The Lost Years Page 12

  Lloyd disappeared in the direction of the garage. When he returned, he said, “We’ve got a tracker on the Mercedes, too, which means that the guy who put it on has to be the one who got in here!”

  “My emeralds!” Lisa cried breathlessly. “Maybe I’ll get them back.”

  Lloyd did not have the heart to tell his wife that by now, the emeralds had undoubtedly been pried out of their settings by a fence and long since been sold to a willing buyer.

  31

  On Monday evening, Kathleen was lying in bed in a single room in the psychiatric section of Bergen Park Medical Center. Several times she had tried to get up and now light restraints on her arms and legs were preventing her from making another attempt.

  Besides her usual medicine, she had been given a light sedative to calm her, and so she was content to lie quietly as conflicting thoughts and memories mixed together in her mind.

  She smiled. Jonathan was there. They were in Venice on their honeymoon walking hand in hand in Saint Mark’s Square …

  Jonathan was upstairs. Why didn’t he come down and talk to her?

  So much noise… so much blood… Jonathan was bleeding.

  Kathleen closed her eyes and stirred restlessly. She did not hear the door of the room open and close and was unaware of the nurse who was bending over her.

  Kathleen was at the top of the stairs and the front door opened. Who was that? A shadow passed in the foyer. She couldn’t see a face—

  Where was her scarf?

  “So much noise… So much blood,” she whispered.

  “Kathleen, you’re dreaming,” a soothing voice suggested.

  “The gun,” Kathleen mumbled. “Rory put it in the flower bed. I saw her. Did it have dirt on it?”

  “Kathleen, I can’t hear you. What did you say, dear?” the nurse asked.

  “We’re going to have lunch at Cipriani’s,” Kathleen said.

  Then she smiled as she drifted off to sleep. She was back in Venice with Jonathan.

  The nurse tiptoed from the room. She had been instructed to write down anything her patient said. Carefully, word for word, she wrote on the chart, “So much noise. So much blood. And then she was going to Cipriani’s for lunch.”

  32

  Rory spotted the car waiting at the corner as she reached the top step of the subway exit Monday evening. She had hurried up the stairs and was now short of breath. The sense that everything was closing in on her was overwhelming. She had to get the money and escape. Years ago she had disappeared and she could do it again. As soon as she got out of prison after serving seven years for stealing from that old lady, she skipped her parole.

  I reinvented myself, she thought. She had taken on the identity of a cousin who had retired after years of being a caregiver and who had moved to Italy, then died suddenly. I worked hard, she thought angrily. Now even if they can’t prove that I left the gun out and left the door unlocked, I’ll go back to prison because of the parole violation. And I saw nutty Kathleen looking out the window when I put the gun in the flower bed. Did she see me? She has a way of blurting out stuff that you would think she didn’t notice.

  The passenger door of the car was being opened from the inside. The street was busy, and even though it was still hot people were moving swiftly. Everyone rushing toward air-conditioning, Rory thought as she felt sweat beginning to gather on her forehead and around her neck. She pushed back a strand of hair that was drooping over her chin. I’m a mess, she thought as she got in the car. Once I get away, I’ll check into a spa and get myself back in shape. Who knows? If I look good and have money, there may be another Joe Peck around somewhere waiting just for me.

  She reached for the handle of the door and pulled it closed.

  “Eight o’clock,” he said approvingly. “You’re right on time. I just got here myself.”

  “Where’s my money?”

  “Look in the backseat. Do you see those suitcases?”

  She craned her neck. “They look heavy.”

  “They are. You wanted a bonus. I gave you one. You deserve it.”

  His hand went to her neck. His thumb pressed with all his strength into a vein.

  Rory’s head slumped forward. She did not feel the needle he thrust into her arm nor hear the sound of the engine as the car sped downtown to the warehouse.

  “It’s too bad you won’t be alive to enjoy the sarcophagus I’ve got all set for you, Rory,” he said aloud. “In case you don’t know what that is, it’s a coffin. This one is fit for a queen. Not that there’s anything regal about you, I’m sorry to say,” he added with a smirk.

  33

  The detectives were coming to interview her at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning. Lillian did not sleep all Monday night. What was she going to tell them?

  It had been stupid to tell Alvirah that she had not spoken to Jonathan since the Wednesday before he died. Completely stupid!

  Could she tell them that Alvirah had misunderstood what she had said? Or could she say she had been so numb when they had had lunch together that what she really meant was that she had not seen Jonathan since Wednesday, because Kathleen was so agitated over the weekend that Jonathan didn’t want to leave the house? But that they had spoken every day?

  That would make sense, she decided.

  She could tell them that they talked to each other only on prepaid phones and that after Kathleen killed him, she had discarded hers.

  She thought about that last night they were together, when he left his prepaid phone with her. “I won’t be needing this anymore. Please just throw it out and throw out yours,” he had told her. But she had kept both of them. Terrified, she wondered if the police would get a warrant to search her apartment.

  She was too nervous to do anything but swallow coffee, carrying the cup into the bathroom as she showered and washed her hair. It only took a few minutes to blow it dry, then she remembered the way Jonathan would playfully muss it when she was sitting on his lap in the big chair. “It looks too perfect,” he would joke when she protested.

  Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan. I still can’t believe that you’re gone, she thought as she carefully applied makeup, trying to cover the circles under her eyes. It will be good when classes start, she told herself. I need to be around other people. I need to be busy. I need to be tired when I come home.

  I need to stop listening for the phone to ring.

  The temperature had dropped overnight and was a seasonable seventy degrees. She decided to put on a running suit and sneakers to give the detectives the impression that she was on her way out as soon as they left.

  Promptly at ten o’clock her doorbell rang. She recognized the two people who were standing there, the rumpled-looking guy with thinning hair and the olive-skinned woman who had been standing with Rory near the entrance to the room in the funeral parlor where Jonathan’s casket had been placed.

  Simon Benet and Rita Rodriguez introduced themselves. Lillian invited them in and offered coffee, which they refused, then all three went into the living room. Lillian felt vulnerable and alone as she sat on the couch while the detectives chose straight-backed chairs.

  “Ms. Stewart, we spoke briefly last week on the phone but decided to wait to talk with you in person until now, since you were obviously extremely upset,” Benet began. “I believe you told us you were home here in your apartment the night Professor Lyons died.”

  Lillian tensed. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Then did you lend your car to anyone else? According to the garage attendant downstairs, you took your Lexus out that evening at about seven thirty P.M. and returned shortly after ten P.M.”

  Lillian felt her throat close. Detective Benet had just said that when they phoned her last week she had been upset. That would be her excuse. Damn that garage guy!

  Then she reminded herself that it was Kathleen who was under arrest for murdering Jonathan. But her E-ZPass… They could easily check to see what time she drove back over the George Washington Bridge to New York.


  Be careful, be careful, she warned herself. Don’t blurt out anything the way you did to Alvirah. “When I spoke with you I was so overwhelmed with shock and grief that I couldn’t think straight. I was confused. You called me on Wednesday, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Rodriguez confirmed.

  “When I said I was home I was thinking of the night before your call. That was Tuesday evening when I was at home.”

  “Then you did go out on that Monday night,” Benet said, pressing her.

  “Yes, I did.” Get ahead of them, she thought. “You see, Jonathan had become very suspicious that the Monday-through-Friday caregiver, Rory, was deliberately agitating his wife. He was convinced that she had snooped around his study and found that hollow book with the pictures of us both in it and then showed them to Kathleen.”

  “From what we understand, that happened over a year and a half ago. Why didn’t Professor Lyons fire her then?”

  “He didn’t suspect her at the time, but only a few weeks ago he caught her in his study standing by while Kathleen rummaged through his desk. Rory claimed she couldn’t stop her, but Jonathan knew she was lying. On his way into the room he had heard her telling Kathleen that maybe there were more pictures of us in there.”

  Simon Benet’s face was impassive. “Again, why wouldn’t he fire her immediately?”

  “He wanted to talk to Mariah first. I gather they went through a couple of really indifferent caregivers who didn’t keep Kathleen clean and mixed up her medications. He dreaded going through that again.”

  Then, feeling more confident, Lillian added, “Jonathan was working up his courage to tell Mariah it was time to put her mother in a nursing home and for him to get on with his life with me.”

  She widened her eyes and looked directly at Simon Benet and then at Rita Rodriguez. They remained impassive. No sympathy there, she thought.

  “Where did you go that Monday night, Ms. Stewart?” Benet asked.

  “I was restless. I wanted to have dinner out. I didn’t want to be with anyone. I drove to a little restaurant in New Jersey.”

  “Where in New Jersey?”

  “In Montvale.” Lillian knew she had no way to avoid answering. “Jonathan and I used to go there together. The name is Aldo and Gianni.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About eight o’clock. You can check. They know me there.”

  “I know Aldo and Gianni. It’s not more than twenty minutes from Mahwah. And you just went there because you felt restless? Or was Professor Lyons planning to meet you there?”

  “No—I mean yes.” Watch out, Lillian thought, panicking. “We had prepaid phones to contact each other. He didn’t want any calls to show up on his cell phone or landline to or from me. I imagine you’ve found his somewhere. He had planned to slip out for dinner with me after the caregiver got Kathleen to bed, but then it turned out she was leaving, so there would be no one home with Kathleen and of course she couldn’t be left alone. So I had dinner myself and came home. I can show you my credit card receipt from the restaurant.”

  “What time did Professor Lyons call to say he couldn’t come?”

  “About five thirty, when he got home and learned that the caregiver would be leaving. I decided I’d go there anyway.”

  “Where is your prepaid phone, Ms. Stewart?” Rita asked, her voice warm.

  “When I heard that Jonathan was dead, I threw it in the garbage. I couldn’t bear to hear the sound of his voice again. You see, sometimes if he called and I couldn’t answer right away, I’d save the messages from him on it. You must have found his prepaid phone?”

  “Mrs. Stewart, what was your number, and what was his number?”

  Shocked at the question, Lillian thought quickly. “I don’t remember. Jon set it up so it went directly to him. We only used these phones for each other.”

  Neither detective visibly reacted to the answer. Simon Benet’s next question came out of the blue. “Ms. Stewart, we have learned that Professor Lyons may have been in possession of a valuable ancient parchment. It was not among his belongings. Do you have any information about that?”

  “A valuable parchment? He never said a word about that to me. Of course I know that Jonathan had been reviewing some documents that had been found in a church, but he never said anything about one of them being valuable.”

  “If he did have something valuable, are you surprised that he wouldn’t have shown it to you, or at least told you about it?”

  “You say Jonathan may have been in possession of a valuable parchment? You mean that you’re not sure he was? Because I truly believe he would have shared that with me.”

  “I see,” Benet answered crisply. “Let me ask you about something else. Professor Lyons was apparently a good marksman. He and his wife enjoyed going to a shooting range together, an activity that of course stopped when the signs of her dementia set in. Did you ever go to a shooting range with him?”

  Lillian knew there was no use lying. “Jonathan started taking me out to a range in Westchester shortly after we met.”

  “How often did you go?”

  They can check the records, Lillian thought. “About once a month.” A mental image of the certificate she had received for marksmanship was burned in her mind, and before they could ask, she added, “I’m a pretty good shot.” Then she burst out, “I don’t like the way you two are looking at me. I loved Jonathan. I will miss him every day for the rest of my life. I’m not answering one more question, not one. You arrested his crazy wife for killing him and you were right. He was afraid of her, you know.”

  The detectives stood up. “Maybe you would answer this question, Ms. Stewart. You didn’t like or trust the caregiver Rory, did you?”

  “That I’ll answer,” Lillian said heatedly. “She was a snake. She found those pictures and started all the trouble. Jonathan’s wife and daughter would never have suspected there was anything between us if it weren’t for her.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Stewart.”

  They were gone. Trembling, Lillian tried to replay what she had told them. Had they believed her? Maybe not. I need a lawyer, she thought wildly. I shouldn’t have talked to them without a lawyer.

  The phone rang. Afraid to pick it up and afraid not to pick it up, she reached for it. It was Richard, but the tone of his voice was not the one she was accustomed to hearing.

  “Lillian,” he said forcefully, “I haven’t been quite truthful with you and you certainly have been lying through your teeth to me. I saw the parchment. I know it is genuine. Jonathan told me he gave it to you for safekeeping. And that is what I am going to tell the police. I know you’ve had offers for it, but here’s the price of my silence. I will give you two million dollars for it. I want it and I will have it. Is that clear?”

  He did not wait for her response before breaking the connection.

  34

  On Tuesday morning at eleven A.M. Wally Gruber was brought before New York Judge Rosemary Gaughan for arraignment on charges of burglary and attempted theft. His round face was devoid of its usual friendly smile. His bulky body was garbed in an orange jail jumpsuit. His hands and legs were shackled.

  The assistant district attorney began. “Your Honor, Mr. Gruber is charged with burglary and attempted theft at the residence specified in the complaint. He has a prior conviction for burglary, for which he served a prison sentence. We submit that the evidence here is extremely strong. Mr. Gruber was caught by the police as he broke into the home. We further note that the police are investigating another burglary in New Jersey for which he may be responsible. He is employed as a parking attendant at a city garage and there is evidence that he has been placing GPS trackers on cars so that he may be aware of when people are not home. The recent New Jersey burglary involved a theft of over three million dollars in jewelry while the family was away on vacation. We have been informed that a GPS tracker similar to the one surreptitiously placed on the vehicle of the owner of the New York home has been discove
red on the vehicle of the owner of the New Jersey home. We anticipate criminal charges in New Jersey will be filed in the near future. I note further that the defendant is single and lives by himself in a studio apartment that he rents. Under all of these circumstances, we believe he is a high risk of flight and we request a two-hundred-thousand-dollar cash bail.”

  The defense attorney standing next to Wally, Joshua Schultz, then spoke. “First, Your Honor, Mr. Gruber is pleading not guilty. With respect to the district attorney’s request for bail, I submit that it is clearly excessive. As of right now, no charges in New Jersey have been filed. Mr. Gruber is a longtime resident of New York City and has every intention of appearing at all court proceedings. He is a man of very limited means. Mr. Gruber has indicated to me that if you allow him to use a bondsman, he can make a fifteen-thousand-dollar bail.”

  Judge Gaughan looked down from the bench. “While the defendant is absolutely presumed to be innocent, the district attorney has proffered what appears to be strong evidence in this case. Given his exposure to a long custodial term if convicted, I conclude that there is a substantial risk of flight. I will not allow a bond. Bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars, cash only. Of course, if criminal charges are filed in New Jersey, additional bail will be set by a judge in that jurisdiction.”

  Three hours later, unable to post bail, Wally was on his way to Rikers Island. As he was hustled into the van, he breathed in the first hint of fall in the crisp breeze and compared it with the stale smell of the holding cell. I’ve got an ace in the hole, he reassured himself. They’ll have to make a deal with me. When they hear what I know, they’ll have to give me probation.

  He smirked. I can sit down with their composite guy and give them every detail of the face of the person who blew away that professor, he thought. But if they don’t want to play ball, I’ll call the old lady’s fancy lawyer and let him know I’m her ticket to go home.