by Nancy Geary
“Are you sure I can’t make you some dinner?” she asked, knowing his response.
He shook his head. “Having your body as a cushion is much more important to me at the moment than a full stomach,” he said without opening his eyes.
“You need your strength.”
“For what? Running a bar? Yeah,” he added, sarcastically.
“Look, Archer, just because your father doesn’t understand your work, or just because he’d choose something else, it doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile.”
Archer rolled over and pressed himself up with his hands. “Do you honestly believe that?”
“I do. And I don’t think you should beat yourself up. You work hard. You enjoy what you do. There’s nothing dishonorable about that. Not everyone can produce world peace or invent the toaster or find the cure for soft-tissue cancer. Sometimes I think all of us would be better off if we’d embrace reality instead of focusing on how we fall short of expectations.”
“How’d you end up so sane?”
She smiled. “I didn’t. But it’s a good act. One I learned early on from my parents.”
He sat back on his heels and leaned toward her. “Do you realize that if you hadn’t confronted my father today, he might never have told me about my mother? All my life I’ve begged him for information, and you learned more in an afternoon than I did in thirty years.”
“Sometimes it’s easier when the probing comes from a relative stranger.”
He didn’t respond. Instead he kissed her, then reached his arms around her and pulled her toward him, kissing her again. She felt his tongue inside her mouth and tasted his saliva, still scented with the scotch he’d drunk hours before.
“Thank you, Lucy. I mean it. I might have died never knowing, not understanding. And it’s because of you, your persistence, your inability to be bullshitted.” He smiled. “I saw my father today. I listened to him. He actually seemed human. I’ve built up so much resistance to him, his intolerance, his arrogance, that maybe I’ve never tried to understand. It was easier to believe my mother left because she couldn’t tolerate him the same way I couldn’t. I’ve wanted to blame him.” His eyes widened with animation and he shook his fist. “You know, he remembered the Ferdinand story. That bull was the best! When he said that, I realized, shit, he is my father. He may be a far cry from perfection but he was the only parent I had. And for that, for giving me that insight, I love you even more.”
She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. Playfully, she whispered in his ear, “So how will you show your gratitude?” Then, realizing how deeply serious he was, she added, “I love you, too. And I’d do anything I could to help you through this nightmare.”
The telephone interrupted their discussion. Lucy stood, feeling a stab of stiffness in her knees as she straightened her legs. “I’ll get it,” she said, grabbing the receiver from its cradle on the kitchen table.
“Hey there,” Jack said. “Ben and I interviewed Sherrill Nichols, the wife of Tripp. We’d hoped to find him, too, but apparently AmeriMed is having some emergency meeting so he’s out. Sherrill says Tripp was away on business last weekend—something in Atlantic City. She couldn’t tell us where he was staying because he’d only called from his cell phone. But he left Saturday morning, was supposed to come back Monday, but then showed up at home a day early.”
“That can’t be right. He was at the Rabbit Club Saturday night. He’s a member. Why hide his attendance from his wife?”
“We asked if she knew he was a member of the Rabbit, and she said, ‘Yes, of course.’ Kind of like it was a source of pride. So get this. Ben and I then checked with the nicer downtown hotels. Turns out the Hyatt had him registered for two nights, although he didn’t stay for the second. He made no phone calls and drank most of the minibar. Had a three-hundred-dollar bill for incidentals. He got one telephone message from someone named Avery on Saturday around five P.M.”
“He would’ve been at the Rabbit Club by that time.”
“Right. But listen, it gets weirder. An Avery Nichols had a confirmed reservation for Saturday night, too, but she never checked in. Tripp’s credit card was billed for the room.”
“So was this their tryst?”
“Maybe. But we can’t prove that anyone stayed in his room with him.”
“How about the notion that it’s easier to run up a huge minibar bill if you’re not alone?”
“Hey, if it works for you, it works for me,” Jack said, chuckling. “It’ll be interesting to hear what old Tripp has to say about all of this. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, O’Malley.”
After replacing the receiver, she walked back to the stove. Archer had removed his clothes. He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The flames from the fire cast shadows on his body.
“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning over him and raising her eyebrows.
He smiled. “You were the one who wanted me to show my gratitude.”
“I didn’t need that big a show.” She knelt beside him, ran her hand along his leg, and then kissed his belly button.
“Try and live with it.”
28
Friday, May 23rd 12:45 p.m.
The morning had been spent reviewing documents and reports of interviews in preparation for the confrontation with Tripp Nichols. Lucy was eager to go and felt restless as Jack pulled into a Mobil station to fuel up the car. While she waited, she wandered into the adjacent convenience store, bought a pack of Dentyne, and tucked the seven cents of change into the back pocket of her pants. Feeling her cell phone reminded her that she’d failed to turn it on that morning. But although the message envelope appeared in the window, she ignored it; the morning headline had caught her attention: ELLERY RESIGNS FROM PINNACLE POSITION; WILDER CENTER SEARCH FOR DIRECTOR CONTINUES.
She picked up a paper from the stack, dropped a dollar bill on the counter, and began to read. Despite the article’s length, it provided little information on the momentous turn of events. Ellery had resigned for unspecified personal reasons, according to the press release. And the doctor couldn’t be reached for comment. Most of the two-page spread recited the hospital’s development and its search for leadership. Dixon Burlingame was quoted briefly: “We are saddened by Dr. Ellery’s decision, but we know we can find a suitable replacement. The Center will open on schedule.”
Lucy brought the paper out to the car and handed it to Jack just as her cell phone rang. Caller ID showed A. Baldwin.
“I thought cops always answered their phones,” Amanda said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for more than an hour.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“If I tell you, I expect you’ll let me know what further details you find out.”
“Is that blackmail?”
“Just a quid pro quo—a favorable one for you since I don’t see any men in blue monitoring Ellery’s comings and goings.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was outside Ellery’s house in Haverford trying to get a scoop on the resignation story. But nobody was talking or even answering the door. Then about an hour and a half ago, a Town Car pulled up. Ellery came out of the house with three large suitcases and a laptop, and got in. My cameraman and I wanted to follow him, but when we got back in our van, the tire was flat. Slashed, if you can believe it. So much for parking in a good neighborhood. Well, I could hardly ask Ellery to wait up. Who knows where he’s headed, but it certainly appears he’ll be gone for a while.”
12:59 p.m.
Lucy avoided a glance at the speedometer as Jack steered through downtown Philadelphia toward I-76. With one hand, she braced herself against the dashboard. With the other, she struggled to dial Betty Graham. The small metallic flip phone helped her focus. She could ignore the mayhem outside, the cars screeching to a halt, the bicycle couriers frantically scrambling for the sidewalk, and the pedestrians jumping away from the curb. But the tiny numbers enclosed in their gel covering were almost impossible to hit given
the momentum of the car.
It was only when Jack was forced to stop behind a delivery van that she quickly could dial. He banged his hands on the steering wheel. “What the fuck is wrong with these people? Don’t they know how to get out of the way?”
“Doctors’ office,” a voice answered.
“This is Detective O’Malley, Philadelphia Homicide.”
Jack hit the horn. Frustrated, he pulled the cord on the megaphone and began to instruct all vehicles to move to the side of the road.
“Is everything all right?” Betty asked.
“Is Dr. Ellery leaving town?”
She paused momentarily. “Oh, yes, absolutely. He informed me that he had a personal emergency. I was told to cancel all appointments for the rest of the month and to tell his patients he would be back in touch with them when he returned.”
“Where’s he going?”
“Puerto Vallarta. That’s in Mexico.”
“Do you know what airline?”
“American. The flight leaves in less than an hour. He’s got an aisle seat and a vegetarian meal. I confirmed them myself.”
If they could catch Ellery in time, he’d live to regret crossing his longtime employee.
Her attempts to locate the gate or to contact the gate attendant were less successful. Each time the car lurched, she’d hit a wrong button in the morass of automated prompts, and heard the saccharine voice apologizing, “I’m sorry. I do not recognize that number. Good-bye.” The number for airport security rang unanswered, and the emergency number was busy.
Sadly, she realized that even if she got through to someone who could provide assistance, she wasn’t sure what she could say to convince the authorities to do so. They didn’t have an arrest warrant. Nor did they have probable cause to have him stopped. Dixon’s story provided a strong alibi. The gun belonged to Ellery, but there were no prints to tie him to a weapon that he’d reported stolen weeks before. “Don’t worry about the technicalities,” Jack said. “If we can stop him, we’ll come up with some justification for detaining him. I don’t want him out of this state, let alone the country.”
She agreed. There was something fundamentally wrong with his sudden resignation and departure.
They pulled up to the curb and jumped out, leaving the car in a tow-away zone.
Jack and Lucy sprinted through Terminal A at Philadelphia International Airport. Although the security officers were reluctant to let them through the metal detectors without valid boarding passes, they were granted permission after they deposited their guns, shoes, and badges in a bucket. They continued barefoot, rounding a corner, running down a corridor, past a bookstand, a pizza and brewery outpost, and an array of souvenir carts until they saw Gate 3.
There they stopped in their tracks. The boarding gate was shut. The waiting area was empty. And Dixon Burlingame was walking toward them.
“Detectives,” he said with a smile. “Decided to take a vacation, did you? You travel light.”
“Where’s Ellery?” Lucy asked, although they all knew the answer.
“He’ll be back, but no time soon. Mexico is beautiful in the summer—fewer tourists.”
“How could you do that? How could you help him leave?” She had the overwhelming urge to sock the smug expression off his face.
“Miss O’Malley, my first and foremost obligation is to protect my company and the institutions it supports. I’m fully aware that you don’t have enough to arrest David, or you would have done so by now. I also know he isn’t a killer. I was with him at the Rabbit Club—a fact you’ve confirmed with Miss Barbadash. I am his alibi. And I didn’t leave his side until long after Morgan had departed with Tripp. But after what happened at the Union League, and after our meeting, I realized the power of suggestion, the damage that mere innuendo can cause. The Wilder Center can’t risk scandal of any kind. We passed over Ellery once before because of that fear. This work is too important. Morgan’s murder brought with it an air of . . . suspicion. He had to resign, and he wanted to leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new director to find. We seem to be quickly running out of candidates.”
They stared at his back and listened to the sound of his departure, the click of the heels of his dress shoes on the polished corridor. He turned the corner and disappeared from sight as the PA system announced a flight to Miami.
29
6:30 p.m.
Jack steered the car up the gravel drive and then skidded sideways to block anyone from departing, or at least anyone who refused to drive over the lavender beds that lined both sides of the driveway. In front of the massive Tudor home, a silver Infiniti sedan idled, but there was no sign of a driver.
As they approached, the front door swung open and out stepped a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair and a wide forehead. Despite the gray light of early evening, dark glasses covered her eyes. She wore a black pantsuit and had a fuchsia, black, and green print shawl draped over one shoulder. In her ringed fingers, she held a quilted clutch. When she looked up and noticed their presence, she gasped and took a step back. “Who are you?”
Jack and Lucy both produced their badges. “Philadelphia Homicide Unit. Mrs. Nichols?”
She nodded, obviously stunned that Jack addressed her by name.
“I’m Jack Harper. We spoke last night. Is your husband available?”
“He . . . he’ll be right—”
The arrival of Tripp Nichols made any further answer pointless. His navy blazer strained to cover his wide girth and his wire-rimmed glasses pinched the flesh around his temples. His black hair bristled atop his head, and he had pronounced rosacea on his nose. “Who is asking?”
“This man . . . these people are from the police.”
“We need to ask you some questions,” Lucy said.
“That’s not possible right now. We’re expected for cocktails, then dinner. We’re late already. And I have nothing to say to you.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“Miss,” Sherrill said, glaring at Lucy. “You heard my husband. You’ll have to leave.”
“Just tell us why you planned to stay at the Hyatt last weekend with a high school junior, and we’ll be on our way.”
“There must be a mistake.” Sherrill turned ninety degrees to stare at her husband. “What are they talking about? You were in Atlanta.”
The red of Tripp’s face was spreading down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his starched shirt. “How dare you come to my home with false accusations? Get off my property! Now!”
“Which part don’t you want to explain? The room you reserved for Avery Nichols,” she emphasized, “or the bank account you set up for her benefit? Where did that two hundred and fifty thousand come from?”
“Could someone please tell me what’s going on?” Sherrill asked.
Tripp put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, more to keep her upright than to comfort her. His dark eyes appeared black. “I have done absolutely nothing wrong, broken no law. You have no business here.”
Sherrill began to cry. She didn’t remove her dark glasses, but her sobs were audible. She shuddered to rid herself of Tripp’s grasp, but he held on tighter, apparently determined to present a united front to the detectives who were threatening his familial existence. Undeterred, she swatted at his hand, then forced herself free and took several steps away. She stood by the hood of the car with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “I don’t believe this. This truly can’t be happening,” she repeated.
“Can’t you see you’re upsetting my wife? Call my lawyer. I have nothing to say to you.”
“No!” came Sherrill’s wail. Without approaching, she called to him, “I want to know, too. You’re not going to call any lawyer. You’re not going to call anyone. You’re going to tell me . . . tell them . . . now.”
“There’s nothing to explain. I . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not—” Tripp stammered. His face looked as if he might explode. “I’m not having an affair with anyone.�
��
Lucy reached into her jacket and removed the envelope that Gertrude had given her nearly a week before. Carefully she unfolded the letter. Both Sherrill and Tripp were staring at her, transfixed. She looked at him and then down at the page. Slowly, she read each word aloud. When she was done, she stood with her arm extended, offering up the letter itself.
Nobody touched it.
“The girl you’re asking about, Avery . . . She’s just a child. She’s . . . Avery is my daughter.” He hung his head.
The clutch handbag hurled through the air and pounded into the side of his face. He flinched and stumbled backward. Sherrill was beside him instantly, looming over him with her hands on her hips. “What daughter?”
“It was . . . it was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
Nobody answered.
“Tell me her age!”
The huge man seemed frightened. His mouth gaped open.
“Avery is sixteen,” Jack volunteered.
Sherrill paused a moment, considering the math. She clenched her jaw and flared her nostrils. “How could you?” Then she looked around and waved her hands at Jack and Lucy. “In front of the police. This is how you share news of your adultery? I want you out of my house immediately.”
“Sherrill. Please. I can explain.”
“Oh yes,” she said facetiously. “Why don’t you do that? I’m sure you’ve got a very good reason for cheating on your wife and stealing her money, too.”
Tripp produced a handkerchief and wiped beads of sweat from his brow. Then he collapsed on the brick steps, and hung his head between his knees.
“What can you tell us about Morgan Reese?” Jack asked. His voice was deadpan.
“Another one!” Then recognition swept across her face. “That’s the famous psychiatrist! I saw you with her at the Flower Show. Right in front of my face! Now I remember. You both got all flustered when I came over. I should have known. I should never have trusted you. What was I ever thinking? My father always said, ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ Why didn’t I listen?”
