Before I Say Good-Bye (23 page)

What would these practical, no-nonsense detectives think of Bonnie Wilson? she wondered. An hour after I got back to the normality of my own home, I had begun to doubt everything she had told me, including that she actually had been talking to Adam. I really do believe that she can read my thoughts, Nell decided. On the other hand, I certainly wasn’t thinking about “I’m from Missouri” when Bonnie talked about it. And I told absolutely no one that Adam and I had quarreled.

And what about the collapse of the building façade on Lexington Avenue? Can they blame that in some way on Adam? There were so many questions out there, so many different forces pulling at her. She needed
time to think, time to put all the pieces together. At the moment, she didn’t know which way to turn.

She realized suddenly that the two detectives were looking at her with an expression of speculative interest mixed with concern. “Sorry,” she said. “Wool-gathering, I guess. Being here is more difficult than I had thought.”

She did not realize, of course, that the understanding and sympathy in their faces masked a sudden certainty in both Brennan and Sclafani that, like Lisa Ryan, Nell MacDermott knew something that she was afraid to discuss with them.

Winifred’s desk was locked, but George Brennan produced a ring of keys, and one of them fit the master lock. “Her purse was recovered,” he told Nell, “and these were inside. Oddly enough, the purse was hardly scorched. That’s the amazing thing about these explosions.”

“A lot of amazing things have happened in these last ten days,” Nell said. “Including the attempt of Walters and Arsdale to suggest that any irregularities you find in their company should be blamed on my husband. This morning I spoke to Adam’s accountant. He assures me that there is absolutely nothing in his affairs that won’t bear the closest scrutiny.”

I hope so, George Brennan thought. Because somebody from Walters and Arsdale had to have been working hand-in-glove with Sam Krause Construction, considering the kind of inferior materials they used in constructing the building façade that collapsed yesterday. When things like this happen, they aren’t just mistakes—somebody had to be in the know and on the take.

“I don’t want to keep you,” Brennan said to Nell. “Why don’t we take a quick look through Ms. Johnson’s desk, and then we can all leave.”

It took only minutes to ascertain that there was nothing out of the ordinary to be found there. “It’s exactly the same as her desk at home,” Nell told them. “All routine bills and receipts and memos, except here we did at least find an envelope with some insurance policies and the deed to her father’s grave.”

The top two drawers of the filing cabinet next to the desk held files. The bottom drawer contained boxes of paper for the copier and printer, sheets of heavy brown wrapping paper and rolls of twine.

Jack Sclafani skimmed through the files. “Run-of-the-mill correspondence,” he said. He thumbed through Winifred’s address book. “Do you mind if we borrow this?” he asked Nell.

“No, of course not. It probably should go to her mother anyway.”

There is one difference from the desk in her home, Nell thought—there’s nothing here about Harry Reynolds. I wonder who he was? Perhaps he was helping Nell to keep her mother in that expensive home.

“Ms. MacDermott, this safe-deposit key was found in Ms. Johnson’s wallet.” As he spoke, George Brennan took a key from a small manila envelope and laid it on Winifred’s desk. “It has a number on it, 332. Would you know if it came from this office, or was it a personal key belonging to Ms. Johnson?”

Nell examined it. “I have no idea. If it came from this office, then I knew nothing about it. I’ve had my
own safe-deposit box for years, and as far as I know, Adam didn’t have one, either personal or for business. Can’t you take it to the bank and find out there?”

Brennan shook his head. “Unfortunately all safe-deposit keys look alike, and there is no bank identification on them. The newer ones don’t even carry numbers. We’ll only be able to try to trace this one by going into the bank that issued it, and figuring which one that might be could take a while.”

“It sounds a little like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

“Not unlike it, Ms. MacDermott. But chances are it will turn out to be issued by a bank within a ten-block radius of either Winifred Johnson’s apartment or this building.”

“I see,” Nell said, then paused, hesitating as though unsure of what she was going to say next. “Look, I don’t know whether this is relevant or not, but Winifred apparently was involved with a man named Harry Reynolds.”

“How do you know that?” Brennan asked quickly.

“When I looked through the desk in her apartment, one drawer was stuffed with papers of every imaginable kind, from architectural plans to the backs of envelopes to Kleenex. On every one of them she’d written ‘Winifred loves Harry Reynolds.’ My impression when I saw it was that they’d been written by a fifteen-year-old girl with a terrible crush on someone.”

“To me, that sounds more like an obsession than a crush,” Brennan observed. “From what I understand, Winifred Johnson was a quiet woman who lived with
her mother all her life until the mother went into a nursing home.”

“That’s right.”

“Invariably, that’s the kind of woman who falls like a ton of bricks for the wrong guy.” He raised an eyebrow. “We’ll follow up on Harry Reynolds.” With a decisive shove, Brennan closed the file drawer. “Ms. MacDermott, we’re about finished here and then we’re going for a cup of coffee. How about joining us?”

Nell hesitated for a moment, then decided to accept. For some reason she did not want to be alone in this office. As she had traveled there in the cab, she had thought she might take the time to go through Adam’s desk, but looking about her, she knew instinctively that this was not the day. She still felt such a sense of unreality about Adam’s death. And for some reason that she still had not quite assessed, if anything, the visit to Bonnie Wilson had enhanced rather than detracted from that feeling.

How long had Adam known that they were not going to accept his design for Vandermeer Tower? she wondered. She remembered how confident he had been when he first told her about it. He’d said Peter Lang had come to see him, that Lang had bought the Vandermeer property and wanted to buy the Kaplan parcel. Adam had told him he’d sell it, but only on the condition that he go along with it as the architect. “Lang’s investors have commissioned me to prepare plans and a model,” he’d said.

I asked him at the time what would happen if they didn’t accept his design. I remember his exact words:
The Kaplan property is indispensable to the kind of complex Lang wants to erect. They’ll accept it.

“Thank you, yes. I would like to have coffee,” she said. “I had a meeting with Peter Lang this morning that I want to tell you about. When I’m finished, you may begin to understand—and perhaps even to share—my feeling that he is both a liar and a manipulator, and he was definitely someone who stood to benefit from my husband’s death.”

fifty-two

L
IKE HIS GRANDDAUGHTER,
Cornelius MacDermott had spent a sleepless night. On Tuesday he did not go to the office until nearly noon, and when he arrived there, Liz Hanley was startled to see that his normally ruddy complexion had faded to an unhealthy gray.

He soon made clear to her why he was showing such signs of stress, and though he argued a convincing case as to why his granddaughter was in danger of irreparably damaging any chance she had of running for elected office, it was Liz’s concern for his health that convinced her she should go along with his plan to prove to Nell that celebrity psychic Bonnie Wilson was nothing but a charlatan.

“Call for an appointment,” he told her. “Use your sister’s name, just in case Gert ever mentioned you to this Wilson woman. I don’t trust her, and I want your slant on what she’s all about.” His voice was tense, not at all like his usual tone.

“If I phone from here and she has Caller ID, she’ll know perfectly well who I am,” Liz pointed out.

“Good thinking. Your sister lives on Beekman Place, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Pay her a visit now and call from there. This is very important.”

Liz got back to the office at three o’clock.

“I, in my new identity as Moira Callahan, am seeing Bonnie Wilson tomorrow at three o’clock,” she announced.

“Good. Now if you happen to talk to Nell or Gert . . .”

“Mac, you weren’t seriously going to warn me not to let on what I’m doing, were you?”

“I guess not,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “Thanks, Liz. I knew I could count on you.”

fifty-three

L
ISA
R
YAN WENT BACK TO WORK
at the salon on Tuesday. She endured the response she expected from her coworkers and clients—a mixture of genuine sympathy and avid curiosity about the details of the explosion that had claimed Jimmy’s life.

She arrived home at six o’clock to find her closest friend, Brenda Curren, in the kitchen. The enticing aroma of roasting chicken was in the air. The table had been set for six, and Brenda’s husband, Ed, was working with Charley on his second-grade reading assignment.

“You’re too good to be true,” Lisa said quietly.

“Forget it,” Brenda said briskly. “We thought a little company might be welcome after your first day back on the job.”

“It is.” Lisa went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. You haven’t cried all day, she told herself fiercely. Don’t start now.

Over dinner, Ed Curren brought up the subject of the equipment in Jimmy’s workroom. “Lisa, I know a little about what Jimmy was doing down there, and I know he had some sophisticated tools. I think you should sell them right away. Otherwise they’ll lose their value very quickly.”

He began to carve the chicken. “If you’d like, I’ll be glad to go through Jimmy’s workroom and sort out everything that’s down there.”

“No!” Lisa said. Then, when she saw the expressions on the faces of her friends and her children as they sat staring at her, she realized how vehemently she had refused what was merely a kind, neighborly offer.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s just that the thought of selling Jimmy’s things makes me realize that he really isn’t coming back. I just don’t feel up to dealing with it right now.”

She saw the look of sadness coming over her children’s faces and tried to turn it into a joke. “Can you imagine if Daddy came back and found his workroom cleaned out?”

But later, when the Currens were gone and she knew the children were asleep, she crept downstairs, opened the file drawer and stared at the package of money. It’s like a time bomb, she thought; I
have
to get it out of here!

fifty-four

D
AN
M
INOR REARRANGED HIS
T
UESDAY AFTERNOON
schedule in order to have time to go downtown to the Bureau of Missing Persons at One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the NYPD.

It did not take long, however, to realize how hopeless it was to attempt to get information about Quinny there.

The detective he spoke to was sympathetic but laid out the facts in a very convincing and realistic way. “I’m awfully sorry, Doctor Minor, but you don’t know if your mother was even in New York at the point you started looking for her. You’re not even certain that she’s ‘missing’—you just know that you haven’t been able to find her. Have you any
idea
how many people are reported missing in this city each year?

He left the building and took a cab home with a feeling of total hopelessness. His best chance, he decided, was to walk around the East Fourth Street area.

He wasn’t sure exactly how he would go about contacting the clusters of homeless people who were living in the abandoned buildings. I can’t just walk in on them, he reasoned. I guess I’ll just have to try to get friendly with anyone I see outside, and then I’ll mention Quinny’s name to them and see what happens. Just showing an old picture worked with Lilly, he reminded himself, somewhat reassured. And at least now I know what her friends called her.

He changed into a light sweat suit and sneakers. Just as he was leaving his building, he ran into Penny Maynard, who was just coming in.

“Drinks at seven, my place?” she said, flashing him an inviting smile.

She was very attractive, and he had enjoyed himself when he had been to her apartment a few nights earlier with some other neighbors for drinks and pasta. Without any hesitation, however, Dan declined, saying that he already had made plans for the evening. I don’t want to fall into a drop-in pattern with someone who lives so close, he told himself as he walked rapidly across town.

As he began to accelerate his pace, Nell MacDermott’s face floated through his mind—a frequent occurrence since the day he had run into her in the park. She wasn’t listed in the phone book; he knew because he had checked. But her grandfather’s consulting firm was listed, and he had thought of trying to reach her through someone there.

I could phone and ask MacDermott for her number, Dan thought. Or maybe it would be smarter to actually stop in and see him. I
did
meet him once, at that White House reception. At least he would see that I’m not some kind of stalker or romantic phony.

The thought of seeing Nell MacDermott again cheered Dan during the next two hours as he walked, block after block, in the area of East Fourth Street, begging for information about Quinny.

He had fortified himself with a stack of his cards with his phone number, which he handed out to just about everyone he talked to. “Fifty bucks for anyone who can give me a lead to her,” he promised.

Finally, at seven o’clock he gave up, took a cab back uptown to Central Park and began to jog. At Seventy-second Street he once again ran into Nell.

fifty-five

A
FTER LEAVING
N
ELL
M
AC
D
ERMOTT,
Jack Sclafani and George Brennan drove directly to headquarters. By unspoken mutual consent, they waited until they were back in their offices before discussing what she had told them.