a week,” Tony told Rosalie. “And don’t think they’re cheap.”
But this Saturday he was off, and it was a nice day to drive to Bay Shore. Tony liked his in-laws. Marie and Ted had three kids a little older than Carlos, and Ted’s mother and brother would be there as well. Ted had opened a hardware store in Bay Shore and was doing great. Their house was a big colonial, and they had a fenced-in yard where Carlos and his cousins could run around with no one worrying about the traffic.
“It’s going to be so much fun today, Tony,” Rosalie said happily, as they emerged from the gloom of the Midtown Tunnel onto the expressway. “I was so scared when the baby got that terrible cold this week, but he hasn’t even sneezed in four days.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Have you, love?” she asked Carlos, who was securely ensconced in his car seat.
“No, no, no,” Carlos responded in a singsong voice.
“Boy, is that ever his new word,” Rosalie laughed.
“It’s his only word these days,” Tony answered, then thought of something he’d been meaning to tell his wife. “Rosie, I told you about that nice old woman I drove two weeks ago to that cemetery in Rhinebeck? She’s the one who said she knew Dr. Monica’s grandmother. I saw in the paper yesterday that she had died. She’s being buried today.”
“That’s too bad, Tony.”
“I really liked her. Oh, God!” Tony slammed his foot on the accelerator. In the midst of the heavy traffic, the car had stopped dead. Frantically, he turned the key in the ignition as the screeching of brakes from the truck behind him warned him that they were going to be hit. “No!” he shouted.
Rosalie turned to look at Carlos. “Oh, my God!” she wailed.
As Rosalie screamed, they felt a bump that shook them back and forth, but the driver of the truck had managed to brake and slow down before he hit them.
Shaking with relief, they turned to look at their two-year-old son. Totally unruffled, Carlos was trying to climb out of his car seat.
“He thinks we’re there,” Tony said, his voice quivering, his hands still clutching the wheel. A moment later, still shaking, he opened the door of the car to greet the man whose quick reaction had saved their lives.
Three hours later they were in Ted and Marie’s house in Bay Shore, at the dining room table. It had taken forty minutes for the tow truck to arrive. They had caused a massive traffic delay on the expressway. Ted had driven over to pick them up at the service station where they were stranded.
The awareness that if the driver behind them had been tailgating, or if he’d been unable to stop, they might be dead, filled all the adults at the table, Rosalie and Tony, Marie and Ted, Ted’s mother and brother, with a profound sense of gratitude. “It could have been so different,” Rosalie said, as she glanced out the windows. One of his big cousins was pushing a delighted Carlos on the swing.
“It could still be so different if you don’t get rid of that old car of yours, Tony,” Ted, a heavyset man with a decisive manner, said bluntly. “You’ve been nursing that rattletrap much too long. I know you’ve been putting off buying a new car, and I know why-all those medical bills for Carlos have been burying you. But he didn’t beat leukemia so that all of you could be killed in an accident. Look around for a decent car, okay? I’ll lend you the money.”
Tony looked gratefully at his brother-in-law. He knew that Ted might say that he’d lend the money, but he also knew he would never let him pay it back. “I know you’re right, Ted,” he agreed. “I’m not putting my family in that old heap again. Even before it broke down, I was thinking about a car that would be perfect for us and it can’t be too expensive. It’s a ten-year-old Cadillac. I drove the old lady who owned it, a couple of weeks ago. It was a pretty long trip. You know I know cars. This one is in perfect condition. It’s probably heavier on the gas than the new ones, but I bet I could get it at book value, which can’t be much.”
“Tony, you mean the lady we were talking about on the way out?” Rosalie asked. “The lady whose funeral was today?”
“Yes, Ms. Morrow. It’s her car that’s probably going to be for sale.”
“Look into it, Tony,” Ted said. “Don’t waste time. There isn’t much of a market for a ten-year-old Caddy. You’ll probably get it.”
“I’ll go to her apartment building. Someone there can probably tell me who to call about it,” Tony promised. “I really liked Ms. Morrow and I have the feeling that she liked me.”
And I have the crazy hunch that she’d want me to have her car, he thought.
57
Peter Gannon went through the shocking ritual of being fingerprinted, having his mug shot taken, being strip- searched, and finally led to a cell in the Tombs, the crowded and noisy jail where prisoners awaiting trial in Manhattan were incarcerated.
With every inch of his being he wanted to protest his innocence, to shout to everyone within earshot that he could never hurt Renee, no matter how much he hated her. On Saturday morning, he read in his cellmate’s newspaper that the shopping bag and money had been found in his office. Too numb for coherent thought, he sat in the cell until late Saturday afternoon, when the lawyer Susan had found for him came to see him.
He introduced himself as he handed Peter his card. “I’m Harvey Roth,” he said, his tone of voice low but resonant.
Peter looked at him, still feeling as if he was experiencing a nightmare. Roth was a compact man with iron-gray hair, and rimless glasses framing a thin face. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a blue shirt and tie.
“Are you expensive?” Peter asked. “I have to tell you straight up that I’m broke.”
“I am expensive,” Roth answered, mildly. “Your ex-wife, Susan, has paid the retainer for my services, and guaranteed all the costs of defending you.”
Susan did that, Peter thought. It was one more whiplash reminder of the kind of person she was, and that he had traded her for Renee Carter.
“Mr. Gannon, I assume you know that the money you claimed was in Renee Carter’s possession was hidden in the false bottom of your desk drawer?” Roth asked.
“I didn’t even know that any drawer in my desk had a false bottom,” Peter said, his voice a monotone. At the incredulous look on Harvey Roth’s face, Peter felt as if he were caught in quicksand and sinking into it ever deeper. “Four years ago, when the Gannon Foundation and my brother Greg’s investment firm moved to the Time Warner Center, a decorator was hired to re-do the offices from scratch. I asked that whoever was hired also take care of my new theatre production office. At that time I was doing well, and I had a suite on West Fifty-first Street. Two years ago, when I downsized, I got rid of a lot of the furniture, but kept the desk. No one ever told me about the false bottom in it.”
“Who was the decorator?” Roth asked.
“I don’t know her name.”
“You didn’t have meetings with her? She didn’t show you any sketches or samples?”
“I’m not a detail man,” Peter said wearily. “I liked what she was doing at the offices in Time Warner.”
“Didn’t you talk to her about how much the project would cost?” Roth asked.
“The foundation paid for it, because it was sponsoring my theatre projects. What I mean is, the foundation voted a grant that included the expenses of my office.”
“I see, Mr. Gannon. Then you claim you never knew there was a false bottom in your desk?”
“I swear, I swear I didn’t know that.” Peter buried his face in his hands, hoping to shut himself away from the persistent questions Harvey Roth was asking him.
“And you don’t know the name of the decorator who bought the desk for your office?”
“No, I don’t,” Peter said, wearily. “Let me say it again. I don’t know her name. I asked Greg’s secretary to have her take care of my new production office. I don’t think I even
Where did we go that time? he wondered. Oh, I remember. Paradise Island. He managed to choke back a desperate fit of laughter.
