I'll Be Seeing You Read online

  Victor protested. “I’d just started when Helene Petrovic’s application was submitted to the Manning Clinic. Larry, you let me down last winter.”

  “I’m sorry, Victor. But the fact is, you were there six weeks before Petrovic began working at Manning. That means you were there when the investigation into her credentials should have been taking place. Collins and Carter is a small operation. Who’s going to believe you weren’t aware of what was going on?”

  Orsini swallowed. When he spoke to the reporters he’d said that he’d never heard of Petrovic, that he’d barely been hired when she was okayed for Manning. They hadn’t picked up that he’d obviously been in the office when her application was processed. He tried one more argument. “Larry, I’ve helped you people a lot this year.”

  “Have you, Victor?”

  “You placed candidates with three of our best accounts.”

  “Perhaps our candidates for the jobs were stronger.”

  “Who told you those corporations were looking to fill positions?”

  “I’m sorry, Victor.”

  Orsini stared at the receiver as the line went dead. Don’t call us. We’ll call you, he thought. He knew the job with Downes and Rosen probably would never be given to him now.

  Milly poked her head into his office. “I’m on my way. Hasn’t it been a terrible day, Mr. Orsini? All those reporters coming in and all those calls.” Her eyes were snapping with excitement.

  Victor could just see her at her dinner table tonight, repeating with relish every detail of the day. “Is Mr. Carter back?”

  “No. He phoned that he was going to stay with Mrs. Collins at the hospital and then go directly home. You know, I think he’s getting sweet on her.”

  Orsini did not answer.

  “Well, good night, Mr. Orsini.”

  “Good night, Milly.”

  While her mother was dressing, Meghan slipped into the study and took the letters and obituary notice from the drawer in her father’s desk. She hid them in her briefcase and prayed her mother would not notice the faint scratches on the desk where the file had slipped when she was breaking into the drawer. Meghan would have to tell her about the letters and the death notice eventually, but not yet. Maybe after she’d been to Philadelphia she might have some sort of explanation.

  She went upstairs to her own bathroom to wash her face and hands and freshen her makeup. After hesitating a moment, she decided to call Mac. He had said he’d call her, and she didn’t want him to think anything was wrong. More wrong than it already is, she corrected herself.

  Kyle answered. “Meg!” It was the Kyle she knew, delighted to hear her voice.

  “Hi, pal. How’s it going?”

  “Great. But today was really bad.”

  “Why?”

  “Jake nearly got killed. I was throwing a ball to him. He’s getting real good at catching it, but I threw too hard and it went in the street and he ran out and some guy almost hit him. I mean you should have seen the guy stop his car. Like just stop. That car shook.”

  “I’m glad Jake’s okay, Kyle. Next time toss the ball to him in the backyard. You’ve got more room.”

  “That’s what Dad said. He’s grabbing the phone, Meg. See you.”

  Mac came on. “I was not grabbing it. I reached for it. Hi, Meg. You’ve gotten all the news from this end. How’s it going?”

  She told him that her mother was home. “I’m driving to Philadelphia tomorrow for the feature I’m trying to put together.”

  “Will you also check out that address in Chestnut Hill?”

  “Yes. Mother doesn’t know about that or those letters.”

  “She won’t hear it from me. When will you get back?”

  “Probably not before eight o’clock. It’s nearly a four-hour drive to Philadelphia.”

  “Meg.” Mac’s voice became hesitant. “I know that you don’t want me interfering, but I wish you’d let me help. I sense sometimes that you’re avoiding me.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ve always been good buddies.”

  “I’m not sure we are anymore. Maybe I’ve missed something. What happened?”

  What happened, Meghan thought, is that I can’t think of that letter I wrote you nine years ago, begging you not to marry Ginger, without writhing in humiliation. What happened is that I’ll never be anything more than your little buddy and I’ve managed to separate myself from you. I can’t risk going through Jeremy MacIntyre withdrawal again.

  “Nothing happened, Mac,” she said lightly. “You’re still my buddy. I can’t help it if I don’t talk about piano lessons anymore. I gave them up years ago.”

  That night when she went to her mother’s room to turn down the bed she switched the ringer on the phone to the off position. If there were any more nocturnal calls, they would be heard only by her.

  31

  Dr. Henry Williams, the sixty-five-year-old head of the Franklin Assisted Reproduction Center in the renovated old town section of Philadelphia, was a man who looked vaguely like everyone’s favorite uncle. He had a head of thick graying hair, a gentle face that reassured even the most nervous patient. Very tall, he had a slight stoop that suggested he was in the habit of bending down to listen.

  Meghan had phoned him after her meeting with Tom Weicker, and he had readily agreed to an appointment. Now Meghan sat in front of his desk in the cheerful office with its framed pictures of babies and young children covering the walls.

  “Are these all children born through in vitro fertilization?” Meghan asked.

  “Born through assisted reproduction,” Williams corrected. “Not all are in vitro births.”

  “I understand, or at least I believe I do. In vitro is when the eggs are removed from the ovaries and fertilized with semen in the laboratory.”

  “Correct. You realize that the woman has been given fertility drugs so that her ovaries will release a number of eggs at the same time?”

  “Yes. I understand that.”

  “There are other procedures we practice, all variations of in vitro fertilization. I suggest I give you some literature that explains them. Basically it amounts to a lot of heavy-duty terms that all boil down to assisting a woman to have the successful pregnancy she craves.”

  “Would you be willing to be interviewed on-camera, to let us do some footage on the facilities and speak to some of your clients?”

  “Yes. Frankly we’re proud of our operation, and favorable publicity is welcome. I would have one stipulation. I’ll contact several of our clients and ask if they’d be willing to speak to you. I don’t want you approaching them. Some people do not choose to let their families know that they have used assisted birth procedures.”

  “Why would they object? I should think they’d just be happy to have the baby.”

  “They are. But one woman whose mother-in-law learned about the assisted birth openly said that, because of her son’s very low sperm count, she doubted if it was her son’s child. Our client actually had DNA testing done on her, the husband and the baby to prove it was the biological offspring of both parents.”

  “Some people do use donor embryos, of course.”

  “Yes, those who simply cannot conceive on their own. It’s actually a form of adoption.”

  “I guess it is. Doctor, I know this is a terrible rush, but could I come back late this afternoon with a cameraman? A woman in Connecticut is giving birth very soon to the identical twin of her son who was born three years ago through in vitro fertilization. We’ll be doing follow-up stories on the progress of the children.”

  Williams’ expression changed, becoming troubled. “Sometimes I wonder if we don’t go too far. The psychological aspects of identical twins being born at separate times concerns me greatly. Incidentally, when the embryo splits in two and one is cryopreserved, we call it the clone, not the identical twin. But to answer your question, yes, I’d be available later today.”

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. We’ll do some establishing shot
s outside and in the reception area. I’ll lead in with when the Franklin Center started. That’s about six years ago, I understand.”

  “Six years ago this past September.”

  “Then I’ll stick to specific questions about in vitro fertilization and the freezing, I mean cryopreservation, of the clone, as in Mrs. Anderson’s case.”

  Meghan got up to go. “I’ve got some fast arrangements to make. Would four o’clock be all right for you?”

  “It should be fine.”

  Meghan hesitated. She had been afraid to ask Dr. Williams about Helene Petrovic before she established some rapport with him, but she could not wait any longer. “Dr. Williams, I don’t know if the papers here have carried the story, but Helene Petrovic, a woman who worked in the Manning Clinic, was found murdered, and it’s come out that her credentials were falsified. You knew her and actually worked with her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.” Henry Williams shook his head. “I was Dr. Manning’s assistant, and I knew everything that went on in that clinic and who was doing the job. Helene Petrovic certainly fooled me. She kept that lab the way labs should be kept. It’s terrible that she falsified credentials, but she absolutely seemed to know what she was doing.”

  Meghan decided to take a chance that this kindly man would understand why she needed to ask probing questions. “Doctor, my father’s firm and specifically my father have been accused of verifying Helene Petrovic’s lies. Forgive me, but I must try to find out more about her. The receptionist at Manning Clinic saw you and Helene Petrovic at dinner. How well did you get to know her?”

  Henry Williams looked amused. “You mean Marge Walters. Did she also tell you that as a courtesy I always took a new staff member at Manning to dinner? An informal welcome . . .”

  “No, she didn’t. Did you know Helene Petrovic before she went to Manning?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had any contact with her since you left?”

  “None at all.”

  The intercom buzzed. He picked up the receiver and listened. “Hold it for a moment, please,” he said, turning to Meghan.

  She took her cue. “Doctor, I won’t take any more of your time. Thank you so much.” Meghan picked up her shoulder bag and left.

  When the door closed behind her, Dr. Henry Williams again put the receiver to his ear. “Put the call through now, please.”

  He murmured a greeting, listened, then said nervously, “Yes, of course I’m alone. She just left. She’ll be back at four with a cameraman. Don’t tell me to be careful. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  He replaced the receiver, suddenly infinitely weary. After a moment, he picked it up again and dialed. “Everything under control over there?” he asked.

  Her Scottish ancestors called it second sight. The gift had turned up in a woman in different generations of Clan Campbell. This time it was Fiona Campbell Black who was granted it. A psychic who was regularly called upon by police departments throughout the country to help solve crimes and by families frantic to find missing loved ones, Fiona treated her extraordinary abilities with profound respect.

  Married twenty years, she lived in Litchfield, Connecticut, a lovely old town that was settled in the early seventeenth century.

  On Thursday afternoon Fiona’s husband, Andrew Black, a lawyer with offices in town, came home for lunch. He found her sitting in the breakfast room, the morning paper spread in front of her, her eyes reflective, her head tilted as though she were expecting to hear a voice or sound she did not want to miss.

  Andrew Black knew what that meant. He took off his coat, tossed it on a chair and said, “I’ll fix us something.”

  Ten minutes later when he came back with a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea, Fiona raised her eyebrows. “It happened when I saw this.” She held up the local newspaper with Edwin Collins’ picture on the front page. “They want this man for questioning in the Petrovic woman’s death.”

  Black poured the tea. “I read that.”

  “Andrew, I don’t want to get involved, but I think I have to. I’m getting a message about him.”

  “How clear is it?”

  “It isn’t. I have to handle something that belongs to him. Should I call the New Milford police or go directly to his family?”

  “I think it’s better to go through the police.”

  “I suppose so.” Slowly, Fiona ran her fingertips over the grainy reproduction of Edwin Collins’ face. “So much evil,” she murmured, “so much death and evil surrounding him.”

  32

  Bernie’s first fare on Thursday morning was from Kennedy Airport. He parked the Chevy and wandered over to where the suburban buses picked up and deposited passengers. Bernie glanced at the schedule. A bus for Westport was due in, and a group of people were waiting for it. One couple in their thirties had two small kids and a lot of luggage. Bernie decided that they’d be good prospects.

  “Connecticut?” he asked them, his smile genial.

  “We’re not taking a cab,” the woman snapped impatiently as she grabbed the two-year-old’s hand. “Billy, stay with me,” she scolded. “You can’t run around here.”

  “Forty bucks plus tolls,” Bernie said. “I’ve got a pickup around Westport, so any fare I get is found money.”

  The husband was trying to hang onto a squirming three-year-old. “You’ve got a deal.” He did not bother to look to his wife for approval.

  Bernie had run his car through the car wash and vacuumed the interior again. He saw the disdain that initially flashed on the woman’s face turn to approval at the Chevy’s clean interior. He drove carefully, never above the speed limit, no quick changes from lane to lane. The man sat in front with him. The woman was in the back, the kids strapped in beside her. Bernie made a mental note to buy some car seats and keep them in the trunk.

  The man directed Bernie to Exit 17 off the Connecticut Turnpike. “It’s just a mile and a half from here.” When they reached the pleasant brick home on Tuxedo Road, Bernie was rewarded with a ten dollar tip.

  He drove back to the Connecticut Turnpike, south to Exit 15 and once again got on Route 7. It was as though he couldn’t stop the car from going to where Meghan lived. Be careful, he tried to tell himself. Even with the camera and the press pass it might look suspicious for him to be on her street.

  He decided to have a cup of coffee and think about it. He pulled in at the next diner. There was a newspaper vending machine in the vestibule between the outer and inner doors. Through the glass, Bernie saw the headline, all about the Manning Clinic. That was where Meghan had done the interview yesterday, the one he and Mama had watched. He fished in his pocket for change and bought a paper.

  Over coffee he read the article. The Manning Clinic was about forty minutes away from Meghan’s town. There’d probably be media hanging around there because they were checking out the laboratory where that woman had worked.

  Maybe Meghan would be there too. She’d been there yesterday.

  Forty minutes later Bernie was on the narrow, winding road that led from the quaint center of Kent to the Manning Clinic. After he left the diner he’d sat in the car and studied the map of this area so carefully that it was easy to figure out the most direct way to get there.

  Just as he’d hoped, there were a number of media vans in the parking lot of the clinic. He parked at a distance from them and stuck his parking permit in the windshield. Then he studied the press pass he’d created. It would have taken an expert to spot that it wasn’t genuine. It listed him as Bernard Heffernan, Channel 86, Elmira, New York. It was a local community station, he reminded himself. If anyone asked why that community would be interested in this story, he’d say they were thinking of building a facility like the Manning Clinic there.

  Satisfied that he had his story straight, Bernie got out of the car and pulled on his windbreaker. Most reporters and cameramen didn’t dress up. He decided to wear dark glasses, then got his new video camera from the trunk. State of the art, he
told himself proudly. It had cost a bundle. He’d put it on his credit card. He’d rubbed some dust on it from the basement so it didn’t look too new, and he’d painted the Channel 86 call letters on the side.

  * * *

  There were a dozen or so reporters and cameramen in the clinic’s lobby. They were interviewing a man who Bernie could see was stonewalling them. He was saying, “I repeat, the Manning Clinic is proud of its success in assisting women to have the children they so ardently desire. It is our belief that, despite the information on her visa application, Helene Petrovic may have trained as an embryologist in Rumania. None of the professionals who worked with her detected the slightest word or action on her part that suggested she did not thoroughly know her job.”

  “But if she made mistakes?” one reporter asked. “Suppose she mixed up those frozen embryos and women have given birth to other people’s children?”

  “We will perform DNA analysis for any parents who wish the clinical test for themselves and their child. The results take four to six weeks to achieve, but they are irrefutable. If parents wish to have that testing done at a different facility, we will pay the expense. Neither Dr. Manning nor any of the senior staff expect a problem in that area.”

  Bernie looked around. Meghan wasn’t here. Should he ask people if they’d seen her? No, that would be a mistake. Just be part of the crowd, he cautioned himself.

  But as he’d hoped, no one was paying any attention to him. He pointed his camera at the guy answering questions and turned it on.

  When the interview was over, Bernie left with the group, taking care not to get too close to any of the others. He had spotted a PCD cameraman but did not recognize the burly man who was holding the mike. At the foot of the porch steps, a woman stopped her car and got out. She was pregnant and obviously upset. A reporter asked, “Ma’am, are you a client here?”

  Stephanie Petrovic tried to shield her face from the cameras as she cried. “No. No. I just came to beg them to share my aunt’s money with me. She left everything to the clinic. I am thinking that perhaps somebody from here killed her because they were afraid that after she quit she would change her will. If I could prove that, wouldn’t her money be mine?”