Let Me Call You Sweetheart Part 19

Beth apologized for both of them. "Geoff, I'm so sorry to come without calling first," she said, "but Deidre has to go into the hospital for the angioplasty tomorrow morning. I know it will rest her mind if she has a chance to talk to you for a few minutes and give you that picture of Suzanne we talked about the other day."

Deidre Reardon was looking at him anxiously. "Oh, come on, Deidre," Geoff said heartily, "you know you don't have to make excuses for seeing me. Aren't you the mother of my star client?"

"Sure. It's all those billing hours you're logging," Deidre Reardon murmured with a relieved smile, as Geoff took her hands in his. "It's just that I'm so embarra.s.sed at the way I barged into that lovely Kerry McGrath's office last week and treated her like dirt. And then to realize her own child has been threatened because Kerry's trying to help my son."

"Kerry absolutely understood how you felt that day. Come back to my office. I'm sure the coffeepot's on."

"We will only stay five minutes," Beth promised as Geoff placed a coffee mug in front of her. "And we won't waste your time saying it's been a glimpse of heaven to think that finally there's real, genuine hope for Skip. You know how we feel, and you know how grateful we are for everything you are doing."

"Kerry saw Dr. Smith late yesterday afternoon," Geoff said. "She thinks she got to him. But there are other developments as well." He told them about Barney Haskell's records. "We may at last have a chance to track the source of the jewelry we think Weeks gave Suzanne."

"That's one of the reasons we're here," Deidre Reardon told him. "Remember I said I had a picture that showed Suzanne wearing the missing set of antique diamond pins? As soon as I got home from the prison Sat.u.r.day night I went to get it out of the file and couldn't find it. I spent all Sunday and yesterday ransacking the apartment, looking for it. Of course it wasn't there. Stupidly, I had forgotten that at some point I'd covered it with one of those plastic protectors and put it with my own personal papers. Anyway, I finally found it. With all the talk about the jewelry the other day, I felt it important for you to have it."

She handed him a legal-size manila envelope. From it, he extracted a folded page from Palisades Community Life, a tabloid- sized weekly paper. As he opened it Geoff noticed the date, April 24th, nearly eleven years ago and barely a month before Suzanne Reardon died.

The group picture from the Palisades Country Club took up the s.p.a.ce of four columns of print. Geoff recognized Suzanne Reardon immediately. Her outstanding beauty leaped from the page. She was standing at a slight angle, and the camera had clearly caught the sparkling diamonds on the lapel of her jacket.

"This is the double pin that disappeared," Deidre explained, pointing to it. "But Skip doesn't know when he last saw it on Suzanne."

"I'm glad to have this," Geoff said. "When we can get a copy of some of those records Haskell kept, we may be able to trace the pin."

It almost hurt to see the eager hope on both their faces. Don't let me fail them, he prayed as he walked them back to the reception room. At the door he hugged Deidre. "Now remember, you get this angioplasty over and start feeling better. We can't have you sick when they unlock the door for Skip."

"Geoff, I haven't walked barefoot through h.e.l.l this long to check out now."

After having taken care of a number of client calls and queries, Geoff decided to call Kerry. Maybe she would want to have a fax of the picture Deidre had brought in. Or maybe I just want to talk to her, he admitted to himself.

When her secretary put her through, Kerry's frightened voice sent chills through Geoff. "I just opened a Federal Express package that Dr. Smith sent me. Inside was a note and Suzanne's jewelry case and the card that must have come with the sweetheart roses. Geoff, he admits he lied about Skip and the jewelry. He told me that by the time I read this he'll have committed suicide."

"My G.o.d, Kerry, did--"

"No, it's not that. You see, he didn't. Geoff, Mrs. Carpenter from his office just called me. When Dr. Smith didn't come in for an early appointment, and didn't answer the phone, she went to his house. His door was open a crack and she went in. She found his body lying in the foyer. He'd been shot, and the house ransacked. Geoff, was it because someone didn't want Dr. Smith to change his testimony and was looking for the jewelry? Geoff, who is doing this? Will Robin be next?"

At nine-thirty that morning, Jason Arnott looked out the window, saw the cloudy, overcast sky and felt vaguely depressed. Other than some residual achiness in his legs and back, he was over the bug or virus that had laid him low over the weekend. But he could not overcome the uneasy sense that something was wrong.

It was that d.a.m.n FBI flyer, of course. But he had felt the same way after that night in Congressman Peale's house. A few of the downstairs lamps that were on an automatic switch had been on when he got there, but the upstairs rooms were all dark. He had been coming down the hallway, carrying the painting and the lockbox that he had pried from the wall, when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He had barely had time to hold the painting in front of his face when light flooded the hallway.

Then he had heard the quavering gasp, "Oh, dear G.o.d," and knew it was the congressman's mother. He hadn't intended to hurt her. Instinctively he had rushed toward her, holding the painting as a s.h.i.+eld, intending only to knock her down and grab her gla.s.ses so he could make his getaway. He had spent a long time talking with her at Peale's inaugural party, and he knew she was blind as a bat without them.

But the heavy portrait frame had caught the side of her head harder than he intended, and she had toppled backwards the stairs. He knew from that final gurgle that she made before she went still that she was dead. For months afterward he had looked over his shoulder, expecting to see someone coming toward him with handcuffs.

Now, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, the FBI flyer was giving him that same case of the jitters.

After the Peale case, his only solace had been to feast his eyes on the John White Alexander masterpiece At Rest, which he had taken that night. He kept it in the master bedroom of the Catskill house just as Peale had kept it in his master bedroom. It was so amusing to know that thousands of people trooped through the Metropolitan Museum of Art to gaze on its companion piece, Repose. Of the two, he preferred At Rest. The reclining figure of a beautiful woman had the same long sinuous lines as Repose, but the closed eyes, the look on the sensual face reminded him now of Suzanne.

The miniature frame with her portrait was on his night table, and it amused him to have both in his room, even though the imitation Faberg frame was unworthy of the glorious company it kept. The night table was gilt and marble, an exquisite example of Gothic Revival, and had been obtained in the grand haul when he had hired a van and practically emptied the Merriman house.

He would call ahead. He enjoyed arriving there to find the heat on and the refrigerator stocked. Instead of using his home phone, however, he would call his housekeeper on a cellular phone that was registered to one of his aliases.

Inside what seemed to be a repair van of Public Service Gas and Electric the signal came that Arnott was making a call. As the agents listened, they smiled triumphantly at each other. "I think we are about to trace the foxy Mr. Arnott to his lair," the senior agent on the job observed. They listened as Jason concluded the conversation by saying, "Thank you, Maddie. I'll leave here in an hour and should be there by one."

Maddie's heavy monotone reply was, "I'll have ready for you. You can count on me."

Frank Green was trying a case, and it was noon before Kerry was able to inform him of Smith's murder and the Federal Express packet she had received from him late that morning. She was fully composed now and wondered why she had allowed herself to lose control when Geoff had phoned. But her emotions were something that she would explore later. For now, the knowledge that Joe Palumbo was parked outside Robin's school, waiting to escort her home and then stand watch at the house until Kerry got home, was enough to help relieve her immediate fears.

Green went carefully through the contents of the jewelry box comparing each piece with those Smith had mentioned in the letter he had included in the package to Kerry. "Zodiac bracelet," he read. "That's right here. Watch with gold numerals, ivory face, diamond and gold band. Okay. Here it is. Emerald and diamond ring set in pink gold. That's right here. Antique diamond bracelet. Three bands of diamonds attached by diamond clasps." He held it up. "That's a beauty."

"Yes. You may remember Suzanne was wearing that bracelet when she was murdered. There was one more piece, antique diamond pin or double pin, that Skip Reardon had described. Dr. Smith doesn't mention it, and apparently he didn't have it, but Geoff just faxed me a picture from a local newspaper showing Suzanne wearing that pin only a few weeks before she died. It never showed up in the items found at the house. You can see that it's very much like the bracelet and obviously an antique. The other pieces are beautiful, but very modern in design."

Kerry looked closely at the blurred reproduction and understood why Deidre Reardon had described it as evoking a mother-and-child image. As she'd explained, the pin appeared to be in two parts, the larger being a flower, the smaller a bud. They were attached by a chain. She studied it for a moment, perplexed because it looked oddly familiar.

"We'll watch out for this pin to see if it is mentioned in Haskell's receipts," Green promised. "Now let's get this straight. As far as you know, everything the doctor mentioned, excluding this particular pin, is the total of the jewelry Suzanne asked the doctor to tell Skip he gave her?"

"According to what Smith wrote in his letter, and it does coincide with what Skip Reardon told me Sat.u.r.day."

Green put down Smith's letter. "Kerry, do you think you might have been followed when you went to see Smith yesterday?"

"I think now I probably was. That's why I'm so concerned about Robin's safety."

"We'll keep a squad car outside your house tonight, but I wouldn't be unhappy to have you and Robin out of there and in some more secure place with all this coming to a head. Jimmy Weeks is a cornered animal. Royce may be able to tie him to tax fraud, but with what you've uncovered, we may be able to tie him to a murder."

"You mean because of the card Jimmy sent with the sweetheart roses?" The card was already being a.n.a.lyzed by handwriting experts, and Kerry had reminded Green of the paper found in Haskell's lawyer's pocket after both men had been murdered.

"Exactly. No clerk in a flower shop drew those musical notes. Imagine describing an inscription like that over the phone. From what I understand, Weeks is a pretty good amateur musician. The life of the party when he sits down at the piano. That kind. With that card--and if the jewelry ties in to those receipts--the Reardon case is a whole new ball game.

"And if Skip is granted a new trial, he'll be ent.i.tled to release on bail pending that trial--or dismissal of the charges," said evenly.

"If the scenario plays out, I'll recommend that," Green agreed.

"Frank, there's one other point I have to raise," Kerry said. "We know that Jimmy Weeks is trying to scare us off this investigation. But it may be for some reason other than we think. I have learned that Weeks picked up Skip Reardon's options on valuable Pennsylvania property when Skip had to liquidate. He apparently had inside information, so there's a good chance whole transaction was illegal. It's certainly not as major a crime as murder--and we still don't know, of course; he may have been Suzanne's killer--but if the IRS had that information, with the tax evasion charges and what-have-you, Weeks could be put away for a long time as it is."

"And you think he's worried that your probing into the Reardon murder case might expose those earlier deals?" Green asked.

"Yes, it's very possible."

"But do you really think that is sufficient to make him threaten you through Robin? That seems a little extreme to me." Green shook his head.

"Frank, from what I have learned from my ex-husband, Weeks is ruthless enough and arrogant enough to go to almost any lengths to protect himself, and it would make no difference what the charge--it could be murder or it could be stealing a newspaper. But all this aside, there's still another reason why the murder scenario may not play out, even if we can tie Jimmy Weeks to Suzanne," Kerry said. Then she began to fill him in on Jason Arnott's connection to Suzanne and Grace Hoover's theory that he was a professional thief.

"Even if he is, are you tying him to Suzanne Reardon's murder?" Green asked.

"I'm not sure," Kerry said slowly. "It depends on whether or not he is involved in those thefts."

"Sit tight. We can get that flyer faxed in from the FBI right away," Green decreed as he pressed the intercom. "We'll find out who's running the investigation."

Less than five minutes later his secretary brought in the flyer. Green pointed out the confidential number. "Tell them to put me through to the top guy on this."

Sixty seconds later, Green was on the phone with Si Morgan. He turned on the phone's speaker so that Kerry could listen too.

"It's breaking now," Morgan told him. "Arnott has another place, in the Catskills. We've decided to ring the doorbell and see if the housekeeper will talk to us. We'll keep you posted."

Kerry gripped the arms of her chair and turned her head toward the detached voice coming out of the speaker phone. "Mr. Morgan, this is terribly important. If you can still contact your agent, ask him to inquire about a miniature oval picture frame. It's blue enamel with seed pearls surrounding the gla.s.s. It may or may not hold a picture of a beautiful dark-haired woman. If it's there, we'll be able to connect Jason Arnott to a murder case."

"I can still reach him. I'll have him ask about it, and I'll get back to you," he promised.

"What was that about?" Green asked as he snapped off the speaker.

"Skip Reardon has always sworn that a miniature frame that was a Faberg copy disappeared from the master bedroom the day Suzanne died. That and the antique pin are the two things we can't account for as of now." Kerry leaned over and picked up the diamond bracelet. "Look at this. It's from a different world from the other jewelry." She held up the picture of Suzanne wearing the antique pin. "Isn't it funny? I feel as though I've seen a pin like that before, I mean the little one joined to the big one. It may just be because it came up repeatedly in statements from Skip and his mother at the of the investigation. I've read that file until I'm dizzy."

She laid the bracelet back in the case. "Jason Arnott spent great deal of time with Suzanne. Maybe he wasn't the neuter he tried to make himself out to be. Think of it this way, Frank. Let's say he fell for Suzanne too. He gave her the antique pin and the bracelet. It's exactly the kind of jewelry he would select. Then he realized that she was fooling around with Jimmy Weeks. Maybe he came in that night and saw the sweetheart roses and the card we believe Jimmy sent."

"You mean he killed her and took back the pin?"

"And her picture. From what Mrs. Reardon tells me, it's a beautiful frame."

"Why not the bracelet?"

"While I was waiting for you this morning, I looked at the pictures taken of the body before it was moved. Suzanne had a gold link bracelet on her left hand. You can see it in the picture. The diamond bracelet, which was on the other arm, doesn't show. I checked the records. It was pushed up on her arm under the sleeve of her blouse so that it wasn't visible. According to the medical examiner's report it had a new and very tight security clasp. She may have shoved the bracelet out of sight because had changed her mind about wearing it and was having trouble getting it off, or she may have been aware that her attacker had come to retrieve it, probably because it was a gift from him, and she may have been hiding it. Whatever the reason, it worked, because he didn't find it."

While they waited for Morgan to call back, Green and Kerry worked together to prepare a flyer, with pictures of the jewelry in question, that would be distributed to New Jersey jewelers.

At one point Frank observed, "Kerry, you do realize that if Mrs. Hoover's hunch works out, it means that a tip from our state senator's wife will have caught the murderer of Congressman Peale's mother. Then if Arnott is tied to the Reardon case..."

Frank Green, gubernatorial candidate, Kerry thought. He's already figuring how to sugarcoat having convicted an innocent man! Well, that's politics, I guess, she told herself.

Maddie Platt was not aware of the car that followed her when she stopped at the market and did the shopping, carefully gathering all the items she had been instructed to get. Nor did she notice it continued to follow her when she drove farther out of Ellenville, down narrow, winding roads to the rambling country house owned by the man she knew as Nigel Grey.

She let herself in and ten minutes later was startled when the doorbell rang. n.o.body ever dropped in at this house. Furthermore, Mr. Grey had given her strict orders never to admit anyone. She was not about to open the door without knowing who it was.

When she peeked out the side window she saw the neatly dressed man standing on the top step. He saw her and held up a badge identifying him as an FBI agent. "FBI, ma'am. Would you please open the door so I can talk to you?"

Nervously, Maddie opened the door. Now she stood inches from the badge showing the unmistakable FBI seal and identifying picture of the agent.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm FBI agent Milton Rose. I don't mean to startle or upset you, but it's very important that I speak with you about Mr. Jason Arnott. You are his housekeeper, aren't you?"

"Sir, I don't know any Mr. Arnott. This house is owned by Mr. Nigel Grey, and I've worked for him for many years. He's due here this afternoon, in fact he should be here shortly. And I can tell you right now--I am under strict orders not to ever let anyone in this house without his permission."

"Ma'am, I'm not asking to come in. I don't have a search warrant. But I still need to talk to you. Your Mr. Grey is really Jason Arnott, whom we suspect has been responsible for dozens of burglaries involving fine art and other valuable items. He might even be responsible for the murder of a congressman's elderly mother, who may have surprised him during the burglary of her home."

"Oh my G.o.d," Maddie gasped. Certainly Mr. Grey had always been completely a loner here, but she had just a.s.sumed that this Catskill home was where he escaped to for privacy and relaxation. She now realized that he might well have been "escaping" here for very different reasons.

Agent Rose went on to describe to her many of the stolen pieces of art and other items that had disappeared from homes where Arnott had previously attended social functions. Sadly, she confirmed that virtually all of these items were in this house. And, yes, the miniature oval blue frame encrusted with seed pearls, with a woman's picture in it, was on his night table.

"Ma'am, we know that he will be here soon. I must ask you to come with us. I'm sure you didn't know what was happening, and you're not in any trouble. But we are going to make a telephone application for a search warrant so that we can search Mr. Arnott's home and arrest him."

Gently, Agent Rose led the bewildered Maddie to the waiting car. "I can't believe this," she cried. "I just didn't know."

At twelve-thirty, a frightened Martha Luce, who for twenty years had been bookkeeper to James Forrest Weeks, sat twisting a damp handkerchief as she cowered in the office of U.S. Attorney Brandon Royce.

The sworn statement she had given to Royce months ago had just been read back to her.

"Do you stand by what you told us that day?" Royce asked as he tapped the papers in his hand.

"I told the truth as far as I knew it to be the truth," Martha told him, her voice barely above a whisper. She cast a nervous sidelong glance at the stenotypist and then at her nephew, a young attorney, whom she had called in a panic when she learned of the successful search of Barney Haskell's home.

Royce leaned forward. "Miss Luce, I cannot emphasize strongly enough how very serious your position is. If you continue to lie under oath, you do so at your own peril. We have enough to bury Jimmy Weeks. I'll lay out my cards. Since Barney Haskell has unfortunately been so abruptly taken from us, it will be helpful to have you as a living witness"--he emphasized the word "living"--"to corroborate the accuracy of his records. If you do not, we will still convict Jimmy Weeks, but then, Miss Luce, we will turn our full attention to you. Perjury is a very serious offense. Obstructing justice is a very serious offense. Aiding and abetting income tax evasion is a very serious offense."

Martha Luce's always timid face crumbled. She began to sob. Tears that immediately reddened her pale blue eyes welled and flowed. "Mr. Weeks paid every single bill when Mama was sick for such a long time."

"That's nice," Royce said. "But he did it with taxpayers' money."

"My client has a right to remain silent," the nephewIattorney piped up.

Royce gave him a withering glance. "We've already established that, counselor. You might also advise your client that we're not crazy about putting middle-aged women with misguided loyalties in prison. We're prepared, this one--and only this one--time, to offer total immunity to your client in exchange for full cooperation. After that, she's on her own. But you remind your client"--here Royce's voice was heavy with sarcasm--"that Barney Haskell waited so long to accept a plea bargain offer that he never got to take it."

"Total immunity?" the nephewIlawyer asked.

"Total, and we'll immediately put Ms. Luce in protective custody. We don't want anything to happen to her."

"Aunt Martha... "the young man began, his voice cracking.

She stopped sniffling. "I know, dear. Mr. Royce, perhaps I always suspected that Mr. Weeks..."

The news that a cache had been found in a hidden safe in Barney Haskell's summer home was, to Bob Kinellen, the death knell of any hope of getting Jimmy Weeks an acquittal. Even Kinellen's father-in-law, the usually unruffleable Anthony Bartlett, was clearly beginning to concede the inevitable.

On this Tuesday morning, U.S. Attorney Royce had requested and been granted that the lunch recess be extended an hour. Bob suspected what that maneuver meant. Martha Luce, a defense witness, and one of their most believable because of her timid, earnest demeanor, was being leaned on.

If Haskell had made a copy of the books he had kept, Luce's testimony swearing to the accuracy of Jimmy's records was probably being held as a weapon over her head.

If Martha Luce turned prosecution witness in exchange for immunity, it was all over.

Bob Kinellen sat silently looking at every possible thing in the room other than his client. He felt a terrible weariness, like a weight crus.h.i.+ng him, and he wondered at what moment it had invaded him. Thinking back over the recent days, he suddenly knew. It was when I delivered a threat concerning my own child, he said to himself. For eleven years he had been able to keep to the letter of the law. Jimmy Weeks had the right to a defense, and his job was to keep Jimmy from getting indicted. He did it by legal means. If other means were also being used, he did not know nor did he want to know about them.

But in this trial he had become part of the process of circ.u.mventing the law. Weeks had just told him the reason he'd insisted on having Mrs. Wagner on the jury: She had a father in prison in California. Thirty years ago he had murdered an entire family of campers in Yosemite National Park. He knew he intended to hold back the information that juror Wagner had a father in prison and make that part of Weeks' appeal. He knew, too, that was unethical. Skating on thin ice was over. He had gone beyond that. The burning shame he had felt when he heard Robin's stricken cry as he struggled with Kerry still seared him. How Kerry explained that to Robin? Your father was pa.s.sing along a threat his client made about you? Your father's client was the man who ordered some b.u.m to terrify you last week?

Jimmy Weeks was terrified of prison. The prospect of being locked up was unbearable to him. He would do anything to avoid it.

It was obvious that Jimmy was wildly upset. They had lunch in a private room of a restaurant a few miles from the courtroom. After the orders were taken, Jimmy said abruptly, "I don't want any talk about plea bargaining from you two. Understand?"

Bartlett and Kinellen waited without responding.

"In the jury room, I don't think we can count on the wimp with the sick wife not to buckle."

I could have told you that, Bob thought. He didn't want to discuss any of this. If his client had tampered with that juror, it was without his knowledge, he rea.s.sured himself. And Haskell was the victim of a mugging, an interior voice mocked.