing down to Monica’s building and startled the wits out of her when she came out…
Cool it, he thought. Cool it.
Thoroughly dissatisfied with himself, he decided to walk to Schwab House and speak to some of the staff members, particularly those who had worked in the building for a long time.
When he arrived there, Scott waited until there was a lull in activity of people entering and leaving, then spoke to the doorman. The man readily told him the little he knew. Ms. Morrow was a lovely, quiet lady, always very gracious, always a thank-you when he held the door for her, always generous at Christmas. He’d miss her.
“Did she go out much?” Scott asked.
“For the last six months anyhow, when I put her in a cab, it was always to the doctor, the hairdresser, or to church on Sunday. We joked about it.”
Not very helpful, Scott thought, as he went inside and stopped at the concierge’s desk. He explained that he was an attorney, sure that the concierge would get the impression that he had been Morrow’s attorney. “I know she’s been here for many years and want to be sure that anyone who is close to her is notified of her passing,” he explained.
“She wasn’t one to have much company,” the concierge explained. “There was one lady on the eighteenth floor who used to go out to the theatre with her, but she passed away a few years ago. It’s been obvious to all of us that Ms. Morrow has been in very poor health and she didn’t go out much at all.”
As Scott was about to turn away, he thought to ask, “Did Ms. Morrow keep a car in the garage here?”
“Yes, she did. From what I understand she just about gave up driving herself. When she didn’t take a cab to go someplace local, she used a service where the driver would take her in her own car. In fact she went out for a few hours on Tuesday.”
“This
“Most of the afternoon.”
Do you know where she went?”
“No, but I have the number of the service here. Quite a few of our residents use it.” The concierge reached into a drawer, pulled out some cards, and went through them. “Here it is,” he said, handing one over. “You can have this if you want it. I’ve got a few of them.”
The address of the driving service was only a few blocks away. Scott decided to walk over to it. He had long since learned that it was much better to try to get information in person rather than over the phone.
The clouds that had started to gather on his walk over to Schwab House had become thicker and darker. He moved quickly, not wanting to get caught in a downpour. What would make a very sick woman leave her home for hours? he wondered. A week earlier, Olivia Morrow had told the driver whose child was Monica’s patient that she had known Monica’s grandmother. Why did she wait until Monica’s phone call to disclose that to Monica, and even say she knew the identity of both her grandparents? Knowing that she was dying, why didn’t she do it sooner? That last day of her life, did Olivia Morrow visit someone else who also knew the truth?
As these questions rushed through his mind, nothing in Scott’s psyche warned him that by his call to Clayton Hadley, he had signed his own death warrant and that the process of eliminating him had already begun.
45
His throat dry, Peter Gannon invited Detectives Barry Tucker and Dennis Flynn into the living room of his apartment. Why are they here? he wondered. Did I do something crazy when I blacked out? I don’t think I took the car out. God, I hope I didn’t run someone over!
Even deciding where to sit was nerve-wracking. Not the couch, he thought. It was lower than the chairs. He would feel even more intimidated. He chose the high-back wing chair, which forced the detectives to sit side by side on the couch.
The somber expression on both their faces telegraphed to Peter that whatever their purpose in coming, it was a serious matter. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak first. He had not intended to offer them coffee but he realized he was still carrying the cup that he had been sipping when the concierge phoned. Now he heard himself saying, “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. May I offer you…? ”
Before he had finished the sentence they both shook their heads. Then Detective Tucker spoke. “Mr. Gannon, did you meet Renee Carter last Tuesday evening?”
Renee, Peter thought, dismayed. She
