On the Street Where you Live (27 page)

She focused again on the woman seated across from her. Reba Ashby was such a nice person. She seemed like an old friend. And as a journalist, surely she understood ethical problems.

“Ms. Ashby,” Bernice Joyce began, “may I share with you a problem I'm having? It seems to me I may have observed that scarf being taken from the table that evening of the party. In fact I am almost certain that I did.”

“You may have
what?”
Reba Ashby was so shocked that for an instant she lost her professional you-can-trust-me-I'm-your-friend demeanor.

Bernice was again looking out the window at the ocean. If only I could be one thousand percent sure, she thought.

“Who did you see take the scarf that night, Bernice, I mean Mrs. Joyce?”

Bernice turned her head and looked at Reba Ashby. The woman's eyes were glistening. Her body language suggested a tiger ready to spring.

Bernice suddenly realized that she had made a terrible mistake—Reba Ashby was
not
to be trusted.

“I think I'd best say no more about it,” she said firmly as she signaled the waiter to bring her check.

W
HEN
M
ARTY
B
ROWSKI
got to his office on Thursday morning, he saw that at seven o'clock on Wednesday evening Eric Bailey had returned his phone call in which he had requested an appointment.

“I love playing phone tag,” Marty said aloud, as he dialed Bailey's number. When Bailey's secretary answered, Marty was put through to him immediately.

“Sorry to have missed you yesterday,” Eric said pleasantly. “I played hookey. I took an afternoon off to brush up on my golf game.”

He readily agreed to a meeting. “This morning, if you want. I happen to be free at eleven o'clock.”

The office was located just outside the Albany city limits. As Marty drove there, he reflected that he had actually only met Bailey face to face once, and that had been in the courtroom where Ned Koehler was on trial for stalking Emily Graham. Bailey had testified about the cameras he had installed around her townhouse.

He had slumped in the witness stand, Marty remembered, twisting his hands nervously. His voice had been quiet and squeaky. The judge had repeatedly asked him to speak up.

Since then, Marty had seen Bailey's picture in the newspapers from time to time. He was a local celebrity, Albany's miniversion of Bill Gates.

It was grasping at straws to call on Bailey now to
see if he could come up with any useful information that might help them find the stalker. Marty, however, knew that extreme measures were called for, even if it meant grasping at straws.

He was driving through an area where a number of company headquarters were located, all of them situated in parklike surroundings. None of the buildings was more than three stories high, he noticed.

Observing the descending street numbers, Marty slowed the car. The next turnoff had to be Bailey's, he figured.

A long driveway led to a handsome two-story redbrick structure with floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Very nice, Marty thought, as he pulled into a visitors' parking space.

Inside, the receptionist's desk was in the center of the front-to-back lobby. Expensive red leather sofas and chairs trimmed with brass nail heads were placed around Persian carpets in defined seating areas. Paintings that looked to be of very fine quality were hanging in tasteful groupings on the walls. The overall effect was soothing, low key and expensive.

Browski was reminded of something he had read, a remark the theatrical producer George Abbott had made to playwright Moss Hart on viewing Hart's Bucks County estate: “Shows what God could do if He only had money.”

The receptionist had been told to expect him. “Mr. Bailey's suite is on the second floor. Turn right and go to the end,” she directed.

Ignoring the elevator, Browski climbed up the winding staircase. As he walked down the long corridor on
the second floor, he glanced into the offices he was passing. Many of them seemed to be empty. He had heard rumors that Bailey's dot-com was losing money hand over fist, and that the technology that had built the company and made it a hot stock had already been surpassed by others. He also heard that some experts were skeptical about Bailey's claim that he was about to introduce a new kind of wireless transmitter.

The carved mahogany double doors at the end of the corridor signaled that he had arrived at Eric Bailey's private domain.

Should I knock or yell yoo-hoo? Marty wondered, but settled instead for slowly pushing open the door.

“Come in, Mr. Browski,” a voice called. As he stepped inside, a sleek, stylish woman of about forty got up from behind her desk. Introducing herself as Louise Cauldwell, Mr. Bailey's personal assistant, she ushered Marty into the private office.

Eric was standing at the front window and turned when he heard them approaching.

Browski had forgotten that Eric Bailey was so slight. It wasn't that he was that
short,
he thought as he walked across the room to him. He was of average height, really. It was the way he carried himself. Bad posture, Marty decided, remembering how his father used to order him to “stand up straight, and don't slouch!”

The problem was that because of his round-shouldered stance, the obviously expensive tan cashmere jacket and dark slacks that Bailey was wearing appeared to be too large and ill-fitting.

For all his money, Eric Bailey still looks kind of
nerdy,
Marty thought, as he extended his hand. To
see this guy, you'd never guess he was a genius.

“Detective Browski. It's good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, Mr. Bailey.”

Eric Bailey gestured toward the couch and chairs by the bank of windows overlooking the rear of the property. “It's quite comfortable here,” he said. He looked expectantly at Louise Caldwell.

“I'll send for coffee, right away, Mr. Bailey,” she said.

“Thank you, Louise.”

As he settled on the butter-soft leather couch, Marty compared this setup with his own office. He had a two-by-four unit with one small window overlooking the parking lot. Janey was convinced that his desk had been made with wood from Noah's ark. His filing cabinet was practically bursting, and the overflow of files was stacked on his one extra chair, or heaped on the floor.

“This is a beautiful office in a beautiful building, Mr. Bailey,” he said sincerely.

A smile flickered across Eric's lips, then disappeared. “Did you ever see my
old
office?” he asked. “It was the one next to Emily's.”

“‘I saw Emily's office a few times. Fairly small, but pleasant, I would say.”

“Envision one a third of that size and you have my former workplace.”

“Then you must have had my present digs before I inherited them, Mr. Bailey.”

This time Bailey's smile seemed real. “Since I don't believe you are here to give me a Miranda warning, and since we're both friends of Emily, why don't we drop the formalities. My name is Eric.”

“Marty.”

“I visited Emily in her new home on Monday. She may have told you I installed cameras there for her,” Eric began.

“Yes, she did tell me,” Marty said.

“I'm terribly concerned that this stalker seems to have followed her to Spring Lake. Or do you think he's a copycat?”

“I don't know,” Marty said frankly. “But I
can
tell you this. Any stalker is a potential time bomb. If this
is
the same guy who hounded her up here, he's getting ready to put a match to the powder keg. She showed you some of the photographs he took of her in Albany?”

“Yes, she did. The same ones I believe she turned over to you.”

“Yes, and here's what worries me: Most of the Albany pictures were shot when she was outside jogging or getting in or out of her car or going into a restaurant. The ones in Spring Lake are taking on a different character. Someone had to find out where she was staying that first night, then stand on the beach in cold, blustery weather hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

“Here's a copy of the second one, which was taken four days later.”

Marty leaned over and handed Eric the photograph of Emily in St. Catherine's church on Saturday morning. “That guy was nervy enough to follow Emily into the memorial Mass for the murder victim who had been found buried in Emily's backyard.”

“I've been puzzling over that,” Eric said. “To me it suggests that the stalker is somebody she has never met. I mean even in a crowded church you can get a glimpse of a familiar face. I think that argues for a copycat stalker.”

“You may be right,” Marty admitted unwillingly. “But if you are, it means that we may be dealing with two stalkers, not one. The reason I wanted to see you, Eric, is to ask you to concentrate on the people in the building where you and Emily both had offices. Is there
anyone
who you think might have focused on her? It could be one of the maintenance staff, or a deliveryman, or it could be some nice, amiable, nondescript guy who has a wife and kids, and who looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.”

“Don't forget, I've been out of that building for three years,” Eric warned. “Emily closed her office there for good only last week. She insisted on completing all the cases she'd begun herself rather than give them to other lawyers.”

“She did that because that's the kind of person she is, and none of us wants to think that anything might happen to her.” Marty picked up the pictures and put them back in his breast pocket.

“Eric, I hope you'll rack your brain to think of anyone who might have become obsessed with Emily Graham.”

“I'll certainly try.”

“Something else. Is there any device that you can install that will help to further insure Emily's safety, at least when she's alone in her home?”

“I wish there were. My only suggestions would be to have panic buttons installed in every room and tell her to carry Mace. I get the feeling that for all her brave front, Emily is terribly frightened, don't you?”

“Frightened? She
has
to be. She's human. And of course it's wearing her down. I can hear it in her voice. Too bad she hasn't got a boyfriend to help take
care of her, preferably one who's also a linebacker for the Giants.”

Marty expected Eric Bailey to agree with him. Then he saw the change in Bailey's face and recognized it for what it was, an expression of pain and anger.
This guy's in love with Emily,
he thought. Oh, brother.

Louise Cauldwell returned, followed by a maid carrying a tray.

Marty sipped his coffee quickly. “You're a busy man, Eric. I am not going to take any more of your time,” he said, putting down the cup and standing.

But you're going to start taking a
lot
of mine, he thought, as he said good-bye and started back down the long hallway to the staircase.

A little chat with the receptionist might be in order, he decided.

Joel Lake's mocking words ran through his head.
I thought old lady Koehler's son was supposed to be the stalker . . . You were wrong about me, and you're wrong about him.

I may be wrong again, Marty thought, but all of a sudden I think that Eric Bailey may be the guy we're looking for.

You were wrong about me, and . . .

But wait a minute—surely Eric Bailey would never take a chance on going into the church last Saturday? Emily would have seen him.

Maybe I
should
take a course on how to be a detective, Marty thought with disgust, as he descended the staircase and passed the receptionist without stopping to chat with her.

“T
HERE IS NOTHING
on Wilcox we can dig up at Enoch College,” Tommy Duggan snapped as he put down the phone. “Not a hint of any scandal. Nothing. The investigator who checked for us is smart. We've worked together before. He spoke to people who were on the board of trustees when Wilcox resigned. Every one of them was indignant at the suggestion that Wilcox had been forced out.”

“Then why did he resign so suddenly?” Pete Walsh asked practically. “Want to know what I think?”

“I'd be thrilled.”

“I think Wilcox might have faked a heart condition because he had something hanging over his head and didn't want the college to be involved if it became public. The people there may not know the actual reason he resigned.”

They were in Tommy's office, where they had been waiting for the call from their investigator in Cleveland. Now that it had come, they got up and headed for the car. They were going to stop at Emily Graham's house with the copies of the 1890s police reports, then have another talk with Dr. Clayton Wilcox.

“You thought he might have had his hand in the till there,” Pete reminded Tommy. “Suppose it's the other way round. Why don't we try to get a look at his income tax records for the year he resigned
from Enoch and see if he liquidated any assets?”

“It might be worth a try.” This big galoot is smarter than he looks, Tommy thought, as they walked through the parking lot to the car.

On the way to Emily Graham's house, he placed another phone call to the investigator in Cleveland.

“T
O WHAT DO
I
OWE
the pleasure of your visit?” Bob Frieze asked as he joined Natalie at his table at The Seasoner. He had been both surprised and displeased to receive a call from the maître d', informing him that his wife had joined him for lunch.

“Neutral territory, Bobby,” Natalie said quietly. “You look terrible. After you did
this
to me”—she indicated her bruised wrist—“I slept in the guest room last night, with the door locked. I see you didn't make it home at all. Maybe you were with Peggy.”