Nighttime Is My Time Page 20

  Alarmed, Sam hastened to calm Stevens. “Wait, Rich,” he said. “The press does not know about Dr. Sheridan’s daughter or the threats to her. We can’t let that out now.”

  “I’m aware of that, Sam,” Rich Stevens snapped. “We’re only going to refer to the publicity stunt that Wilcox confessed to in that last fax.” He handed Sam the file on his desk. “Photos of the crime scene,” he explained. “Take a look at them. Joy was the first one of our people to get there after the call came in. I know the rest of you have heard this already, but, Joy, fill Sam in on the victim and what the neighbor told you.”

  There were four other investigators in addition to Sam and Eddie Zarro in the district attorney’s office. Joy Lacko, the only woman in the group, had been an investigator for less than a year, but Sam had enormous respect for her intelligence and ability to extract information from shocked or grief-stricken witnesses.

  “The victim, Yvonne Tepper, was sixty-three years old, divorced, with two grown sons, both of whom are married and live in California.” Joy had her notebook in her hand but did not consult it as she looked directly at Sam. “She owned her own hairdressing salon, was very well liked, and apparently had no enemies. Her former husband has remarried and lives in Illinois.” She paused. “Sam, all of this is probably irrelevant, given the pewter owl we found in Tepper’s pocket.”

  “No fingerprints on it, I assume?” Sam queried.

  “No fingerprints. We know it has to be the same guy who grabbed Helen Whelan Friday night.”

  “What neighbor did you talk to?”

  “Actually, everyone on the block, but the one who knows anything is the one Tepper had been visiting and had probably just left when she was waylaid. Her name is Rita Hall. Tepper and she were close friends. Tepper had brought some cosmetics from her salon for Mrs. Hall and ran over with them when she got home last night, sometime after ten o’clock. The two women visited for a while and watched the eleven o’clock news together. Hall’s husband, Matthew, had already gone to bed. Incidentally, this morning he was the first person to reach Bessie Koch, the woman who found the body and was blowing the horn of her car to get help. He was smart enough to tell the other neighbors to keep away from the body and to call 911.”

  “Did Yvonne Tepper leave Mrs. Hall’s house directly after the news was over?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. Mrs. Hall walked her to the door and stepped out onto the porch with her. She remembered that she wanted to tell Tepper something she’d heard about a former neighbor. She said they didn’t stand there longer than a minute and that the overhead light was on, so they could have been seen. She said she noticed a car slow down and pull over to the curb, but she didn’t think anything of it. Apparently the people across the street have teenagers who are always coming and going.”

  “Does Mrs. Hall remember anything about the car?” Sam asked.

  “Only that it was a medium-sized sedan, either dark blue or black. Mrs. Hall went back into her house and closed the door, and Mrs. Tepper cut across the lawn to the sidewalk.”

  “My guess is that she was dead less than a minute later,” Rich Stevens said. “The motive wasn’t robbery. Her handbag was on the sidewalk. She had two hundred bucks in her wallet and was wearing a diamond ring and diamond earrings. The only thing that guy wanted to do was kill her. He grabbed her, pulled her onto her own lawn, strangled her, left her body behind a bush, and drove away.”

  “He stayed long enough to drop the owl in her pocket,” Sam observed.

  Rich Stevens looked from one to the other of his investigators. “I’ve been turning over in my head whether or not to release the information about the owl to the papers. Maybe someone would know something about a guy who’s obsessed with owls or possibly keeps them as a hobby.”

  “You can imagine what a field day the media would have if they knew about the owl being left in the victims’ pockets,” Sam said quickly. “If this nut is on an ego trip, and I think he is, we’ll be feeding him what he wants, to say nothing about the possibility of setting a copycat killer loose.”

  “And it’s not as though we’d be warning women by releasing that bit of information,” Joy Lacko pointed out. “He leaves the owl after he kills his victim, not before.”

  At the end of the meeting it was agreed that the best course of action was to warn women against being alone on the street after dark and to acknowledge that evidence pointed to the fact that both Helen Whelan and Yvonne Tepper had been murdered by the same unknown person or persons.

  As they got up to go, Joy Lacko said quietly, “What scares me is that right now some perfectly innocent woman is going about her business, not realizing that in the next few days, just because she happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when that guy comes cruising by, her life will be over.”

  “I am not conceding that yet,” Rich Stevens said sharply.

  I am, Sam thought. I am.

  64

  On Wednesday morning, Jake Perkins attended his scheduled classes, with the exception of the creative writing seminar, which he felt he was more equipped to teach than the current instructor. Just before the lunch break, in his capacity as a reporter for the Stonecroft Gazette, he went into the office of President Downes for his scheduled interview, in which Downes was supposed to give his comments on the glorious success of the reunion.

  Alfred Downes, however, was clearly not in good temper. “Jake, I realize I had promised you this time, but actually it’s quite inconvenient now.”

  “I can understand, sir,” Jake responded soothingly. “I guess you’ve seen on the news that the district attorney may press criminal charges against two of our Stonecroft honorees because of this publicity hoax.”

  “I am aware of that,” Downes said, his voice icy.

  If Jake noticed the frosty tone, he did not show it. “Do you think that all this adverse publicity reflects badly on Stonecroft Academy?” he asked.

  “I would think that’s obvious, Jake,” Downes snapped. “If you’re going to waste my time asking stupid questions, then get out of here now.”

  “I don’t mean to ask stupid questions,” Jake said quickly, his tone apologetic. “What I was leading up to is that at the dinner, Robby Brent gave a check for ten thousand dollars to our school. In light of his actions of the last few days, are you inclined to return that donation to him?”

  It was a question that he was sure would make President Downes squirm. He knew how much Downes wanted a new addition to the school to be built during his term as president. It was common knowledge that, while Jack Emerson had dreamed up this reunion, along with the idea of the honorees, Alfred Downes had been delighted by the concept of it. It meant publicity for the school, a chance to show off the successful graduates—the message being, of course, that they learned everything they needed to know at good old Stonecroft—and it would also be a chance to wring donations from them and other alumni at the reunion.

  Now the media were speculating about the eerie coincidence of five women from the same lunch table who had died since they graduated from Stonecroft, and Jake knew that wouldn’t make anyone want to send their kids there. And now the Laura Wilcox and Robby Brent publicity scheme was another blow to the prestige of the school. His face set in earnest lines, his red hair sticking up even more than usual, Jake said, “Dr. Downes, as you know, my deadline for the Gazette is coming up. I just need a quote from you about the reunion.”

  Alfred Downes looked at his student with near loathing. “I am preparing a statement, and you will have a copy of it by tomorrow morning, Jake.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.” Jake felt a measure of sympathy for the man sitting across the desk from him. He’s worried about his job, he thought. The board of trustees might give him the gate. They know Jack Emerson started the reunion fiasco because he owns the land they’ll have to buy for a new addition, and that Downes went along with it. “Sir, I was thinking—”

  “Don’t think, Jake. Just be on your way.”

 
“In a moment, sir, but please listen to this suggestion. I happen to know that Dr. Sheridan, Dr. Fleischman, and Gordon Amory are still at the Glen-Ridge and that Carter Stewart is staying across town at the Hudson Valley. Perhaps if you invited them to dinner and had some photos taken with them, it would be a way of putting Stonecroft back in a good light. Nobody could question any of their achievements, and pointing them out would offset the negative effect of the misconduct of the other two honorees.”

  Alfred Downes stared at Jake Perkins, thinking that in his thirty-five years of teaching he had never come across a student as nervy or as street-smart as he was. He leaned back in his chair and waited a long minute before responding. “When do you graduate, Jake?”

  “I’ll have enough credits by the end of this year, sir. As you know, every semester I’ve loaded up with extra classes. But my folks don’t think I’ll be ready to go off to college next year, so I’m happy to stay here and graduate with my class.”

  Jake looked at Dr. Downes and noted that he did not seem to share his happiness. “I have another idea for an article that you might like,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of research on Laura Wilcox. I mean, I’ve gone over back issues of the Gazette and the Cornwall Times for the years she was here, and, as the Times reported, she was always the belle of the ball. Her family had money; her parents doted on her. I’m going to do a feature article for the Gazette to show how, with all the advantages Laura Wilcox enjoyed, she’s the one who’s having a hard time now.”

  Jake sensed that he was about to be interrupted, so he rushed on. “I think an article like that will serve two purposes, sir. It will show the kids at Stonecroft that having all the advantages doesn’t guarantee success, and it will also show how the other honorees who had to struggle were better off for it. I mean, Stonecroft has both scholarship students and kids who work after school to help pay their tuition. That might motivate them, and besides, it looks good in print. The big-time media is looking for follow-up stories; it’s the kind of thing they might pick up.”

  Gazing at the picture of himself on the wall behind Jake’s head, Alfred Downes considered Jake’s reasoning. “It’s possible,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “I’m going to take pictures of the houses where Laura lived while she was growing up in Cornwall. The first one is empty now, but it was renovated recently and looks really good. The second house her family moved to on Concord Avenue is what I would call a tract mansion.”

  “A tract mansion?” Downes asked, bewildered.

  “You know, it’s one of a bunch of houses on one block that are too big or too ostentatious for the neighborhood. They’re sometimes called McMansions.”

  “I never heard either expression,” Downes said, more to himself than to Jake.

  Jake jumped to his feet. “Not important, sir. But I have to tell you, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of doing a story on Laura with her homes in the background and pictures of her when she was here at Stonecroft and later ones when she became famous. Now I’ll get out of your way, Dr. Downes. But maybe I should give you another piece of advice. If you can put that dinner together, I suggest you skip inviting Mr. Emerson. My impression is that none of the honorees can stand him.”

  65

  At ten o’clock Craig Michaelson received the call he had been expecting. “General Buckley is on the line,” his secretary announced.

  Craig picked up the phone. “Charles, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Craig,” a concerned voice answered. “But what about this matter of extreme urgency? What’s wrong?”

  Craig Michaelson drew in his breath. I should have known there was no way of beating around the bush with Charles, he thought. He didn’t get to be a three-star general for no reason. “First of all, it may not be as worrisome as I thought,” he said, “but I consider it a matter of genuine concern. As you probably suspected, it’s about Meredith. Yesterday, Dr. Jean Sheridan came to see me. Have you ever heard of her?”

  “The historian? Yes. Her first book was about West Point. I enjoyed it very much, and I believe I’ve read all her subsequent books. She’s a good writer.”

  “She’s more than that,” Craig Michaelson said bluntly. “She’s Meredith’s natural mother, and I have called you because of something that she has brought to my attention.”

  “Jean Sheridan is Meredith’s mother!”

  General Charles Buckley listened intently as Michaelson told him what he knew of Jean Sheridan’s history and of the Stonecroft reunion and the perceived threat to Meredith. He interrupted only occasionally, to clarify what he was hearing. Then he said, “Craig, as you know, Meredith is aware that she is adopted. Since she was a teenager, she has expressed interest in finding her natural mother. At the time you and Dr. Connors arranged the adoption, you told us that her father had been killed in an accident prior to his college graduation and her mother was an eighteen-year-old about to go to college on a scholarship. Meredith knows that much.”

  “Jean Sheridan is aware that I am revealing her identity to you. What I did not tell you twenty years ago is that Meredith’s natural father was a cadet who died in a hit-and-run accident on the grounds of West Point. It would have made it too easy for you to determine who he was.”

  “A cadet! No, you didn’t tell me that.”

  “His name was Carroll Reed Thornton, Jr.”

  “I know his father,” Charles Buckley said quietly. “Carroll never got over his son’s death. I can’t believe that he is Meredith’s grandfather.”

  “Trust me, he is, Charles. Now, Jean Sheridan is so relieved to believe that Laura Wilcox was the one contacting her about Lily, as she had called Meredith, that she’s willing to accept this last fax with Laura’s supposed apology as gospel. I don’t.”

  “I can’t imagine where Meredith would have met Laura Wilcox,” Charles Buckley said slowly.

  “Exactly my reaction. And there’s something else. If Laura Wilcox is on the level about being behind these threats, I can tell you right now that the district attorney in this county is going to prosecute her.”

  “Is Jean Sheridan still in Cornwall?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s going to wait in the Glen-Ridge House until she hears from Laura again.”

  “I’m going to phone Meredith and ask her if she ever met Laura Wilcox and if she remembers where she left that hairbrush. There are meetings here at the Pentagon that I can’t get out of today, but Gano and I will fly up to Cornwall tomorrow morning. Will you contact Jean Sheridan and say that her daughter’s adoptive parents would like to meet her for dinner tomorrow evening?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t want to alarm Meredith, but I can ask her to promise me that she won’t go outside the West Point grounds until we see her on Friday.”

  “Can you count on her keeping that promise?”

  For the first time since they had begun speaking, Craig Michaelson heard his good friend General Charles Buckley sound relaxed. “Of course I can. I may be her father, but I’m also way up there in the chain of command. Now we know that Meredith is an army brat in both her natural and adoptive families, but remember, she’s also a West Point cadet. When she gives her word to a senior officer, she doesn’t break it.”

  I hope you’re right, Craig Michaelson thought. “Let me know what she tells you, Charles.”

  “Of course.”

  An hour later General Charles Buckley called back. “Craig,” he said, his voice troubled, “I’m afraid you’re right to be skeptical about that fax. Meredith is absolutely certain that she never met Laura Wilcox, and she doesn’t have the vaguest idea where she lost that hairbrush. I would have pressed her more, but she has a big exam in the morning and is terribly worried about it, so it absolutely wasn’t the time to upset her. She’s delighted that her mother and I”—he hesitated, then continued firmly—“that her mother and I are coming up to see her. Over the weekend, if all works out, we’ll tell her about Jean Sheridan and give them a chance
to meet each other. I asked Meredith to promise me to stay at the Academy until we saw her, and she laughed at me. She said she has another test on Friday and so much studying to do that she won’t see the light of day until Saturday morning. But she did make the promise.”

  It sounds okay, Craig Michaelson thought as he replaced the receiver, but the cold hard fact is that Laura Wilcox did not send that fax, and Jean Sheridan has got to be made aware of that.

  For easy access, he had placed Jean’s card directly under the phone on his desk. He reached for it, picked up the phone, and started to dial Jean’s number. Then he broke the connection. She wasn’t the one to call, he decided. She had given him the number of that investigator from the district attorney’s office. Where was it? What was his name? he wondered.

  After a moment of rummaging around on the top of his desk, he saw the notation he had made: Sam Deegan, followed by a phone number. That’s what I want, Michaelson thought, and he began to dial.

  66

  Last night—or was it this morning? she wondered—he had thrown a blanket over her. “You’re cold, Laura,” he said. “There’s no need for that. I’ve been thoughtless.”

  He’s being kind, Laura thought dully. He even brought jam with the roll and remembered that she liked skim milk in her coffee. He was so calm, she almost relaxed.

  That was what she wanted to remember, not what he had told her as she sat in the chair, sipping the coffee, her legs still bound but her hands free.

  “Laura, I wish you could understand the feeling I get when I’m driving along the quiet streets, watching for my prey. There is an art to it, Laura. Never drive too slowly. A patrol car watching for speeders is just as likely to pounce on the car that is not moving at an appropriate pace as one that’s going too fast. You see people who know they’ve had too much to drink make the mistake of inching along the road, a sure sign that they don’t trust their own judgment, and a sure sign to the police, too.