Let Me Call You Sweetheart Page 4

  “Not a one, Kerry. Want to take me to Solari’s for lunch?”

  Kerry laughed. “I’d love to, but I have something else in mind. How long have you been here?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “Were you involved with the Reardon homicide about ten years ago, the one the media called the Sweetheart Murder?”

  “That was a biggie. No, I wasn’t on it, but as I remember it was pretty open and shut. Our Leader made his name on that one.”

  Kerry knew that Palumbo was not enamored of Frank Green. “Weren’t there several appeals?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah. They kept coming up with new theories. It seemed like it went on forever,” Palumbo replied.

  “I think the last appeal was turned down just a couple of years ago,” Kerry said, “but something has come up that has me curious about that case. Anyhow, the point is, I want you to go to the files at The Record and dig out everything they printed on the case.”

  She could picture Joe good-naturedly rolling his eyes.

  “For you, Kerry, sure. Anything. But why? That case is long gone.”

  “Ask me later.”

  Kerry’s lunch was a sandwich and coffee at her desk. At one-thirty Palumbo came in, carrying a bulging envelope. “As requested.”

  Kerry looked at him affectionately. Short, graying, twenty pounds overweight and with a ready smile, Joe had a disarmingly benevolent appearance that did not reflect his ability to instinctively home in on seemingly unimportant details. She had worked with him on some of her most important cases. “I owe you one,” she said.

  “Forget it, but I do admit I’m curious. What’s your interest in the Reardon case, Kerry?”

  She hesitated. Somehow at this point it didn’t seem right to talk about what Dr. Smith was doing.

  Palumbo saw her reluctance to answer. “Never mind. You’ll tell me when you can. See you later.”

  Kerry was planning to take the file home and begin to read it after dinner. But she could not resist pulling out the top clipping. I’m right, she thought. It was only a couple of years ago.

  It was a small item from page 32 of The Record, noting that Skip Reardon’s fifth appeal for a new trial had been turned down by the New Jersey Supreme Court, and that his attorney, Geoffrey Dorso, had vowed to find grounds for another appeal.

  Dorso’s quote was, “I’ll keep trying until Skip Reardon walks out of that prison exonerated. He’s an innocent man.”

  Of course, she thought, all lawyers say that.

  13

  For the second night in a row, Bob Kinellen dined with his client Jimmy Weeks. It had not been a good day in court. Jury selection still dragged along. They had used eight of their peremptory challenges. But careful as they were being in choosing this jury, it was obvious that the federal prosecutor had a strong case. It was almost certain that Haskell was going to cop a plea.

  Both men were somber over dinner.

  “Even if Haskell does plead, I think I can destroy him on the stand,” Kinellen assured Jimmy.

  “You think you can destroy him. That’s not good enough.”

  “We’ll see how it goes.”

  Weeks smiled mirthlessly. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Bob. It’s about time you got yourself a backup plan.”

  Bob Kinellen decided to let the remark pass. He opened the menu. “I’m meeting Alice at Arnott’s later. Were you planning to go?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t need any more of his introductions. You should know that. They’ve done me enough harm already.”

  14

  Kerry and Robin sat in companionable silence in the family room. Because of the chilly evening, they had decided to have the first fire of the season, which in their case meant turning on the gas jet and then pressing the button that sent flames shooting through the artificial logs.

  As Kerry explained to visitors, “I’m allergic to smoke. This fire looks real and gives off heat. In fact, it looks so real that my cleaning woman vacuumed up the fake ashes, and I had to go out and buy more.”

  Robin laid out her change-of-season pictures on the coffee table. “What a terrific night,” she said with satisfaction, “cold and windy. I should get the rest of the pictures soon. Bare trees, lots of leaves on the ground.”

  Kerry was seated in her favorite roomy armchair, her feet on a hassock. She looked up. “Don’t remind me of the leaves. I get tired.”

  “Why don’t you get a leaf blower?”

  “I’ll give you one for Christmas.”

  “Funny. What are you reading, Mom?”

  “Come here, Rob.” Kerry held up a newspaper clipping with a picture of Suzanne Reardon. “Do you recognize that lady?”

  “She was in Dr. Smith’s office yesterday.”

  “You’ve got a good eye, but it’s not the same person.” Kerry had just begun reading the account of Suzanne Reardon’s murder. Her body had been discovered at midnight by her husband, Skip Reardon, a successful contractor and self-made millionaire. He had found her lying on the floor in the foyer of their luxurious home in Alpine. She had been strangled. Sweetheart roses were scattered over her body.

  I must have read about that back then, Kerry thought. It certainly must have made an impression on me, to bring on those dreams.

  It was twenty minutes later when she read the clipping that made her gasp. Skip Reardon had been charged with the murder after his father-in-law, Dr. Charles Smith, had told the police that his daughter lived in fear of her husband’s insane attacks of jealousy.

  Dr. Smith was Suzanne Reardon’s father! My God, Kerry thought. Is that why he’s giving her face to other women? How bizarre. How many of them has he done that to? Is that why he made that speech to me and Robin about preserving beauty?

  “What’s the matter, Mom? You look funny,” Robin said.

  “Nothing. Just interested in a case.” Kerry looked at the clock on the mantel. “Nine o’clock, Rob. You’d better pack it in. I’ll come up in a minute to say good night.”

  As Robin gathered her pictures, Kerry let the papers she was holding fall into her lap. She had heard of cases in which parents could not recover from the death of a child, where they had left the child’s room unchanged, the clothes still in the closet, just as the child had left them. But to “re-create” her and do it over and over? That went beyond grief, surely.

  Slowly she stood up and followed Robin upstairs. After she kissed her daughter good night, she went into her own room, changed into pajamas and a robe, then went back downstairs, made a cup of cocoa and continued to read.

  The case against Skip Reardon did seem open and shut. He admitted that he and Suzanne had quarreled at breakfast the morning of her death. In fact, he admitted that in the preceding days they had fought almost continually. He admitted that he had come home at six o’clock that evening and found her arranging roses in a vase. When he asked her where they came from, she had told him it was none of his business who sent them. He said he had then told her that whoever sent them was welcome to her, that he was getting out. Then he claimed he had gone back to his office, had a couple of drinks, fallen asleep on the couch and returned home at midnight, to find her body.

  There had been no one, however, to corroborate what he said. The file contained part of the trial transcript, including Skip’s testimony. The prosecutor had hammered at him until he became confused and seemed to be contradicting himself. He had not made a very convincing witness, to say the least.

  What a terrible job his lawyer had done in preparing him to testify, Kerry thought. She didn’t doubt that, with the prosecutor’s strong circumstantial case, it was imperative that Reardon take the stand to deny that he had killed Suzanne. But it was obvious that Frank Green’s scathing cross-examination had completely unnerved him. There’s no question, she thought, Reardon had helped to dig his own grave.

  The sentencing had taken place six weeks after the trial ended. Kerry had actually gone in to witness it. Now she thought back to that day. She remembered Re
ardon as a big, handsome redhead who looked uncomfortable in his pin-striped suit. When the judge asked him if he wanted to say anything before sentence was passed, he had once again protested his innocence.

  Geoff Dorso had been with Reardon that day, serving as assistant counsel to Reardon’s defense lawyer. Kerry knew him slightly. In the ten years since then, Geoff had built a solid reputation as a criminal defense lawyer, although she didn’t know him firsthand. She had never argued against him in court.

  She came to the newspaper clipping about the sentencing. It included a direct quote from Skip Reardon: “I am innocent of the death of my wife. I never hurt her. I never threatened her. Her father, Dr. Charles Smith, is a liar. Before God and this court, I swear he is a liar.”

  Despite the warmth from the fire, she shivered.

  15

  Everyone knew, or thought they knew, that Jason Arnott had family money. He had lived in Alpine for fifteen years, ever since he had bought the old Halliday house, a twenty-room mansion on a crest of land that afforded a splendid view of Palisades Interstate Park.

  Jason was in his early fifties, of average height, with scant brown hair, weathered eyes and a trim figure. He traveled extensively, talked vaguely of investments in the Orient and loved beautiful things. His home, with its exquisite Persian carpets, antique furniture, fine paintings and delicate objets d’art, was a feast for the eyes. A superb host, Jason entertained lavishly and was, in return, besieged with invitations from the great, the near great and the merely rich.

  Erudite and witty, Jason claimed a vague relationship with the Astors of England, although most assumed this affectation was a figment of his imagination. They knew he was colorful and a little mysterious and totally engaging.

  What they didn’t know was that Jason was a thief. What no one ever seemed to piece together was that after a decent interval, virtually all of the homes he visited were burglarized by someone with a seemingly infallible method of bypassing security systems. Jason’s only requirement was that he be able to carry away the spoils of his escapades. Art, sculpture, jewelry and tapestries were his favorites. Only a few times in his long career had he looted the entire contents of an estate. Those episodes had involved an elaborate system of disguises and importing renegade moving men to load the van that was now in the garage of his secret dwelling in a remote area in the Catskills.

  There he had yet another identity, known to his widely scattered neighbors as a recluse who had no interest in socializing. No one other than the cleaning woman and an occasional repairman was ever invited inside the doors of his country retreat, and neither cleaning woman nor repairmen had an inkling of the value of the contents.

  If his house in Alpine was exquisite, the one in the Catskills was breathtaking, for it was there that Jason kept the pieces from his looting escapades that he could not bear to part with. Each piece of furniture was a treasure. A Frederic Remington occupied the wall of the dining room, directly over the Sheraton buffet, on which a Peachblow vase glistened.

  Everything in Alpine had been bought with money received for stolen property Jason had sold. There was nothing housed there that would ever catch the attention of someone with a photographic memory for a stolen possession. Jason was able to say with ease and confidence, “Yes, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? I got it at Sotheby’s in an auction last year.” Or, “I went to Bucks County when the Parker estate was on the block.”

  The only mistake Jason had ever made came ten years ago when his Friday cleaning woman in Alpine had spilled the contents of her pocketbook. When she retrieved them, she had missed her sheet of paper containing the security pass codes for four homes in Alpine. Jason had jotted them down, replaced the paper before the woman knew it was gone and then, tempted beyond control, had burglarized the four homes: the Ellots, the Ashtons, the Donnatellis. And the Reardons. Jason still shuddered with the memory of his narrow escape that horrific night.

  But that was years ago, and Skip Reardon was securely in prison, his avenues of appeal exhausted. Tonight the party was in full swing. Jason smilingly acknowledged the gushing compliments of Alice Bartlett Kinellen.

  “I hope Bob will be able to make it,” Jason told her.

  “Oh, he’ll be along. He knows better than to disappoint me.”

  Alice was a beautiful Grace Kelly-type blonde. Unfortunately, she had none of that late princess’ charm or warmth. Alice Kinellen was cold as ice. Also boring and possessive, Jason thought. How does Kinellen stand her?

  “He’s having dinner with Jimmy Weeks,” Alice confided as she sipped champagne. “He’s up to here with that case.” She made a slashing gesture across her throat.

  “Well, I hope Jimmy comes too,” Jason said sincerely. “I like him.” But he knew Jimmy wouldn’t come. Weeks hadn’t been to one of his parties in years. In fact, he had kept a wide berth of Alpine after Suzanne Reardon’s murder. Eleven years ago, Jimmy Weeks had met Suzanne at a party in Jason Arnott’s house.

  Wednesday, October 25th

  16

  It was clear that Frank Green was irritated. The smile that he flashed so readily to show off his newly whitened teeth was nowhere in evidence as he looked across his desk at Kerry.

  I suppose it’s the reaction I expected, she thought. I should have known that, of all people, Frank wouldn’t want to hear anyone questioning the case that made him, and especially not now, with talk of his candidacy for governor so prevalent.

  After reading the newspaper file on the Sweetheart Murder Case, Kerry had gone to bed trying to decide what she should do regarding Dr. Smith. Should she confront him, ask him point-blank about his daughter, ask him why he was re-creating her in the faces of other women?

  The odds were that he would throw her out of the office and deny everything. Skip Reardon had accused the doctor of lying when he gave testimony about his daughter. If he had lied, Smith certainly wouldn’t admit it to Kerry now, all these years later. And even if he had lied, the biggest question of them all was, why?

  By the time Kerry had finally fallen asleep, she had decided that the best place to start asking questions was with Frank Green, since he had tried the case. Now that she had filled Green in on the reason she was inquiring about the Reardon case, it was obvious that her question, “Do you think there is any possibility Dr. Smith was lying when he testified against Skip Reardon?” was not going to result in a helpful or even friendly response.

  “Kerry,” Green said, “Skip Reardon killed his wife. He knew she was playing around. The very day he killed her, he had called in his accountant to find out how much a divorce would cost him, and he went bananas when he was told that it would involve big bucks. He was a wealthy man, and Suzanne had given up a lucrative modeling career to become a full-time wife. He would have to pay through the nose. So questioning Dr. Smith’s veracity at this point seems a waste of time and taxpayers’ money.”

  “But there’s something wrong with Dr. Smith,” Kerry said slowly. “Frank, I’m not trying to make trouble, and no one more than I wants to see a murderer behind bars, but I swear to you that Smith is more than a grief-stricken father. He seems almost to be demented. You should have seen his expression when he lectured Robin and me about the necessity to preserve beauty, and how some people are given it freely and others have to attain it.”

  Green looked at his watch. “Kerry, you just finished a big case. You’re about to take on another one. You’ve got a judgeship pending. It’s too bad Robin was treated by Suzanne Reardon’s father. If anything, he wasn’t an ideal witness on the stand. There wasn’t a drop of emotion in him when he talked about his daughter. In fact, he was so cold, so cut-and-dry that I was thankful that the jury even believed his testimony. Do yourself a favor and forget it.”

  It was clear the meeting was over. As Kerry stood up, she said, “What I am doing is having Dr. Smith’s handiwork on Robin checked by another plastic surgeon, one that Jonathan found for me.”

  * * *

  When she was back in h
er office, Kerry asked her secretary to hold the phone calls and sat for a long time gazing into space. She could understand Frank Green’s alarm at the thought of her raising questions about his star witness in the Sweetheart Murder Case. Any suggestion that there might have been a miscarriage of justice certainly would result in negative publicity and no doubt would tarnish Frank’s image as a potential governor.

  Dr. Smith is probably an obsessively grieving father who is able to use his great skill to re-create his daughter, she told herself, and Skip Reardon is probably one of the countless murderers who say, “I didn’t do it.”

  Even so, she knew that she couldn’t let it rest at that. On Saturday, when she took Robin to visit the plastic surgeon Jonathan had recommended, she would ask him how many surgeons in his field would even consider giving a number of women the same face.

  17

  At six-thirty that evening, Geoff Dorso glanced reluctantly at the stack of messages that had come in while he was in court. Then he turned away from them. From his office windows in Newark, he had a magnificent view of the New York City skyline, a sight that after a long day on a trial was still soothing.

  Geoff was a city kid. Born in Manhattan and raised there till the age of eleven, at which point the family moved to New Jersey, he felt that he had one foot on either side of the Hudson, and he liked it that way.

  Thirty-eight years old, Geoff was tall and lean, with a physique that did not reflect the fact that he had a sweet tooth. His jet black hair and olive skin were evidence of his Italian ancestry. His intensely blue eyes came from his Irish-English grandmother.

  Still a bachelor, Geoff looked the part. His selection of ties was hit-and-miss, and his clothes usually had a slightly rumpled look. But the stack of messages was an indication of his excellent reputation as an attorney specializing in criminal defense and of the respect he had earned in the legal community.