I'll Walk Alone (3 page)

3

O
ver dinner, Alvirah had told Willy about the funny way that guy was looking at their friend Fr. Aiden when he was leaving the Reconciliation Room, and at breakfast she brought it up again. “I was dreaming about that guy last night, Willy,” she said, “and that’s not a good sign. When I dream about a person, it usually means there’s going to be trouble.”

Still in their bathrobes, they were sitting cozily at the round table in the dining area of their Central Park South apartment. Outside, as she had already pointed out to Willy, it was a typical March day, cold and blustery. The wind was rattling the furniture on their balcony, and they could see that across the street, Central Park was almost deserted.

Willy looked affectionately across the table at his wife of forty-five years. Often referred to as the image of the late legendary Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill, he was a big man with a full head of snow-white hair and, as Alvirah told him, the bluest eyes under the sun.

In his fond eyes, Alvirah was beautiful. He didn’t notice that no matter how hard she tried, she’d always be trying to lose ten or fifteen pounds. Neither did he notice that only a week after coloring her hair, the gray roots became visible around her hairline, the hair that, thanks to Dale of London, was now a subdued russet brown. In the old days, before they won the lottery, when she colored it herself over the bathroom sink in their apartment in Queens, it had been a flaming red-orange shade.

“Honey, from what you tell me that guy had probably been getting up the courage to go to confession. And then when he saw Fr. Aiden leaving, he was trying to decide whether or not to catch up with him.”

Alvirah shook her head. “There’s more to it than that.” She reached for the teapot and poured herself a second cup and her expression changed. “You know that today is little Matthew’s birthday. He’d be five years old.”

“Or
is
five years old,” Willy corrected her. “Alvirah, I have intuition, too. I say that little guy is alive somewhere.”

“We talk about Matthew as if we know him,” Alvirah sighed as she added a sugar substitute to her cup.

“I feel as though we do know him,” Willy said, soberly.

They were silent for a minute, both remembering how nearly two years ago, after Alvirah’s column about the missing child in the
New York Globe
had been posted on the Internet, Alexandra More-land had phoned her. “Mrs. Meehan,” she had said, “I can’t tell you how much Ted and I appreciate what you wrote. If Matthew was taken by someone who desperately wanted a child, you conveyed in that article how desperately we want him back. The suggestions you made about how someone could leave him in a safe place and avoid being recognized on security cameras might just make a difference.”

Alvirah had agonized for her. “Willy, that poor girl is an only child, and she lost both her parents when their car crashed on their way to pick her up at the Rome airport. Then she splits with her husband before she realizes she is pregnant, and now her little boy disappears. I just know she must be at the point where she doesn’t want to get up in the morning. I told her that if she ever wanted to have someone to talk to, she should just call me, but I know she won’t.”

But then shortly thereafter Alvirah read on Page Six of the
Post
that the tragedy-haunted Zan Moreland had gone back to work full-time at her interior design firm, Moreland Interiors, on East Fifty-eighth Street. Alvirah immediately informed Willy that their apartment needed to be redone.

“I don’t think it looks so bad,” Willy had observed.

“It’s not bad, Willy, but we did buy it furnished six years ago, and to tell you the truth, having everything white, curtains, rugs, furniture, has made me feel sometimes as though I’m living in a marshmallow. It’s a sin to waste money, but I think in this case it’s the right thing to do.”

The result was not only their transformed apartment, but also a close friendship with Alexandra “Zan” Moreland. Now Zan called them her surrogate family and they saw her frequently.

“Did you ask Zan to have dinner with us tonight?” Willy asked now. “I mean, this has got to be a horrible day for her.”

“I did ask,” Alvirah replied, “and at first she said yes. Then she phoned back. Her ex-husband wants to be with her, and she didn’t think she could refuse. They’re meeting at the Four Seasons tonight.”

“I could see where the two of them might be some comfort for each other on Matthew’s birthday.”

“On the other hand, that’s a pretty public place, and Zan is too hard on herself about letting her emotions show. When she talks about Matthew, I wish she’d let herself cry once in a while, but she never does, not even with us.”

“I’ll bet there are many nights when she cries herself to sleep,” Willy said, “and I agree it won’t do her any good to be with her ex tonight. She told us that she’s sure Carpenter has never forgiven her for allowing Matthew to go out with such a young babysitter. I hope he won’t bring that up again on Matthew’s birthday.”

“He is — or was — Matthew’s father,” Alvirah said, then more to herself than to Willy added, “From everything I’ve ever read, in a case like this, even if they’re not present, one parent takes the blame for the situation, be it a careless babysitter, or being away when he or she had wanted to stay home that day. Willy, there’s always blame, more than enough to go around when a child is missing, and I just pray God that Ted Carpenter doesn’t have a couple of drinks and start in on Zan tonight.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, honey,” Willy cautioned.

“I know what you mean.” Alvirah debated then reached for the other half of her toasted bagel. “But, Willy, you know it’s true that when in my bones I feel trouble coming, it always does come. And I know, I just know, that impossible as it seems, Zan is going to be hit real hard with something more.”

4

E
dward “Ted” Carpenter nodded to the receptionist without speaking as he strode through the outer room of his thirtieth-floor suite on West Forty-sixth Street. The walls of the room were filled with pictures of his current and former celebrity clients covering the past fifteen years. All were inscribed to him. Usually he made a left turn into the large room where his ten publicity assistants worked. But this morning he headed directly for his private office.

He had warned his secretary, Rita Moran, not to bring up the subject of his son’s birthday to him and not to bring any newspapers to work. But when he approached her desk, Rita was so absorbed in reading a news story on the Internet that she did not even see him when he stood over her at the computer. She had an image of Matthew pulled up on her screen. When she finally heard Ted, she looked up. Her face turned crimson as he leaned over her, grabbed the mouse, and turned off the computer. In quick strides, he went into his office and took off his coat. But before he hung it up, he went to his desk and stared at the framed picture of his son. It had been taken on Matthew’s third birthday. Even then he looked like me, Ted thought. With that high forehead and dark brown eyes, there was no mistaking that he was my son. When he grows up, he’ll probably look just like me, he thought as he angrily turned the frame face down. Then he went to the closet and hung up his coat. Because he was meeting Zan at the Four Seasons, he had chosen to wear a dark blue suit instead of his preferred sport jacket and slacks.

At dinner last night, his most important client, the rock star Melissa Knight, had been visibly upset when he told her he could not escort her to some affair this evening. “You’re having a date with your ex,” she had said, her tone apprehensive and angry.

He could not afford to antagonize Melissa. Her first three albums had all hit over a million sales and, thanks to her, other celebrities were signing up with his public relations firm. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, Melissa had fallen, or thought she had fallen, in love with him.

“You know my plans, princess,” he had said, trying to keep his tone mild. And then added with the bitterness he could not conceal, “and you certainly should understand why I’m meeting the mother of my son on his fifth birthday.”

Melissa had been instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry, Ted. I’m truly sorry. Of course I know why you’re meeting her. It’s just …”

The memory of that exchange was grating. Melissa’s suspicion that he was still in love with Zan was always there, a constant jealousy that caused her to explode regularly. And it was getting worse.

Zan and I separated because she said our marriage was just an emotional reaction to her parents’ sudden death, he thought. She didn’t even realize she was pregnant when we broke up. That was well over five years ago. What has Melissa got to be upset about? I can’t afford to let her get angry at me. If she were to walk out, it would be the end of this place. She’d take all her friends with her, which would mean the most lucrative ones we have. If only I hadn’t bought this damn building. What was I thinking?

A subdued Rita was carrying in the morning mail. “Melissa’s accountant is a dream,” she said with a tentative smile. “The monthly check and all the expenses came in this morning right on time. Don’t we wish all our clients were like that?”

“We sure do,” Ted said heartily, knowing that Rita had been upset by his curtness when he arrived.

“And her accountant wrote a note telling you to expect a call from Jaime-boy. He just fired his PR firm and Melissa recommended you. That would be another terrific client for us to have.”

Ted felt genuine warmth now as he looked at Rita’s troubled face. Rita had been with him every day for the last fifteen years, ever since as a cocky twenty-three-year-old he had opened his PR firm. She had been at Matthew’s christening and at his first three birthday parties. In her late forties, childless and married to a quiet schoolteacher, she loved the excitement of their famous clients and had been enraptured when he brought Matthew here to the office.

“Rita,” Ted said. “Of course you’re remembering that it’s Matthew’s birthday, and I know you’ve been praying for him to come home. Now start praying that a year from now we’ll be celebrating his next birthday with him.”

“Oh, Ted, I will,” Rita said fervently, “I will.”

When she went back outside, Ted stared for a few minutes at the closed door, then with a sigh reached for the phone. He was sure Melissa’s maid would pick it up and take a message. Melissa and he had attended a red carpet movie premiere the night before and Melissa often slept in. But she answered on the first ring.

“Ted.”

The fact that his name and phone number had come up on her caller ID still caught him off guard. Not that kind of service when I was growing up in Wisconsin, he thought, but it probably wasn’t happening in New York then, either. He forced a cheerful note into his voice as he greeted her, “Good morning, Melissa, the queen of hearts.”

“Ted, I thought you’d be too busy planning for your date tonight to even think of calling me today.” As usual her tone was petulant.

Ted resisted the temptation to slam down the phone. Instead, in the even tone that he used when his most valuable client was being both impossible and insensitive, he said, “Dinner with my ex won’t last more than two hours. That means I’ll be leaving the Four Seasons around 9:30. Could you make room in your calendar for me around 9:45?”

Two minutes later, sure that he was back in Melissa’s good graces, he hung up and put his head in his hands. Oh, God, he thought, why do I have to put up with her?

5

Z
an unlocked the door of her small office in the Design Center, the magazines under her arm. She had promised herself that she would avoid any references to Matthew that might be in the media. But as she passed the newsstand she had not been able to keep from buying two weekly celebrity magazines, the two most likely outlets for any follow-up stories. Last year on Matthew’s birthday both of them had extensive write-ups about his kidnapping.

Only last week someone had snapped her picture when she was walking to a restaurant near her home in Battery Park City. She was bitterly aware that it would probably be used in some sensational article rehashing Matthew’s abduction.

In a reflex gesture, Zan turned on the lights and took in the familiar trappings of her office, with several bolts of cloth stacked against the stark white walls, carpet samples scattered on the floor, and shelves filled with heavy books containing swatches of fabrics.

When she and Ted separated, she had started her venture as an interior designer on her own in this small office and, as satisfied clients sent her referrals, had elected to keep it that way. The antique desk with the three Edwardian chairs surrounding it was wide enough for her to sketch suggested designs for homes and rooms and lay out possible color combinations for a client’s approval.

It was here in this room that she could sometimes not think about Matthew for hours and thus force the heavy unsettled pain of losing him to retreat into her subconscious. She knew that wouldn’t be the case today.

The rest of the suite consisted of a back office barely large enough to hold a computer desk, files, a table for her inevitable coffeepot, and a small refrigerator. The clothes closet was opposite the lavatory. Josh Green, her assistant, had observed with ironic accuracy that the dimensions of closet and lavatory were exactly the same.

She had resisted Josh’s suggestions that they lease the suite next door when it became available. She wanted to keep her overhead to a minimum. That way she would be able to hire yet another private detective agency that specialized in finding lost children to look for Matthew. She had gone through what was left of the money that she had received from her parents’ modest life insurance in the first year that Matthew had been missing, spending it wildly on private investigators and psychic quacks, none of whom had turned up a shred of evidence that might lead to finding him.

She hung up her coat. The fur trimming on the collar was one more reminder that she was going to meet Ted tonight for dinner. Why does he bother? she asked herself impatiently. He blames me for letting Tiffany Shields take Matthew out to the park. But he loved Matthew passionately and no amount of blame that he could throw at her could possibly match the blame and guilt she carried herself.

To get it out of the way, she opened the celebrity magazines and scanned them quickly. As she had suspected, one of them was carrying the picture of Matthew that had been released to the media when he vanished. The caption read, “Is Matthew Carpenter still alive and celebrating his fifth birthday?”

The article ended with the quote Ted had made the day Matthew disappeared, a caution to parents about leaving their children with a young babysitter. Zan ripped out the page, crumpled it, and threw both magazines in the wastebasket. Then wondering why she had subjected herself to looking for this kind of article, she hurried to the big desk and settled in a chair.

For the hundredth time in the past few weeks she unrolled the drawings she was going to submit to Kevin Wilson, architect and part owner of the thirty-four-story apartment building that overlooked the new walkway bordering the Hudson River on the lower west side. If she did get the job of furnishing three model apartments, it would not only be a major breakthrough for her, it would be her first successful toe-to-toe with Bartley Longe.

It still was incomprehensible to her that the employer who had so valued her while she was his assistant had so utterly turned on her. When she first began to work for him nine years ago, right after she graduated from FIT, the Fashion Institute of Technology, she had eagerly embraced the demanding schedule and put up with his volatile temper because she knew she was learning a lot from him. Divorced, then in his early forties, Bartley was very much a man about town. He had always been extremely difficult, but it was when he turned his attention to her and she made it clear that she was not interested in an involvement that he had begun to make her life miserable with his biting sarcasm and endless criticism.

I kept putting off going to see Mom and Dad who were living in Rome, Zan thought. Bartley would get furious if I said I needed a couple of weeks off. I delayed that trip for six months. Then when I finally told him I was going, whether he liked it or not, it was too late.

She had been in the airport in Rome when the car her father was driving to meet her had crashed into a tree, killing him and her mother instantly. An autopsy showed that her father had suffered a heart attack at the wheel.

Don’t think about them today, she warned herself. Concentrate on the model rooms. Bartley will be submitting his plans. I know the way he thinks. I’ll beat him at his own game.

Bartley would have undoubtedly created designs for both a traditional and an ultramodern décor and one that combined elements of both. She made herself concentrate to see if there were any better way she could find to improve the sketches and color samples she would be offering.

As though it mattered. As though anything mattered except Matthew.

She heard a key turn in the door. Josh was there. Her assistant was also a graduate of FIT. Twenty-five years old, smart, looking more like a college kid than a gifted interior designer, Josh had become something of a younger brother to her. It almost helped that he had not been with her when Matthew disappeared. Somehow she and Josh just clicked.

But today the expression on his face made Zan realize that the concern she was seeing was different. Josh began without a greeting, “Zan, I stayed here last night catching up on the monthly statements. I didn’t want to call you because you said you were going to take a sleeping pill. But, Zan, why did you buy a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires for next Wednesday?”