I'll Walk Alone

by Mary Higgins Clark

  His reaction was exactly what she had expected. “You made it clear that I’m not budging five cents off the price, didn’t you, Rebecca?” he asked.

  “Of course that’s what I told him,” she replied, silently adding, you old skinflint.

  50

  Detective Wally Johnson looked at the tattered postcard Toby Grissom had handed him. “Why do you think your daughter didn’t write this card?” he asked.

  “I don’t say she didn’t write it. Like I told you, I’ve started to think that because it was printed, maybe she didn’t, maybe somebody did something to her and then tried to make it look like she’s still alive. Now, Glory has big, fancy handwriting, with lots of loops, if you know what I mean, and that’s why it didn’t occur to me till now that maybe she hadn’t sent this card at all.”

  “You said you received this six months ago,” Johnson said.

  “Yeah. That’s right. And you never asked, but I thought maybe you should check it for fingerprints.”

  “How many people have handled this card, Mr. Grissom?”

  “Handled it? I don’t know. I showed it to some of my friends in Texas, and I showed it to the girls Glory used to room with here in New York.”

  “Mr. Grissom, of course we’ll check it for fingerprints, but I can tell you right now that whether your daughter sent it or somebody else did, we’ll never be able to get prints off it. Think about it. You’ve shown it around to your friends and to Glory’s roommates. Before that a number of postal clerks and your mailman handled it. Too many people have touched that card.”

  Toby spotted Glory’s photo montage on the corner of Johnson’s desk. He pointed to it. “Something happened to my girl,” he said. “I know it.” Then in a voice tinged with sarcasm, he asked, “Have you called that Bartley Longe, that guy who was taking her up to his country house, yet?”

  “I had some other pressing assignments last night. Mr. Grissom, I assure you it is my top priority to talk with him.”

  “Don’t assure me anything, Detective Johnson,” Toby told him. “I’m going nowhere until you pick up that phone and make an appointment with Bartley Longe. If I have to miss my plane, that’s okay with me. Because I intend to sit here until you’ve seen that guy. If you want to arrest me, that’s okay, too. You just got to get it straight. I won’t leave this police station until you’re on your way to see Longe, and don’t go there with your hat in your hand apologizing for the visit, saying her father is a pest. Go there hard-nosed and get some of the names of the other theatre people who that jerk claims he introduced Glory to, and find out from them if they ever met her.”

  This poor guy, Wally Johnson thought. I don’t have the guts to break his heart and tell him that his daughter is probably a high-priced hooker by now who’s with some fat-cat boyfriend. Instead, Johnson picked up the phone and asked information for the phone number of Bartley Longe. When the receptionist answered, he introduced himself. “Is Mr. Longe there?” he asked. “It’s very important that I speak with him immediately.”

  “I’m not sure if he’s still in his office,” the receptionist began.

  If she’s not sure if he’s in his office, that means that he is in his office, Johnson thought. He waited and a moment later the receptionist was back on the phone.

  “I’m afraid he’s already left, but I’ll be happy to take a message,” she said, soothingly.

  “I’m afraid I’m not planning to leave a message,” Johnson answered firmly. “You and I both know that Bartley Longe is there. I can be there in twenty minutes. It is absolutely essential that I see him now. Brittany La Monte’s father is sitting at my desk and he needs some answers about her disappearance.”

  “If you’ll just hold…” After a brief pause the receptionist said, “If you can come right over, Mr. Longe will wait for you.”

  “That will be fine.” Johnson hung up the phone then looked compassionately at Toby Grissom, taking in the exhaustion in the elderly man’s eyes and the deep creases in his face. “Mr. Grissom, I could be gone as long as a few hours. Why don’t you go out and get something to eat, then come back here? What time did you say your plane was?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “It’s just a little after twelve now. I could get one of our guys to run you out to LaGuardia after I report back to you. I’m going to speak to Longe, and then, as you suggest, get a list of the people he claims met her at his home. But you staying in New York doesn’t make sense at all. You told me that you’re supposed to be having chemo treatments. You shouldn’t skip them. You know you shouldn’t.”

  Toby suddenly felt as though all the starch were going out of him. The long walk in the cold had taken its toll even though he had enjoyed it. And he was hungry. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “There’s got to be a McDonald’s near here.” With a humorless smile, he added, “Maybe I’ll treat myself to a Big Mac.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Wally Johnson agreed, as he got up and reached for the photo of Glory that he had kept on his desk.

  “You don’t need to bring that,” Grissom said angrily. “That guy knows just what Glory looks like. Trust me, he does.”

  Wally Johnson nodded. “You’re right. But I’ll take it with me when I talk to the people who met Glory at Bartley Longe’s home.”

  51

  I’m leaving for an hour or so,” Kevin Wilson told Louise Kirk, and did not respond to the obvious curiosity in her expression by explaining where he was going. He knew that after his sharp response to her remarks about Zan Moreland she would not have the nerve to question him. He also knew that later, if he gave her a receipt for a luncheon, she would look it over carefully to see if he had marked a client’s name on it or if he had charged it on his personal card.

  There had been two more deliveries this morning. One contained rolls of wall coverings, the other boxes of table lamps.

  Louise did manage to get in one more question. “Do you want any other deliveries from Zan Moreland’s order to be put in the largest apartment? I mean, I could see that some of them were meant for the middle one.”

  “Keep it all together,” Kevin said as he reached for his wind-breaker.

  Louise hesitated, then said, “Kevin, I know I’m overstepping myself, but I’ll bet the ranch that you’re on your way to Zan Moreland’s office. As your friend, I beg you, don’t let yourself get caught up in anything to do with that girl. I mean, she’s very attractive, anyone with two eyes can see that, but I think she’s mentally ill. When she went into the police station this morning, she told the reporters that her son was alive. If she knows that, she knows where he is, and she’s been putting on a big act for nearly two years. On the Internet, they have links to some of the video that the media posted that day after the child was reported missing in Central Park. They show her in the park by the empty stroller. You can tell she’s the same woman as in the photos that tourist took.”

  Louise paused for breath.

  “Anything else?” Kevin asked evenly.

  Louise shrugged. “I know you’re mad at me, and I don’t blame you. But as your friend as well as your secretary, I hate to see you get hurt. And any kind of involvement with her will hurt you professionally as well as personally.”

  “Louise, I’m not getting involved. I’ll tell you where I’m going. It’s to Alexandra Moreland’s office. I spoke to her assistant, who sounds like a nice guy. I’d like to settle all this with as little fanfare as possible. Quite frankly, I don’t like Bartley Longe. You heard him when he called. He’s like the cat who ate the canary, just assuming that I wouldn’t dream of having anything to do with Zan Moreland now.”

  Kevin’s hand was on the door, but then he turned and added, “I’ve studied and compared both of their proposals, and I like hers much more. As Zan pointed out, Bartley Longe doesn’t provide a homelike quality to his designs. He’s too damn grandiose. That doesn’t mean I’ll hire Moreland, by the way. But it does mean that I might accept her proposal, use her materials, ma
ke some sort of financial deal with her for all the work she’s done, and get someone else to execute it. Does that make sense to you?”

  Louise Kirk could not resist a parting shot. “It makes sense, but is it sensible?”

  Josh had braced himself for the meeting with Kevin Wilson. He had his story straight. He and Zan believed that a hacker had gotten into their computer, and they were having it checked. As soon as they could validate that a hacker had made the orders, they could insist that the vendors who had delivered any goods pick them up immediately.

  That will only buy us a little time, he thought. There’s no hacker. Zan ordered that stuff from her laptop. Who else would know exactly what to order?

  She must have written that letter on her laptop, too.

  The phone rang. It was the desk saying that Mr. Kevin Wilson was there and was it all right to send him up?

  Kevin did not know what to expect, but he was not prepared to find Moreland Interiors to be headquartered in a relatively small office that was packed with rolls of carpet piled almost to the ceiling and covering half the floor space. He noticed that the furniture had obviously been pushed as far as possible toward the opposite wall to make room for all of it. Nor did he expect Josh Green to be so young. Not more than his midtwenties, Kevin thought, as he extended his hand to Josh and introduced himself.

  Recognizing the supplier’s name stamped on the heavy paper covering the carpet, he asked, “Is all that stuff intended for my model apartments as well?”

  “Mr. Wilson,” Josh began.

  “No need for formalities. It’s Kevin.”

  “All right, Kevin. This is what happened. A hacker must have gotten into our computer and placed those orders. That’s the only explanation I can offer.”

  “Do you know that we’ve had three deliveries so far this morning to 701 Carlton Place?” Kevin asked. Then, seeing the stunned expression on the young man’s face, he said, “I gather you didn’t know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Josh, I know Zan went into the police station with her lawyer this morning. Do you expect her back soon?”

  “I don’t know,” Josh said, making no effort to hide the concern in his voice.

  “How long have you been working with her?” Kevin asked.

  “Almost two years.”

  “I chose her to submit a plan for my model apartments based on the fact that I was a guest in a home in Darien, Connecticut, and in an apartment on Fifth Avenue, two separate jobs that she had just finished decorating six months ago.”

  “That would be the Campion home and the Lyons apartment.”

  “Did you actively work on those jobs?” Kevin asked.

  Where is this going? Josh asked himself. “Yes, I did. Of course, Zan is the designer and I’m her assistant. Since we were doing both jobs at the same time, we alternated covering the day-by-day activity of each project.”

  “I see.” I like this guy, Kevin thought. He’s a straight shooter. Whatever Zan Moreland’s problems, she designed exactly what’s right for those apartments. I don’t want to deal with Bartley Longe and I don’t like his designs as much. And I can’t start inviting other designers to submit plans. The board is already screaming about the delays in having the model apartments completed.

  The door opened behind him. He turned to see Zan Moreland come into the office, with some older man who he guessed would be her lawyer. Zan was biting her lip trying to hold back the sobs that were racking her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen from crying and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  Kevin knew he had no business there. He looked at Josh. “I’ll call Starr Carpeting,” he said, “and tell them to pick up all this stuff and deliver it to Carlton Place. If any more deliveries like this come in, don’t accept them. Send them to Carlton Place as well as all the invoices. I’ll be in touch.”

  Zan had turned her back to him. He knew she was embarrassed for him to see her weeping. He left without speaking to her, but as he waited for the elevator he knew that, more than anything, he wanted to go back and put his arms around Zan.

  Sense and sensible, he thought wryly, as the elevator door opened and he stepped into it. Wait till I tell Louise what I’ve done.

  52

  Melissa had listened with mounting fury to Ted’s message suggesting that instead of putting up a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to Matthew’s return, she make it a five-million-dollar donation to the Foundation for Missing Children.

  “Can he be serious?” she asked Bettina, her personal assistant.

  Bettina, a savvy, sleek forty-year-old with a cap of gleaming black hair, had come to New York from Vermont at age twenty, hoping for a career as a rock singer. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that her reasonably good voice would go nowhere in the music world and instead she had become the personal assistant to a gossip columnist. Melissa had noticed Bettina’s efficiency and offered her more money to work for her. Bettina promptly dumped the columnist who, as she aged, had come to count on her.

  Now Bettina’s emotions ranged between sharing Ted’s loathing of Melissa and loving the excitement of being part of a major celebrity’s life. And when Melissa was in a good mood, she would grab an extra one of the expensive gift bags that were meant only for the stars at a concert or awards show for Bettina, while she was getting one for herself.

  The minute Bettina walked into Melissa’s apartment at nine o’clock that morning, she had known it would be a long day. Melissa had immediately sprung on her the notion of offering the reward for Matthew’s safe return. “You notice I say ‘safe return,’ “Melissa said. “Almost everybody believes that little kid is dead, so I’ll get some nice publicity and it won’t cost me a nickel.”

  Ted’s negative response had infuriated Melissa. Then, when he left the suggestion that she donate the money to a foundation instead, she was livid. “He wants me to give five million dollars to a foundation. Is he crazy?” she asked Bettina.

  Bettina liked Ted. She knew how hard he worked promoting Melissa. “I don’t think he’s crazy,” she said, soothingly. “It certainly would make you seem very, very generous, which of course you would be, but you’d need to write the check in front of the cameras.”

  “Which I don’t intend to do,” Melissa snapped, pushing back the blond hair that hung almost to her waist.

  “Melissa, I’m here to do anything you want. You know that,” Bet-tina said. “But Ted is right. Ever since you and he became an item, you let everyone know that you think his son was abducted and killed by a child molester. To offer a reward for information leading to his safe return now would be begging for nasty comments on the late-night shows and the Internet.”

  “Bettina, I intend to make that offer. Call a press conference for one o’clock tomorrow. I know exactly how I’ll word it. I’ll say that while I have always felt that Matthew is not alive, that uncertainty is destroying Matthew’s father, my fiancé, Ted Carpenter. This offer may make someone come forward, maybe someone whose relative or friend is raising Matthew as her own child.”

  “And if someone does come forward, you’re prepared to write him or her a check for five million dollars, Melissa?” Bettina asked.

  “Don’t be silly. First of all, that poor kid is probably dead. Second, if someone really knew where he is and hasn’t come forward all this time, that person is considered an accomplice of some kind and therefore cannot profit from the crime. Got it? Everybody thinks I’m some kind of airhead, but we’ll get hundreds of tips from all over the world, and every one of them will be mentioning Melissa Knight’s promised reward.”

  They were in the living room of Melissa’s penthouse apartment on Central Park West. Before answering Melissa, Bettina walked over to the window and looked down at the park. It all began there, she thought. One sunny afternoon in June nearly two years ago. But Melissa is right. That little boy is probably dead. She’ll get her free publicity and it won’t cost her a dime.

  53

&nb
sp; Well, we rattled Moreland’s cage,” Billy Collins observed with satisfaction as he and Jennifer Dean munched on hot pastrami sandwiches and coffee at their favorite delicatessen on Columbus Avenue.

  Detective Dean finished the last bite of the first half of her sandwich before she answered. “What scares me is that this case is almost too perfect. Do you believe that Moreland meant she had heard her son’s voice in a kind of dream, or do you think she was actually talking to him on the phone?”

  “Whether she was on the phone or dreaming, she said that boy is alive and I believe he’s alive,” Billy Collins said positively. “The question is where is he, and will whoever is holding him panic with all the publicity about the case now? I’m getting another cup of coffee. Want one?”

  “No, I’ve had enough caffeine today. Why don’t I try Alvirah Meehan again and see if she’s back yet? Her husband said that she should be finished at the hairdresser by now.”

  Alvirah answered the phone herself. “Come over, if you want, but I don’t know how I can help you,” she said cautiously. “My husband and I have been good friends of Zan ever since she decorated our apartment about a year and a half ago. That was after her son disappeared. She’s a wonderful young woman and we love her.”

  “Why don’t we just come anyhow? You’re practically around the corner,” Jennifer Dean said, as Billy returned with his second cup of coffee.

  Ten minutes later they were parking in the semicircular driveway at 211 Central Park South. It was wide enough so that other vehicles could pass, and when Tony the doorman saw Billy put his police department ID face up inside the windshield, he made no objection to leaving the car there. “Mrs. Meehan said you should go right up when you get here,” he told them. “It’s apartment 16B.”

  “You do realize that some of our guys know Alvirah Meehan?” Jennifer asked Billy as they rode up in the elevator. “She’s the cleaning woman who won big in the lottery and became an amateur sleuth, and has even written a memoir about it.”