Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall Page 15

  police car came racing the wrong way up the block. He tried to

  pull out, but the squad car cut him off. A cop, his hand on the

  butt of his pistol, jumped out.

  The cop yanked open the door, reached in and pulled out the

  ignition key. "Well, Dannyboy," he said. "You're still at it, right?

  Don't you never learn any new tricks?"

  THE plane circled over Newark. The descent was bumpy. Chris

  glanced at Joan. She was holding his hand tightly, but he knew it

  had nothing to do with flying. Her face was composed.

  "Chris," she'd said, "I can't bear thinking that Vangie committed

  suicide because of me. Don't worry about dragging me into this.

  Tell the truth; don't hold anything back."

  If they ever got through this, they'd have a good life together.

  Joan was a woman. He still had so much to learn about her. He

  hadn't even realized he could trust her with the simple truth.

  Maybe because he'd gotten so used to shielding Vangie.

  They were silent as the plane taxied to the gate. Inside, Chris

  was not surprised to see two detectives waiting for him—the

  same two who had been at the house after he found Vangie.

  MOLLY settled back as the orchestra began the overture to

  Otello. Bill was already totally absorbed, but she couldn't relax.

  She glanced around. The Met was packed as usual. Overhead the

  twinkling chandeliers began to fade into darkness.

  At the first intermission she'd phone Katie. She should have insisted

  on going to see her in the hospital tonight. But she'd be

  there in the morning before the operation and make sure Katie

  wasn't too nervous.

  The first act seemed interminable. Finally intermission came,

  and Molly hurried to a phone.

  A few minutes later, white-lipped, she rushed to Bill. Half sobbing,

  she grabbed his arm. "Something's wrong. The hospital

  wouldn't put the call through to Katie's room. They said the doctor

  forbade calls. I got the desk and insisted the, nurse check on

  Katie. She just came back. She's a kid, she's hysterical. Katie's not

  in her room. Katie's missing."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EDGAR Highley had left Katie's room with a smile of satisfaction

  on his face. The pills were working. The cut on her finger proved

  that her blood was no longer clotting.

  He went down to the second floor and stopped in to see Mrs.

  Aldrich. The baby was in a crib by her bed. Her husband was with

  her. Dr. Highley smiled, then bent over the child. "A handsome

  specimen," he proclaimed. "I don't think we'll trade him in."

  He knew his humor was heavy-handed, but sometimes it was

  necessary. These people were important. Delano Aldrich could

  direct thousands of dollars of research funds to Westlake.

  Delano Aldrich was staring at his son, his face a study in awe

  and admiration. "Doctor, we still can't believe it. Everyone else

  said we'd never have a child."

  "Everyone else was obviously wrong." Her anxiety had been

  the main problem. Fukhito had spotted that. Muscular dystrophy

  in her father's family. She knew she might be a carrier. And she

  had some fibroid cysts. He'd taken care of the cysts and she'd become

  pregnant. Then he'd done an early test of the amniotic fluid

  and had been able to reassure her on the dystrophy question. Still,

  she was highly emotional. She'd had two miscarriages over ten

  years ago, so he'd put her to bed two months before the birth. And

  it had worked.

  "I'll stop by in the morning." These people would be witnesses

  for him if there were any questions about Katie DeMaio's death.

  But there shouldn't be any questions. The dropping blood

  pressure was a matter of hospital record. The emergency operation

  would take place in the presence of the top nurses on the staff.

  He'd ask the emergency-room surgeon to assist. They'd tell the

  family that it had been impossible to stop the hemorrhaging.

  Leaving the Aldriches, he went to the nurses' desk.

  "Nurse Renge."

  She stood up quickly, her hands fluttering nervously.

  "I am quite concerned about Mrs. DeMaio. I will be back right

  after dinner to see the lab report on her blood count. I would not

  be surprised if we have to operate tonight."

  He had made a point of speaking to several people in the lobby

  and then gone to the restaurant adjacent to the hospital grounds

  for dinner. He wanted to be able later to present the image of a

  conscientious doctor: Instead of going home, I had dinner next

  door and went back to the hospital to check on Mrs. DeMaio. At

  least we tried.

  At a quarter to eight he was in the restaurant ordering a steak.

  Katie had been given the sleeping pill at seven thirty. By eight

  thirty it would be safe to take the last necessary step. While he

  waited for his coffee to be served, he'd go up the back fire stairs of

  the hospital to the third floor. He'd give her a shot of heparin, the

  powerful anticoagulant that, combined with the pills, would send

  her blood pressure and blood count plummeting.

  He'd come back here and have his coffee, pay the bill and then

  return to the hospital. He'd take Nurse Renge up with him to

  check on Katie. Ten minutes later Katie would be in surgery.

  That would be the end of the danger. His bag had not shown

  up. It probably never would. He had eliminated the Salem threat.

  Edna had been buried this morning. The moccasin in her drawer

  would mean nothing to whoever disposed of her belongings.

  A terrible week. And so unnecessary if he'd been allowed to

  pursue his work openly. But now nothing would stand in his way.

  Someday he would receive the Nobel Prize. For contributions to

  medicine not imagined possible. Single-handedly he had solved

  the abortion problem and the sterility problem.

  "Did you enjoy your dinner, Doctor?" the waitress asked.

  "Very much indeed. I'd like cappuccino, please."

  "Certainly, Doctor, but that will take about ten minutes."

  "While you're getting it, I'll make some phone calls." He'd be

  gone less than ten minutes. The waitress wouldn't miss him.

  Slipping out the side door near the hallway with the telephones

  and rest rooms, he hurried across the parking lot. He kept in the

  shadows. He had his key to the fire exit at the rear of the maternity

  wing. No one ever used those stairs. He let himself in.

  The stairway was brightly lighted. He turned off the switch.

  He could find his way through this hospital blindfolded. At the

  third floor he opened the door and listened. There was no sound.

  Noiselessly he stepped into the hall. An instant later he was in

  the living room of Katie's suite.

  That had been another problem he'd anticipated. Suppose someone

  had accompanied her to the hospital—her sister, a friend? Suppose

  that person had asked to stay overnight on the sofa bed in

  the living room? By ordering the room repainted, he'd blocked

  that possibility. Planning. Planning. It was everything.

  That afternoon he had left the needle with the heparin in a

  drawer of an end tabl
e under the painter's drop cloth. A light

  from the parking lot filtered through the window, giving him

  enough visibility to find the table. He reached for the needle.

  Now for the most important moment of all. He was in the

  room, bending over her. The drapery was open. Faint light was

  coming into the room. Her breathing was uneven. She must be

  dreaming. He took her arm, slipped the needle in, squeezed. She

  winced and sighed. Her eyes, cloudy with sleep, opened as she

  turned her head. She looked up at him, puzzled. "Dr. Highley,"

  she murmured, "why did you kill Vangie Lewis?"

  SCOTT Myerson was more tired than angry. Since Vangie Lewis'

  body had been found Tuesday morning, two other people had

  died. Two very decent people—a hardworking receptionist who

  deserved a few years of freedom after caring for her aged parents,

  and a doctor who was making a real contribution to medicine.

  They had died because he had not moved fast enough. If only

  he had brought Chris Lewis in for questioning immediately, Edna

  Burns and Emmet Salem would be alive now.

  Scott couldn't wait for the chance to get to Lewis. He and his girl

  friend had landed at seven. They should be here by eight. Lewis

  was cool all right. Knew better than to run. Thought he could

  brazen it out. Knows it's all circumstantial. But circumstantial

  evidence can be a lot better than eyewitness testimony when properly

  presented in court.

  At seven fifty Richard walked into Scott's office. "I think we've

  uncovered a cesspool," he said, "and it's called the Westlake Maternity

  Concept."

  "If you're saying that the shrink was probably playing around

  with Vangie Lewis, I agree," Scott said.

  "That's not what I'm talking about," said Richard. "It's Highley

  I'm after. I think he's experimenting with his patients. I just spoke

  to the husband of one of them. He's been thinking that his wife

  agreed to artificial insemination without his permission. I think it

  goes beyond that. I think Highley is performing artificial insemination

  without his patients' knowledge."

  Scott snorted. "You think Highley would inject Vangie Lewis

  with the semen of an Oriental and expect to get away with it?"

  "Maybe he made a mistake."

  "Doctors don't make mistakes like that. Even allowing your

  theory to be true—and frankly, I don't buy it—that doesn't make

  him Vangie's murderer. Look, we'll investigate Westlake's ma

  ternity clinic. If we find any kind of violation there, we'll prosecute.

  But right now Chris Lewis is my first order of business."

  "Do this," Richard persisted. "Go back further with the check

  on Highley. I'm already looking into the malpractice suits against

  him. But Newsmaker said he was in Liverpool, in England, before

  he came here. Let's phone there and see what we can find."

  Scott shrugged. "Sure, go ahead." The buzzer on his desk

  sounded. He switched on the intercom. "Bring him in," he said.

  Leaning back in his chair, he looked at Richard. "The bereaved

  widower, Captain Lewis, is here with his paramour."

  DANNYBOY Duke sat in the precinct house miserably hunched

  forward in a chair. He was trembling and perspiring. In another

  thirty seconds he'd have gotten away. He'd be in his apartment

  now, feeling the blissful release of the fix. Instead, this steamy

  hell. "Give me a break," he whispered.

  The cops weren't impressed. "You give us a break, Danny.

  There's blood on this paperweight. Who'd you hit with it?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Danny said.

  "Sure you do. The doctor's bag was in your car. We know you

  stole it last night. The doorman at the Carlyle Hotel can identify

  you. But who'd you hit with that paperweight, Danny? And what

  about that shoe? Since when do you save beat-up shoes?"

  "It was in the bag," Danny said.

  The two detectives looked at each other. The younger one

  shrugged and turned to the newspaper on the desk behind him.

  The other dropped the file he had been examining back into the

  bag. "All right, Danny. We're calling Dr. Salem to find out just

  what he had in this bag. That'll settle it."

  The younger detective looked up from the paper. "Dr. Salem?"

  "Yeah. That's the name on the file. Oh, I see. The nameplate

  on the bag says Dr. Edgar Highley. Guess he had some other

  doctor's file."

  The younger detective came over to the table carrying the

  Daily News. He pointed to page three. "Salem's the doctor whose

  body was found at the Essex House last night."

  The police officers looked at Dannyboy with renewed interest.

  H E WATCHED KATIE'S EYES CLOSE, HER breathing become even.

  She'd fallen asleep again. The question about Vangie had come

  from her subconscious, triggered perhaps by a duplication of her

  mental state of Monday night. Suppose she asked it again in the

  operating room before they anesthetized her?

  He had to kill her before Nurse Renge made her check, in less

  than an hour. After the Coumadin pills she had taken, the heparin

  shot would further act to anticoagulate her blood. He had planned

  on several hours to complete the procedure. Now he couldn't

  wait. He had to give her a second shot immediately.

  He had heparin in his office. He'd have to go down the fire

  stairs to the parking lot, use the private door to his office, refill

  the hypodermic and come back up here. It would take at least five

  minutes. The waitress would question his absence from the table,

  but there was no help for that. Satisfied that Katie was asleep, he

  hurried from the room.

  THE technician in the Valley County forensic lab worked overtime

  on Friday evening. Dr. Carroll had asked him to compare

  all microscopic samples from the home of the presumed suicide

  Vangie Lewis with all microscopic samples from the home of the

  presumed accident victim Edna Burns.

  The technician had a superb instinct for microscopic evidence,

  a hunch factor that rarely failed him. He was particularly interested

  in loose hair, and he was fond of saving, "It's astonishing

  how much hair we are constantly shedding."

  Sifting the vacuum-bag contents from the Lewis home, he

  found many strands of the ash-blond hair of the victim. And he'd

  discovered a fair quantity of medium brown hair—undoubtedly

  the husband's. But there were also a number of silverish sandy

  hairs in the victim's bedroom. The length suggested that the hair

  was a man's. Some of the same strands were on the coat the victim

  had been wearing.

  And then the technician found the connection Richard Carroll

  had been seeking. Several sandy hairs with silver roots were

  clinging to the faded blue bathrobe of Edna Bums.

  The technician reached for the phone to call Dr. Carroll.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHE tried to wake up. There was a click; a door had closed. Someone

  had just been here. Her arm hurt. Dr. Highley. She dropped

  off. . . . What had she said to Dr. Highley? Katie woke up a few

  minutes later and remembere
d. The black car and the shiny

  spokes and the light on his glasses. She'd seen him put Vangie

  Lewis in his trunk Monday night. Dr. Highley had killed Vangie.

  And now he knew she knew about him. Why had she asked him

  that question? He'd be back. She had to get out of here. He was

  going to kill her too.

  Help. She needed help. Why was she so weak? Her finger was

  bleeding. The pills he had given her. Since she'd been taking

  them she'd been so sick. The pills were making her bleed.

  Oh, God, help me, please. The phone! Katie fumbled for it,

  knocked it over. She pulled it up by the cord, put the receiver to

  her ear. The line was dead.

  Highley had said the phone was being repaired. She pushed

  the bell for the nurse. The nurse would help her. But there was

  no click to indicate that the light was on outside her door. She

  was sure the signal wasn't lighting the nurse's panel either.

  She had to get out of here before Highley came back. Fighting

  waves of dizziness, she stood up. She'd go down to the second

  floor. There were people there—other patients, nurses.

  From nearby, a door closed. He was coming back. Frantically

  Katie looked at the open door to the corridor. He'd see her if she