normal. Monica was as shocked as I would have been. Michael’s father was disbelieving at first, then absolutely overjoyed. Michael’s mother offered a prayer of thanks to Sister Catherine.
I told the O’Keefes that I was going to ask to be allowed to testify at the beatification hearing, and I told them that I don’t care how many years from now they keep testing Michael, he will die of old age before he dies of that cancerous brain tumor. It’s gone. I’ll make that call Monday.
That resolved, Ryan opened his computer. The available apartments he had seen so far were nothing like what he had in mind. But there are plenty more to see, he thought, philosophically. The problem is that I want to find something that’s available immediately.
On Sunday morning he began to visit the ones he considered the most likely possibilities. At four o’clock Sunday afternoon, just after he’d decided to give it up until next weekend, he found exactly what he wanted: a spacious, tastefully decorated, four-room condominium in SoHo, overlooking the Hudson River. The owner, a photographer who would be overseas on an assignment, was offering a six-month lease. “No animals, no kids,” he told Ryan.
Amused by the order of descending importance, Ryan had said, “I have neither, but someday hope to have both. However, that won’t happen in the next six months, I guarantee you.”
Satisfied that he would soon be in his own space, he slept well on Sunday night, and was at the hospital at seven o’clock on Monday morning. His schedule in the operating room was turned upside down by an emergency case, a young jogger hit by a car whose driver didn’t see him because he was texting. It was quarter past six before he found time to call Monica’s office.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about returning the O’Keefe file,” Nan reassured him. “Dr. Farrell had me run over and pick it up from your office.”
“Why did she do that?” Ryan asked, astonished. “I certainly intended to bring it back myself. May I please speak with her?”
By the uncomfortable pause, he knew that Monica’s secretary had been told to say she was unavailable to him.
“I’m afraid she’s already gone, Doctor,” Nan said.
In the background, Ryan could clearly hear Monica saying good-bye to a patient. “Then tell Dr. Farrell, for me, to keep her voice down when she’s asking you to lie for her,” he said sharply, and with a decisive click, hung up the phone.
63
On Monday morning Monica made an exceptionally early visit to the hospital because she knew her office schedule was packed. When she arrived, Nan and Alma were already there, gearing up for a busy day. Nan’s first question was about Sally.
“She’s really good,” Monica answered, gratefully. “Almost too good, in fact. I won’t have much justification for keeping her in the hospital longer than a few more days.”
“No relatives showed up over the weekend?” Alma asked.
“No. From what I read in the newspapers, even if Peter Gannon gets out on bail, he’s forbidden to go near her. No one seems to know anything about Renee Carter’s background, although, putting it bluntly, if her relatives are anything like her, Sally is better off never meeting them.”
At ten o’clock, as she was about to go on to the next patient, Nan called her on the intercom. “Doctor, would you please step into your consulting room?”
It had to be important. Nan would never have interrupted her for a casual visitor. Alarmed, Monica darted down the corridor to her private office. Two men were standing there waiting for her.
“We can see how busy you are, Doctor, so we’ll make this brief,” the taller man said, reaching behind her to shut the office door. “I’m Detective Carl Forrest. This is my partner, Detective Jim Whelan. We have come to the definite conclusion that last Thursday evening you were deliberately pushed in front of that bus. Security tapes at the hospital show a man whom we know to be mob-connected followed you when you left the hospital. We’re certain he was the one who pushed you.”
“Who is he?” Monica asked, bewildered. “And why on earth would he want to kill
“His name is Sammy Barber. Do you know him, Doctor?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m not surprised,” Forrest said. “He’s a hit man for hire. Do you have any idea why someone would want to hurt or kill you? Think about it. Have you had any problems about a missed diagnosis, say, where you lost a child?
“Absolutely not!”
“Dr. Farrell, do you owe anyone money, or does anyone owe you money?”
“No. No one.”
“How about a rejected boyfriend? Is there anyone like that in your life?”
Forrest caught the hesitation in Monica’s face. “There
“But it was in the past,” Monica protested.
“Who was he?”
“I can tell you, you’re going nowhere asking about him and I certainly don’t want you to put his new job in jeopardy by giving anyone the impression that he’s a stalker.”
“Dr. Farrell, why would you suggest that this person is a stalker?” Forrest asked sharply.
Calm down. Get your bearings, Monica told herself. “The man I’m talking about was married to a close friend. He was also my father’s attorney. He developed a crush on me just before I left Boston. I hadn’t seen him in four years. He is now divorced and recently moved to Manhattan. He is very interested in trying to help me trace my father’s background. My father was adopted. I consider him a friend, nothing more, nothing less.”
“What is his name?”
“Scott Alterman.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last Thursday evening. He heard on the radio about the bus almost hitting me and called. I guess he could tell by my voice that I was pretty shaken up. He came to my apartment and stayed for about an hour.”
“He came immediately after the accident?”
“Yes, but you must get something straight. In one hundred million years Scott Alterman would never harm me. I’m
“Have you spoken to him since Thursday?”
“No, I have not.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Manhattan, on the West Side. I don’t have his address.”
“We’ll find it. Do you know where he works?”
“As I told you, Scott is an attorney. He just started at a New York law firm. It’s one of those with three or four names. One of them is Armstrong. Look, I really have to get back to my patients,” Monica said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “But what about this Sammy Barber? Where is he?”
“He lives on the Lower East Side. We’ve already confronted him about being on the security tape. He denies having anything to do with you, but we are keeping a twenty-four-hour tail on him.”
Forrest reached in his pocket and took out the mug shot of Barber. “Here is his picture, so you know what he looks like. He knows we’re watching him, so I don’t think he’ll try again. But, Doctor,
“I will. Thank you.” Monica turned and hurried back down to the examining room, where a six-month-old was now screaming. When they started talking about Scott, I never even thought to mention that the watering can had been moved the other night, she thought. But before I tell anybody, I’m going to ask Lucy if she pushed it aside
