police car came racing the wrong way up the block. He tried to
pull out, but the squad car cut him off. A cop, his hand on the
butt of his pistol, jumped out.
The cop yanked open the door, reached in and pulled out the
ignition key. "Well, Dannyboy," he said. "You're still at it, right?
Don't you never learn any new tricks?"
THE plane circled over Newark. The descent was bumpy. Chris
glanced at Joan. She was holding his hand tightly, but he knew it
had nothing to do with flying. Her face was composed.
"Chris," she'd said, "I can't bear thinking that Vangie committed
suicide because of me. Don't worry about dragging me into this.
Tell the truth; don't hold anything back."
If they ever got through this, they'd have a good life together.
Joan was a woman. He still had so much to learn about her. He
hadn't even realized he could trust her with the simple truth.
Maybe because he'd gotten so used to shielding Vangie.
They were silent as the plane taxied to the gate. Inside, Chris
was not surprised to see two detectives waiting for him—the
same two who had been at the house after he found Vangie.
MOLLY settled back as the orchestra began the overture to
Otello. Bill was already totally absorbed, but she couldn't relax.
She glanced around. The Met was packed as usual. Overhead the
twinkling chandeliers began to fade into darkness.
At the first intermission she'd phone Katie. She should have insisted
on going to see her in the hospital tonight. But she'd be
there in the morning before the operation and make sure Katie
wasn't too nervous.
The first act seemed interminable. Finally intermission came,
and Molly hurried to a phone.
A few minutes later, white-lipped, she rushed to Bill. Half sobbing,
she grabbed his arm. "Something's wrong. The hospital
wouldn't put the call through to Katie's room. They said the doctor
forbade calls. I got the desk and insisted the, nurse check on
Katie. She just came back. She's a kid, she's hysterical. Katie's not
in her room. Katie's missing."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EDGAR Highley had left Katie's room with a smile of satisfaction
on his face. The pills were working. The cut on her finger proved
that her blood was no longer clotting.
He went down to the second floor and stopped in to see Mrs.
Aldrich. The baby was in a crib by her bed. Her husband was with
her. Dr. Highley smiled, then bent over the child. "A handsome
specimen," he proclaimed. "I don't think we'll trade him in."
He knew his humor was heavy-handed, but sometimes it was
necessary. These people were important. Delano Aldrich could
direct thousands of dollars of research funds to Westlake.
Delano Aldrich was staring at his son, his face a study in awe
and admiration. "Doctor, we still can't believe it. Everyone else
said we'd never have a child."
"Everyone else was obviously wrong." Her anxiety had been
the main problem. Fukhito had spotted that. Muscular dystrophy
in her father's family. She knew she might be a carrier. And she
had some fibroid cysts. He'd taken care of the cysts and she'd become
pregnant. Then he'd done an early test of the amniotic fluid
and had been able to reassure her on the dystrophy question. Still,
she was highly emotional. She'd had two miscarriages over ten
years ago, so he'd put her to bed two months before the birth. And
it had worked.
"I'll stop by in the morning." These people would be witnesses
for him if there were any questions about Katie DeMaio's death.
But there shouldn't be any questions. The dropping blood
pressure was a matter of hospital record. The emergency operation
would take place in the presence of the top nurses on the staff.
He'd ask the emergency-room surgeon to assist. They'd tell the
Leaving the Aldriches, he went to the nurses' desk.
"Nurse Renge."
She stood up quickly, her hands fluttering nervously.
"I am quite concerned about Mrs. DeMaio. I will be back right
after dinner to see the lab report on her blood count. I would not
be surprised if we have to operate tonight."
He had made a point of speaking to several people in the lobby
and then gone to the restaurant adjacent to the hospital grounds
for dinner. He wanted to be able later to present the image of a
conscientious doctor: Instead of going home, I had dinner next
door and went back to the hospital to check on Mrs. DeMaio. At
least we tried.
At a quarter to eight he was in the restaurant ordering a steak.
Katie had been given the sleeping pill at seven thirty. By eight
thirty it would be safe to take the last necessary step. While he
waited for his coffee to be served, he'd go up the back fire stairs of
the hospital to the third floor. He'd give her a shot of heparin, the
powerful anticoagulant that, combined with the pills, would send
her blood pressure and blood count plummeting.
He'd come back here and have his coffee, pay the bill and then
return to the hospital. He'd take Nurse Renge up with him to
check on Katie. Ten minutes later Katie would be in surgery.
That would be the end of the danger. His bag had not shown
up. It probably never would. He had eliminated the Salem threat.
Edna had been buried this morning. The moccasin in her drawer
would mean nothing to whoever disposed of her belongings.
A terrible week. And so unnecessary if he'd been allowed to
pursue his work openly. But now nothing would stand in his way.
Someday he would receive the Nobel Prize. For contributions to
medicine not imagined possible. Single-handedly he had solved
the abortion problem and the sterility problem.
"Did you enjoy your dinner, Doctor?" the waitress asked.
"Very much indeed. I'd like cappuccino, please."
"Certainly, Doctor, but that will take about ten minutes."
"While you're getting it, I'll make some phone calls." He'd be
gone less than ten minutes. The waitress wouldn't miss him.
Slipping out the side door near the hallway with the telephones
and rest rooms, he hurried across the parking lot. He kept in the
shadows. He had his key to the fire exit at the rear of the maternity
wing. No one ever used those stairs. He let himself in.
The stairway was brightly lighted. He turned off the switch.
He could find his way through this hospital blindfolded. At the
third floor he opened the door and listened. There was no sound.
Noiselessly he stepped into the hall. An instant later he was in
the living room of Katie's suite.
That had been another problem he'd anticipated. Suppose someone
had accompanied her to the hospital—her sister, a friend? Suppose
that person had asked to stay overnight on the sofa bed in
the living room? By ordering the room repainted, he'd blocked
that possibility. Planning. Planning. It was everything.
That afternoon he had left the needle with the heparin in a
drawer of an end tabl
e under the painter's drop cloth. A light
from the parking lot filtered through the window, giving him
enough visibility to find the table. He reached for the needle.
Now for the most important moment of all. He was in the
room, bending over her. The drapery was open. Faint light was
coming into the room. Her breathing was uneven. She must be
dreaming. He took her arm, slipped the needle in, squeezed. She
winced and sighed. Her eyes, cloudy with sleep, opened as she
turned her head. She looked up at him, puzzled. "Dr. Highley,"
she murmured, "why did you kill Vangie Lewis?"
SCOTT Myerson was more tired than angry. Since Vangie Lewis'
body had been found Tuesday morning, two other people had
died. Two very decent people—a hardworking receptionist who
deserved a few years of freedom after caring for her aged parents,
and a doctor who was making a real contribution to medicine.
They had died because he had not moved fast enough. If only
he had brought Chris Lewis in for questioning immediately, Edna
Burns and Emmet Salem would be alive now.
Scott couldn't wait for the chance to get to Lewis. He and his girl
friend had landed at seven. They should be here by eight. Lewis
was cool all right. Knew better than to run. Thought he could
brazen it out. Knows it's all circumstantial. But circumstantial
evidence can be a lot better than eyewitness testimony when properly
presented in court.
At seven fifty Richard walked into Scott's office. "I think we've
uncovered a cesspool," he said, "and it's called the Westlake Maternity
Concept."
"If you're saying that the shrink was probably playing around
with Vangie Lewis, I agree," Scott said.
"That's not what I'm talking about," said Richard. "It's Highley
I'm after. I think he's experimenting with his patients. I just spoke
to the husband of one of them. He's been thinking that his wife
agreed to artificial insemination without his permission. I think it
goes beyond that. I think Highley is performing artificial insemination
without his patients' knowledge."
Scott snorted. "You think Highley would inject Vangie Lewis
with the semen of an Oriental and expect to get away with it?"
"Maybe he made a mistake."
"Doctors don't make mistakes like that. Even allowing your
theory to be true—and frankly, I don't buy it—that doesn't make
him Vangie's murderer. Look, we'll investigate Westlake's ma
ternity clinic. If we find any kind of violation there, we'll prosecute.
But right now Chris Lewis is my first order of business."
"Do this," Richard persisted. "Go back further with the check
on Highley. I'm already looking into the malpractice suits against
him. But Newsmaker said he was in Liverpool, in England, before
he came here. Let's phone there and see what we can find."
Scott shrugged. "Sure, go ahead." The buzzer on his desk
sounded. He switched on the intercom. "Bring him in," he said.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked at Richard. "The bereaved
widower, Captain Lewis, is here with his paramour."
DANNYBOY Duke sat in the precinct house miserably hunched
forward in a chair. He was trembling and perspiring. In another
thirty seconds he'd have gotten away. He'd be in his apartment
now, feeling the blissful release of the fix. Instead, this steamy
hell. "Give me a break," he whispered.
The cops weren't impressed. "You give us a break, Danny.
There's blood on this paperweight. Who'd you hit with it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Danny said.
"Sure you do. The doctor's bag was in your car. We know you
stole it last night. The doorman at the Carlyle Hotel can identify
you. But who'd you hit with that paperweight, Danny? And what
about that shoe? Since when do you save beat-up shoes?"
"It was in the bag," Danny said.
The two detectives looked at each other. The younger one
shrugged and turned to the newspaper on the desk behind him.
The other dropped the file he had been examining back into the
bag. "All right, Danny. We're calling Dr. Salem to find out just
what he had in this bag. That'll settle it."
The younger detective looked up from the paper. "Dr. Salem?"
"Yeah. That's the name on the file. Oh, I see. The nameplate
on the bag says Dr. Edgar Highley. Guess he had some other
doctor's file."
The younger detective came over to the table carrying the
Daily News. He pointed to page three. "Salem's the doctor whose
body was found at the Essex House last night."
The police officers looked at Dannyboy with renewed interest.
H E WATCHED KATIE'S EYES CLOSE, HER breathing become even.
She'd fallen asleep again. The question about Vangie had come
from her subconscious, triggered perhaps by a duplication of her
mental state of Monday night. Suppose she asked it again in the
operating room before they anesthetized her?
He had to kill her before Nurse Renge made her check, in less
than an hour. After the Coumadin pills she had taken, the heparin
shot would further act to anticoagulate her blood. He had planned
on several hours to complete the procedure. Now he couldn't
wait. He had to give her a second shot immediately.
He had heparin in his office. He'd have to go down the fire
stairs to the parking lot, use the private door to his office, refill
the hypodermic and come back up here. It would take at least five
minutes. The waitress would question his absence from the table,
but there was no help for that. Satisfied that Katie was asleep, he
hurried from the room.
THE technician in the Valley County forensic lab worked overtime
on Friday evening. Dr. Carroll had asked him to compare
all microscopic samples from the home of the presumed suicide
Vangie Lewis with all microscopic samples from the home of the
presumed accident victim Edna Burns.
The technician had a superb instinct for microscopic evidence,
a hunch factor that rarely failed him. He was particularly interested
in loose hair, and he was fond of saving, "It's astonishing
how much hair we are constantly shedding."
Sifting the vacuum-bag contents from the Lewis home, he
found many strands of the ash-blond hair of the victim. And he'd
discovered a fair quantity of medium brown hair—undoubtedly
the husband's. But there were also a number of silverish sandy
hairs in the victim's bedroom. The length suggested that the hair
was a man's. Some of the same strands were on the coat the victim
had been wearing.
And then the technician found the connection Richard Carroll
had been seeking. Several sandy hairs with silver roots were
clinging to the faded blue bathrobe of Edna Bums.
The technician reached for the phone to call Dr. Carroll.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SHE tried to wake up. There was a click; a door had closed. Someone
had just been here. Her arm hurt. Dr. Highley. She dropped
off. . . . What had she said to Dr. Highley? Katie woke up a few
minutes later and remembere
d. The black car and the shiny
spokes and the light on his glasses. She'd seen him put Vangie
Lewis in his trunk Monday night. Dr. Highley had killed Vangie.
And now he knew she knew about him. Why had she asked him
that question? He'd be back. She had to get out of here. He was
going to kill her too.
Help. She needed help. Why was she so weak? Her finger was
bleeding. The pills he had given her. Since she'd been taking
them she'd been so sick. The pills were making her bleed.
Oh, God, help me, please. The phone! Katie fumbled for it,
knocked it over. She pulled it up by the cord, put the receiver to
her ear. The line was dead.
Highley had said the phone was being repaired. She pushed
the bell for the nurse. The nurse would help her. But there was
no click to indicate that the light was on outside her door. She
was sure the signal wasn't lighting the nurse's panel either.
She had to get out of here before Highley came back. Fighting
waves of dizziness, she stood up. She'd go down to the second
floor. There were people there—other patients, nurses.
From nearby, a door closed. He was coming back. Frantically
Katie looked at the open door to the corridor. He'd see her if she