I'll Be Seeing You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Meghan Collins is the daughter of Edwin Collins, the man who is accused of placing Helene Petrovic at the Manning Clinic with false credentials. Meg’s a reporter for PCD Channel 3 in New York. Last week she spoke to the head of the Dowling Center about Helene Petrovic. Apparently, some of Petrovic’s coworkers thought she might be seeing a doctor from this hospital, but no one knows who he is. I’m trying to help Meg find him.”

  “Didn’t Petrovic leave Dowling more than six years ago?”

  “Nearly seven years ago.”

  “Do you realize how large our medical staff is here, Doctor?”

  “Yes, I do,” Mac said. “And I know you have consultants who are not on staff but are called in regularly. It’s a shot in the dark, but at this stage, when the investigators are convinced Edwin Collins is Petrovic’s murderer, you can imagine how desperately his daughter wants to know if there was someone in her life with a reason to kill her.”

  “Yes, I can.” Schuller began to make notes on a pad. “Have you any idea how long Petrovic might have been seeing this doctor?”

  “From what I understand, a year or two before she went up to Connecticut. But that’s only a guess.”

  “It’s a start. Let’s go back into the records for the three years she worked at Dowling. You think this person may have been the one who helped her to acquire enough skill to pass herself off as thoroughly trained?”

  “Again, a guess.”

  “All right. I’ll see that a list is compiled. We won’t leave out people who worked in the fetal research or DNA labs either. Not all the technicians are MDs, but they know their business.” He stood up. “What are you going to do with this list? It will be a long one.”

  “Meg is going to dig into Helene Petrovic’s personal life. She’s going to collect names of Petrovic’s friends and acquaintances from the Rumanian Society. We’ll compare names from the personal list with the one you send us.”

  Mac reached into his pocket. “This is a copy of a roster I compiled of everyone on the medical staff at the Manning Clinic while Helene was there. For what it’s worth, I’d like to leave it with you. I’d be glad if you would run these names through your computer first.”

  He got up to go. “It’s a big fishnet, but we do appreciate your help.”

  “It may take a few days, but I’ll get the information you want,” Schuller said. “Shall I send it to you?”

  “I think directly to Meghan. I’ll leave her address and phone number.”

  Schuller walked him to the door of his office. Mac took the elevator down to the lobby. As he stepped into the corridor, he passed a boy about Kyle’s age in a wheelchair. Cerebral palsy, Mac thought. One of the diseases they were starting to get a handle on through gene therapy. The boy gave him a big smile. “Hi. Are you a doctor?”

  “The kind who doesn’t treat patients.”

  “My kind.”

  “Bobby!” his mother protested.

  “I have a son your age who’d get along fine with you.” Mac tousled the boy’s hair.

  The clock over the receptionist’s desk showed that it was quarter past eleven. Mac decided that if he picked up a sandwich and Coke in the coffee shop off the lobby he could eat it later in the car and drive right through. That way he’d be back in the lab by two o’clock at the latest and get in an afternoon of work.

  He reflected that when you passed a kid in a wheelchair, you didn’t want to lose any more time than necessary if your job was trying to unlock the secrets of genetic healing.

  At least he’d made a couple hundred bucks driving yesterday. That was the only consolation Bernie could find when he awakened Wednesday morning. He’d gone to bed at midnight and slept right through because he was really tired, but now he felt good. This was sure to be a better day; he might even see Meg.

  His mother, unfortunately, was in a terrible mood. “BerNARD, I was awake half the night with a sinus headache. I was sneezing a lot. I want you to fix those steps and tighten the railing so I can get down to that basement again. I’m sure you’re not keeping it clean. I’m sure there’s dust filtering up from there.”

  “Mama, I’m not good at fixing things. That whole staircase is weak. I can feel another step getting loose. You wanna really hurt yourself?”

  “I can’t afford to hurt myself. Who’d keep this place nice? Who’d cook meals for you? Who’d make sure you don’t get in trouble?”

  “I need you, Mama.”

  “People need to eat in the morning. I always fix you a nice breakfast.”

  “I know you do, Mama.”

  Today the cereal was lukewarm oatmeal that reminded him of prison food. Nonetheless, Bernie dutifully scraped every spoonful from the bowl and drained his glass of apple juice.

  He felt relaxed as he backed out of the driveway and waved goodbye to Mama. He was glad that he’d lied and told her another basement step was loose. One night, ten years ago, she’d said that she was going to inspect the basement the next day to see if he was keeping it nice.

  He’d known he couldn’t let that happen. He’d just bought his first police scanner radio. Mama would have realized it was expensive. She thought he just had an old television set down there and watched it after she went to bed so she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Mama never opened his credit card bill. She said he had to learn to take care of it himself. She handed him the phone bill unopened too, because, she said, “I never call anybody.” She had no idea how much he spent on equipment.

  That night when he could hear her deep snores and knew she was in a sound sleep, he’d loosened the top steps. She’d had some fall. Her hip really had been smashed. He’d had to wait on her hand and foot for months, but it had been worth it. Mama go downstairs again? Not after that.

  Bernie reluctantly decided to work at least for the morning. Meghan’s mother had said she would be back today. That could mean anytime today. He couldn’t phone and say he was Tom Weicker again. Meghan might have already called the station and found out that Tom hadn’t tried to get her.

  It was not a good day for fares. He stood near the baggage claim area with the other gypsy drivers and those fancy-limousine chauffeurs who were holding cards with the names of the people they were meeting.

  He approached arriving passengers as they came down the escalator. “Clean car, cheaper than a cab, great driver.” His lips felt stuck in a permanent smile.

  The trouble was, the Port Authority had put so many signs around, warning travelers against taking a chance on getting into cars not licensed by the Taxi and Limousine Commission. A number of people started to say yes to him, then changed their minds.

  One old woman let him carry her suitcases to the curb, then said she’d wait for him, that he should go for his car. He tried to take the bags with him, but she yelled at him to put them down.

  People turned their heads to look at him.

  If he had her alone! Trying to get him in trouble when all he wanted to do was be nice. But of course he didn’t want to attract attention, so he said, “Sure, ma’am. I’ll get the car real quick.”

  When he drove back five minutes later, she was gone.

  That was enough to set him off. He wasn’t going to drive any jerks today. Ignoring a couple who called out to him to ask his rate to Manhattan, he pulled away, got on the Grand Central Parkway and, paying the toll on the Triborough Bridge, chose the Bronx exit, the one that led to New England.

  By noon he was having lunch, a hamburger and beer, at the bar of the Drumdoe Inn, where Joe the bartender welcomed him back as a regular patron.

  50

  Catherine went to the inn on Wednesday morning and worked in her office until eleven-thirty. There were twenty reservations for lunch. Even allowing for dropins, she knew that Tony could handle the kitchen perfectly well. She would go home and continue to go through Edwin’s files.

  When she passed the reception area, she glanced into the bar. There were ten or twelve people already seated there, a couple of them with m
enus. Not bad for a weekday. No question business in general was picking up. The dinner hour especially was almost back to where it had been before the recession.

  But that still didn’t mean that she could hang onto this place.

  She got in her car, reflecting that it was crazy that she didn’t make herself walk the short distance between the house and the inn. I’m always in a hurry, she thought, but unfortunately that might not be necessary much longer.

  The jewelry she’d hocked on Monday hadn’t brought in anything like what she’d expected. A jeweler had offered to take everything on consignment but warned that the market was down. “These are lovely pieces,” he’d said, “and the market will be improving. Unless you absolutely need the money now, I urge you not to sell.”

  She hadn’t sold. By pawning them all at Provident Loan, at least she got enough to pay the quarterly tax on the inn. But in three months it would be due again. There was a message from an aggressive commercial real estate agent on her desk. “Would you be interested in selling the inn? We may have a buyer.”

  A distress sale is what that vulture wants, Catherine told herself as she drove along the macadam to the parking lot exit. And I may have to accept it. For a moment she stopped and looked back at the inn. Her father had fashioned it after a fieldstone manor in Drumdoe, which as a boy he had thought so grand that only the gentry would dare set foot in it.

  “I’d welcome the errand that would send me to the place,” he’d told Catherine. “And from the kitchen I’d peek in to see more of it. One day, the family was out and the cook took pity on me. ‘Would you like to see the rest?’ she asked, taking me by the hand. Catherine, that good woman showed me the entire house. And now we have one just like it.”

  Catherine felt a lump form in her throat as she studied the graceful Georgian-style mansion with its lovely casement windows and sturdy carved oak door. It always seemed to her that Pop was lurking inside, a benevolent ghost still strutting around, still taking his rest in front of the fire in the sitting room.

  He’d really haunt me if I sold it, she thought as she pressed down on the accelerator.

  The phone was ringing when she unlocked the door to the house. She rushed to pick it up. It was Meghan.

  “Mom, I have to hurry. The plane is starting to board. I saw Annie’s mother again this morning. She and her lawyer are flying into New York tonight to identify Annie’s body. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. That should be around ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here. Oh, Meg, I’m sorry. Your boss, Tom Weicker, wanted you to call him. I didn’t think to tell you when we talked yesterday.”

  “It would have been too late to get him at the office anyhow. Why don’t you call him now and explain that I’ll get back to him tomorrow. I’m sure he isn’t offering me an assignment. I’d better rush. Love you.”

  That job is so important to Meg, Catherine berated herself. How could I have forgotten to tell her about Mr. Weicker’s call? She flipped through her memo book, looking for the number of Channel 3.

  Funny he didn’t give me his direct line, she reflected as she waited for the operator to put her through to Weicker’s secretary. Then she reasoned that of course Meg would know it.

  “I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you, Mrs. Collins,” the secretary said when she gave her name.

  Catherine had met Weicker about a year ago when Meg had showed her around the station. She’d liked him, although as she’d observed afterwards, “I wouldn’t want to have to face Tom Weicker if I’d caused some kind of major foul-up.”

  “How are you, Mrs. Collins, and how is Meg?” Weicker said as he picked up.

  “We’re all right, thanks.” She explained why she was calling.

  “I didn’t speak to you yesterday,” he said.

  My God, Catherine thought, I’m not going crazy as well as everything else, am I? “Mr. Weicker, somebody called and used your name. Did you authorize anyone to phone?”

  “No. Specifically, what did this person say to you?”

  Catherine’s hands went clammy. “He wanted to know where Meg was and when she’d be home.” Still holding the receiver, she sank down onto a chair. “Mr. Weicker, somebody was photographing Meg from behind our house the other night.”

  “Do the police know about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let them know about this call too. And please keep me posted if you get any more of them. Tell Meg we miss her.”

  He meant it. She knew he did, and he sounded genuinely concerned. Catherine realized that Meg would have given Weicker the exclusive story of what she had learned in Scottsdale about the dead girl who resembled her.

  There’s no hiding it from the media, Catherine thought. Meg said that Frances Grolier is coming to New York to claim her daughter’s body.

  “Mrs. Collins, are you all right?”

  Catherine made up her mind. “Yes, and there’s something you should know before anyone else. Meg went to Scottsdale, Arizona, yesterday because . . .”

  She told him what she knew, then answered his questions. The final one was the hardest.

  “As a newsman, I have to ask you this, Mrs. Collins. How do you feel about your husband now?”

  “I don’t know how I feel about my husband,” Catherine answered. “I do know I’m very, very sorry for Frances Grolier. Her daughter is dead. My daughter is alive and will be with me tonight.”

  When she was finally able to replace the receiver, Catherine went into the dining room and sat at the table where the files were still spread out as she had left them. With her fingertips, she rubbed her temples. Her head was beginning to ache, a dull, steady pain.

  The door chimes pealed softly. Pray God it isn’t the state attorney’s people or reporters, she thought as she wearily got up.

  Through the living room window she could see that a tall man was standing on the porch. Who? She caught a glimpse of his face. Surprised, she hurried to open the door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Collins,” Victor Orsini said. “I apologize. I should have called but I was nearby and thought I’d take a chance and stop in. I’m hoping that some papers I need might have been put in Edwin’s files. Would you mind if I go through them?”

  Meghan took America West flight 292 leaving Phoenix at 1:25 and due to arrive in New York at 8:05 P.M. She was grateful she’d been given a window seat. The middle one was not occupied, but the fortyish woman on the aisle seemed to be a talker.

  To avoid her, Meg reclined the seat and closed her eyes. In her mind she replayed every detail of her meeting with Frances Grolier. As she reviewed it, her emotions seemed to be on a roller-coaster ride, going from one extreme to another.

  Anger at her father. Anger at Frances.

  Jealousy that there had been another daughter whom her father loved.

  Curiosity about Annie. She was a travel writer. She must have been intelligent. She looked like me. She was my half-sister, Meghan thought. She was still breathing when they put her in the ambulance. I was with her when she died and I’d never known that she existed.

  Pity for everyone: for Frances Grolier and Annie, for her mother and herself. And for Dad, Meghan thought. Maybe someday I’ll see him the way Frances does. A hurt little boy who couldn’t be secure unless he was sure there was a place for him to go, a place where he was wanted.

  Still, her father had known two homes where he was loved, she thought. Did he need both of them to make up for the two he’d known as a child, places where he was neither wanted nor loved?

  The plane’s bar service began. Meghan ordered a glass of red wine and sipped it slowly, glad for the warmth that began to seep through her system. She glanced to one side. Happily, the woman on the aisle was engrossed in a book.

  Lunch was served. Meghan wasn’t hungry but did have the salad and roll and coffee. Her head began to clear. She took a pad from her shoulder bag and over a second cup of coffee began to jot down notes.

  That scrap of paper with her name and phone
number had triggered Annie’s confrontation with Frances, her demand to know the truth. Frances said that Annie called me and hung up when I answered, Meghan thought. If only she’d spoken to me then. She might never have come to New York. She might still be alive.

  Kyle had obviously seen Annie when she’d been driving around Newtown. Had anyone else seen her there?

  I wonder if Frances told her where Dad worked, Meghan thought, and jotted down the question.

  Dr. Manning. According to Frances, Dad was upset after speaking to him the day before Dad disappeared. According to the papers, Dr. Manning said the conversation was cordial. Then what got Dad upset?

  Victor Orsini. Was he the key to all this? Frances said that Dad was horrified by something he’d learned about him.

  Orsini. Meghan underlined his name three times. He had come to work around the time Helene Petrovic was presented as a candidate to the Manning Clinic. Was there a connection?

  The last notation Meghan made consisted of three words. Is Dad alive?

  The plane landed at eight o’clock, exactly on time. As Meghan unsnapped her seat belt, the woman on the aisle closed her book and turned to her. “I’ve just figured it out,” she said happily. “I’m a travel agent and I understand that when you don’t want to talk, you shouldn’t be bothered. But I knew I’d met you somewhere. It was at an ASTA meeting in San Francisco last year. You’re Annie Collins, the travel writer, aren’t you?”

  Bernie was at the bar when Catherine looked in as she was leaving the hotel. He watched her reflection in the mirror but immediately averted his eyes and picked up the menu when she looked in his direction.

  He didn’t want her to notice him. It was never a good idea for people to pay special attention to you. They might start asking questions. Just from that glance in the mirror, he could tell that Meghan’s mother looked like a smart lady. You couldn’t put too much over on her.