Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall

by Mary Higgins Clark

  with and clear out of here. We'll go over everything Monday

  morning."

  Katie went back to her own office. It was nearly nine, and she

  was due in the courtroom. Mentally she reviewed the schedule

  of the pills Dr. Highley had given her. She'd taken one last night,

  one early this morning. She swallowed another, washing it down

  with the last sip of coffee from the cup on her desk, then gathered

  her file. The sharp edge of the top page of the brief slit her finger.

  She gasped at the quick thrust of pain and, wrapping a tissue

  around it, hurried from the room.

  Half an hour later, as she rose with the rest of the people in the

  courtroom to acknowledge the entrance of the judge, the tissue

  was still wet with blood.

  EDNA Burns was buried on Friday morning after a Mass at St.

  Francis Xavier Church. Gana Krupshak and Gertrude Fitzgerald

  followed the coffin to the nearby cemetery and watched Edna

  placed in the grave beside her parents. After the ceremony, the

  priest, Father Durkin, escorted them back to their cars.

  "Will you ladies join me for a cup of coffee?" he asked.

  Gertrude dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. "I really have

  to get to work," she said.

  Mrs. Krupshak also declined. Then, turning to Gertrude, she

  said, "Why don't you come by for dinner tonight?"

  Gertrude quickly accepted. It would be good to talk about

  Edna, and about what a shame it was that neither of the doctors

  had come to the Mass, although at least Dr. Fukhito had sent

  flowers. Maybe talking with Gana would help her get a handle

  on the thought that kept buzzing around inside her head—about

  something that Edna had said to her.

  She said good-by to Gana and the priest, got into her car, turned

  on the ignition. Dr. Highley's face loomed in her mind: those big,

  fishlike, cold eyes. There'd been something funny about him

  Wednesday night. Like when he went to get her a drink of water,

  she'd started to follow him. He'd turned on the tap, then gone into

  the bedroom. From the hall she'd seen him take out his handkerchief

  and start to open Edna's night-table drawer.

  Then that nice Dr. Carroll had started to come down the hall

  and Dr. Highley had closed the drawer. Gertrude had let Dr.

  Carroll pass her, then slipped back into the living room. She didn't

  want them to think she was trying to eavesdrop. But if Dr. High-

  ley wanted something from that drawer, why didn't he just say

  so and get it? And why on earth would he open the drawer holding

  a handkerchief over his fingers? Why, Edna's apartment was

  immaculate!

  THE lifeless body of Vangie Lewis was placed on the slab in

  the autopsy room of the Valley County medical examiner. Richard

  watched as his assistant removed the silk caftan that was to have

  been Vangie's burial robe. He had missed something on Tuesday

  afternoon—something to do with her legs or feet.

  Minutes later he found what he was seeking: a fresh two-inch

  scratch on Vangie's left foot. That was what had bothered him.

  Vangie's foot had been scratched shortly after her death, and

  Charley had found a piece of the dress she was wearing when she

  died, dangling from a sharp implement in the garage.

  Richard turned to his assistant. "Dress Mrs. Lewis in the clothes

  she had on Monday night. Call me when she's ready."

  Back in his office, he scribbled on a pad: "Shoes she was wearing

  were cut fairly high. Could not have been wearing them when

  foot was scratched."

  He began to examine the notes he'd made during the night.

  The Berkeley baby. He was going to talk to Jim Berkeley, get

  him to admit that the baby was adopted. Once that admission was

  made, the whole Westlake Maternity Concept would be exposed

  as a fraud. Would someone kill to prevent that fraud from being

  exposed?

  He needed to see Dr. Salem's medical records on Vangie.

  Quickly he dialed Scott. "Have you spoken to Salem's nurse?"

  "Yes, and also to his wife. They're terribly broken up. Both

  swear he had no history of high blood pressure or dizziness. No

  personal problems, no money problems. I say forget both the suicide

  and the accidental-fall angles."

  "How about Vangie Lewis? What did the nurse know?"

  "Dr. Salem asked her to get out Vangie's file yesterday morning.

  She saw him put it in his attache case. That case was found in his

  hotel room. But the Lewis file wasn't in it. And get this: after Dr.

  Salem left his office, Chris Lewis phoned. Said he had to talk to

  Salem. The nurse told him where Salem would be staying in New

  York. I'll tell you something, Richard: by the end of the day I

  expect to be swearing out a warrant for Lewis' arrest."

  "You mean you think there was something in that file that Chris

  Lewis would kill to get? I find that hard to believe."

  "Someone wanted that file," Scott said.

  Richard hung up the phone. Who would know what was in a

  medical file that might be threatening? A doctor.

  Was Katie right in her suspicions about the psychiatrist? And

  what about Edgar Highley? Impatiently Richard searched on his

  desk for the slip of paper Marge had given him with the names of

  the two patients who had filed malpractice suits against Edgar

  Highley: Anthony Caldwell of Peapack, Anna Horan of Ridgefield

  Park. Over the intercom he asked Marge to phone them both. And

  to try to reach Jim Berkeley.

  She came in a few minutes later. "Berkeley wasn't in. I left a

  message. Anthony Caldwell moved to Michigan last year. I got

  one of his former neighbors on the phone. She told me that his

  wife died of a tubal pregnancy. Mrs. Caldwell had been told by

  two other doctors that she'd never conceive, but as soon as she

  started at Westlake she became pregnant. She was terribly sick

  all the time, however, and died in her fourth month."

  That gives me what? I need," Richard said. "We're going to

  subpoena the hospital records. What about Mrs. Horan?"

  "I caught her husband home. Says she works as a computer

  programmer. Here's her office number."

  Richard dialed it. "Mrs. Horan," he said.

  "Yes."

  Richard introduced himself. "Mrs. Horan, you filed a malpractice

  suit last year against Dr. Highley. I wonder if I might ask

  you some questions about that case. Are you free to talk?"

  Her voice became agitated. "No ... not here." She had an accent

  he could not place.

  "I understand. But it's urgent. Would it be possible for you to

  stop by the prosecutor's office after work today and talk with me?"

  "Yes .. . all right. I know where it is. I'll be there by five thirty."

  The connection was broken.

  It was nearly noon. Richard decided to go to the courtroom

  where Katie was trying her case and see if she'd have lunch with

  him. He wanted to ask her about Highley. Would she agree that

  maybe something was wrong at Westlake—a baby ring, or a doctor

  who took criminal chances with his patients' lives?

  The courtroom was deserted excep
t for Katie, who still sat at

  the prosecutor's table. Preoccupied with her notes, she shook her

  head when he came over and asked her to lunch.

  "Richard, those skunks are trying to say someone else set the

  fires, and I swear the jury is falling for it."

  Richard studied her. Her skin was deadly pale. He noticed the

  tissue wrapped around her finger. Gently he unwound it.

  "That darn thing," Katie said. "It must be deep. It's been bleeding

  off and on all morning."

  Richard studied the cut. Released from the tissue, it began to

  bleed rapidly. Pressing the tissue over the cut, he picked up a

  rubber band and wound it above the cut. "This should stop it.

  Have you been having any clotting problems, Katie?"

  "Yes, some. But I can't talk about it now. This case is running

  away from me and I feel so lousy." Her voice broke.

  Richard reached down and hugged her head against his chest.

  "Katie, I'm going to clear out of here. But wherever you go this

  weekend, do some thinking. Because I'm throwing my hat in the

  ring. I want you. I want to take care of you."

  He straightened up. "Now go and win your case. You can do it.

  And please, take it easy this weekend. Monday I'm going to need

  your input on an angle I see in the Lewis case."

  All morning she'd felt so cold—so desperately, icy cold. Even

  the long-sleeved wool dress hadn't helped. Now, close to Richard,

  she felt the warmth of his body. As he turned to leave, she impulsively

  grasped his hand and held it against her face. "Monday,"

  she said.

  "Monday," he agreed, and left the courtroom.

  BEFORE they left Edna's apartment complex, Charley and Phil

  rang the Krupshaks' doorbell.

  "We're finished with our examination," Charley told Cana.

  "You're free to enter the apartment." He showed her Edna's note.

  "You and Mrs. Fitzgerald can look the stuff over and divide it

  between yourselves, but don't remove anything yet."

  The two investigators returned to the office and went directly

  to the lab, where they turned in the contents of the vacuum bag.

  "Run this through right away," Phil directed.

  Scott was waiting for them in his office. At the news that Chris

  had been in the vicinity of Edna's apartment on Tuesday night,

  he grunted with satisfaction. "Lewis seems to have been all over

  the map this week," he said, "and wherever he's been someone

  has died. Two bellmen positively identify him as being in the

  lobby of the Essex House around five o'clock."

  The phone rang. Impatiently he answered it. Then his expression

  changed. "Put her on," he said quickly. Holding his hand

  over the mouthpiece, he said, "Chris Lewis' girl friend is calling

  from Florida. .. . Hello, yes, this is the prosecutor. .. . Yes, we are

  looking for Captain Lewis. Do you know where he is?"

  Scott's forehead furrowed as he listened. "Newark at seven?

  Very well. I'm glad he's surrendering voluntarily. If he wishes

  a lawyer, he may want to have one here." He hung up the phone.

  "Lewis is coming in," he said. "We'll crack this case open tonight

  Now let's see what Richard's got."

  The three men went to the autopsy room; with Richard they

  studied the body of Vangie Lewis, now dressed in the clothes in

  which she had died. The scrap of flowered material that had been

  found on the prong in the garage exactly fitted the tear near the

  hem of her dress. The panty hose on her left foot showed a two-inch

  slash directly over the fresh cut.

  "No blood on the hosiery," Richard said. "She was already dead

  when her foot caught on the prong."

  "How high was the shelf that prong was on?" Scott asked.

  "About three feet from the floor," Phil answered.

  "So someone carried her in through the garage, laid her on her

  bed and tried to make it look like suicide," Scott said.

  "Without question," Richard agreed. A few moments later he left

  the autopsy room and returned to his office. ,

  At four thirty Jim Berkeley called. "I understand you've been

  trying to reach me." His voice was guarded.

  "It's important. Can you stop in my office on your way home?"

  "Yes, I can." Now Jim's voice became resigned. "And I think

  I know what you want to talk about."

  EDGAR Highley turned from the girl on the examining table.

  "You may get dressed now."

  She had claimed to be twenty, but he was sure she wasn't more

  than sixteen or seventeen. "Am I—"

  "Yes, my dear. You are very definitely pregnant. About five

  weeks. I want you to return tomorrow morning and we will terminate

  the pregnancy."

  "I was wondering: Do you think I should maybe have the baby

  and have it adopted?"

  "Have you told your parents about this?"

  "No. They'd be so upset."

  "Then I suggest you postpone motherhood for several years at

  least. Ten o'clock tomorrow."

  He left the room, went into his office and looked up the phone

  number of the new patient he had chosen yesterday. "Mrs. Englehart,

  this is Dr. Highley. I want to begin your treatment. Kindly

  come to the hospital tomorrow morning at eight thirty."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHILE the jury was deliberating, Katie went into the courthouse

  cafeteria and sat at a table with her back to the room. She did

  not want anyone to join her. She felt fatigued and weak, but not

  hungry. Just a cup of tea, she thought. Mama always said that a

  cup of tea would cure the ills of the world.

  She sat for nearly an hour, sipping the tea, reviewing the proceedings.

  The Odendall boys were blaming the fires on a friend

  who was killed in a motorcycle accident last November. Had she

  convinced the jury that they were lying?

  At five o'clock she returned to the courtroom. Five minutes later

  the jury came in and the foreman announced the verdict: Robert

  and Jonathan Odendall were "not guilty on all counts."

  "I don't believe it." Katie wasn't sure if she had spoken aloud.

  The judge dismissed the jury curtly and told the defendants to

  stand up. "You are very lucky," he snapped, "luckier than I hope

  you'll ever be again. Now clear out of my courtroom, and if you're

  smart, you'll never appear before me again."

  Katie stood up. No matter if the judge clearly felt the verdict

  was erroneous, she had lost the case. She saw the victorious smile

  the defense attorney shot at her. She stuffed her notes into her

  file. Maybe if she hadn't felt so lousy all week she'd have conducted

  a better case. She should have had this hemorrhaging problem

  taken care of a year ago instead of putting it off because of her

  childish fear of hospitals.

  "Will the State please approach the bench?"

  She walked over to the judge. "Your Honor." Katie managed

  to keep her voice steady.

  The judge leaned forward and whispered to her, "Don't let it

  get you down, Katie. You proved that case. They'll be back here

  in two months on other charges. Next time you'll nail them."

  Katie tried to smile. "Thanks, Judge."

  She lef
t the courtroom and went back to her office. Maureen

  looked up hopefully, but Katie shook her head.

  Maureen's expression changed to sympathy. "Katie, I'm sorry

  about the Odendall verdict, but try not to take it too hard. You

  really look sick. Are you all right to drive? You're not dizzy or

  anything?"

  "No, really. I'm not going far. Then I won't budge till Sunday."

  JIM Berkeley parked his car in the courthouse lot, went into the

  main lobby and checked the directory for the medical examiner's

  office. He had seen the expression on Richard Carroll's face last

  night when he'd looked at the baby. Angered, he'd wanted to say,

  "So the baby doesn't look like us. So what?"

  After several wrong turns, he found Richard's office. The door

  was open and Richard came out immediately. "Jim, it's good of

  you to come." Jim's own greeting was reserved and cautious.

  As they went inside, Richard's manner became businesslike.

  "Jim, we're investigating Vangie Lewis' death. She was a patient

  at Westlake's maternity clinic. Where your wife had the baby."

  Jim nodded.

  Richard chose his words carefully. "Our investigation is turning

  up some disturbing problems. Now I want to ask you a few questions,

  and I swear to you that your answers will remain in this

  room. But you can be of tremendous help to us if—"