Nighttime Is My Time

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “You should have received it at noon?” Sam asked quickly.

  “Yes, and if I had, I wouldn’t have gone to see Craig Michaelson. As soon as I got it, I tried to phone him so that in case he was planning to contact Lily’s adoptive parents, I could tell him to hold off until I heard from Laura again. There’s no need now to alarm them or her.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this fax from Laura?” Sam asked quietly.

  “No. I got it right after I went upstairs to my room. Mark and I sat and talked for at least an hour after you left us. Oh, I should call Mark now before he goes out to dinner. He’ll be so glad to hear about this. He understands just as much as you two do how desperately worried I’ve been.”

  Dollars to doughnuts, Jean told Fleischman about the possibility that the hairbrush might be traced to the place where Lily lost it, or who she was with when she lost it, Sam thought grimly as he watched Jean reach for her cell phone.

  He exchanged glances with Alice and saw they were sharing the same concern. Was this fax really from Laura, or was it one more bizarre twist in an ongoing nightmare?

  Then there is another scenario, Sam thought. If Jean is right, and Craig Michaelson did handle the adoption, it’s possible that Michaelson might already have contacted Lily’s adoptive parents and discussed the missing brush.

  Unless this communication from Laura was on the level, Lily had become a danger to whoever was sending the faxes. And whoever was doing it might have thought about the hairbrush being traced to him.

  I’m not ready to accept that these faxes were from Laura, Sam thought. Not yet anyway. Jack Emerson worked in Dr. Connors’ office, has always lived in town, and could easily be friends with a couple from Cornwall who might have adopted Lily.

  Mark Fleischman may have won Jean’s confidence, but I’m not convinced. There’s something going on inside that guy that has nothing to do with going on television and giving advice to dysfunctional families, he decided.

  Jean was leaving a message for Fleischman. “He’s not in,” she said, then sniffed and turned to Alice, a smile on her face. “Something smells wonderful. If you don’t invite me to dinner, I’m going to invite myself. Oh, dear God, I’m so happy. I’m so happy!”

  59

  Nighttime is my time, The Owl thought as he frantically waited for darkness. He had been a fool to risk going back to the house during the daytime—he might have been seen. But then he had gotten the unsettling feeling that maybe Robby Brent was not dead after all, that, actor that he was, he had pretended to be unconscious. He could just picture him crawling out of his car and making his way to the street—or maybe even going up the stairs to find Laura and call 911.

  The image of Robby alive and able to get help had become so powerful that The Owl had no choice but to go back to confirm for himself that he was indeed dead, that he was exactly where he had left him, in the trunk of his car.

  It was almost like the first time he had taken a life, that night in Laura’s house, The Owl thought. Through the haze of memory he recalled tiptoeing up the back stairs, heading to the room where he had expected to find Laura. That was twenty years ago.

  Last night, knowing that Robby Brent was following him, it hadn’t been hard to outsmart him. But then he’d had to dig in Robby’s pocket for his keys so he could drive his car into the garage. His first rental car, the one with the muddy tires, was occupying one space in the garage. He’d driven Robby Brent’s car into the other space and then dragged Brent’s body to it from the staircase where he had killed him.

  Somehow he had revealed himself to Robby Brent. Somehow Robby had figured it out. What about the others? Was a circle closing so that soon he would no longer be able to escape into the night? He didn’t like uncertainty. He needed reassurance—the reassurance that came only when he carried out the deed that reaffirmed his mastery over life and death.

  At eleven o’clock he began to drive through Orange County. Not too near Cornwall, he thought. Not too near Washingtonville, where Helen Whelan’s body was found. Maybe Highland Falls would be a good choice. Maybe somewhere in the vicinity of the motel where Jean Sheridan had stayed with the cadet would be the place to look.

  Maybe one of the sidestreets near that motel would be the place where he was destined to find his victim.

  At eleven-thirty, as he cruised down a tree-lined street, he observed two women standing on a porch beneath an overhead light. As he watched, one turned, went back inside, and closed the door. The other began to go down the porch stairs. The Owl pulled over to the curb, turned off the lights of the car, and waited for her as she cut across the lawn to the sidewalk.

  She was looking down, walking swiftly, and did not hear him when he got out of the car and moved to the shadow of the tree. He stepped out as she passed him. He could feel The Owl spring from its cage as his hand covered her mouth, and he swiftly slid the rope around her neck.

  “I’m sorry for you,” he whispered, “but you have been chosen.”

  60

  The body of Yvonne Tepper was discovered at 6:00 A.M. by Bessie Koch, a seventy-year-old widow who supplemented her Social Security check by delivering The New York Times to her customers in the Highland Falls area of Orange County.

  She had been about to turn her car into Tepper’s driveway, one of her sales pitches being her “no bare feet” policy. “People don’t have to come down the driveway to get my papers,” she explained in her flyers. “The paper is there when you open your door.” The campaign was a loving tribute to her now deceased husband who typically went out in his bare feet to retrieve the morning newspaper from wherever their own delivery man had thrown it, usually nearer the curb than the front steps.

  At first Bessie’s mind did not accept the evidence of her eyes. There had been an overnight frost, and Yvonne Tepper was lying between two bushes, on grass that still glittered with shiny patches of icy moisture. Her legs were bent, and her hands were in the pockets of her navy blue parka. Her appearance was so neat and orderly that Bessie’s first impression was that she must have just fallen.

  When the reality hit, Bessie stopped the car with an abrupt slam of the brakes. Flinging open the door, she raced the few feet to Tepper’s body. For a few moments she stood over it, numb with shock as she took in the woman’s opened eyes, her slack mouth, and the cord that was twisted around her neck.

  Bessie tried to call for help but was unable to force a sound past her throat and lips. Then she turned and stumbled back to the car and into the driver’s seat. She leaned on the horn. In the nearby houses, lights flashed on, and annoyed residents rushed to their windows. Several men ran outside to see the cause of the commotion—ironically, all of them barefooted.

  The husband of the neighbor Yvonne Tepper had been visiting when she was waylaid by The Owl jumped into the passenger seat of Bessie’s car and firmly pulled her hands off the blaring horn.

  That was when Bessie was finally able to scream.

  61

  Sam Deegan was weary enough to sleep the sleep of the just, even though the instinct that made him a good cop was not satisfied that the latest fax Jean had received was on the level.

  The alarm woke him at 6:00 A.M., and he lay in bed briefly with his eyes closed. The fax was the first conscious thought in his mind. Too glib, he thought again. Covers everything. But it’s doubtful that a judge would grant a rush order to open Lily’s file now, he decided.

  Maybe that had been the point of the fax. Maybe someone had panicked, fearing that if a judge allowed the file to be opened and Lily had been questioned about her missing hairbrush, it might have implicated him.

  It was that scenario that worried Sam. He opened his eyes, sat up, and threw back the covers. On the other hand, he thought, mentally playing devil’s advocate, it does make sense that Laura somehow learned years ago that Jean was pregnant. At dinner Jean had told Alice and him that, before she disappeared, Laura had made a reference to Reed Thornton. “I’m not sure if she used his name,�
� Jean said. “But I was surprised that she even had known I was dating a cadet.”

  I don’t trust that fax, and I still think it’s too much of a coincidence that five women died in the order that they were sitting at a lunch table, Sam thought as he plodded into the kitchen, plugged in the coffee maker, and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  The coffee was ready when he got back to the kitchen, dressed for the office in a jacket and slacks. He poured orange juice into a glass and dropped an English muffin into the toaster. When Kate was alive, he always had oatmeal for breakfast. Even though he had tried to convince himself that it wasn’t difficult—putting a third of a cup of oatmeal in a bowl, adding a cup of low-fat milk and sticking the bowl in the microwave for two minutes—it just never came out right. Kate’s was so much better. After a while he’d given up trying to make it for himself.

  It had been nearly three years since Kate lost her long battle with cancer. Fortunately, the house wasn’t so big that, with the boys raised and out, he felt the need to sell it. You don’t get to live in a big house on an investigator’s salary, Sam thought. A lot of other women might have complained about that, but not Kate. She loved this house, he thought. She had made it a home, and no matter how rough his day had been, he’d been happy and grateful to return to it at night.

  It’s still the same house, Sam thought as he picked up the newspaper from outside the kitchen door and settled down at the breakfast table. But it feels a lot different without Kate. Last night, dozing in Alice’s den, he’d had the same kind of feeling there that he used to have about this place. Comfortable. Warm. The sound of Alice preparing dinner. The mouthwatering smell of roast beef drifting into the den.

  He then remembered that, as he had been dozing off, something had caught his attention. What was it? Did it have something to do with Alice’s curio cabinet? Next time he dropped in, he’d take a look. Maybe it was the demitasse cups she collected. His mother had loved them, too. He still had some of hers in the china closet.

  Should he put butter on the English muffin, or eat it dry? he wondered.

  Reluctantly, Sam decided not to use butter. I sure went off my diet last night, he recalled. That Yorkshire pudding Alice made was terrific. Jean enjoyed it as much as I did. She had been about ready to break under the tension of worrying about Lily. It was good to see her really relax. She’s been looking as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  Let’s hope that fax was on the level and that we hear from Laura again soon.

  The phone rang just as he opened the newspaper. It was Eddie Zarro. “Sam, we just heard from the police chief in Highland Falls. A woman was found strangled on her front lawn there. The D.A. wants all of us in his office ASAP.”

  There was something Eddie was holding back. “What else?” Sam snapped.

  “There was one of those little pewter owls in her pocket. Sam, we’ve got a full-blown nut case out there. I’ve got to warn you also that it was on the radio this morning that the Laura Wilcox disappearance is a publicity stunt she dreamed up with that comedian, Robby Brent. Rich Stevens is a very unhappy guy about all the time we’ve wasted over Wilcox when he has a homicidal maniac in Orange County on his hands. So do yourself a favor and don’t bring up her name.”

  62

  When Jean awoke, she was astonished to see that it was nine o’clock. She shivered as she got out of bed. The window was open a few inches from the bottom, and a cold breeze was blowing through the room. She hurried over and closed the window, then opened the blinds. Outside the sun was breaking through the overhead clouds, reflecting, she decided, the way she was feeling. The sun was breaking through the clouds in her life, and she was filled with a sense of euphoria. Laura is the one who has been contacting me about Lily, she reasoned, and if there is anything I can stake my life on, it is that Laura would never harm her. This is all about her need for money.

  Still, I hope she gets in touch with me again soon, Jean thought. I should despise her for what she has put me through, but I realize now how desperate she was. There was something frenetic about her behavior on Saturday evening. I remember how she acted when I tried to talk to her before the honoree dinner. I asked her if she had seen anyone carrying a rose at the cemetery. She kept trying to brush me off, and finally she practically threw me out of her room. Was it because she could see how upset I was and felt guilty about what she was doing to me? Jean wondered. I’ll bet anything she put the rose on the tombstone. She would have guessed that I’d visit Reed’s grave.

  Jean’s last conscious thought before she fell asleep last night had been that she must let Craig Michaelson know about the fax from Laura. If on his own he had chosen to contact Lily’s adoptive parents, it simply wasn’t fair to continue to worry them.

  She slipped on her robe, went over to the desk, fished in her pocketbook for Michaelson’s card, and phoned his office. He took her call immediately, and her heart sank at his reaction to what she told him.

  “Dr. Sheridan,” Craig Michaelson said, “have you verified that this latest communication is actually from Laura Wilcox?”

  “No, and I can’t. But do I believe she sent it? Absolutely. I confess that I was shocked to learn Laura knew about Lily and must have known I had been dating Reed. She certainly never let on at the time. Anyway, we also know, because of the cell phone Robby Brent bought and the time element of when I supposedly heard from Laura, that Robby must have made the phone call to me, imitating her voice. So I think we have two situations going here. Laura knows who Lily is, and she is broke and desperate for money. Then Robby concocted Laura’s disappearance because he intends to use her on his new sitcom and was just trying to generate publicity. If you knew Robby Brent, you would understand it’s the kind of performance—and sneaky trick—that he is utterly capable of carrying out.”

  Again she waited for reassurance from Craig Michaelson.

  “Dr. Sheridan,” he said finally, “I can understand your relief. As you very correctly surmised, when you came to my office yesterday, I was not at all convinced that you might not be concocting a story because you were obsessed with your need to locate your daughter. Frankly, your outburst was what convinced me that you were absolutely on the level. So I’m going to level with you now.”

  He did handle the adoption, Jean thought. He knows who Lily is and where she is.

  “I considered the potential danger to your daughter serious enough to contact her adoptive father. He happens to be out of the country right now, but I’m sure I will hear from him shortly. I am going to tell him everything you have told me including who you are. As you know, you and I do not have an attorney-client privilege, and I feel I owe it to him and to his wife to make them aware that you are both believable and responsible.”

  “That is absolutely fine with me,” Jean said. “But I don’t want those people to go through the hell I’ve been going through these last few days. I don’t want them to get the impression that Lily is in danger now, because I don’t think she is anymore.”

  “I hope she is not, Dr. Sheridan, but I think until Ms. Wilcox comes forward, we should not be too sanguine about the fact that a serious problem may not still exist. Did you show this fax to the investigator you told me about?”

  “Sam Deegan? Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, I gave it to him.”

  “May I have his phone number?”

  “Of course.” Jean had memorized Sam’s number, but the continuing concern in Craig Michaelson’s voice upset her enough that she could not be sure she remembered it. She looked it up, gave it to him, then said, “Mr. Michaelson, we seem to have reversed positions. Why are you so worried when I’m so relieved?”

  “It’s that hairbrush, Dr. Sheridan. If Lily remembers anything about the details of losing it—where she was, who she was with—it is a direct link to the person who sent it. If she recalls having been in the company of Laura Wilcox, then we can believe the contents of the recent fax are on the level. But knowing the ad
optive parents and knowing Ms. Wilcox’s rather well documented lifestyle, I find it a big stretch to think that your daughter was likely to be around her.”

  “I see,” Jean said slowly, suddenly chilled by the logic of his reasoning. She ended the call with Michaelson, after agreeing to keep in touch. She then immediately dialed Sam’s cell phone, but got no answer.

  Her next call was to Alice Sommers. “Alice,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Please be frank with me. Do you think there’s any chance that the fax from Laura, or supposedly from Laura, was a ploy to slow us down, to keep me from contacting Lily’s adoptive parents and asking about the hairbrush?”

  The answer was the one she feared yet instinctively knew she was going to receive. “I didn’t trust it at all, Jeannie,” Alice said reluctantly. “Don’t ask me why, but it didn’t ring true to me, and I could tell Sam felt exactly the same way.”

  63

  As Eddie Zarro had warned, District Attorney Rich Stevens was upset and angry. “These broken-down performers come into this county doing publicity stunts and waste our time when we have a maniac on our hands,” he barked. “I’m going to issue a statement to the press to the effect that both Robby Brent and Laura Wilcox may face criminal charges for creating a hoax. Laura Wilcox has admitted that she’s been sending those faxes threatening Dr. Sheridan’s daughter. I don’t care whether Dr. Sheridan is in a forgiving mood or not. I’m not. It’s a crime to send threatening letters, and Laura Wilcox is going to answer for it.”