Nighttime Is My Time Read online

  “Yes, he did that for a number of girls. He wanted to help them maintain their privacy. Jean, fifty years ago it wasn’t easy for a girl to have a baby out of wedlock. Do you know that the actress Ingrid Bergman was denounced in Congress when she gave birth to an illegitimate child? Standards of behavior change—for better or worse, you decide. Today most of the world doesn’t think a thing about an unmarried woman bearing and raising a child, but my husband was old-fashioned. Twenty years ago he was deeply concerned about protecting his young pregnant mothers’ privacy, even with me. Until you told me, I never even knew that you had been his patient.”

  “But you did know about my parents.”

  Dorothy Conners looked at Jean for a long moment. “I knew they had problems. I also saw them at church and chatted with them a number of times. My guess, my dear, is that you only remember the bad times. They were also attractive, intelligent people who unfortunately were ill-suited to each other.”

  Jean felt the sting of a rebuke and in an odd way sensed that she had been put on the defensive. “I can guarantee you that they were ill-suited to each other,” she said, hoping that the anger she felt was not reflected in her voice. “Mrs. Connors, I do appreciate that you let me visit you on such short notice, but now I’ll be brief. My daughter may be in very real danger. I know that you fiercely guard Dr. Connors’ memory, but if you know anything about where he might have placed her, you owe it to me and to her to be honest with me.”

  “Before God, Edward never discussed patients in your situation with me, and I never heard your name mentioned by him.”

  “And he kept no records at home, and all his office records are gone?”

  “Yes, they are. The entire building was so totally destroyed that arson has always been suspected but never proved. Certainly no records survived.”

  Clearly Dorothy Connors could give her no help. Jean rose to go. “I remember that Peggy Kimball was the office nurse when I saw Dr. Connors. I’ve left a message for her and hope she’ll call me. Maybe she’ll know something. Thank you, Mrs. Connors. Please don’t get up. I’ll find my way out.”

  She offered her hand to Dorothy Connors and then was shocked to see that the expression on the other woman’s face could only be construed as extreme alarm.

  46

  Mark Fleischman checked into the Glen-Ridge House at one o’clock, dropped off his bag, phoned Jean’s room but got no answer, and then went down to the dining room. He was surprised and pleased to see Jean sitting alone at a corner table, and with quick strides, he hurried over to her.

  “Are you waiting for anyone, or would you like company?” he asked, then watched as the somber expression on her face was replaced by a warm smile.

  “Mark, I didn’t expect to see you! Of course, sit down. I was just about to order lunch, and nobody’s planning to join me.”

  “Then consider yourself joined.” He settled on the chair opposite her. “I put my briefcase with my cell phone in the trunk of the car by mistake,” he said, “so I didn’t get your message till I unpacked last night. I called the hotel early this morning, and the operator told me that Laura wasn’t back and that the police were checking phone records. That’s when I decided to rearrange my schedule and come back. I flew down and rented a car.”

  “That was very nice of you,” Jean said sincerely. “We’re all terribly worried about Laura.” Quickly she gave him a rundown of what had transpired since he had left after the brunch the day before.

  “You say you came back to the hotel with Sam Deegan, that man you were having a drink with the other night, and when you knew Laura was missing, he began an investigation?” Mark queried.

  “Yes,” Jean said, realizing she had awakened Mark’s curiosity as to why Sam Deegan had been with her in the first place. “Sam followed me to the hotel because I was giving him something that our friend Alice Sommers is interested in seeing.”

  Alice is interested in seeing the faxes, she told herself, so it’s not a complete fabrication. Looking across the table at Mark and seeing the concern in his eyes made her want to tell him about Lily, to ask him as a psychiatrist if he thought the threats were genuine, or whether someone was only setting her up for blackmail.

  “Ready for menus?” the waitress chirped.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  They both decided on a club sandwich and tea. “Coffee for breakfast, tea for lunch, and a glass of wine to start dinner,” Mark said. “I’ve noticed that seems to be your routine, too, Jeannie.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I’ve noticed a lot of things about you this weekend, and they reminded me of the years we were at Stonecroft.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, you always were very smart in school. You were also very quiet. And I remember that you were very sweet—that hasn’t changed. Then I thought about one time during the freshman year when I was really down and you were very kind to me.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “I won’t go into it, but you were, and I also admired the way you held your head high when you were upset about your parents.”

  “Not always.” Jean cringed inwardly, remembering the times she had started crying in class from the stress of the arguments at home.

  It was as though he could read her mind, Jean realized, as Mark Fleischman continued. “I tried to hand you my handkerchief one day when you were upset, but you just shook your head and dabbed furiously at your eyes with a soggy Kleenex. I wanted to help you then, and I want to help you now. Coming from the airport I heard on the radio that the reporter kid who hounded us at the reunion is talking to the media about what he calls ‘The Lunch Table Serial Killer.’ Even if you’re not worried about that possibility, I am. And with Laura missing, you’re the only one of those girls left.”

  “I wish I was just worried about myself,” Jean said.

  “Then what are you worried about? Come on, Jean, tell me. I am trained to spot stress in people, and if I’ve seen anyone under stress, it was you the other night when you were talking to Sam Deegan, who you now tell me is an investigator from the district attorney’s office.”

  The busboy was pouring water into their glasses. It gave Jean a moment to think. I do remember when Mark wanted to give me his handkerchief, she thought. I was so angry at myself for crying, and equally angry at him for noticing. He wanted to help me then. He wants to help me now. Should I tell him about Lily?

  She saw him studying her and knew he was waiting her out. He wants me to talk to him. Should I? She looked directly back at him. He’s one of those men who looks as good with glasses as without them, she thought. He has wonderful brown eyes. Those little specks of yellow in them are like sunlight.

  She shrugged and raised her eyebrows. “You remind me of a professor I had in college who, when he asked a question, would just stare at you until he got an answer.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing, Jean. One of my patients calls it my wise owl look.”

  The waitress came to the table with the sandwiches. “Right back with your tea,” she said cheerfully.

  Jean waited until the tea was poured, then said quietly, “Your wise owl look has convinced me, Mark. I guess I will tell you about Lily.”

  47

  Sam Deegan’s first act upon arriving at his office was to call the district attorney in Los Angeles and ask to be put in touch with Carmen Russo, the investigator who had headed the inquiry into the death of Alison Kendall.

  “Death by accidental drowning was the determination, and we’re sticking by that,” Russo told him. “Her friends agree that she went for an early swim every morning. Door was open to the house, but nothing was taken. Pricey jewelry on top of her vanity. Five hundred dollars cash and credit cards in her wallet. She was extremely neat. Nothing out of place anywhere in the house, on the grounds, or in the pool house. Except for being dead, she was in perfect health. Her heart was strong. No sign of alcohol or drugs.”

  “Any suggestion at all of
violence?” Sam asked.

  “A slight bruise on her shoulder, but that was it. Without more evidence, it’s not enough to suggest that it was a homicide. We took photographs, of course, but then released the body.”

  “Yes, I know. Her ashes are buried here in the family plot,” Sam said. “Thanks, Carmen.” He realized he was reluctant to break the connection. “What is going on with her home?”

  “Her parents live in Palm Springs. They’re up in years. From what I understand, they have Kendall’s housekeeper still taking care of the place until they can bring themselves to have an estate sale. They can’t be hungry for money. In that location the house has to be worth a couple of million bucks.”

  Discouraged, Sam hung up the phone. His every instinct told him that Alison Kendall had not died a natural death. By pointing out that the five dead women from the same class at Stonecroft had shared the same lunch table, Jake Perkins had latched onto something. Sam was sure of it. But if Kendall’s death hadn’t raised suspicion, how much luck would he have in trying to establish a pattern of murder with the four others who had died over a stretch of nearly twenty years?

  His phone rang—it was Rich Stevens, the district attorney. “Sam, thanks to that bigmouth Perkins, we’ve had to call a press conference to make some kind of statement. Come on in here, and we’ll figure out what to say.”

  Five minutes later, in Stevens’ office, they debated the best way to defuse the media onslaught. “We believe we may have a serial killer. We’ve got to make this guy feel secure,” Sam argued. “We tell it like it is. Alison Kendall’s death was the result of accidental drowning. Even knowing that four other women who were once close friends have died, the Los Angeles police find nothing suspicious about her death. Laura Wilcox phoned the hotel to say her plans were indefinite. It is nothing more than a matter of conjecture on the part of a hotel employee that she sounded nervous. She is an adult with the right to privacy and should be treated as such. We are making inquiries into the deaths of the other women who shared the lunch table years ago, but it is obvious the accidents that claimed their lives—or, in the case of Gloria Martin, her suicide—indicate no pattern that suggests a serial killer.”

  “I think a statement like this makes us look pretty damn naïve,” Rich Stevens said flatly.

  “I want us to look naïve,” Sam shot back. “I want whoever is out there to think we’re a bunch of dopes. If Laura is still alive, I don’t want him to panic before we have a chance to save her.”

  There was a tap at the door. One of the young new investigators on the staff was obviously excited. “Sir, we’re going through the student personnel folders of the Stonecroft graduates who attended the reunion and may have something on one of them, Joel Nieman.

  “What about him?” Stevens asked.

  “When he was a senior, he was questioned about the fact that Alison Kimball’s locker was tampered with. The screws had been removed from the hinges so that when she opened the door, it fell on her and knocked her down. She suffered a mild concussion.”

  “Why was he questioned?” Sam asked.

  “Because he was really upset about something she had written in the school newspaper. The senior year school play was Romeo and Juliet. Nieman had the part of Romeo, and Kendall wrote something really nasty about him not being able to remember his lines. He prided himself on memorizing Shakespeare, and went around the school saying what he’d like to do to her. He told everybody the problem had been a couple of seconds of stage fright and was not a case of him forgetting lines. Right after that, she got bowled over by the locker door.

  “There’s other stuff, too. He has a lousy temper and has been hauled in after a couple of bar fights. He was almost indicted last year for some imaginative accounting practices, and his wife is away most of the time, like right now.”

  Monsignor Dillon and I both caught the fact that the guy who’s contacting Jean about Lily quoted an obscure sonnet from Shakespeare, Sam thought.

  He stood up. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?”

  As Rich Stevens and the young investigator stared at him, Sam said, “That’s exactly what I’m going to find out right now. Then we’ll see what other lines from Shakespeare Joel Nieman might be able to quote for us.”

  48

  At six-thirty The Owl returned to the house and crept up the stairs. This time Laura had obviously sensed his presence or had anticipated that he would be visiting, because when he entered the room and turned the flashlight on her, he could see that she was already trembling.

  “Hello, Laura,” he whispered. “Are you glad I’m back?”

  Her breathing was harsh and shallow. He watched as she tried to shrink back against the mattress.

  “Laura, you must answer me. Here, let me loosen the tape. Better than that, I’ll take it off. I brought you something to eat. Now, are you glad I’m back?”

  “Ye-yes, I’m glad,” she whispered.

  “Laura, you’re stuttering. I’m surprised at you. You ridicule people who stutter. Show me how you ridicule them. No, never mind. I can’t stay too long. I brought you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk. You used to eat that every day in grammar school. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes . . . yes.”

  “I’m glad you remember. It’s important that we don’t forget the past. Now I’ll allow you to use the bathroom. Then you may eat your sandwich and drink the milk.”

  With a quick gesture he pulled her to a sitting position and cut the cords on her wrists. The movement was so fast that Laura swayed and reached out her hand. Inadvertently she grasped The Owl’s arm.

  He gasped with pain and clenched his fist, ready to strike her, but then he stopped. “You couldn’t have known that my arm is very sore, so I must not hold it against you. But never touch that arm again. Understand?”

  Laura nodded.

  “Stand up. After you have visited the bathroom, I will permit you to sit in the chair and eat.”

  With tentative, unsteady steps, Laura obeyed. The night light in the bathroom made it possible for her to see the taps on the sink and turn them on. With a hurried gesture she splashed water on her face and hands and smoothed back her hair. If I can only stay alive, she thought. They’ve got to be looking for me. Please God, let them be looking for me.

  The handle of the bathroom door turned. “Laura, it’s time.”

  Time! Was he going to kill her now? God . . . please . . .

  The door opened. The Owl pointed to the chair beside the dresser. Silently, Laura shuffled over to it and sat down.

  “Go ahead,” he urged. “Start to eat.” He picked up the flashlight and directed the light on her neck so that he could watch her expression without blinding her. He was pleased to see that she was crying again.

  “Laura, you’re so afraid, aren’t you? And I bet you’re wondering how I knew that you ridiculed me. Let me tell you a story. Twenty years ago this weekend a bunch of us were home from our different colleges and got together one night. There was a party. Now, as you know, I was never part of the crowd, of the inner circle. Far from it, in fact. But for some reason I was invited to that party, and you were there. Lovely Laura. That night you were sitting on the lap of your latest conquest, Dick Gormley, our erstwhile baseball star. I was eating my heart out, Laura, that’s how much of a crush I still had on you.

  “Alison was at the party, of course. Quite drunk. She came over to me. I never liked her. Frankly, I was afraid of that tongue of hers—razor-sharp when she turned it on you. She reminded me that early in senior year I had had the temerity to ask you to go on a date. ‘You . . .’ she said with a sneer and laughed. ‘The owl asking Laura out.’ And then Alison demonstrated for me how you mimicked me when we were in the second-grade school play. ‘I am annnnnn . . .ow . . .owwwlll . . .and . . .and . . .I . . . live . . .in . . .a . . .a . . .’

  “Laura, your imitation of me must have been superb. Alison assured me that the girls at your lunch table screamed with
laughter every time they thought of it. And then you reminded them that I had been dopey enough to wet my pants onstage before I ran off. You even told them that.”

  Laura had been taking bites of the sandwich. Now he watched as she dropped it onto her lap. “I’m sorry . . ..”

  “Laura, you still don’t understand that you have lived twenty years too long. Let me tell you about it. The night of that party, I was drunk, too. I was so drunk that I forgot you had moved. I came here that night to kill you. I knew where your family kept the extra key under that fake rabbit in the backyard. The new people kept it there, too. I came into this house and up to this room. I saw the flow of hair on the pillow and thought it was you. Laura, I made a mistake when I stabbed Karen Sommers. I was killing you, Laura. I was killing you!

  “The next morning I woke up vaguely remembering that I’d been here. Then I found out what had happened and realized that I was famous.” The Owl’s voice became rushed with excitement at the memory. “I didn’t know Karen Sommers. No one even dreamed of connecting me to her, but that mistake liberated me. That morning I understood that I have the power of life and death. And I’ve been exercising it ever since. Ever since, Laura. Women all over the country.”

  He stood up. Laura’s eyes were wide with fear; her mouth hung open; the sandwich lay in her lap. He leaned toward her. “Now I have to go, but think about me, Laura. Think how lucky you have been to have enjoyed a bonus twenty years of life.”

  In savagely quick movements, he tied her hands, taped her mouth, pulled her up from the chair, pushed her back on the bed, and fastened the long rope over her body.

  “It began in this room, and it will end in this room, Laura,” he said. “The final stage of the plan is about to unfold. Try to guess what it might be.”

  He was gone. Outside the moon was rising, and from the bed Laura could see the faint outline of the cell phone on top of the dresser.