names she’s accumulated, Pat has a big problem functioning without a man in her life.) Well, under the circumstances, I felt it incumbent upon me, her close friend and confidante, to spend a little time with her to try to cheer her up. It didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped—for either of us.
The truth is, it had been a long time since I’d had anyone special in my own life. And once in a while I couldn’t help letting it get to me. But by and large I handled things pretty well, I thought. That is, until that two-hour dose of a man
less Pat Martucci.
By the time we said good night in front of the restaurant,
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I was practically suicidal. Pat, however, thanked me for being there for her, assuring me that she felt so much better after our talk. I have to tell you, though, that she was wip
ing away a few tears when she said it.
It wasn’t even nine-thirty when I left Pat and, between feeling bad for her and worse for myself, I just couldn’t bring myself to go straight home. Which was probably a fortunate thing; it might not have been wise for me to be anyplace I’d have access to sharp knives and/or a gas oven. So, on the spur of the moment, I went to the movies. I don’t even recall what picture I saw. But I do remember it was a comedy and that when I got out of there, it was safe for me to go into the kitchen.
As soon as I came home, I checked the answering ma
chine for messages. There was only one. But it was the one we’d all been waiting for.
At first I didn’t even realize I was listening to Peter. His voice was about an octave higher than normal and just this side of hysterical. And the words spilled out in quick time.
‘‘Desiree? Peter. Big news! Finally! I stayed at the hospi
tal a little later tonight—I don’t know why. Anyway, I was there when it happened! I still can’t believe it! She came out of the coma! Isn’t that the greatest—the most sensa
tional—news you’ve ever heard? You can’t call me back; I’m not home. I’m at a bar near the hospital, and I was hoping you’d be able to meet me here and celebrate with me. But you’re not home, either. But I guess you realize that, don’t you?’’ Then came this silly laugh that was a true soulmate to Ellen’s giggle. ‘‘Listen, if I sound high to you,’’
he rushed on, ‘‘I want you to know this is no cheap drunk; it’s champagne. Moe¨t something-or-other. Anyway, wish you were here.’’ Another Ellenish laugh. ‘‘I’ll speak to you in the morning. Good n—’’
Even talking at that rate, he couldn’t beat out my impa
tient little machine. But he’d already told me the only thing that mattered:
She was out of her coma!
Wait a minute. . . . Who was out of her coma? I played the message again. Peter hadn’t said that it was Mary Ann; he hadn’t even mentioned her name. But that was because he was so excited, I told myself. After all, would he be celebrating like that if it was Meredith?
Still, I was a little uneasy.
Chapter 20
On Wednesday I woke up before seven, but, as crazy as I was to talk to Peter, I didn’t have the heart to call him that early. From the sound of him on the phone last night, it was no stretch to assume he’d be pretty hungover this morning. I got out of bed, made myself some coffee, and then sat in the kitchen and stared at the wall clock until seventhirty. At which point I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. Rationalizing that he might be leaving for the hospital any minute now, I dialed Peter’s number.
As soon as he picked up, I knew that I’d dragged him out of a sound sleep. ‘‘Any news?’’ he asked when he real
ized who it was.
‘‘You’re the one with the news—the fantastic news!’’ I reminded him.
‘‘Geez, how did you find out so soon?’’ he asked groggily, attempting, not too successfully, to stifle a yawn. Welcome to The Twilight Zone.
‘‘You called me; don’t you remember?’’
For a couple of seconds, I thought the line had gone dead. Then Peter admitted sheepishly, ‘‘I guess I don’t. I did a little celebrating after I left the hospital, and every
thing’s sort of hazy.’’
‘‘I found a message from you on my machine when I came home last night,’’ I prompted.
‘‘I’ll take your word for it,’’ he responded with this diffi
dent little chuckle. Then, abruptly, he seemed to come fully awake, and there was excitement in his voice. ‘‘Did the message say that she regained consciousness?’’
‘‘Yes! And I can’t tell you how thrilled I am! How did it happen?’’
‘‘Uhh . . . look, Desiree, is it okay if I call you back in a few minutes? All of a sudden I feel a little queasy.’’
I didn’t hear from Peter for about twenty minutes. In the
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meantime, I was so intent on waiting for the phone to ring that I couldn’t even muster the concentration to open a box of cornflakes.
When Peter finally got back to me, he insisted he was feeling better, although he still sounded a little funny—like he’d lost his salivary glands.
‘‘Sorry about hanging up on you. I’m not one of the world’s great drinkers, I’m afraid. But I just had to celebrate.’’
‘‘So tell me!’’
‘‘It was really a miracle, Desiree,’’ he began, eager to talk now. ‘‘At a little after seven, I was getting ready to go home. I had this terrible headache, so I decided I’d make an early night of it, maybe grab a quick sandwich and go right to bed after that and see if I could sleep it off.
‘‘Then the strangest thing happened. I put on my coat, even buttoned it. But something just wouldn’t let me leave—I can’t explain it. So, anyway, I took off the coat and sat down next to the bed again. I was sitting there looking at her when I noticed that her eyes . . . well, they seemed to be open a little. Only a crack, really, and I couldn’t be positive—it was hard to tell with all those ban
dages and everything. Even so, I went a little nuts. I ran outside and dragged this resident in. He took her hand and started talking to her. He kept asking if she could hear him, but with her jaw wired shut like that, it was hard for her to answer. Or maybe she just didn’t have the strength. So then he told her that if she could hear him, she should wiggle her finger. And she did!’’
‘‘I can’t believe it! It’s what we’ve been praying for!’’ I screeched into the phone. Poor Peter. With that hangover of his, my soothing tone was undoubtedly just what he needed. ‘‘So then what?’’ I demanded.
‘‘Then he had me walk over to the bed, and he said, ‘Do
you know who this man is?’ She looked straight at me, but she didn’t seem to show any recognition; her finger didn’t move at all.’’
‘‘It could be she was a little disoriented,’’ I offered.
‘‘What happened after that?’’
‘‘Well, a couple of seconds later she shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep. And then right away all these doctors started pouring into the room, and they had me wait in the hall for a while. Finally one of the doctors came out and
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said there was a little problem. She was awake now, but she didn’t seem to know who she was.’’
God! Doesn’t it ever end?
‘‘They had me go back in,’’ Peter continued, ‘‘and they tried again. Told her to wiggle her finger if she recognized me. But nothing happened. Anyway, the doctors more or less threw me out then and told me to come back this morning. But one of them said not to worry, that at least she was conscious now, which was the big thing.’’
‘‘It sure is,’’ I agreed, my voice beginning to quiver. Sud
denly I seemed to be overwhelmed by so many different emotions at once: joy, relief, thankfulness, and a gnawing fear of what might be in store for Peter next. But somehow I managed to stem the tears that were on the brink o
f splashing all over the telephone receiver. ‘‘Well, that ex
plains one thing, anyway,’’ I murmured, more or less talk
ing to myself out loud.
‘‘Explains what?’’
‘‘Why you haven’t mentioned Mary Ann’s name at all. When I got your message last night, I wondered about that.’’
Peter was quick to respond. ‘‘If I haven’t mentioned her name,’’ he asserted, ‘‘it’s only because I’m afraid I’ll jinx things. The truth is, I still can’t get over how lucky I am she’s recovering. It doesn’t even matter to me what she knows—things’ll come to her in time. All that’s important is that since last night, I’ve known for sure that she’s Mary Ann.’’ Then he added, a note of triumph in his voice,
‘‘There, I’ve said it: She’s Mary Ann!’’
‘‘Oh, I hope so!’’ I told him softly, succeeding in another brief struggle to turn back the tears.
‘‘She really is; I’m positive of it,’’ Peter insisted fervently.
‘‘Look, I don’t want to sound mystical or anything, but something made me take off my coat last night so that I’d be there when Mary Ann came out of her coma. That wouldn’t have happened if it was Meredith; I’m convinced of it.’’ Then, a little hesitantly: ‘‘I suppose I sound like a real kook, don’t I?’’
‘‘Not to me, you don’t. How does that line in Hamlet go—I think it was Hamlet—about there being more things in heaven and earth than we can explain? Well, I believe that’s true.’’
And I really do believe it. Oh, maybe I should have told
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Peter to go easy, not to count on anything yet. But the way I looked at it, after all these terrible weeks he rated some happiness. Even if it should turn out to be for just a little while.
That afternoon, I began thinking about wills again. I didn’t seem to be able to help it, although I was sure that all I was doing was spinning my wheels. I mean, Fielding had been looking into that area pretty intensively. If the damned things did exist—and that seemed to be a big ‘‘if’’
at this point—he’d eventually manage to turn them up. Still, for the hell of it, I found myself approaching the subject as though, like the twins, I’d just arrived here from London. Now, let’s say I wanted to make out a will. (Natu
rally, it was necessary to start with the premise it hadn’t already been taken care of over there.) Well, first off, I’d have to get myself a lawyer. Okay, how would I go about finding one?
There were the Yellow Pages, of course, which would certainly make sense if I didn’t know anyone in New York. But suppose I did? Suppose that one of my closest child
hood friends was living right in this city?
Maybe it was a carryover from my conversation with Peter, but in spite of myself I was actually optimistic when I dialed Claire Josephs’s number.
‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact, Merry did ask me if I knew a lawyer who could help with a will,’’ Claire said when I put the question to her.
‘‘And did you recommend anybody?’’ I think my heart stopped pumping for the split second it took her to answer.
‘‘I talked to Rick—my husband—and he suggested this law firm in the building where he works. We’ve never had occasion to use a lawyer ourselves—although I guess we should make out a will, too, now that we’re parents.’’ (I’ll bet she shuddered when she said that.) ‘‘But anyway,’’ she went on, ‘‘Rick said that firm had a pretty good
reputation.’’
‘‘What was the name of the firm?’’
‘‘Let me see . . . was it Lefkowitz? No, not Lefkowitz, but something close to it. Wait. . . .’’
Claire’s mind search was rudely interrupted by her little Buddha, who, I can report, was in his usual fine, robust voice.
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‘‘I’ll call you back in a few minutes,’’ she told me hurriedly.
After we hung up, I couldn’t sit still. I began pacing back and forth in my office, which, since the room is only about seven-by-nine, had the effect of making me feel like I was walking in place. When I heard from Claire ten minutes later, I was still on my feet.
‘‘I just checked with my husband,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s Leibow
itz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell.’’ She even provided me with the phone number.
I gave her my genuine, heartfelt, enthusiastic thanks for her help and was about to say good-bye when she stopped me. ‘‘You know, I was going to call you.’’
‘‘About what, Claire?’’
‘‘Remember when you were here last week, and we were
talking about Roger Hyer?’’
I told her that of course I remembered.
‘‘It’s probably not that important or anything, but I don’t think I mentioned that my brother ran into Roger a couple of months ago at Le Cirque. Simon—that’s my brother—is a doctor, so he can afford Le Cirque,’’ she put in sourly.
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Well, Roger made a point of stopping off at Simon’s table. They met this one time at my apartment when the twins first moved to New York,’’ she explained. ‘‘Anyhow, Roger said he just wanted to say hello, but right away he asked about Mary Ann. Simon said she was fine. So then Roger asked if she was seeing anyone and Simon said that yes, she was, and that she was getting engaged soon.’’
I was practically hyperventilating by now. (I don’t think I’m constitutionally capable of handling more than one rev
elation at a time.) ‘‘Is that it?’’ I asked, just to make sure she had nothing more to add.
‘‘That’s it,’’ Claire said regretfully. ‘‘I told you it wasn’t much.’’
Chapter 21
I quashed the very strong impulse to get in touch with the lawyers myself, deciding that I’d play it smart for once and let Tim do the honors. Partly that was because I realized that, in his official capacity, it would probably be easier for him to get the information we both wanted. But mostly it was because I still didn’t have much on the credit side of my Fielding ledger. I’ve got to admit, though, that I called the precinct reluctantly.
Fielding—wouldn’t you know it?—was out. And I practi
cally had to sit on my hands to keep from dialing Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell next. A brief visit with Jackie and a lengthy phone call to Ellen made it easier. By the time I was through talking to the two of them, the digital clock on my desk read 5:37. Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell were most likely all on their way home now anyway. So temptation was behind me.
But the next morning I didn’t take any chances. As soon
as I left the apartment, I headed straight for the Twelfth Precinct. The cab deposited me there at a little after nine, and right away I ran into Walter Corcoran—literally. He was coming out of the front door just as I was entering the building. In view of my feelings toward the man, I chose to blame him for our small collision.
‘‘For God’s sake,Corcoran! Why don’t you watch it! You
almost knocked me over!’’
‘‘It would take a bulldozer to knock you over,’’ he coun
tered nastily.
Ours is a truly heartwarming relationship.
When I presented myself at Tim’s desk, he seemed only marginally happier to see me than his partner had been. ‘‘I thought you were going to call before you came over here next time,’’ he grumbled.
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I didn’t remember telling him anything of the sort (but maybe I did allow him to think it). Anyway, I let it pass; I was here to make points, wasn’t I? ‘‘I believe I have some
thing that just might make you change your attitude,’’ I announced.
‘‘Chocolate or jelly?’’
It was a few seconds before I caught on. ‘‘Ohhh, you mean donuts. I didn’t even want to take the time to stop off. That’s the kind of information I’ve g
ot for you.’’
‘‘Yeah, I can imagine. Okay, sit down. Corcoran just went out for some breakfast. He’s bringing me back a Dan
ish, and if you’ve really got something good, maybe I’ll share. Want some coffee in the meantime?’’
Having had the pleasure of the precinct coffee, I courte
ously declined the offer. Besides, now that I was here, I couldn’t wait to tell him my news.
‘‘Hold it a minute,’’ Fielding commanded before I had a chance to open my mouth. ‘‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with the victim coming out of her coma, would it?
Because I already know all about that.’’
I assured him it would not, although, I told him, I’d heard the good news, too.
‘‘It really looks like she’s gonna make it, huh?’’ he said, pleased. And then: ‘‘But, of course, it figures, it wouldn’t be all good news.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ It was almost reflexive. I knew what he meant.
‘‘I’m talking about the amnesia. Your client did tell you about it, didn’t he? She finally comes out of the damned coma, and she still can’t tell us who did this to her; the poor girl doesn’t even know what world she’s in!’’
‘‘Look, that could be very temporary. She could get her memory back tomorrow—today, even; I mean, you hear about that sort of thing all the time.’’
‘‘Yeah, sure,’’ Fielding responded gloomily.
‘‘Now, are you ready for something that doesn’t follow Murphy’s Law?’’ I put to him then. And, saving my real coup for later, I proceeded to talk about the Roger Hyer business.
When I was through, Fielding tilted back in his chair, his hands locked behind his head, an ironic smile flitting briefly across his lips. ‘‘Well, how do you like that guy?’’ he mut
tered. ‘‘You shoulda heard him—he was in here yesterday,
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you know. He sat right where you’re sitting now, swearing up and down he had no idea his ex was involved with anyone else. Didn’t it occur to that idiot there was a strong possibility the truth would come out?’’
‘‘I guess not. Like you said, he’s an idiot.’’
‘‘Of course, this doesn’t mean Hyer’s our perp. Although
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