I've Got My Eyes on You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Maybe this will help,” Mike said as he pulled a picture of Kerry out of an envelope and slid it across the table in front of Dietz.

  He stared at it, then looked up at Mike and said, “Sorry, don’t know her.”

  “You said you don’t know her. Are you saying you never met her?”

  Dietz shook his head.

  “All right, Eddie, let’s see if I can improve your memory. The girl in the picture is eighteen-year-old Kerry Dowling. Two and a half weeks ago, after having her high school friends over for a beer party, she was found dead in the swimming pool in her backyard.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think I might have seen something about that case on TV.”

  Mike pulled a bag from under his chair and laid it on the table. Pointing to the wallet in the bag, Mike asked, “Is that yours?”

  “It looks like mine.”

  “It is yours, Eddie. And the papers stuffed inside the wallet, they’re yours too, aren’t they?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Eddie, I want to know about this piece of paper,” he said as he put the torn envelope on the table in front of him.

  “It’s somebody’s phone number. So what?”

  “Eddie, let’s cut the crap. About a week before she died, you were on Route 17 in Mahwah. You pulled over and changed a flat tire for Kerry Dowling. You made arrangements with her to provide the alcohol for her upcoming party, a party you wanted to be invited to. You even asked her if you could come by after the party. When she said no, you tried to force yourself on her.”

  “I didn’t force anything. She wanted it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she did, Eddie. Just like the girl at Woodbury Commons. A good-looking guy like you helps her get her car started. She just wanted to show her appreciation.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Eddie, much as I would love to nail you for groping Kerry after you delivered the alcohol, and providing alcohol to a minor, I can’t do that. The only witness, Kerry Dowling, is dead, murdered. But that’s not the end of the story with you and Kerry, is it? Later that night, you—”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t think I—”

  “Yes, Eddie, I think you went back to her house after the party. Maybe you were a little drunk or high. When she refused your advances, you got really angry and killed her.”

  Eddie was breathing hard. His eyes, which were dull and listless earlier, were now sharp and focused. “The day she died, that was Saturday night?”

  “Saturday, August 25,” Mike replied. “The same day you gave her the beer and asked if you could come to the party.”

  “Okay, I admit it. When I brought her the beer, I asked about going to the party. But I can prove I didn’t go to her house that night.”

  “How? Where were you?” Mike demanded.

  “I drove down to Atlantic City that night. I stayed at the Tropicana. I gambled most of the night.”

  “What time did you get to the Tropicana?”

  “I checked in around ten o’clock.”

  Mike quickly did the math. Atlantic City was 140 miles from Saddle River. Even if Dietz was really pushing it, it would have taken him over two hours to get there. If he murdered Kerry at 11:15, the earliest he could have gotten to the Tropicana was about 1:30 A.M.

  “In that garbage pail that you call a wallet, I didn’t see a receipt for the Tropicana.”

  “I don’t save everything.”

  “Did you drive to Atlantic City?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose car?”

  “Mine.”

  “Do you have an E-ZPass?”

  “Not since I lost my credit card. I pay cash for my tolls.”

  “How did you pay for your hotel room?”

  “Cash.”

  “Okay, Eddie, I’m gonna check out your Tropicana story. I know where to find you if I need you.”

  • • •

  As Mike walked quickly toward the door, the desk sergeant called out to him. “Detective, Officer Fitchet asks if you could wait a few minutes. She wants to talk to you before you leave.”

  “Okay,” Mike said as he moved over to a chair and sat down. He dialed Artie Schulman, who picked up on the first ring. “Artie, I’m still at the Lodi police station. The guy they picked up is the tow truck driver we’ve been looking for. He’s claiming he was in Atlantic City at the time of the murder. I’m checking his story.”

  “Good work. I’ll ask if we have any contacts here that can move things along more quickly. Keep me posted.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Mike spotted Sandy Fitchet heading toward him with a piece of paper in her hand. She took the seat next to him. “I just spoke to my uncle, Herb Phillips. He’s a lieutenant with the State Police in South Jersey. He works closely with security people at the casinos. Uncle Herb said he and the Tropicana’s director of security can meet you or one of your people tomorrow morning at ten to look at surveillance footage. Here are their phone numbers.”

  “I’m in court tomorrow morning. I can’t go myself. I’ll send one of my investigators. I owe you a dinner. Thanks so much,” Mike said as he hurried out to his car.

  His first call was to Sam Hines. After briefing him on the Dietz questioning, Mike said, “Set your alarm. You need to be in Atlantic City by ten o’clock. Call Artie and fill him in.”

  • • •

  Mike was in his office the next morning doing paperwork. A delay at the trial had pushed his testimony to the afternoon. When his phone rang at eleven-thirty, the ID screen showed Tropicana Hotel. He picked it up.

  “Sam, what have you got?”

  “Reservations records show a single room for the night of August 25 booked by a Mr. Edward Dietz. The room was paid for in advance with cash. Security footage shows a young white male who I’m absolutely certain is Dietz entering the hotel at 9:49 P.M. There’s more footage I can go through from inside the casino but—”

  “Don’t bother,” Mike said. “If he’s in AC at almost ten, there’s no way he’s back in Saddle River at eleven-fifteen. Thank the guys down there for me.”

  Mike hung up the phone and exhaled. He was not looking forward to telling Assistant Prosecutor Artie Schulman and Prosecutor Matt Koenig that once again their only suspects in the Dowling murder were Alan Crowley and Jamie Chapman.

  68

  Marina Long had begun to worry about whether she should give up her job. She had always had a flair for fashion and had gone to work at a dress shop in nearby Ridgewood. She had an innate sense for helping customers choose the right style for their body type and personality. She already had a number of regular customers.

  It was a job she had found shortly after she moved to New Jersey. She liked it, and it paid reasonably well. But now her concern about Valerie had deepened. Her daughter’s mood over the last few days was even more somber; she was even more detached, if that was possible. The change convinced Marina she should be there in the afternoons when her daughter got home from school.

  Everything she said to Valerie seemed to upset her. Marina decided that it would be better to bring up the subject by saying, “I’ve decided I want a job with different hours, and I’m going to start looking around.”

  As usual Valerie’s response was “Whatever,” dismissing the subject.

  On Friday morning, when Valerie didn’t come down the stairs to breakfast, Marina went up to her room. Valerie was in bed, curled up in a fetal position, sound asleep.

  An instinctive sense that something was wrong made Marina rush to her bedside. A prescription jar was on the night table. The cap was off. Marina picked it up. It was her prescription for Ambien, the sleep aid she used occasionally. The jar was empty.

  She shook Valerie’s shoulder and flipped her over onto her back as she called her name. She did not stir.

  Marina looked down at her. She was very pale and her lips were blue. Her breathing was shallow.

  “Oh, my God no!” she screamed as she
grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

  69

  Fran and Steve left for Bermuda before lunch on Friday morning. They had decided to extend their trip to a full week. Aline was glad that her mother agreed to the extension. She could see that Fran was getting more and more depressed and desperately needed to get away.

  When she returned home from work on Friday, she remembered to bring in the mail. She stopped at the box at the end of the driveway, pulled it out and dropped it on the kitchen table. An envelope addressed to Ms. Kerry Dowling caught her eye. It was from MasterCard.

  Aline remembered her parents giving her a credit card just before she had left for college. “For emergencies only,” her father had said with a smile, knowing his idea of what constituted an emergency would differ from hers. They must have done the same for Kerry.

  Ordinarily she would have left the envelope for them. With her parents away, she decided to open it.

  There were only two entries on the bill. ETD, a tire service center. That had to have been the new tire Dad had told Kerry to get, Aline thought.

  The second entry was for Coach House, a diner in Hackensack. The charge was $22.79. That’s odd, Aline thought. There are diners in Waldwick and Park Ridge, both a lot closer to Saddle River. Why did Kerry go all the way to Hackensack?

  When she looked at the date Kerry had gone to the diner, her eyes widened. It was August 25, the day of her party, the day she had been murdered.

  Aline pulled out her cell phone and opened her text messages file. The text about something “VERY IMPORTANT” was sent to her at 11:02 A.M. on the same day.

  She looked at the bill again. Almost twenty-three dollars is a lot for one person. Kerry might have met somebody for breakfast and picked up the check. Shortly thereafter, she sent me the text. Could there be a connection?

  Kerry went to the diner on a Saturday morning. Tomorrow is Saturday. Odds are the same waitstaff will be there, including whoever waited on Kerry.

  Who could she have met? Maybe it was Alan. Or if it was one of Kerry’s girlfriends, maybe one of the girls on the lacrosse team, I want to talk to her.

  Aline went to her computer. She opened Kerry’s Facebook page and began to print some of the photos.

  This might be a waste of time, she thought, but it could be important to know what Kerry was doing the last day she was alive.

  The thought that she might have a chance to discover what was very important kept Aline up most of the night.

  At quarter past eight she got up, showered and dressed. By eight-forty-five she was in her car headed toward the Coach House. She had skipped her usual light breakfast and coffee. They might be more talkative if I have breakfast there.

  She was happy to see that there were only a handful of cars in the parking lot. Two waiters were serving those eating at the counter. Aline looked around. If Kerry was having a private conversation with somebody, she would have chosen a table for two as far away from the other diners as possible. Probably one of the tables to the right or to the left that are up against the windows.

  The man behind the register asked, “How many in your party?”

  “Just one,” she said. “I’d like a table over by the window.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sit anywhere you want.”

  A minute after she was seated, a waitress came over carrying a menu. “Can I start you with coffee, honey?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Kerry opened the folder that contained the pictures she had printed.

  When the waitress returned with the coffee, Aline said, “Obviously you work on Saturdays. Were you working on Saturday, August 25, in the morning?”

  The waitress considered. “Let me see. That was three weeks ago. Yes, I was back from vacation. I worked that Saturday.”

  “My sister ate here that Saturday morning. She met somebody for breakfast. I’m trying to find out who she met. Would you mind looking at some pictures?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  Aline spread several pictures on the table. “That girl,” the waitress said, “looks real familiar. I know I’ve seen her.” She was pointing at Kerry.

  “That’s my sister,” Aline said.

  “Oh my God,” the waitress gasped. “Is she the poor girl who got murdered in the pool?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Aline said quietly.

  “I waited on them that day. They sat at the same table you’re sittin’ at right now.”

  The waitress leaned over and stared at one picture after another. She then studied the photo of the lacrosse team and pointed her finger. “That’s her. That’s the one who was crying.”

  She was pointing at Valerie.

  70

  Marge was surprised when the phone rang as she was clearing the breakfast dishes. It was Gus Schreiber, Jamie’s manager at Acme.

  Puzzled as to why he was calling, she immediately said, “Oh, Mr. Schreiber, you have been so nice to Jamie. He loves working for you. I don’t know what he would do if he didn’t have his job at the Acme.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Schreiber said, “Mrs. Chapman, that’s why I’m calling you. At Acme customers are our top priority. A number of them have come to me and expressed their concern about Jamie working in our store under the present circumstances. I hope you’ll understand what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t understand. Please explain to me what you mean.”

  “Mrs. Chapman, after what happened to Kerry Dowling, when Jamie is in the store, people are understandably nervous.”

  “Tell them they should worry about your other employee, that blabbermouth Tony Carter,” Marge said fiercely. “You know damn well Jamie has always been a wonderful employee. That hasn’t changed in the two years he’s been with you. Now you want to fire him for no good reason. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Mrs. Chapman, there are a lot of grocery stores around here where people can shop. I have to listen to the concerns of our customers.”

  “Even if it means being completely unfair to a very loyal employee. As soon as I get off the phone, I’m going to cut my Acme card in half. And let me tell you right now, Jamie has a very good lawyer, and he’s going to hear about this conversation!” She slammed down the phone.

  Marge could hear Jamie’s footsteps as he descended the stairs. He came down dressed for work. “Mom, I’m going now. I’ll see you later.”

  “Hold on, Jamie. I have to talk to you. Sit down. Please.”

  “Mom, I don’t want to be late. I punch in at work.”

  Marge scrambled to find the right words. “Jamie, sometimes businesses like Acme don’t have enough customers. When that happens, they have to tell some of the workers that they can’t keep working there.”

  “Does that mean they’re going to fire some of my friends?”

  “Yes, it does Jamie. Not just some of your friends. You can’t work there anymore either.”

  “I can’t work there? But Mr. Schreiber said I’m one of his best workers.”

  “I know he did, and he’s very sorry,” Marge said with a grimace.

  Jamie turned around and started toward the stairs. When he neared the top, Marge heard him burst into tears.

  71

  Mike was in his condo late Saturday morning after he had run some errands. He did not relish the drive he would make to New Brunswick later this evening, but it was the only time the witnesses in another case could meet with him.

  He knew it was unprofessional for him to set up a meeting with Aline simply because he wanted to see her. He recalled one of his mother’s favorite quotes: “The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing.” He remembered that ever since he was a child, his mother would say that if two unlikely people got together.

  The night before, he had been out to dinner with a woman he had dated casually, but regularly, while they were in law school. She was attractive and smart. He had enjoyed her company. But she had never given him the feeling he experienced when he was with Aline.

>   He reminded himself that his job was to investigate the murder of a young woman. His interaction with the victim’s family, including her sister, should be no more than what was necessary to pursue the case.

  Despite that, Aline Dowling was very much in his thoughts. He found himself trying to think of reasons related to the case that would make it appropriate for him to call her and suggest that they meet.

  Her image was always in his mind. Her hazel eyes, large with long lashes that framed them, sometimes seemed to reflect the color she was wearing. The first time they were out, she had on a violet blue jacket with matching slacks that showed the elegance of her body and carriage. Sometimes she wore her hair loose around her shoulders. That was when her resemblance to Kerry was unmistakable. Other times her hair was caught up at the back of her head. Mike found himself trying to decide which way he liked it best.

  She had told him about her fiancé being killed by an intoxicated driver four years ago. He had the sense that there was no one in her life right now. Her heartfelt defense of Jamie Chapman showed her absolute loyalty to someone who was an active suspect in her sister’s murder. In her talks with Kerry’s friends she was constantly trying to find any clue that might help the investigation find answers.

  Besides her reaction to the growing suspicions about Jamie Chapman, it was also clear to him that even though Alan Crowley was under arrest, Aline was not convinced that he was the killer. Whoever murdered Kerry had dealt her a vicious blow to the back of her head. If it was not Jamie or Alan, it meant that a third party who could do that to an eighteen-year-old girl would stop at nothing to escape detection. He knew that Aline was deeply concerned about a student who had been very close to Kerry and was now depressed. Aline had been careful to avoid referring to her by name, so Mike realized she would probably not say much about her to him.

  His cell phone rang, and he saw the name on the screen. He grabbed it and said, “Hello Aline.”

  “Mike, weeks ago you asked me to keep thinking about what Kerry was referring to when she texted that she had something very important to talk to me about. I might have made some progress.”