by Nancy Geary
Lucy swallowed hard. She knew what she was about to say would come as even more of a shock than anything he’d learned thus far. “I’m not sure how best to phrase this, and tact is not my forte, as you well know.” She forced a smile, which he didn’t return. “Your mother had other children. Twins. One was Foster, and the other is this person on the insurance policy: Avery Herbert.”
There. The words were out and with them the truth. Archer had no visible reaction. She walked around behind him, and gently rubbed his shoulders, feeling the tense knots in his muscles as she massaged them.
The telephone rang, but neither of them moved, and she listened as the machine picked up. An automated voice informed her that she’d won a three-day vacation in Orlando with an exclusive opportunity to purchase a time-share in a brand-new gated community. All she had to do was call a 1-800 number, and her dreams could come true. She almost laughed at the simple solution.
“Are they my father’s children, too?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who the biological father is. I was hoping you could help me.”
He shook his head. “Who are the Herberts?”
“He’s a lawyer at a prominent downtown firm, Leedes, Collin, and Wilkes. They live in Gladwyne, although the house is for sale.”
“I know that firm. Carson Leedes is a partner. He represented my mother in her divorce from Dad. Even the utterance of his name still makes Dad ballistic. Neither of my parents wanted anything protracted or ugly, but Leedes doesn’t know the meaning of a negotiated settlement. As my father puts it, Leedes ‘eats acrimony for breakfast.’ When Dad found out Leedes’s firm was handling Mom’s estate, he told me about the divorce. Before this morning, I’d never heard anything about it.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Only that she had wanted it. She claimed emotional cruelty. Leedes got her a couple of million dollars—she may have wanted out of the marriage but apparently was no fool with respect to Dad’s money—and my father got sole custody, which was very unusual. She was given liberal visitation rights, which she simply never exercised. I guess the battle for some bucks was stronger than for her child. And he wasn’t about to take her back to court to force her to comply. How do you compel someone to be a mother?”
He was right. It was an impossible task. “Have you seen a copy of her will?”
Archer interlaced his fingers, stretched his arms overhead, and then rested his head in his palms. “No. And apparently I won’t. She set up an irrevocable trust years ago. All of her assets have been left to Penn’s Medical School.”
That explained the insurance. It was a way of leaving something for her children. The plan made sense, especially since neither of her children had been to her home, or would have a sentimental attachment to any of her belongings. They would get a substantial inheritance and not have to deal with the administration of her estate.
“So the Herberts adopted her twins.” He had a pained expression on his face, the lines around his mouth seeming deeper than usual.
“I assume so, given the surname. We’re trying to get copies of probate records.”
“Hmmm.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
Lucy opened a cabinet and reached for the airtight jar of coffee beans. She filled the grinder, pressed the button, and listened to the crackle and whir. Then she emptied the rich powder into a filter, filled the coffeemaker with water, and switched on the machine. A moment later the drip began. They could both use strong coffee.
Archer got up from his chair, moved to the fridge, and opened the door. He stared inside but reached for nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Lucy asked.
“I didn’t think it had anything to do with her death. And . . . and because I hate myself for not meeting her the first time and for not listening to her that day at the bar. I knew you’d think I was cruel, hurtful. You told me as much when I mentioned the original letter. You thought I should forgive and forget. But I don’t work like you. You get stuff off your chest and then it’s gone. With me, my feelings, my anger, they fester because there’s nobody to confront. How do you hash it out with a shadow, a memory? And now my punishment is that I don’t get to know anything. It’s too late.”
Lucy couldn’t disagree. She knew that the mystery would haunt him, probably forever. He might learn all the facts, but he’d never know the truth. She walked over to him, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. “I wish I could give you that opportunity. I wish I could buy you a day or a week with her. But the answers I might find for you won’t be the real answers you want. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
As she moved away, he reached for her and held her close. “Don’t leave.”
She held him to her. He seemed to belong to a different species, some strange, dysfunctional gene pool, and for more than a moment she wished she were embracing one of her own kind. That and a Florida time-share and maybe all her problems would disappear.
He buried his head in her neck and she felt his body shake. “Don’t leave me, too.”
25
Thursday, May 22nd 6:15 a.m.
Lucy had been awake most of the night. Seated on a pile of throw pillows in the dormer alcove with a cup of hot water and lemon, she’d reread chapter three from First Kings nearly a dozen times. It had been years since she’d studied any biblical text, but she remembered the famous parable of King Solomon contained in that passage, the story of the two prostitutes who gave birth on the same day in the same house. One baby was alive, the other dead. Both women claimed custody of the healthy one, and brought their case before the wise king to resolve.
And the king said, Bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one and half to the other.
One woman urged the division. Let the baby belong to no one. But the second woman begged the king to give the child to the first so as to spare his life. And that was how King Solomon knew to whom the child rightfully belonged.
Lucy stared out the small window at the crescent moon still visible in the early-morning light. Then she picked up the portable telephone and dialed her parents’ number. Mrs. O’Malley’s internal alarm rarely let her sleep past five. No doubt she was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, scanning the clipless coupons from the newspaper insert.
“Are you all right?” her mother asked, picking up before the first ring had finished.
“I’m fine. I just miss you.”
“You pick a fine time to check in, Lucy. Nearly gave me a heart attack. A ring before eight in the morning or after nine at night, and it can only be an emergency.”
“I knew you’d be up.”
Her mother chuckled at the end of the line. “One of these days, I’m going to sleep until ten and everyone will think I’m dead. But it’s a blessing to hear your voice anytime. Now tell me, how’s that beau of yours?”
“He’s all right.” Archer wouldn’t appreciate having any of his personal angst made public. She’d yet to tell her parents that she was investigating the murder of his mother. Plus, she couldn’t bring herself to confess that he was asleep not ten yards away. She’d been caught once when he’d answered her telephone, but the part of her that would forever remain her parents’ child played along with the virgin-innocence fantasy she knew her mother maintained. Without a wedding band, unmarried couples slept in separate apartments, or at least separate rooms. “I actually called with a Bible question,” she said, needing to change the subject.
“Let me mark this date on the calendar. It is truly a miracle.” Mrs. O’Malley laughed again at her own joke. She’d had the good sense to get over her daughter’s lack of interest in religion years before, and now kept her evangelical ambitions quiet. In return, Lucy attended Mass at Christmas and Easter, and tried her best not to take the Lord’s name in vain, at least not in Somerville.
“I need to know about a parable in First Kings. There are
these two women and only one baby.”
“Yes. The story of King Solomon’s adjudication,” her mother interrupted.
“That’s it. What exactly is the point?”
“Oh my.” Her mother sighed. Lucy could hear her take a sip of tea and swallow. “It showed the Israelites the workings of God. Solomon had prayed for wisdom. This story was evidence that it had been received.”
“The real mother was willing to endure the pain of giving up her baby in order for him to survive even though it meant she might never see him again. She put his interests far in front of her own. What about that part of the story?” Lucy asked.
“You sound like one of these feminist scholars. What have I raised?” Mrs. O’Malley asked rhetorically. “The role of a mother doesn’t get too much study in the Old Testament, or the New for that matter. Because who wouldn’t make that same decision? Who wouldn’t put her child’s well-being first? It’s a law of nature, one you’d understand if you’d get about having some tots of your own.” She paused, and Lucy could hear her take another sip. “When your brother Michael was born, I remember feeling so anxious, wondering if my instincts would be right. You hear stories—a woman can lift a car to free a pinned baby, or can pilot a plane to a safe landing to protect her family—but I didn’t know. It could be lore. What would I do? What could I do? And then once when Mike was a toddler, I was boiling some potatoes on the stove. A big pot. I lifted it toward a colander just as he bumped me. All I remember was thinking that he would be under the stream of the boiling water. In a split second, less than that, I lifted my thigh to block him, and the water fell on me. He was spared. Not a drop touched him. After that, I didn’t worry. I had a permanent scar to remind me that I had done the right thing. Or at least I didn’t worry when my children were with me.”
Lucy was quiet. All her life she’d seen the rectangular red scar that covered most of her mother’s right leg. Mrs. O’Malley hadn’t worn a swimsuit because of it, but she’d never before shared what had happened.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
“There was no reason. Parents shouldn’t be thanked or applauded for doing what’s right. I wasn’t a hero. I’m a mother. I did what I needed to do to protect Michael.”
“So then why was Solomon considered blessed with special wisdom if he was stating the obvious?”
“In order for the Israelites to understand his special gifts, he had to draw on a universal truth, a natural instinct, something with which no one would disagree. A mother’s urge to safeguard her child is just that. But my dear, why is this keeping you up?” Then she gasped. When she spoke, her voice was animated and had risen more than an octave. “You’re not . . . you’re not calling to tell me. . . . Oh, Lucy, your father—”
“No! Mom. Stop,” she called into the phone, recognizing immediately the false premise of her mother’s excitement. “I’m not pregnant.”
There was silence. “Oh.”
“But when I am, I’ll wait until after eight to call.”
9:05 a.m.
Jack could barely hide his astonishment. As they drove through the winding roads of Radnor, through fields edged with stone walls and blooming forsythia, Lucy relayed her discovery of Dr. Reese’s children.
“And you have no idea who the father is?”
“No. Santoros agreed to send an intern over to the Probate Court to see if we could find out anything, but it’s a long shot. We don’t even know if the man was from Pennsylvania.”
Jack thought for a moment. “Why’d you pretend to be interested in the Herbert house? Why go undercover?”
“I wanted to get inside, I didn’t think they’d volunteer to give me a tour, and we didn’t have enough for a warrant. I couldn’t think of any other way.”
“Well, if you buy the place, can I be the gardener?”
They laughed. “You garden and I’ll cook.” She pointed a finger. “There it is.”
The massive pink granite slab rose from the earth. The AmeriMed logo was chiseled on both sides so that it was visible to cars approaching in either direction: BRINGING PHARMACEUTICALS INTO THE NEXT MILLENNIUM. The early-morning sun sparkled off the letters.
“Let’s hope corporate America has some answers for us.”
They turned in, and saw a long paved drive ending in a semicircle of red brick buildings. They were forced to stop at the security gate, where the guard checked their identification and waved them through. Dixon Burlingame’s secretary had registered their visit with the Chairman that morning. “It’s building A—directly ahead. Visitor parking is to the left.”
As they approached, Lucy could see a white marble fountain that spewed water nearly ten feet in the air. Around it, topiaries grew in a latticework arrangement with hot pink impatiens planted in between. They parked and walked quickly to the entrance of what they assumed was the main building in the complex. They were correct: A brass plaque by the door read AMERIMED. BUILDING A.
“Detectives,” a cheery voice greeted them as they stepped inside.
Lucy turned to see a tall woman with an hourglass figure wearing a fitted red and white suit and red sandals. Her blond curls were pulled back from her round, freckled face, and her hazel eyes glowed. She had a big smile. “Welcome to AmeriMed. I’m Summer, Mr. Burlingame’s assistant. Won’t you follow me?”
Her hips swung noticeably as Lucy and Jack followed her down a long, carpeted corridor. The walls on both sides displayed posters advertising the latest products—everything from headache medicine and cough syrup to catheters and artificial lungs. “We moved into this complex about five years ago. Building A, where we are, houses most of the executive offices, the Human Resources Department, and our boardroom. Building B is for our legal counsel, as well as for the team of staff scientists who handle our patent applications. Buildings C and D are labs for research and development. D also holds an employee health club and a day-care center. So we really have everything we need right here. Mr. Burlingame wanted this headquarters to be completely self-contained.”
“And the Wilder Center is opening less than a mile away.”
Summer looked startled. “Why, yes. Are you familiar with it? AmeriMed actually donated most of the land for that facility. It’s very exciting. But I’m sure Mr. Burlingame can provide whatever details you need.”
She swung open a mahogany door. The square room held a circular table and six armchairs upholstered in a sage green print. A tray with a coffeepot, several mugs, and a pitcher of water served as a centerpiece. A row of large windows offered an expansive view. “It’s a lot of countryside out here,” she said, smiling. “Please make yourself at home. Mr. Burlingame will be with you momentarily.”
She was right. Lucy and Jack had barely taken seats and poured coffee before the door swung open and in strode a large man with a reddish face whom they instantly recognized from Ellery’s press conference at the Union League. He wore a navy suit, a pink-and-white-striped shirt with a white collar, and a dark tie secured with a prominent gold collar pin. His hands were big with thick fingers. “Now, what can I do for you?”
It was somewhat surprising that he’d come alone, that there wasn’t a personal lawyer—or at least one of the company’s attorneys—present. Apparently he wasn’t too concerned about the nature of the questions or the information he knew even though he’d brought the chief suspect, Dr. David Ellery, as his guest to the site of the murder.
Dixon pulled a chair out from the table and sat. He seemed to synchronize his wristwatch with the clock on the wall. “Nobody wants to waste time. You want to know what I had to do with Dr. Reese. It’s a bit more complicated than you might think, but hardly incriminating. You can believe me when I say the only person who wanted this murder investigation less than you two is me.”
“Why don’t you begin by explaining your involvement with the Wilder Center,” Jack said. “How come you got to head up the selection process?”
Dixon quickly recited a brief history of AmeriMed. For
the past ten years he’d been chairman and chief executive officer of this major pharmaceutical manufacturer with revenues of approximately $2 billion annually. It employed more than three hundred people, not including the specialized scientists who were brought in as needed. Because of its extensive research into psychopharmacological agents—antidepressant, antiseizure, and antianxiety medications—the Wilder Center visionaries had approached him early in the conceptual phase of the hospital. AmeriMed agreed to their proposal. His company donated the adjacent land—approximately sixty acres—for the site.
“That had to be a huge investment. What did you get in return?”
“You mean besides a substantial tax deduction?” He chuckled, and then leaned forward with his fingers steepled in front of him on the table. “It’s about money, Detectives. Pure and simple. You have no idea the value of a new antidepressant. Look at Prozac. It’s been a phenomenon. People who didn’t even think they had troubles are getting prescriptions. Who doesn’t want to feel good? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’re talking tricyclics, MAOIs, norepinephrine blockers, SSRIs, neuroleptics, benzodiazepines—it’s endless. We will be a major supplier to the hospital, and an exclusive supplier for everything we make that others do, too. But that’s only the half of it.” A wide grin spread over his face. “What matters most to us is that we will use the facility to run our human trials on new psych medications in development.”
“Like a laboratory?”
“Pretty much. The last phase of FDA approval is the human trial. You can induce bliss and happiness in all the chimpanzees and beagles in the world but at some point you need the real thing. That’s the critical component. And it can be very difficult for us to enlist doctors who will agree to enroll their patients. The paperwork alone is overwhelming. The government’s been going after the kind of incentive programs we used to use. So the Wilder Center is perfect. In exchange for our financial help, we get a captive population. Kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.” He laughed at his tasteless analogy. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement because the Center gets a great marketing tool. Its patients will get the latest drugs, many of which are still in the developmental stage. They don’t have to go to Mexico or Europe. They can stay right here in a luxurious room with over a hundred cable stations and be medicated up the wazoo.” He paused, seeming to gauge the reaction of his audience. “The promise of hope. That’s what this facility is all about. Dana-Farber, Sloan-Kettering, they offer that for cancer. We’re just applying that model of excellence to mental illness.”
