No Place Like Home (42 page)

The night before he had managed to get a picture of Charley Hatch from Charley's former wife, Lena, a picture that she assured him really did not do poor Charley justice.

He enlarged several of the pictures he took of Robin, as well as the one that did not do Charley justice, and took them with him when he drove into Manhattan, parking on West 56th Street near Patsy's Restaurant.

It was quarter of twelve when he arrived there. The enticing aroma that hinted of tomato sauce and garlic made Jimmy remember that he had only coffee and a bagel for breakfast that morning, and that had been at six
A.M
.

Business first, he thought, selecting a seat at the bar. The restaurant had not yet begun to fill with the luncheon crowd, and there was only one other customer there, sipping a beer on a corner stool. Jimmy brought out his pictures and laid them on the bar. “Cranberry juice,” he ordered, as he flashed his badge. “Recognize either of these people?” he asked the bartender.

The bartender studied the pictures. “They look familiar, especially the woman, like they might have passed by the bar on their way to a table. But I can't be sure.”

Jimmy had better luck with the maître d', who definitely recognized Robin. “She comes in here sometimes. She might have been with that guy. I think she was once, but that's not usually who she's with. Let me ask the waiters.”

Jimmy watched as the maître d' went from one waiter to the other. He disappeared upstairs to the second-floor dining room, and when he returned he had a waiter in tow and was wearing the satisfied look of a man who had completed his mission.

“Dominick will fill you in,” he said. “He's been here forty years, and I swear he never forgets a face.”

Dominick was holding the pictures. “She comes in once in a while. Good looking. The kind you notice when she's around, you know, a little sexy. That guy I saw only once. He was with her a couple of weeks ago, shortly before Labor Day, I'd say. Reason I remember, it was the guy's birthday. She ordered a slice of cheese cake and had us put a candle on it. Then she gave him an envelope. I could see she'd laid some nice change on him. He counted it at the table. Twenty hundred dollar bills.”

“That's a nice birthday present,” Jimmy agreed.

“The guy was a real class act. He counted them
out loud:
One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, and so on. When he got to two thousand, he put them in his pocket.”

“Did she give him a birthday card?” Jimmy asked.

“Who needs a birthday card when you get that kind of cash?”

“I just wonder if that was all birthday cash, or did she have a little job for him to do, and she was paying him for it. You say she comes in here with some other guy. Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Sure.”

Jimmy got out his notebook and began jotting down the description of Robin Carpenter's other dinner companion. Then, feeling inordinately pleased with the success of his morning, he decided it would be in the line of duty to have some of Patsy's linguini.

P
aul Walsh was sufficiently sobered by his boss's threat of reassignment, and willingly accepted the job of checking out the validity of Zach's landlady's statement that he had been planning to move into a town house that Ted Cartwright was giving him.

At nine thirty on Thursday morning, Paul was talking to Amy Stack, who in indignant detail told how Zach Willet had the nerve to play a practical joke on her and Mr. Cartwright. “He sounded so convincing when he said that Mr. Cartwright was giving him the model unit. I feel like such a dope for believing him.”

“What did Mr. Cartwright say when you told him about Zach claiming the town house?”

“At first, he didn't believe me, but then I thought he'd go into orbit. That's how mad he was. But then he started to laugh, and explained it was just a silly bet they had made, and said that Zach was acting as if he'd really won.”

“But bet or no bet, it was not your impression
that Mr. Cartwright had any intention of giving Zach Willet that town house?” Walsh asked.

“Even if he did save Mr. Cartwright's life years ago, Zach Willet had no chance in the world of ever setting foot in that condo,” Amy said in the tone of a person taking an oath.

“Did Mr. Cartwright spend the day here yesterday?”

“No, he was in somewhere between nine and ten, but only stayed a short while. He said that he was coming back at four o'clock to meet with the contractor, but I guess he changed his mind.”

“That certainly was his prerogative,” Walsh said, with a hint of humor. “Thank you, Ms. Stack. You've been very helpful.”

*   *   *

The news of Zach's death had spread through the Washington Valley Riding Club. The idea that someone had shot him seemed unthinkable to the people who worked in the stables. “He wouldn't harm a fly,” a scrawny old-timer named Alonzo protested when Paul Walsh asked if Zach Willet had any enemies. “Zach kept to himself. Never got in an argument in the fifty years I've known him.”

“Do you know if anybody had it in for him for any reason?”

No one could think of anything until Alonzo remembered that Manny Pagan had made some comment about Ted Cartwright getting into an argument
with Zach yesterday. “Manny's exercising a horse in the ring. I'll get him,” Alonzo offered.

Manny Pagan came over to the stable, leading his horse. “Mr. Cartwright practically shouted at me. I never saw a guy so mad in my life. I pointed out where Zach was eating lunch at the picnic table and saw Cartwright go charging over to him. I could see from here that he was arguing with Zach. I swear there was steam coming out of his ears when he passed me a few minutes later on his way back to his car.”

“That was yesterday at lunchtime?”

“That's right.”

Paul Walsh had learned what he had come to find out and was anxious to get out of there. He was allergic to horses and could feel his eyes beginning to water.

“B
enjamin Fletcher, returning your call,” Anna announced on the intercom.

Jeff MacKingsley drew a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Ben,” he said warmly. “How are you?”

“Hello, Jeff. Nice to hear from you, but I'm sure you're not interested in the state of my health, which could be better in case you actually are interested.”

“Of course I'm interested in how you're doing, but you're right, that's not the reason I called. I need your help.”

“I'm not so sure I'm feeling very helpful, Jeff. That viper you call a detective, Walsh, has been pretty busy intimidating my new client.”

“Yes, I realize that and I'm sorry. I apologize.”

“I heard about Walsh making a big fuss because he thinks my client moved fast when she didn't know if a killer might still be lurking around. I don't take kindly to that.”

“Ben, I don't blame you. Listen to me. Do you
know that your new client, Celia Nolan, is actually Liza Barton?”

Jeff heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone and knew that Benjamin Fletcher had not been aware that Celia and Liza were the same person.

“I have absolute proof,” he said. “Fingerprints.”

“You better not have fingerprints from the juvenile case,” Benjamin Fletcher said sharply.

“Ben, for now, never mind where or how I got them. I need to talk to Celia. I won't ask her one word about the two homicides last week, but there's something else I do have to talk to her about. Do you remember the name Zach Willet?”

“Sure. He's the guy who was giving her father riding lessons. Even when she wouldn't say anything else in the detention center, she kept repeating his name. What about him?”

“Zach was shot while he was in his car sometime last evening. Celia must have had an appointment to meet him. Her fingerprints are on Zach's car door and on his doorbell. I don't for one single minute think that she had anything to do with Zach's death, but I need her help. I need to know why she was meeting him, and why Zach told me on the phone only yesterday that he might be coming in to see me with Celia. Will you let her talk to me? I'm worried that there may be other lives at risk—including hers.”

“I'll talk to her, then make a decision. Of course, I must be present if she ends up agreeing to meet
with you, and at any point, if I say stop, you stop. I'll call her now and try to get back to you later today,” Fletcher said.

“Please,” Jeff urged. “As soon as you can. Whatever time and place is convenient for her, I'll be there.”

“Okay, Jeff, and I'll tell you another thing. With all those people you've got working for you, have someone protect her. Make sure nothing happens to that pretty lady.”

“I won't let that happen,” Jeff said grimly. “But you've got to let me talk to her.”

J
ack had won the bet. I agreed that my eyes still looked tired, but insisted that it was because I had a headache, and not because I was so stressed. Instead of paying him one hundred trillion dollars, I took him to lunch at the coffee shop and bought him an ice cream cone for dessert. I kept on my dark glasses and told Jack the light hurt my eyes because of the headache. Did he believe me? I don't know. I doubt it. He's a smart and perceptive kid.

After that, we drove into Morristown. Jack had outgrown all his last year's clothes, and really needed some new sweaters and slacks. Like most children, he didn't think much of shopping so I stayed with the list of essentials that I had jotted down. What frightened me was that I realized I was anticipating not being with Jack. In case I'm arrested, he'd have these clothes.

We arrived home to find there were two messages on the phone. I tricked Jack into carrying
his new clothes upstairs and putting them in his bureau “all by yourself.” As always, I was so afraid it was one of the Lizzie Borden messages awaiting me, but both were from Benjamin Fletcher, with instructions for me to call him immediately.

They are going to arrest me, I thought. They have my fingerprints. He's going to tell me I have to turn myself in. I misdialed twice before I finally reached him.

“It's Celia Nolan, returning your call, Mr. Fletcher,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

“First thing a client has to learn to do is to trust her attorney, Liza,” he told me.

Liza.
With the exception of Dr. Moran in my early days of treatment, and the time Martin's mind was wandering, I have not been called Liza since I was ten years old. I had always envisioned someone throwing the name at me unexpectedly, and ripping away my carefully constructed persona. The matter-of-fact way in which Fletcher said my name helped to reduce the shock that he knew who I was.

“I wasn't sure whether or not to tell you yesterday,” I said. “I'm still not sure if I can trust you.”

“You can trust me, Liza.”