Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (25 page)

“I want to stay with them,” I whispered. “Please let me stay.”

“We can't, Mrs. Keswick,” Johnson said. “You can be with them tomorrow at the funeral parlor, after we've released them.” Then he added, very quietly, “Your dog's here. Normally it would have gone to an animal hospital, but it was required for evidence.”

“She,” I said. “She's a she, not an it.”

“You must have a vet, don't you?” Johnson said. “We'll need the name and address. The dog can go there tomorrow.”

All I could do was nod. I was sobbing uncontrollably.

One of the doctors took me to Trixy, showed her to me. I bent over her and touched the top of her furry head, and my tears fell down on my hands.

Trixy. My little Trixola.

I was still weeping when David guided me out into the corridor. He led me down to the waiting room, but I could barely walk; waves of shock and heartbreak were washing over me.

As we went into the waiting room, my mother stood up and so did Sarah. They both hurried over.

“Oh, Mom, oh, Momma,” I wept. “It is them. They're dead. Whatever am I going to do without them?”

“P
ark and One Hundred Nineteenth Street is a very bad area, Mrs. Keswick; there's drug dealing on the street, prostitution. So, what do you think your husband was doing up there on Sunday afternoon?” Detective Johnson asked.

I stared at him, clenching my hands in my lap, endeavoring to control their constant trembling. “I know what he was doing up there,” I said quietly. “He was on his way home with our children. He was coming from Connecticut.”

“Where in Connecticut?” DeMarco inquired, shifting slightly in his chair, leaning back in it. There was a sympathetic look in his eyes.

“Sharon,” I said. “We have a house there.”

Detective Johnson frowned. “And did he usually drive through the heart of Harlem?”

I nodded. “Yes. Andrew always takes—” I stopped, steadied myself, and went on, “Andrew always took Route 684, which leads into the Saw Mill River Parkway and then the Henry Hudson Parkway. That's an absolutely straight line from Sharon to Manhattan. And by going through Harlem he came out at the top of Park Avenue.”

“Where did he get off the Henry Hudson?” Johnson asked.

“At the One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street exit, in order to zip right over to the East Side. He never varied this route, and we would go all the way across One Hundred
Twenty-fifth, past Twelfth Avenue and Amsterdam, until we came to Park.”

DeMarco said, “Did he go under the elevated section of the Metro North railway tracks at One Hundred Twenty-fourth, passing North General Hospital and the Edward M. Horan School around One Hundred Twentieth?”

“That's right. Then my husband would drive all the way down Park Avenue, turning right on Seventy-second Street. He believed it was the quickest way to get home. And it is.”

“It's a well-traveled route. A lot of New Yorkers use it to hit the East Side quickly, but that area around One Hundred Nineteenth Street has become very dangerous lately,” DeMarco said. “Huge quantities of crack cocaine are sold up there, underneath those stone arches of Metro North, just near the traffic light where your husband's . . . car was found.”

“He wasn't on drugs,” I exclaimed angrily. “Furthermore, he had our children with him. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He was simply driving home.” My mouth began to tremble, and I covered it with my hand. I felt the tears sting the back of my eyes.

“We know he wasn't doing anything wrong, Mrs. Keswick,” Detective Johnson said in a kindly voice, and I glanced at him in surprise. His partner had seemed to be the nicer of the two.

“Why were my husband and children shot?” I asked again, repeating the question I had been asking nonstop for two days.

DeMarco cleared his throat. “Your husband either stopped for the red light there, or he was forcibly stopped by one or more perpetrators. He was either getting out of the car, to see what was going on, or the door of the car was wrenched open. Then the shootings occurred, around four-thirty, five o'clock, according to the medical examiners.
And we're not sure why he and the children were shot, Mrs. Keswick.”

I stared at him. I could not speak.

Johnson said, “We think it might have been a carjacking gone wrong, in other words, an
attempted
carjacking.”

“Carjacking?” I repeated. “What's that?”

“It's a crime that's occurring more and more frequently these days,” Johnson explained. “It usually happens when a car is waiting at a red light or is parked in a rest area. The car is attacked, usually by several perpetrators. The occupants are made to get out, and the car is driven away. What might have happened, in your husband's case, is that the perpetrators were startled by something or someone, or taken by surprise, and so they fled without the car. It's possible they left the scene of the crime in panic or fear, or both, because one of them or more got trigger-happy. There might have been witnesses, and we're hoping someone will come forward.”

DeMarco said, “We know from Mr. Nelson that your husband always wore a gold Rolex and carried a wallet. These items were missing, as we informed Mr. Nelson yesterday. But was there anything else in the car? Luggage?”

“Our shearling coats, Andrew's and mine. A few small items, clothing and a pair of riding boots, things like that, which he packed in a suitcase. Nothing very valuable, as far as I know,” I said.

“Those things were not found in the car. It was empty,” DeMarco reminded me, and continued, “The car will be released tomorrow, so you should have it back in another day. It was dusted for fingerprints on Sunday, and these have been sent to the FBI to be checked.”

I did not respond. I did not want the car. I never wanted to see it again.

Johnson rose. “I'll be back in a minute,” he said to DeMarco and went to the door. As he opened it and walked
out, the din of the Twenty-fifth Precinct penetrated the quiet office.

Detective DeMarco said, “I've got to ask you a few other questions, Mrs. Keswick.”

“Yes.”

“Ruling out a possible carjacking, an attempted carjacking, that is, can you think of any reason why someone might want to shoot your husband? Why someone might wish to do him harm?”

I shook my head.

“Did he have any enemies?”

“No, of course he didn't,” I said.

“Did he have any bad business dealings with anyone?”

“No.”

DeMarco cleared his throat. “Any girlfriends, Mrs. Keswick?”

“What?”

“Could your husband have had a relationship with another woman? I realize that you might not have known about it, but was it a possibility?”

“No, it wasn't, Detective DeMarco. No, he didn't have any girlfriends. We were very happily married,” I said in a cold little voice, and once again it was all I could do not to burst into tears. I resented the fact that I'd had to come to the precinct to be questioned rather than making a statement to them at home. But last night David had told me that I must go, that it was simply police procedure.

A moment or two later Detective DeMarco escorted me out into the corridor, where Sarah was sitting on a bench waiting for me. After I'd said good-bye to DeMarco, who told me he'd be in touch if there were any developments, Sarah took my arm and hurried me out of the precinct.

Once inside the car waiting for us outside, she told the driver to take us back to Park Avenue and Seventy-fourth Street, where my mother lived. I had been staying
with her and David since Sunday night; my mother had not wanted me to be alone. In any case, her apartment, which David had moved into after their marriage, had been my home until I married Andrew. I had grown up there.

I leaned back against the car seat, feeling weak and drained. Since the shooting I had been trying to hold myself together as best I could, but most of the time I felt as though I was flying apart. I could not let that happen—not until after the funeral, anyway.

Sarah held my hand and glanced at me worriedly from time to time, but we were silent as the car sped down Park.

Finally, I looked at her and said, “The police think it might have been an attempted carjacking.”

“What?” She stared at me in puzzlement. “What's that?”

“Apparently a carjacking is a relatively new crime that's been recurring constantly lately. The thieves attack a car that's either parked or at a red light, usually at gunpoint, and after they've made the occupants get out, they steal the car.”

“Good God!” Sarah looked at me aghast.

“Johnson and DeMarco think Andrew's car was attacked in this manner, but that the thieves got scared off.” I went on to repeat everything the two detectives had told me.

“Nobody's safe anymore,” she said quietly, when I had finished, and I felt a shiver run through her.

M
y father was the first person I saw when I entered my mother's apartment with Sarah.

He must have heard my key in the door, for he came out of the small library. Anxiousness and concern ringed his mouth, and his thin, patrician face was taut with strain.

Sarah said, “Hello, Uncle Edward,” and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen before he could answer, discreetly leaving us alone.

“Mal!” my father exclaimed, hurrying across the entrance hall. But there was no joy in his voice at the sight of me, only anguish.

“Oh, Dad,” I cried and ran to him. I threw myself into his arms and held on to him tightly. “Oh, Daddy, I can't bear it. I can't. I can't live without Andrew and Lissa and Jamie. I should have been with them. Then I would have been killed too, and we would be together.” I broke down, sobbed against his chest.

He stroked my hair, trying to console me. But I was inconsolable. He held me for a few moments. At last he said, “When Diana reached me I couldn't believe it. It's
not
believable . . . that such a thing could happen to Andrew and the twins—” He stopped, unable to continue, his voice broken; tears shook him, and we stood there in the middle of the entrance hall, weeping and clinging to each other.

After a short while we both managed to gain control of ourselves, and we drew apart.

My father took out his handkerchief and wiped away my tears, tenderly, as he had when I was a child. Then he wiped his own eyes and blew his nose.

After helping me off with my black wool coat, which he hung in the closet, he put his arm around my shoulders and walked with me into the library.

Looking up at him, I said, “Where's Diana? I thought you traveled together from London.”

“We did. She's in your mother's bedroom, freshening up. The minute she walked in and saw your mother, she began to cry. So did your mother, of course. It's difficult to comprehend that we don't have Andrew and our grandchildren anymore—” My father's strong, resonant voice faltered, and I saw the tears glistening at the back of his eyes.

Silently, we sat down next to each other on the sofa. My father said, “I wanted to comfort you, to help you, but I'm afraid I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I, darling?”

“How can you?” I replied in a strangled voice. “You're grieving too. We're all grieving, Dad, and we're not going to stop, not ever.”

He nodded, took my hand and held it tightly in his. “When David picked us up at Kennedy this morning, he explained that you'd gone to the precinct to make a statement, that this was just normal procedure. But did they tell you anything? Pass on any new information?”

“No, they didn't, except that they thought the shooting was a carjacking.”

My father looked as puzzled as Sarah had. I explained and repeated everything the detectives had told me.

He shook his head in wonder, his tanned, freckled face registering a mixture of pain and anger. “It's so horrific one can hardly bear to think of it, never mind comprehend it.” A deep sigh escaped him, and he shook his head again.

“And all for a watch, a wallet, and possibly a car, until something, or someone, made them run.” My voice wavered, and fresh tears surfaced. “And they may never be caught.”

My father's voice was gentle and loving as he said, “I'm here for you, darling. I'll do whatever I can to help you bear this . . . this . . . this unbearable sorrow and pain.”

“I don't want to live without them, Dad. I don't have anything to live
for.
Life without Andrew and the twins is no life for me. I want to die.”

“Ssssh, darling,” he said, gentling me. “Don't say that, and don't let your mother and Diana hear you. It will destroy them afresh if they hear you speaking in this way. Promise me you'll put such thoughts out of your head.”

I remained silent. How could I make a promise I knew I couldn't keep?

When I did not answer him, my father said, “I know that you—”

“Mal!” Diana said from the doorway, and it sounded like a cry of pain.

I leapt up and went to her as she came toward me.

All of her emotions were on her face; I could see her raw grief, her immense suffering. I tried to be strong for her as I put my arms around her and embraced her.

“You're all I have left now, Mal,” she said in a low, shaking voice, and the tears came and she wept in my arms, just as I had wept in my father's a few minutes ago.

He rose and came to us and led us both back to the sofa, where she and I sat down.

Daddy took a chair opposite us and said, after a few moments, “Shall I go and get you a cup of tea, Diana? And one for you, Mal?”

Diana said, “I don't know . . . I don't care, Edward.”

I murmured, “Yes, why not. Go and get it, Dad, please.”