The Shadow of Your Smile (33 page)

“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
is
someone, Dr. Farrell, isn’t 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
sure
of that.”

“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,
please
be careful.”

“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 when she swept the patio.

Scott would never, ever want to harm me, she thought. Then the uncomfortable memory of how he had suddenly appeared on the street when she was hailing a cab to go to Ryan’s apartment came back to her.

Is it possible, she asked herself, is it even remotely possible that Scott is still obsessed with me and would hire someone to kill me?

64
 

At two o’clock on Monday afternoon, Arthur Saling phoned Greg Gannon and twenty minutes later arrived at Gannon’s office. Esther tried to keep from looking at the sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. She knew it was the letter she had sent him.

“Mr. Saling, it’s so nice to see you,” she began. “I’ll tell Mr. Gannon that you are here.”

It was not necessary to announce him. The door of Greg’s office had opened, and Greg was hurrying to meet Saling with a welcoming smile and extended hand. “Arthur, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you got one of those poison-pen letters a former employee is sending out. Thank you so much for bringing it to me. A number of our clients have received them. They’re being turned over to the FBI. The man who has been sending them is demented. They’re about to arrest him.”

“I don’t want any part of having to testify at a trial,” Arthur Saling said anxiously.

“Absolutely not,” Greg agreed, as he put a friendly arm around Saling’s shoulders. “We’ve got plenty of evidence and this nutcase will be forced to plead guilty. He’s married and has a family. What the FBI agent told me is that he’ll probably end up getting probation and being ordered to undergo psychiatric treatment. That will be easier for both the poor guy and his family.”

“How kind of you,” Arthur Saling said. “I’m not so sure I’d be that benevolent if somebody was trying to ruin my good name.”

With a sigh that was partly relief, partly compassion for Arthur Saling, Esther watched the men disappear into Greg Gannon’s private office. As the door closed behind them, she was sure that Saling was about to put Greg in control of his portfolio. I did my best to warn him, she thought. There are none so blind as those who will not see.

Her nerves frayed, Esther realized that she could barely wait until the month was up and she could retire. Of course, it’s possible that the SEC will swoop down on Greg even before then, she thought. I don’t want to be around for that. What would everybody think of Greg being led out of here in handcuffs? God spare me
that
scene, she thought.

Esther got down to the task she had been undertaking, the effort to track down Diana Blauvelt, the decorator who had designed these offices four years ago. It was nearly an hour later when she finally managed to find her phone number in Paris and make the call. There was no answer, only a request in both English and French to leave a message. Carefully choosing her words, Esther requested Diana Blauvelt to try to remember if she had ever told Peter Gannon that there was a false bottom in the desk she had ordered for his office, and to please return her call as soon as possible.

Esther had barely replaced the receiver on the cradle when Greg Gannon and Arthur Saling came out of Greg’s office. Both men were smiling broadly. “Esther, please welcome our new and very important client to the firm,” Greg said, his voice genial.

Esther forced a smile as she looked up into the face of Arthur Saling. You poor devil, she thought, as she stood and shook the hand he offered her.

At that moment, the phone on her desk rang. Esther picked it up.
“Is my husband there? He’s not answering his cell phone.” Pamela Gannon’s voice was tight and high pitched.

“Yes, he is,” Esther replied and looked at Greg. “It’s Mrs. Gannon, sir.”

Greg was standing behind Arthur Saling. His voice still friendly, but his expression turning explosively angry, he said, “Ask my wife to hold. I’ll be right with her.”

“Never keep the ladies waiting,” Arthur Saling joked, as Greg walked with him to the elevators.

“Mrs. Gannon, he’ll be right with you,” Esther began, but was interrupted. “I don’t give a damn whether he’s
with
me or not. Where is my jewelry? There’s absolutely nothing in the safe in the apartment. What is he trying to pull?”

Think, Esther warned herself. “Is it possible that he pledged the jewelry to post bail for Peter?” she asked.

“The jewelry is mine. He has plenty of other assets.” By now, Pamela Gannon was shrieking.

“Mrs. Gannon, please, it’s not for me to say.” Esther realized that she sounded as though she were pleading.

“Of course it isn’t for you to say, Esther,” Pamela Gannon snapped. “Put him on.”

“He’ll be right with you.”

Greg Gannon came hurrying back into the office. He grabbed the phone out of Esther’s hand. “I took the jewelry,” he said, his voice cold and furious. “You’ve seen the last of it unless you can give me a satisfactory explanation of why you were with some guy in Southampton on Saturday afternoon. But there
is
no explanation, is there, Pam? Just for the record, I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

He slammed down the phone and stared at Esther. “You know I trust my hunches,” he said. “You sent that letter. I want you out of here. But as a final gesture of loyalty, tell me the truth, Esther. Is the SEC coming after me?”

Esther stood up. “I wonder why it would ever occur to you to ask that question, Mr. Gannon. I’m delighted to be out of here. But may I offer one final comment?” She looked him in the eye. “It’s too damn bad that neither you nor your brother ever came close to being the kind of upstanding, splendid men your father and uncle were. They’d be ashamed of both of you. Thanks for the last thirty-five years. I have to say, they haven’t been dull.”

65
 

At five thirty on Monday evening, Peter Gannon was taken from the Tombs, an electronic bracelet clasped around his wrist, and released on the bail that Susan had guaranteed. With Harvey Roth at his side, the terms of his temporary freedom had been spelled out. He was not to leave Manhattan without the permission of the judge, and he was not to visit his daughter in the hospital.

At last, he and Roth were outside. Peter inhaled deeply of the crisp late-October air. “I have a car,” Roth told him. “I’ll drop you off at home if that’s what you want. I would suggest you get some rest. I’m sure the last two nights in the Tombs have not been conducive to sleep.”

“I’ll take up that offer,” Peter said, quietly. “I have a feeling it’s the best one I’ll get for a while.”

Roth’s driver pulled up to the curb and the two men got in the car. Peter waited until they were on the West Side Highway before he said, “I’m not sure if you’re the right lawyer for me. I need to have someone who believes that I am
not
a murderer, and I get the feeling that you think I am. I want a lawyer who does more than look for legal loopholes. I want somebody who is going to fight hard to prove my innocence.”

“I prefer not to consider myself an attorney who deals in legal loopholes,” Harvey Roth said mildly.

“You know what I mean. I’ve started to be able to think a little more clearly. What have you found out about the clothes I was wearing when I met Renée? Are there any bloodstains on them? Or is there any of her DNA on them?”

“The detective heading the case told me there are no apparent bloodstains, but the DNA evidence will take time to evaluate. On the other hand, you claim you were afraid of becoming nauseous when you left her. I understand there is absolutely no hint on your clothes that you became ill that night.”

Peter smiled grimly. “What you’re saying is that I’m a tidy drunk. Let’s consider this. The bar where I met her was in the eighties, on York Avenue. My office is nearly two miles away. Maybe I went directly there and passed out? Is that so improbable?”

“Mr. Gannon, it is very unfortunate that your office building does not have security cameras to back up that scenario,” Roth said. “Apparently they have been out of commission for quite a while.”

“The building that my present office is in is a dump,” Peter agreed.

“Nevertheless,” Roth said, “to get into it, a key to the outer door is required, as well as a key to your own office. Are you suggesting that you went directly there and that someone came in while you were passed out and hid that money in your desk? Isn’t that what you are telling me? Isn’t that a little far-fetched?”

“Mr. Roth, the couch where I was asleep is in the reception area of the suite. My office is in the next room. There’s a separate entrance for it, in case I want to go in without having to walk through the waiting room.”

“Peter, we might as well get on a first-name basis. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Let’s not waste any of it grasping at straws. Who else would have keys to your office building, your suite, and your private office?”

“As Susan can verify, I’m not very organized. I’m one of those people who is always losing keys.”

“Peter, a lot of people are careless with keys. But most of them aren’t carrying a shopping bag containing one hundred thousand dollars and leaving it in your office, to say nothing of putting the money in a hidden panel in your desk.”