Nighttime Is My Time Page 5

  12

  The call came into police headquarters in Goshen at 3:00 A.M. Helen Whelan of Surrey Meadows was missing. A single woman in her early forties, she had last been seen by a neighbor. Whelan had been walking her German shepherd, Brutus, at or about midnight. At 3:00 A.M. a couple living a few blocks away at the edge of the county park were awakened by the howling and barking of a dog. They investigated and found a German shepherd trying to struggle to its feet. It had been savagely beaten on the head and back with a heavy instrument. A woman’s size seven shoe was found on the road nearby.

  At 4:00 A.M., Sam Deegan had been called in and assigned to the team of detectives investigating the disappearance. He stopped first to talk to Dr. Siegel, the veterinarian who had treated the wounded animal. “My guess is that he was knocked out for a couple of hours by the blows to his head,” Siegel told Deegan. “They came from something about the size and weight of a tire iron.”

  Sam could visualize the scenario. Helen Whelan had let her dog off the leash for a run in the park. Someone seeing her standing alone in the road had tried to drag her into a car. The German shepherd had rushed to protect her and had been beaten senseless.

  He drove to the street where the animal had been found and began ringing doorbells. At the fourth house an elderly man claimed he heard a dog barking frantically at about 12:30 A.M.

  Helen Whelan was, or had been, a popular physical education teacher at Surrey Meadows High. Sam learned from several fellow teachers that her habit of walking her dog late at night was well known. “She was never nervous about it. She’d tell us that Brutus would be dead before he’d let anyone hurt her,” the principal of her school said sadly.

  “She was right,” Sam told him. “The vet had to put Brutus down.”

  By ten o’clock that morning he could see that this case was not going to be an easy one to solve. According to her distraught sister who lived in nearby Newburgh, Helen had no enemies. She had been seeing a fellow teacher for several years, but he was on a sabbatical in Spain this semester.

  Missing or dead? Sam was sure that anyone who had so savagely injured a dog would have no mercy on a woman. The difficult investigation would begin, and he would commence his share of it in Helen’s neighborhood and at her school. There was always the chance that one of the weirdo teenagers the schools were spitting out today held a grudge against her. From her picture he could tell that she was a very attractive woman. Maybe some neighbor had fallen in love and been rejected.

  He only hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be one of those random crimes, committed by a stranger on a stranger, whose only fault was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That kind of crime was the hardest to investigate, and often went unsolved, something he hated.

  That train of thought inevitably brought him to Karen Sommers. But her death wasn’t hard to solve, Sam thought; it was only hard to prove.

  Karen’s killer was Cyrus Lindstrom, the boyfriend she dumped twenty years ago—of that he was sure. But as of next week, when I turn in my papers, I’ll be off that case, Sam reminded himself.

  And I’ll be off yours, too, he thought, as with compassionate eyes he studied a recent picture of blue-eyed, auburn-haired Helen Whelan, who was now officially listed as “missing, presumed dead.”

  13

  Laura had been tempted to sleep in and save her energy for the pre-game luncheon at West Point, but when she awoke on Saturday morning, she changed her mind. Her goal of romancing Gordie Amory had achieved only middling success at the dinner after the cocktail party. The honorees had sat together, and Jack Emerson had joined them. At first Gordie was quiet, but eventually he had warmed up some and even paid her a compliment. “I think every guy in our class had a crush on you at some point, Laura,” he said.

  “Why past tense?” she had teased.

  His answer had been promising: “Why indeed?”

  And then the evening provided an unexpected bonus. Robby Brent told the group that he’d been asked to do a situation comedy on HBO and he liked the script. “The public is finally getting sick of all the reality shows,” he said, “and is ready to laugh. Think about the classic comedies: I Love Lucy, All in the Family, The Honeymooners, The Mary Tyler Moore Show. They had real humor, and, trust me, real humor is about to make a comeback.” Then he’d looked at her. “You know, Laura, you really ought to read for the part of my wife. I have a feeling you’d be good.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was kidding, since Robby made his living as a comic. On the other hand, if he wasn’t kidding and if she didn’t get to first base with Gordie, it might be yet another chance at grabbing the golden ring—perhaps her last chance.

  “Last chance.” Unintentionally, she whispered the words aloud. They gave her a funny, queasy feeling. All night she’d had troubled dreams. She’d dreamt of Jake Perkins, that pushy kid reporter who’d handed out the list of the girls who used to sit at their lunch table at Stonecroft and who had died since then. Catherine and Debra and Cindy and Gloria and Alison. Five of them. She’d dreamt that, one by one, he was crossing their names off the list, until now only she and Jeannie were still alive.

  Separately we both stayed close to Alison, she thought, and now we’re the only two left. Even though we lived next door to each other in school, Jeannie and I weren’t enough alike to ever be really close. She’s too nice. She never made fun of the guys the way the rest of us did.

  Stop it! Laura warned herself. Don’t think about a jinx or a curse. You have today and tomorrow to catch the golden ring. With one word from his newly sculpted lips, Gordie Amory could keep her on the series for Maximum. And suddenly Robby Brent was another one of the group who could make things happen. If he wasn’t just pulling her leg about the series and if he decided he wanted her in his show, she’d have a real chance at the part. And I’m good at comedy, Laura told herself. Darn good.

  And then there was Howie—no, Carter. He could open doors for her as well if he wanted to. Not in his plays, of course. God, they were all not only depressing but impossible to figure out. His artistic obscurity, however, didn’t make him less powerful when it came to helping her career.

  I wouldn’t mind being in a hit play, she thought wistfully. Although, now that Alison was dead, she needed a new agent, too.

  She glanced at her watch. It was time to get dressed. She knew she had lucked out with her choice of an outfit to wear for the day at West Point—the blue Armani suede with a Gucci scarf would be perfect for the chilly day that was forecast. According to the weather report, the temperature would only reach the low fifties.

  An outdoor girl I’m not, Laura thought, but since everybody says they’re going to the game, I’m not missing it.

  Gordon, she reminded herself as she tied the scarf. Gordon, not Gordie. Carter, not Howie. At least Robby was still Robby, and Mark was still Mark. And Jack Emerson, the Donald Trump of Cornwall, New York, hadn’t decided to be known as Jacques.

  When she went down to the dining room, she was disappointed to see that only Mark Fleischman and Jean were at the honorees table.

  “I’m just having coffee,” Jean explained. “I’m meeting a friend for breakfast. I’ll catch up with you at lunch.”

  “You’ll go to the trooping of colors and the game?” Laura asked.

  “Yes, I will.”

  “I never went up there much,” Laura said. “But you did, Jeannie. You were always a history buff. Didn’t one of the cadets you knew pretty well get killed before graduation? What was his name?”

  Mark Fleischman took a sip of coffee and watched as Jean’s eyes clouded with pain. She hesitated, and he clamped his lips firmly together. He had been about to answer for her. “Reed Thornton,” she said. “Cadet Carroll Reed Thornton, Jr.”

  14

  The most difficult week of the year for Alice Sommers was the one leading up to the anniversary of her daughter’s death. This year it had been particularly hard.

  Twenty years, she thought. Two decades. Karen would
be forty-two years old now. She’d be a doctor, probably a cardiologist. That had been her goal when she started medical school. She’d probably be married and have a couple of children.

  In her mind, Alice Sommers could see the grandchildren she had never known. The boy, tall and blond, like Cyrus—she had always believed that he and Karen would end up together. The one thing about Sam Deegan that really upset her was his unshakable belief that Cyrus had caused Karen’s death.

  And what about their daughter? She would have looked like Karen, Alice had decided, fine-boned, with blue-green eyes and jet black hair. Of course, she would never really know.

  Turn back the clock, Lord. Undo that terrible night. It was a prayer she had uttered thousands of times over the years.

  Sam Deegan had told her that he didn’t believe Karen ever woke up when the intruder came into her room. But Alice had always wondered. Had she opened her eyes? Had she sensed a presence? Had she seen an arm arcing over the bed? Had she felt the terrible thrusts of the knife that had taken her life?

  It was something she could talk about to Sam, although she had never been able to express it to her husband. He had needed to believe that his only child had been spared that instant of terror and pain.

  All this had been running through Alice Sommers’ mind for days. On Saturday morning when she awoke, the heaviness and pain was lifted at the thought that Jeannie Sheridan was coming to see her.

  At ten o’clock the bell rang. She opened the door and embraced Jean with fierce affection. It felt so good to hold the young woman in her arms. She knew her welcoming kiss was for Karen as well as Jean.

  Over the years she had watched Jean evolve from the shy, reticent sixteen-year-old she had been when they became neighbors in Cornwall to the elegant, successful historian and writer she was now.

  During the two years they’d lived next to each other before Jean graduated from high school, went to work in Chicago, and then went to Bryn Mawr, Alice had learned to both admire and pity the young girl. It seemed incredible that she was the child of her parents, people so caught up in their own contempt for each other that they never could see what effect their public brawls were having on their only child.

  Even then she had shown so much dignity, Alice thought, as she held Jean out to inspect her and then hugged her again. “Do you realize it’s been eight months since I’ve seen you?” she demanded. “Jeannie, I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” Jean looked at the older woman with deep affection. Alice Sommers was a pretty woman with silver hair and blue eyes that always held a hint of sadness. Her smile, though, was warm and quick. “And you look wonderful.”

  “Not bad for sixty-three,” she agreed. “I decided to stop supporting the hair salon, so what you see now is the real thing.”

  Arms linked, they walked from the vestibule to the living room of the townhouse. “I just realized, Jeannie, that you’ve never been here. We’ve always gotten together in New York or Washington. Let me show you around, starting with my fabulous view of the Hudson.”

  As they walked through the townhouse, Alice explained, “I don’t know why we stayed in the house so long. I’m so much happier here. I think Richard felt that if we moved, in some way we’d be leaving Karen behind. He never got over losing her, you know.”

  Jean thought about the handsome Tudor-style house that she had admired so much when she was growing up. I knew it like the back of my hand, she thought. I was in and out of it when Laura lived there, and then Alice and Mr. Sommers were always so nice to me. I wish I had known Karen better. “Did anyone I might have known buy the house?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. The people who bought it from us were from upstate. They sold it last year. I understand the new owner did some renovating and is planning to rent it furnished. A lot of people think that Jack Emerson is the real buyer. The rumor is that he’s been picking up a lot of property in town. He has certainly come a long way from the kid who used to sweep out offices. He’s quite the entrepreneur now.”

  “He’s chairman of the reunion.”

  “And the driving force behind it. There’s never been this much hoopla over a twentieth anniversary at Stonecroft.” Alice Sommers shrugged. “But at least it got you here. I hope you’re hungry. Waffles and strawberries are the breakfast menu.”

  It was over their second cup of coffee that Jean took out the faxes and the envelope with the brush and showed them to Alice, and told her about Lily. “Dr. Connors knew a couple who wanted a baby. They were patients of his, which means they must have lived in this area. Alice, I don’t know whether to go to the police or get a private investigator. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You mean you had a baby at age eighteen and never told anyone about it?” Alice reached across the table and took Jean’s hand.

  “You knew my mother and father. They’d have had a shouting match about whose fault it was that I got into trouble. I might as well have distributed flyers around town with the news.”

  “And you’ve never told anyone?”

  “Not one single soul. I had heard that Dr. Connors helped people adopt babies. He wanted me to tell my parents, but I was of age and he said he had a patient who had learned she could not have a child. She and her husband were planning to adopt, and they were absolutely wonderful people. When he spoke to them, they immediately said they’d be thrilled to have the baby. He got me a job in the office of a nursing home in Chicago, which gave me the cover of being able to say that I wanted to work for a year before I entered Bryn Mawr.”

  “I remember how proud we were when we heard about your scholarship.”

  “I left for Chicago right after we graduated. I needed to get away. And it wasn’t just because of the baby. I needed to grieve. I wish you could have known Reed. He was so special. I guess that’s why I’ve never married.” Tears welled in Jean’s eyes. “I’ve never felt that way about anyone else.” She shook her head and picked up the fax. “I thought of going to the police with this, but I live in Washington. What could they do? ‘Do I kiss her or kill her? Just a joke.’ This isn’t necessarily a threat, is it? But it stands to reason that whoever adopted Lily was living in this area because she was a patient of Dr. Connors. That’s why I believe if I go to the police it should be in this town, or at least in this county. Alice, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re right and I know exactly the right person to contact,” Alice said firmly. “Sam Deegan is an investigator for the district attorney’s office. He was there the morning we found Karen and has never closed the file on her death. He’s become a good friend. He’ll find a way to help you.”

  15

  The bus to West Point was scheduled to leave at ten. At nine-fifteen, Jack Emerson left the hotel and made a quick trip home to pick up the necktie he had forgotten to pack. Rita, his wife of fifteen years, was reading the newspaper as she sipped coffee at the breakfast table. When he came in, she looked up indifferently.

  “How’s the great reunion going, Jack?” The sarcasm that tinged every word she uttered to him was particularly apparent in her greeting.

  “I would say it’s going very well, Rita,” he said amicably.

  “Is your room comfortable at the hotel, or do you know?”

  “The room is as comfortable as rooms at the Glen-Ridge get. Why don’t you join me there and see for yourself?”

  “I think I’ll pass.” Her eyes dropped back to the newspaper, dismissing him.

  For a moment he stood looking at her. She was thirty-seven years old, but not one of those women who got better as she aged. Rita had always been reserved, but along the way her narrow lips had acquired an unattractive sullen droop. When she was in her twenties and her hair was loose around her shoulders, she had been genuinely attractive. Now, with her hair drawn tightly back and pinned in a French knot, her skin seemed taut. In fact, everything about her looked pinched and angry. Standing there, Jack realized how thoroughly he disliked her.

  It infu
riated him that he felt the need to explain his presence in his own home. “I don’t have the tie I’ll want for the dinner tonight,” he snapped. “That’s why I stopped by.”

  She put the paper down. “Jack, when I insisted that Sandy go to boarding school instead of your beloved Stonecroft, you must have known something was in the wind.”

  “I believe I did.” Here it comes, he thought.

  “I’m moving back to Connecticut. I’ve rented a house in Westport for the next six months or so until I see what I want to buy. We’ll work out visitation for Sandy. In spite of the fact that you’re a rotten husband, you’ve been a reasonably decent father, and it’s better if we keep our separation amicable. I know exactly what you’re worth, so let’s not waste too much money on lawyers.” She stood up. “Hail fellow, well met—jovial, wisecracking, community-minded, smart businessman, Jack Emerson. That’s what a lot of people say about you, Jack. But even besides the womanizing, there’s a lot festering inside of you. Out of idle curiosity I’d be interested to know what it is.”

  Jack Emerson smiled coldly. “Of course I knew that when you insisted on sending Sandy to Choate you were beginning your move back to Connecticut. I debated about trying to talk you out of it—that is, for ten seconds I debated. Then I celebrated.”

  And guess again if you think you know what I’m worth, he added mentally.

  Rita Emerson shrugged. “You always said that you had to have the last word. You know something, Jack? Underneath what passes for veneer, you’re still the same tacky little janitor who resented pushing mops after school. And if you don’t play fair in the divorce, I might have to tell the authorities you confessed to me that you arranged to have that fire set in the medical building ten years ago.”