We'll Meet Again

by Mary Higgins Clark

  In the restaurant they chose one of the private booths.

  Once the waiter had poured their wine and left to place their dinner orders, she said, “Tim, I believe you said your grandmother died in Lasch Hospital. When was that?”

  “Let’s see. It’s just over six years ago, I think . . . Why do you ask?”

  “Because when I first met you last week, we discussed Gary Lasch. Didn’t you say that he took excellent care of your grandmother before she died?”

  “Yes, I did. Why?”

  “Because I’m starting to hear from some quarters that there was another side to Gary Lasch as a doctor. I spoke to the physician who treated Billy Gallo’s mother—a Dr. Kirkwood. He told me he fought for her to see a specialist but couldn’t get approval from the HMO for further treatment; then she had the major heart attack and died before anything could be done. Of course, Gary Lasch is long dead and had nothing directly to do with this, but Dr. Kirkwood said that this tightfisted approach to health care goes back some time. He’s only in his early sixties, and he says he’s packing it in, doesn’t plan to practice medicine anymore. He’s been tied to the Lasch Hospital most of his career, and he was most definite in saying that Gary Lasch had been nothing like his father. He said the problems he encountered with Mrs. Gallo were nothing new, that putting the patient’s welfare first hadn’t been a priority with the people running Lasch Hospital and Remington for a long time.” Fran leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He even told me that Dr. Morrow, the young doctor who died in a robbery two weeks before Gary Lasch was killed, once referred to Lasch and his partner, Dr. Black, as a pair of murderers.”

  “That’s pretty strong language,” Tim said, breaking off a piece of roll. “Still, I’ve got to say my own experience was much more positive. As I said, I liked Gary Lasch and thought my grandmother got darn good care. I did think of one coincidence I may not have mentioned. Did I tell you that Annamarie Scalli was one of the nurses who took care of her?”

  Fran’s eyes widened. “No, you didn’t tell me that.”

  “It didn’t seem significant. All the nurses were excellent. I remember Annamarie as dedicated and very caring. When we got the call that my grandmother had died, we went straight to the hospital, of course. Annamarie was sitting by her bed, sobbing. How many nurses react like that, especially when it’s a patient they’ve known only a short time?”

  “Not too many,” Fran agreed. “They couldn’t last if they got emotionally entangled with all their patients.”

  “Annamarie was a very pretty girl, but she also struck me as kind of naïve,” Tim recalled. “She was only in her early twenties, for heaven sake. When I found out later that Gary Lasch was carrying on with her, I was disgusted with him as a man, but as a doctor I can’t remember a single thing about him to criticize.

  “We joked that my grandmother had a crush on Lasch,” Tim reminisced. “He was a really handsome and charming guy, but he also made you feel that he cared about his patients deeply. The guy just inspired confidence. I remember my grandmother saying sometimes he’d look in on her as late as eleven o’clock at night. How many doctors do that?”

  “Molly Lasch quoted Annamarie Scalli as saying that as a doctor and as a husband, Gary Lasch wasn’t worth the price she paid for killing him,” Fran observed. “She said Annamarie was pretty positive about it.”

  “But Fran, isn’t that the kind of talk you’d expect to hear from a woman in Annamarie’s position?”

  “Maybe as a woman she’d say that, yes. But it sounds to me as if she was also talking from the point of view of a nurse.” Fran paused and shook her head. “I don’t know, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but adding that to Dr. Jack Morrow’s referring to Gary Lasch and Peter Black as murderers, I can’t help but think there’s something to all this. I sense that I’m onto something, and I suspect that an awful lot of this story has never come out.”

  “You’re an investigative reporter, Fran. My bet’s on you to get to the truth. I hardly knew Annamarie Scalli, but I was grateful for the care she took of my grandmother. I’d like to see her murderer caught, and it’s a tragedy if Molly Lasch has been unfairly accused.”

  The waiter was placing the salads in front of them.

  “Unfairly accused for the second time,” Fran said pointedly.

  “That may well be the case, but what’s your next step?”

  “I managed to get a meeting tomorrow with Dr. Peter Black. Should be interesting. I’m still trying to set up an appointment with my Cranden Academy fellow student, Jenna Whitehall, and her husband, the mighty Calvin Whitehall.”

  “Heavy-duty people.”

  Fran nodded. “I know, but they’re all-important to the story, and I’m determined to get to them.” She sighed. “How about let’s give the subject a rest. So what do you think? Will my Yankees win the World Series again this year?”

  Tim smiled. “Of course they will.”

  56

  “This time I came alone,” Jenna announced, as she phoned Molly from her car. “Just let me in for a few minutes.”

  “Jen, you’re sweet, but I begged off from Dr. Daniels, and that took doing. I know it’s only nine o’clock, but my eyes are closing. I really just want to go to bed.”

  “Fifteen minutes—that’s all I ask for.”

  “Oh, Jen,” Molly said with a sigh. “You win. Come on in. Just be careful. There were some reporters hanging around this afternoon, and I bet Cal wouldn’t be happy to see his wife and the notorious Molly Lasch in the same picture on the front page of the tabloids.”

  She opened the door cautiously, and Jenna slipped in. “Oh, Molly,” Jenna said as she hugged her. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

  “You’re my only friend,” Molly said, then quickly added, “No, that’s not true. Fran Simmons is in my corner.”

  “Fran’s called about setting up an appointment, but we haven’t connected yet. Cal promised me he’d give her an appointment, and I understand she’s already scheduled to come up here to talk to Peter tomorrow.”

  “I know she said she wanted to talk to all of you. I want you to feel free to say anything you want to her. I trust her not to hurt me.”

  They went into the family room, where Molly had a fire going. “I have something figured out,” she said. “In this very large house, I live in three rooms—the kitchen, my bedroom, and here. When—and if—this is all over, I’m going to get a smaller place.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Jenna said, nodding in agreement.

  “Of course, as you know, the State of Connecticut has other plans for me, and if they have their way, I’ll be in a very small cell.”

  “Molly!” Jenna protested.

  “I’m sorry.” Molly sat back and studied her friend. “You look great. Basic black suit—an Escada, isn’t it? Heels. Understated but gorgeous jewelry. Where have you been, or is it where are you going?”

  “A business lunch. Corporate stuff. I took a late train home. I left my car at the station this morning, and tonight I came directly here. I’ve been feeling rotten all day. Molly, I’m terribly worried about you.”

  Molly attempted a smile. “I’m terribly worried about me too.”

  They were sitting side by side on the couch, a cushion-width apart. Molly leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Jen, your husband is convinced that I murdered Gary, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Jenna said quietly.

  “And he’s also convinced I stabbed Annamarie Scalli to death.”

  Jenna did not answer.

  “I know he is,” Molly continued. “You know what you mean to me, but, Jen, do me a favor—don’t bring Cal around anymore. The only place I can call a sanctuary is this house. I don’t need enemies in it.”

  Molly glanced sideways at her friend. “Oh Jen, don’t start crying on me. It has nothing to do with us. We’re still the girls from Cranden Academy, aren’t we?”

  “You bet we are,” Jenna said as she impatiently brushe
d her eyes with the back of her hand. “But Molly, Cal isn’t the enemy. He wants to call in other lawyers, top-drawer criminal experts, to work with Philip in preparing an insanity defense for you.”

  “An insanity defense?”

  “Molly,” Jenna burst out, “don’t you realize that a murder conviction could mean life imprisonment for you? Especially on top of the earlier conviction? We can’t let that happen.”

  “No, we can’t,” Molly said, standing. “Jen, come into Gary’s study with me.”

  The light was off in the study. Molly switched it on, then deliberately switched it off again. “Last night after all of you left, I went up to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. About midnight, I came down here—and you know something? When I turned on the light, just as I did now, I could remember doing the same thing when I came home from the Cape that Sunday night. I’m sure now that the light in the study was out when I got here, Jenna. I would swear to that!”

  “What does that mean, Molly?”

  “Think about it. Gary was at his desk. There were papers on it, so he must have been working. It was nighttime. He must have had the light on. If I’m right about remembering that I came home, opened this door, and then turned the light on, it means that whoever killed Gary had turned it off. Don’t you see?”

  “Molly,” Jenna murmured, her voice calm but protesting.

  “Yesterday I told Dr. Daniels that I remembered something from that night about a door and a lock.”

  Molly turned to face her friend and saw the disbelief in her eyes. Her shoulders sagged. “Today, Mrs. Barry said that the spare key we hid in the garden had been in the house for weeks. She said it was there because one day I forgot my key. But I don’t remember that either.”

  “Molly, let Cal bring in lawyers to assist Philip in preparing your defense,” Jenna begged. “He spoke to a couple of the best of them today. They’re both very experienced in presenting psychiatric defenses, and we really think they could help you.” She saw the look of distress in her friend’s face. “At least think about it.”

  “Maybe that’s why I was dreaming about a door and a lock,” Molly said grimly, ignoring Jenna’s suggestion. “Maybe I have a choice: a locked prison cell or a locked room in an institution.”

  “Molly, come on,” Jenna said, standing, “I’m going to have a cup of tea with you, then I am going to let you get to bed. You say you’re not getting much sleep. Didn’t Dr. Daniels give you anything to help you sleep?”

  “He gave me something the other day, and Mrs. Barry came back this afternoon with a prescription that the doctor gave Wally.”

  “You shouldn’t take anyone else’s prescription!”

  “The label was on it. I know it’s okay. Don’t forget, I was a doctor’s wife, and I did pick up a little knowledge along the way.”

  When Jenna left a few minutes later, Molly double locked the front door behind her and stepped on the foot bolt. The sound that the bolt made—something between a click and a snap—made her pause.

  Deliberately she repeated raising and lowering the bolt, listening carefully each time, willing her subconscious to supply the reason that familiar household sound was suddenly so chilling.

  57

  Dr. Peter Black began his day Thursday morning by going to visit Tasha. By any medical standards, she should be dead by now, he thought anxiously as he walked down the hallway to her suite.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to make her a part of the experiment, he thought. Normally this experiment would produce useful—and occasionally fascinating—clinical results, but it was proving to be difficult to carry out, due primarily to Tasha’s mother. Barbara Colbert was much too alert and well connected. There were plenty of other patients at the residence who were more likely candidates for this extraordinary research, patients whose relatives would never suspect anything was amiss and who would take even the slightest sign of deathbed cognition as a gift from heaven.

  I should never have mentioned to Dr. Logue that Harvey Magim seemed to recognize his wife at the end, Black thought, excoriating himself. But it was too late to stop now. He had to go on to the next step. That had been made clear to him. That next step was contained in the package he’d brought back from the laboratory in West Redding, and it was now safely tucked into his vest pocket.

  When he entered the room, he found the duty nurse nodding by Tasha’s bedside. That was good, he thought. A sleepy nurse was exactly what he wanted. It gave him an excuse to get her out of the room.

  “I would suggest you get yourself a cup of coffee,” he said sternly, waking her abruptly. “Bring it back here. I’ll wait. Where is Mrs. Colbert?”

  “She’s asleep on the couch,” the nurse whispered. “Poor woman, she finally dozed off. Her sons left. They’ll be here again tonight.”

  Black nodded and turned to the patient as the nurse scurried out. Tasha’s condition remained unchanged from last evening. She had stabilized, thanks, he knew, to the injection he’d given her when she started to sink.

  He took the small package out of his pocket. It felt unnaturally heavy for its size. Last night’s injection had had the expected results, but the one he was about to administer was totally unpredictable.

  Logue is out of control, Black thought.

  He lifted Tasha’s limp arm and pinched it to find a suitable vein. Holding the syringe in place, he slowly pushed the plunger and watched as the liquid disappeared into her body.

  He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. In about twelve hours it would be over, one way or the other. In the meantime, he was facing the unwelcome prospect of the meeting he had agreed to have with that snoopy newswoman, Fran Simmons.

  58

  After a restless night, Fran went to the office early Thursday morning to do some background work in preparation for her noontime interview with Dr. Peter Black. She had requested that the research department have whatever biographical information they could find waiting on her desk, and she was pleased to see that it was there already.

  She read through it quickly, finding it surprisingly thin and not remotely impressive. Born in Denver of working-class parents; attended local schools; had mediocre to poor grades at medical school; did a residency in Chicago at an unrated hospital, then worked as a staff doctor there. Not much of a record, she said to herself.

  Which has to lead one to ask the question, why did Gary Lasch seek him out? Fran thought.

  * * *

  Promptly at noon she was ushered into Dr. Black’s office. She was immediately struck by the way the place was furnished. It impressed her as having a grandeur more suitable to a corporate executive than a physician, even if that physician was CEO of a hospital and health maintenance organization.

  She did not know what she had expected Peter Black to be like. Maybe I anticipated something more akin to what I heard Gary Lasch was like, she thought as she shook his hand and followed him to a sitting area in front of a large picture window. A handsome leather couch, two matching armchairs, and a coffee table created a comfortable, living room atmosphere.

  Gary Lasch by all accounts had been a handsome man with an engaging personality. Peter Black’s complexion was sallow, and Fran was surprised at how nervous he seemed. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and on his upper lip. There was a rigidity about him, especially in the way he sat on the edge of his chair. It was as if he were on guard against an anticipated attack. Although he was attempting to be courteous, there was no mistaking the stress in his voice.

  He offered coffee. When Fran declined, he said, “Ms. Simmons, I have a particularly busy schedule today, and I assume you do as well, so why don’t we get straight to the point. I have agreed to see you because I wanted to emphasize in the strongest possible terms that I think it’s an outrage that in your quest for ratings you are exploiting Molly Lasch, a woman who is clearly mentally ill.”

  Fran looked back at him without flinching. “I thought I was helping Molly, not exploiting her, Doctor. May I ask if y
our diagnosis of mental illness is based on an actual medical evaluation, or is it merely the rush to judgment that seems to be the standard reaction of all her friends?”

  “Ms. Simmons, it’s clear we have nothing to say to each other.” Peter Black stood up. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Fran remained seated. “No, I’m afraid I won’t. Dr. Black, you know I drove here from Manhattan because I have some questions for you. The fact that you allowed me to come was, in my opinion, a tacit acceptance of that understanding. I do think you owe me at least ten minutes of your time.”

  Grudgingly Peter Black sank back into his chair. “Ten minutes, Ms. Simmons. Not a second more.”

  “Thank you. I understand from Molly that you visited her Saturday night with the Whitehalls to ask her to delay my investigation because of your pending merger with other health maintenance organizations. Is that true?”

  “That is true. I also had Molly’s welfare in mind. I explained that to you.”

  “Dr. Black, you knew Dr. Jack Morrow, didn’t you?”

  “Certainly. He was one of our physicians.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “Friendly. I’d say we were friendly. We respected each other. But did we socialize? No, we did not.”

  “Did you quarrel with him shortly before he died?”

  “No, I did not. I understand he had words with my colleague Dr. Lasch. I believe it was over a denial of coverage of a procedure Dr. Morrow had recommended for one of his patients.”

  “Did you know that he referred to you and Dr. Lasch as ‘a pair of murderers’?”

  “I certainly did not, but it doesn’t surprise me. Jack was a rash man and could get very hot under the collar.”

  He’s scared, Fran thought as she studied Peter Black. He’s scared, and he’s lying.

  “Doctor, did you know at the time that Gary Lasch was having an affair with Annamarie Scalli?”

  “I did not. I was shocked when Gary confessed to it.”

  “That was only hours before he died,” Fran said. “Isn’t that true?”