Night Secrets (11 page)

Two hours later, Mrs. Phillips walked out from beneath the archway, slung the small black purse over her shoulder and headed eastward, first crossing the street, then moving into Central Park. From his position across the street, Frank could see that she turned without hesitation, as if she knew exactly where she was going. He took out his notebook, recorded the time, then followed her at a distance.

She moved slowly into the park, her shoulders drawn in somewhat, but her head erect, staring straight ahead. Her hair was very bright in the afternoon sun, and had he simply been another stroller in the park, Frank realized that he would have sensed nothing at all about her.

The area of Central Park was known as Strawberry Fields, a small garden which had been set aside as a memorial to John Lennon. Near its center, there was a mosaic walkway inscribed with the word
IMAGINE.
For a time, Mrs. Phillips stood at the edge of the mosaic, her eyes staring at the word with an odd intensity, before she finally moved forward again, heading down the long winding walkway which led further into the park.

She turned left onto the broad circular sidewalk that went around the park, ambling slowly, glancing left and right, like a tourist. She never looked back, and because of that, Frank felt that he could stay somewhat closer to her without burning his cover. It was as if she had no idea, had never even entertained the notion, that someone might be following her, taking down her movements in a little green notebook which he would later use to report to her husband. From a distance, it was hard for him to know where such trust came from. It might be naivete, or arrogance, or some combination of the two. It might be that she simply didn't care, or that, in some complicated way, she wanted to be seen, caught, punished.

Near the eastern edge of the park, she headed north, moving around the boathouse pool to a large bronze statue of Alice in Wonderland which was surrounded by a circular cement bench. There were a large number of people around her, mostly women with their children, and the bench was littered with the things they'd brought with them. For a time she stood very stiffly among them, her head turned slowly left and right as if trying to find the best place to sit. Then she suddenly walked to the right of the statue and sat down among a crowd of other women.

Frank remained at the edge of the pool, his back to her, his eyes staring out across the glittering surface of the water. From time to time, he glanced back toward her, but only for an instant, barely long enough to notice how her blond hair shimmered in the bright afternoon light.

For a long time, she sat very straight and still, staring directly at the children before her. Then she rose, and Frank turned away from her quickly and walked several yards toward the opposite side of the pool. From there, he could see her clearly as she headed east again, along a winding path that led at last to the edge of the park.

He was still several yards behind her when she reached the street. She paused at the light on Fifth Avenue, then moved forward when it changed, heading nonchalantly across the wide avenue. It was only then, as he watched her from across the street, half-hidden by the stone wall which bordered the park, that something struck him, something that was missing. He edged himself forward slightly, still staring at her intently as she headed south, then made a quick turn onto Sixty-fourth Street and walked the short distance to her home. She was only a faint reddish blur when she passed through the little wrought-iron gate and disappeared into her house, but it was a blur from which something had already disappeared.

He turned away from the street, let his eyes study the park. In his mind, he went over everything he'd seen, concentrating on something that was missing. He retraced her movements after she'd left her house early in the morning, the ride in the cab, paying the driver.

He stopped.

Paying the driver.

She'd taken the money out of a small black purse that hung from her shoulder. She'd had the same purse a few hours later when she'd left the Dakota and headed into the park. She'd had it when she'd stood above the star-burst mosaic and as she'd walked along the circular path. She'd had it when she sat down amid the cluster of parents and children at the statue, amid all the paraphernalia of parenthood, bags, strollers, knapsacks … purses.

Then he knew instantly that that's where she'd left it, cleverly, like a letter hidden among other letters.

He headed back toward the statue, walking quickly but inconspicuously, until he reached it. Then he sat down on the cement bench and let his eyes move around it, searching through all the other scattered array of things for the single small black purse he knew she'd still had with her when she'd sat down to watch the children. He looked once, twice, three times, futilely looked again and again and again, his eyes spinning around the rough gray rim of the cement bench like two dark balls around the wheel of chance.

M
r. Phillips took a seat opposite Frank's desk, glancing at his watch as he did so. “I'm not early, am I?”

Frank shook his head.

“I'm rather obsessive about time,” Phillips added. “I don't like to be either early or late. I'm a little extreme. I admit it.”

Frank said nothing.

Phillips drew in a deep breath and folded his hands primly over the burnished leather briefcase which rested in his lap. “Well, what have you found out?”

“A few things,” Frank told him. “Maybe you can help me put them together.”

“Good,” Phillips said eagerly. “I'd like to think that we're working together in a way. Perhaps something you say might trigger something in me that could help us both.”

Frank nodded. “Okay,” he said. He took out his notebook and flipped to the appropriate page. “This is what I have so far.”

Phillips leaned forward expectantly. “Fine, fine. Anything might help.”

“I've been trailing her for the last two days,” Frank said. “On Monday morning, she left the house at 9:15
A.M.
and walked to the Pierre Hotel. She went to the second floor, a meeting of a group called Friends of the Rain Forest.”

“Yes, I know that group,” Phillips said immediately. “It's one of Virginia's pet projects.” He shrugged. “Should be harmless enough.”

Frank nodded crisply and went on. “She left the meeting at 12:15
P.M.,
walked to the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. From there, she took a taxi to the Village, 124 West Twelfth Street.”

Phillips leaned forward slightly. “What's down there?”

“It was a brownstone,” Frank told him. “The name on the door was Kevin A. Powers.”

Phillips stared at Frank quizzically. “Powers?”

“You know him?”

“No.”

“Think carefully. Have you ever heard of him?”

Phillips thought a moment longer, then shook his head decisively. “Not at all.”

“Maybe in connection with some of her charity things?”

“The name doesn't sound familiar,” Phillips said determinedly. “I've never heard the name. Who is he?”

“A doctor,” Frank said. “A gynecologist.”

“A gynecologist?” Phillips asked wonderingly. “Perhaps that's it then. Perhaps Virginia is ill, and doesn't want me to know.”

“Maybe,” Frank said. “But the thing is, she didn't go to his office, she went to his house.”

Phillips did not look unnecessarily alarmed. “For a private consultation, that's possible.”

“Yes, it is,” Frank admitted.

“So perhaps all of this problem has been about Virginia's health.”

“It's not quite that simple,” Frank said cautiously.

Phillips eyed him coolly. “Go on.”

Frank leaned back slightly. “Mr. Phillips, have you ever thought that your wife might be unhappy?”

“Unhappy?”

“Yes.”

“You mean with me?”

Frank took a deep breath, trying to choose his words carefully. “Well, you know how it is. There's always the possibility that Mrs. Phillips has simply done what a lot of people do.”

Phillips's eyes grew solemn. “An affair,” he said matter-of-factly. “Is that what you mean?”

“It's always possible.”

“With this, this … Powers?”

“Well, maybe not Powers,” Frank said. “She visited someone else too.”

Phillips's face grew very still. He did not speak.

Frank returned to the notebook. “She left home today at 12:25
P.M.
” he began. “She walked to Central Park.” In his mind, he could see her once again, the tall, slender figure in the long red coat, the platinum sheen of her hair in the sunlight, the small black purse that hung from her left shoulder. “She took a cab to the Dakota,” he went on. “I talked to the guy in the guardhouse there. He told me that Mrs. Phillips comes to see a man who lives there. She comes about once every two weeks.”

“What's his name?”

“Preston R. Devine,” Frank said. “Ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“I've never heard of such a person,” Mr. Phillips said. “Is that the man you think she must be seeing?”

“I know she sees him,” Frank said. “I just don't know why.”

“But you think it's an affair?”

Frank shifted about uncomfortably, closed the notebook and let it drop onto the top of his desk. “It's always possible,” he said.

“Virginia?” Mr. Phillips said unbelievingly.

Frank shrugged. “It happens all the time.” He glanced down at his notebook. “Does Mrs. Phillips go by her married name?”

“Yes, of course,” Phillips said.

“Virginia Phillips?”

“Yes, yes,” Phillips answered immediately. “Why?”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Harris.”

Frank nodded.

Phillips looked at him intently. “Why are you asking about her name?”

“At the Dakota, when she sees this Mr. Devine, she uses another name.”

Phillips's lips parted silently.

“Driscoll,” Frank told him. “Miss Driscoll.”

Phillips continued to stare at him astonished. “Driscoll?”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “And after she left the Dakota, she walked into the park and I think she made some kind of drop.”

Phillips eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“She had a purse with her when she walked into the park,” Frank said. “She left it there. I followed her, so I don't know who picked it up.”

“Are you sure it was—what do you call it—a drop?”

“No,” Frank admitted. “It's only a possibility.”

Phillips's eyes looked bewildered, then hardened. “I want you to find out everything you can about this man, this Preston R. Devine,” he said vehemently. “And that doctor too.”

Frank nodded.

“I don't care what it costs,” Phillips added. Then he stood up. “No one betrays me, Mr. Clemons,” he said darkly. “No one.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, then act. “Virginia and I are going to be out of the city tomorrow morning,” he said, “so you can work on the doctor and that other man.”

Frank nodded.

Phillips looked at him. “And I suppose I should show you this,” he said reluctantly, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “It was in her coat,” he added. “I found it yesterday.”

Frank took the slip and looked at it. It was a pawn ticket from a shop at Eighth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, only a short walk from his office.

“It looks like she's been pawning things,” Phillips said. “Probably her jewelry.”

Frank sank the ticket into his jacket pocket. “I'll look into it,” he said.

Phillips nodded. “Yes,” he said crisply. “Thank you.”

Frank walked him to the door, opened it and waited as Phillips walked past him and into the corridor. For a moment he faced the grim brick wall, then suddenly he turned back toward Frank. “Do you think she's having an affair?” he asked urgently.