I'll Walk Alone Read online

  How do I defend a woman who may not be capable of contributing to her own defense? he asked himself. And how long will it be before they decide to slap handcuffs on her?

  He had an ominous feeling that when that happened, it would push her over the edge.

  A blanket wrapped around her, a pillow behind her head, sipping hot tea with honey and cloves, all had the effect of making Zan feel as though she was coming out of a kind of dark alley. At least those were the best words she could use to explain to Alvirah and Willy about why she had collapsed. “When I saw those photos, I thought I was dreaming. I mean, I can prove I was with Nina Aldrich when Matthew was in the park. But why would anyone go to the trouble of looking exactly like me? I mean, isn’t that crazy?”

  Not waiting for a response, she said, “You know what I was running through my head … that song from A Little Night Music… ‘Send in the Clowns.’ I love that song and it seemed so appropriate. This is a farce. It’s a circus. It has to be. But I know it will be all right when I talk to Nina Aldrich. I was going to do that today and then I fainted.”

  “Zan, it’s no wonder you fainted with all this going on. You may remember that Josh was on the phone with Charley Shore and Charley dropped everything to be with you. That’s the kind of lawyer and friend he is. Josh told me about last night at the Four Seasons with Ted. The way I figure it, you never did get to have dinner last night, and how much did you eat today?” Alvirah asked.

  “Well, not much. Just coffee this morning, and I hadn’t had lunch by the time I got back to the office. And then I fainted.” Zan sipped the last of the tea. “Alvirah, Willy, you both believe that those photos show me taking Matthew. I heard it in your voice this afternoon, Alvirah. Then when Josh told me right away that I needed a lawyer, I could see that he believes they’re real, too.”

  Willy looked at Alvirah. Of course she thinks they’re the real McCoy, he thought. I do, too. But that doesn’t mean this poor gal isn’t positive they’re not her. What’s Alvirah going to say now?

  Alvirah’s response was hearty but evasive. “Zan, if you say those pictures are not of you, then I would guess Charley’s first job will be to get a copy of the negatives or whatever they do with those cell phone cameras if that’s what the man used, and get an expert to prove that they’re phony. Then my bet is that the time frame when you saw that woman about decorating her new town house would vindicate you. Didn’t you say Nina Aldrich was her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charley’s the kind of lawyer who will make sure that every second you spent with Nina Aldrich is accounted for.”

  “Then why didn’t Josh or Charley respond when I told them that my meeting with Aldrich would prove I couldn’t have been in the park?” Zan asked.

  Alvirah stood up. “Zan, from what I gather, you didn’t have any real conversation with Josh before you fainted. Buh-lieve me, we’re not going to leave a stone unturned until we get at the truth and find Matthew,” she promised. “But the first thing you’ve got to remember is that you are going to be bombarded from all sides and you can’t go through all this unless you’re strong. And I mean physically strong. Dinner’s simple. When you promised to come I put on my thinking cap and remembered that you love chili. So that’s what it is, chili, a salad, and hot Italian bread.”

  Zan tried to smile. “Sounds good to me.”

  And it was good, she decided, as the warmth of the comfort food and a glass of red wine made her feel that she was getting her balance back.

  She had told Alvirah and Willy about the possibility of decorating the model apartments for the architect Kevin Wilson at his ultra chic building, 701 Carlton Place. “It’s between me and Bartley Longe,” she explained. “I realized that when Wilson read the morning papers, he’d probably believe that I had staged that kidnapping. I went straight to his office and asked him to give me a chance to prove that I couldn’t have taken Matthew that day.”

  Alvirah knew she had only a small sense of how much Zan had worked on her designs for those apartments. “Did he give you that chance?”

  Zan shrugged. “We’ll see. He let me leave my sketches and fabrics, so I guess I’m still in the running.”

  They all passed on dessert, deciding to have just cappuccino. Knowing that Zan would be getting ready to leave, Willy got up from the table, went into the bedroom, and quietly picked up the phone and ordered a car to take her to Battery Park City then bring him back. Just in case they’re hanging around her building, there’s no way I’m letting that girl face a battery of reporters and photographers alone, he decided. I’m going to escort her home and get her upstairs.

  “Fifteen minutes, Mr. Meehan,” the car dispatcher assured him.

  Willy had just gotten back to the table when the phone rang. It was Fr. Aiden. “I’m crossing the street from the club,” he announced. “If it’s still all right, I’d like to pick up my scarf.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect,” Alvirah assured him. “There is someone here I’ve been hoping you’d arrive in time to meet.”

  Zan was finishing the last of her coffee. As Alvirah replaced the phone, Zan said, “Alvirah, I honestly don’t want to meet anyone. Please, let me get away before whoever that is arrives.”

  “Zan, this isn’t just anyone,” Alvirah pleaded. “I didn’t say anything but I was really hoping that you’d still be here when Fr. Aiden dropped by. He’s an old friend and he left his scarf here last night, and because he had dinner practically across the street, he’s stopping by to pick it up. I don’t want to interfere with your plans, but I’d love it if you got to know him. He’s a wonderful priest at St. Francis, and I think he could be a real comfort to you.”

  “Alvirah, I’m not feeling very religious these days,” Zan said, “so I’d like to just slip away fast.”

  “Zan, I called a car. I’m riding home with you. That’s that,” Willy said.

  The phone rang. It was the doorman to announce Fr. O’Brien. Alvirah rushed to open the door and a moment later the elevator stopped at their floor.

  A smiling Fr. O’Brien was hugged by Alvirah, shook hands with Willy, and then turned to be introduced to the young woman who was their guest.

  The smile vanished from his face.

  Holy Mother of God, he thought, she’s the woman who’s involved in a crime.

  She’s the one who claims she can’t prevent a murder.

  32

  On the short drive over from Hunter College to the Aldrich town house on East Sixty-ninth Street, Detectives Billy Collins and Jennifer Dean admitted to each other that never for one minute had either of them suspected that Zan Moreland had abducted her own child.

  They reconstructed the day Matthew Carpenter disappeared. “All I was thinking was that we were looking for a predator who sized up the situation and acted on it,” Billy said somberly. “The park was crowded, the babysitter asleep on the grass, the little boy asleep in the stroller. I saw it as a perfect set-up for a pervert on the lookout for a child.”

  “Tiffany was absolutely hysterical,” Jennifer said, reflectively. “She was screaming, ‘How can I face Zan, how can I face her?’ But why didn’t we dig further? The thought that Tiffany may have been drugged never crossed my mind, either.”

  “It should have crossed our minds. It was a hot day, but not many teenagers, even with the onset of a cold, would pass out midday in a deep sleep on the grass,” Billy said. “Oh, here we are.” He pulled to a stop in front of the handsome residence, double-parked, and slapped his ID on the windshield. “Let’s keep reconstructing our first impressions for a couple of minutes,” he suggested.

  “Alexandra Moreland had a hard-luck story that would make a sphinx take pity on her,” Jennifer Dean said. “Parents killed on the way to the airport for a long-delayed reunion, marriage when she was an emotional wreck, a single mother struggling to start a business, and then her little guy gets abducted.” Her voice was becoming more disgusted with every word.

  Billy tapped his fingers on the
steering wheel as he tried to recall every detail of the events that had taken place nearly two years ago. “We spoke to the Aldrich woman that night. She backed up Moreland’s story right away. They had an appointment. Moreland was with her going over sketches and fabrics in the new town house Aldrich just bought when I called Moreland to tell her her son was missing.” Billy stopped, then added angrily, “And we didn’t ask any more questions.”

  “Let’s face it,” Jennifer said as she fished in her pocket for her handkerchief. “We had it all figured out. Working mother. Irresponsible babysitter. Predator snatching the opportunity to grab a child.”

  “When I got home, Eileen had been watching television,” Billy recalled. “She told me she cried when she saw the expression on Moreland’s face. She said that she thought it was going to be like Etan Patz, that little boy who disappeared all those years ago and was never found.”

  Looking out at the blustery wind and the persistent rain, Jennifer raised the collar of her coat. “All of us were willing to believe the sob story. But if those photos are legit, they prove that Moreland couldn’t have been with Nina Aldrich that whole time,” she said. “And if Aldrich can swear they were together, then the photos are probably fakes.”

  “They’re not going to be fakes,” Billy said grimly, “so Aldrich wasn’t on the level when I spoke with her. But why would she have lied?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Okay, let’s go in.”

  With that they dashed from the car to the door of the town house and rang the bell. “I imagine Aldrich paid a minimum of fifteen million bucks for this little nest,” Billy muttered.

  They could hear the chimes inside, but before they had stopped ringing, the door was opened by a Latina woman in a black uniform. She appeared to be in her early sixties. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was drawn back into a neat bun. Her face was lined and there was a weary expression in her heavily lidded eyes.

  Billy gave her their cards.

  “I am Maria Garcia, Mrs. Aldrich’s housekeeper. She is expecting you, Detective Collins and Detective Dean. May I take your coats?”

  Garcia hung the coats in the closet and invited them to follow her. As they walked down the hall, Billy glanced into the formal living room and slowed his pace to get a longer look at the painting over the mantel. He was a frequent visitor to museums and said to himself, I bet that’s a genuine Matisse.

  The housekeeper led them into a large room that seemed to serve a double purpose. Butter-soft dark brown leather sofas were grouped around a recessed flat-screen television. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases covered three walls. All the books on the shelves were aligned in perfect symmetry. No casual reading in here, Billy thought. The walls were dark beige and the carpet a geometric brown and tan pattern.

  Not my taste at all, Billy decided. Probably cost a fortune, but a little dab of color would go a long way in here.

  Nina Aldrich kept them waiting close to half an hour. They knew she was sixty-three years old. When she swept into the room with her impeccable carriage, flowing silver hair, flawless complexion, patrician features, black caftan, silver jewelry, and frosty expression, she gave the impression of a monarch greeting an intrusive visitor.

  Billy Collins was not impressed. As he stood up, for a split second he remembered what his uncle, a chauffeur for a family in Locust Valley, Long Island, had told him. “There are a lot of smart people in this town, Billy, who have plenty of money they made on their own. I know, because that’s the kind of people I work for. But they’re not the same as the really rich, who have been that way for generations. Those people live in a world of their own. They don’t think like the rest of us.”

  It was clear to Billy, as it had been the first time he met her, that Nina Aldrich fit into that category. And she wants to put us on the defensive, he thought. Okay, lady, let’s talk. He opened the conversation. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Aldrich. It’s very accommodating of you to see us on short notice, because it’s obvious you’re having a very busy afternoon.”

  From the narrowing of her lips, he could see that she had gotten his point. Without being invited, he and Jennifer Dean both sat down again. After a moment’s hesitation, Nina Aldrich took a seat behind the narrow antique desk opposite them.

  “I’ve seen the morning papers and the Internet,” she began, her voice cold and contemptuous. “I can’t believe the way that young woman could have been so flagrant as to kidnap her own child. When I think of the sympathy I felt for her and the caring note I wrote to her, I am simply outraged.”

  Jennifer Dean opened the questioning. “Mrs. Aldrich, when we spoke to you hours after Matthew Carpenter disappeared, you verified that you had an appointment with Alexandra Moreland, and that she was with you when I first phoned her to tell her that her child was missing.”

  “Yes, that was about three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “What was her reaction to our call?”

  “Looking back, after having seen those photos, I can tell you that she’s quite a marvelous actress. As I told you at our previous meeting, after speaking to you, Ms. Moreland went white as a sheet and jumped up. I wanted to call a cab, but she ran out of the house and raced to the park on foot. She left all her books with her fabric and paint samples and pictures of antique furniture and lamps and carpets and so forth scattered here.”

  “I see. The babysitter took Matthew to the park between 12:30 and 12:40. From my notes I see that your appointment with Ms. Moreland was at one P.M.,” Jennifer continued.

  “That’s right. She called me on her cell phone to say that she’d be just a few minutes late because of the babysitter problem.”

  “You were here.”

  “No. I was in my former apartment on Beekman Place.”

  Billy Collins was careful to keep his expression from showing his excitement. “Mrs. Aldrich, I don’t think you told me that the first time we spoke. You said that you met Ms. Moreland here.”

  “That’s the way it turned out. I told her I didn’t mind her being a little late, but then when an hour passed, I called her back. By then she was sitting in this house.”

  “Mrs. Aldrich, you are now telling me that when Alexandra Moreland spoke to you after two o’clock that you still hadn’t seen her?” Billy persisted.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Let me explain. Zan Moreland had a key to this house. She had been letting herself in while she was preparing to submit her suggestions for the décor. She just assumed we were meeting here. So actually it was closer to an hour and a half before we got together. When we finally did talk, she apologized for the confusion and offered to come to Beekman Place, but I was meeting friends at the Carlyle for cocktails at five so I told her I would come meet her up here. Frankly, by then I was getting pretty irritated with her.”

  “Mrs. Aldrich, do you keep a written record of your appointments?” Dean asked.

  “Of course I do. I keep them in one of those daily planners.”

  “Would you happen to have kept yours from two years ago, and is it on hand?”

  “Yes. It would be upstairs.” With an impatient sigh, Nina Aldrich got up, walked to the door of the room, and called the housekeeper. Glancing at her watch, a gesture Billy Collins was sure was intended for them, she directed Garcia to go to her desk, open the top drawer, and get the appointment book for the year before last.

  While Nina Aldrich and the detectives waited, she said, “I do hope we’re not going to be involved in this situation beyond this meeting. My husband despises this sort of sensationalism, and he was not happy when the papers made so much of the fact that More-land’s meeting was with me that day.”

  Billy did not deem it wise to tell her that if this came to trial, she would end up being a star witness. Instead he said quietly, “I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

  Maria Garcia returned, a small red leather book in her hand. She had already opened it to June 10.

  “Thank you, Maria. Wait right here.” Nina Aldrich glanced
at the page and handed the book to Billy. Next to the one P.M. slot was Alexandra Moreland’s name. “This doesn’t say where you were planning to meet her,” Billy observed. “If you were discussing decorating this house, why would you meet her at the other residence?”

  “Ms. Moreland had taken extensive pictures of all the rooms here. We had no furniture other than a card table and a couple of chairs in the entire house. Why would I not make my choices in comfort? But since, as I said, I was planning to meet friends at the Carlyle for cocktails at five, I told Ms. Moreland to wait for me instead of coming down to Beekman Place.”

  “I see. Then you weren’t here long before we called her?” Jennifer asked.

  “Little more than a half hour.”

  “When you arrived here, how would you describe Ms. More-land’s demeanor?”

  “Flurried. Apologetic. Anxious.”

  “I see. And how big is this house, Mrs. Aldrich?”

  “It’s five stories high and forty feet wide, which as you can see makes it one of the larger town houses in the area. The top floor is now an enclosed garden. We have eleven rooms.” There was no mistaking the pleasure Nina Aldrich displayed in disclosing the dimensions of her town house.

  “What about the basement?” Billy asked.

  “It has a second kitchen, a wine cellar, and a very large finished room, which my husband’s grandchildren enjoy when they are visiting. Also a storage area.”

  “You say there were only a few chairs and a card table here the day Matthew disappeared and you met Ms. Moreland here?”

  “Yes. The architectural renovation had been done by the previous owners. Because of sudden financial problems, the house went on the market and we bought it. For the most part we were very satisfied with the architect’s work and wanted no part of long delays by starting any further renovations. The interior decorating had not begun and that was when Alexandra Moreland was recommended to me.”