Just Take My Heart (2 page)

Earlier that morning, through the tilted slats of the old-fashioned blinds in the kitchen of his house, Zachary Lanning had watched Emily having her quick breakfast in her kitchen. The microphone he had managed to secretly install in the cabinet over the refrigerator when her contractor left the door unlocked had picked up her random comments to her puppy, who sat on her lap while she was eating.

It's as though she was talking to me, Zach thought happily, as he stacked boxes in the warehouse where he worked on Route 46. It was only a twenty-minute drive from the rented house where he had been living under a new identity since he fled from Iowa. His hours were eight thirty to five thirty, a shift that was perfect for his needs. He could watch Emily early in the morning, then go to work. When she came home in the evening, as she prepared dinner, he could visit with her again. Sometimes she had company, and that would make him angry. She belonged to him.

He was sure of one thing: There was no special man in her life. He knew she was a widow. If they happened to see each other outside, she was pleasant but distant. He had told her he was very handy if ever she needed any quick repairs, but he had been able to tell right away that she would never call him. Like all the others during his whole life, she just dismissed him with a glance. She simply didn't understand that he was watching her, protecting her. She sim-ply didn't understand that they were meant to be together. But that would change.

With his slight build, average height, thinning, sandy hair and small brown eyes, in his late-forties, Zach was the kind of nondescript person whom most people would never remember having met.

Certainly most people would never imagine that he was the target of a nationwide manhunt after coldly murdering his wife, her children, and her mother a year and a half ago in Iowa.

Gregg, I've said it before and 111 be saying it again over the next six months because you'll need to hear it." Attorney Richard Moore did not look at the client sitting next to him as his driver slowly managed to work the car through the throng of media that was still shouting questions and aiming cameras at them in the Bergen County Courthouse parking lot. "This case hangs on the testimony of a liar who's a career criminal," Moore continued. "It's pathetic." It was the day after the grand jury had handed up the indictment. The prosecutor's office had notified Moore and it had been agreed that Aldrich would surrender this morning.

They had just left the courtroom of Judge Calvin Stevens, who had arraigned Gregg on the murder indictment and had set bail at one million dollars which had been immediately posted.

"Then why did the grand jury vote an indictment?" Gregg Aldrich asked, his voice a monotone.

"There's a saying among lawyers. The prosecutor could indict a ham sandwich if he's so inclined. It's very easy to get an indictment, especially in a high-profile case. All the indictment means is that there's enough evidence to allow the prosecutor to go forward. The press has kept this case front and center. Natalie was a star and any mention of her sells papers. Now this longtime crook Jimmy Easton, caught red-handed in a burglary, claims you paid him to kill his wife. Once there is a trial and you're acquitted, the public will lose interest in it quickly."

"Just the way they lost interest in O.J. after he was acquitted of his wife's murder?" Aldrich asked, a note of derision in his voice. "Richard, you know and I know that even if a jury finds me not guilty-- and you're a lot more optimistic than I am about that outcome--this case will never be over unless and until the guy who killed Natalie knocks on the prosecutor's door and spills his guts. In the meantime, I'm out on bail and I have surrendered my passport, which means I can't leave the country, which is terrific for someone in my business. Of course, that is to say nothing of the fact that I have a fourteen-year-old daughter whose father is going to be front and center in newspapers, on television, and online for the indefinite future."

Richard Moore let further reassurances die on his lips. Gregg Aldrich, a very intelligent realist, was not the kind of client to accept them. On one hand, Moore knew the state's case had serious problems and depended on a witness he knew he could skewer during crossexamination. On the other hand, Aldrich was right that having been formally accused of the murder of his estranged wife, no mat-ter what the verdict, in some people's minds he would never be free of the suspicion that he was a killer. But, Moore thought wryly, I'd much rather have him dealing with that situation than sitting in prison for life after a conviction.

And was he the killer? There was something that Gregg Aldrich was not telling him. Moore was sure of it. He didn't expect anything resembling a confession from Aldrich, but with the indictment only a day old, he was already beginning to wonder if whatever information Aldrich was withholding would come back to haunt him at the trial.

Moore glanced out the window. It was a miserable March day, totally in keeping with the mood inside the car. Ben Smith, the private investigator and sometime chauffeur, who had worked for him for twentyfive years, was at the wheel. From the slight tilt of his head, Moore knew that Ben was catching every word of what he and Aldrich were saying. Ben's keen hearing was a plus in his line of work, and Moore often used him as a sounding board after his conversations with clients in the car.

Forty minutes of silence followed. Then they were stopping in front of the Park Avenue apartment building in Manhattan where Gregg Aldrich lived. "This is it, at least for the present," Aldrich said as he opened the car door. "Richard, it was good of you to pick me up and deliver me back. As I told you before, I could have met you somewhere and saved you the trouble of a round trip over the bridge."

"It was no trouble and I'm spending the rest of the day at the New York office," Moore said matter-of-factly. He extended his hand. "Gregg, remember what I told you."

"It's burned in my mind," Aldrich said, his voice still totally flat.

The doorman hurried across the sidewalk to hold open the car door. As Gregg Aldrich murmured his thanks he looked into the man's eyes and saw the expression of barely concealed excitement that he knew some people experience when they are close spectators to a sensational crime story. I hope you're enjoying yourself, he thought bitterly.

On the elevator to his fifteenth-floor apartment, he asked himself: How could this all have happened? And why did he follow Natalie to Cape Cod? And did he in fact drive to New Jersey that Monday morning? He knew that he had been so distraught, tired, and angry that when he got home he had gone out for his usual run in Central Park, and later was shocked to realize he had been jogging for nearly two and a half hours.

Or had he been?

He was terrified to realize that he was not sure now.

Emily admitted to herself that the combination of Mark's death and her own sudden illness had devastated her. Added to that was her father's marriage, his decision to move permanently to Florida, and the fact that her brother Jack had accepted a job offer in California--all emotional blows that had left her reeling.

She knew she had kept up a good front when both her father and brother worried about leaving her at this time in her life. She also knew that her father signing over the house to her, with Jack's heartfelt consent, was a certain salve to their consciences.

And it's not as if they should feel guilty, she thought. Mom's been dead twelve years. Dad and Joan were seeing each other for five years. They're both pushing seventy. They love sailing and have the right to enjoy being able to do it year round. And certainly Jack couldn't pass up that job. He's got Helen and two little kids to think about.

All that having been said, Emily knew that not being able to see her father, her brother, and his family regularly had made the adjustment to losing Mark even more difficult. Certainly it was wonderful to be back in the house --it had a "return to the womb" aspect that brought with it a healing quality. On the other hand, the neighbors who were still there from when she was growing up were the age of her parents. The ones who had sold their homes had been replaced by families with young children. The sole exception was the quiet little guy who rented next door to her and who had shyly told her he was very handy in case she ever needed anything fixed.

Her immediate inclination had been to turn him down flat. The last thing she wanted or needed was a close neighbor who might try to latch onto her under the guise of helpfulness. But as the months passed, and the little she got to see of Zach Lanning was if they happened to arrive or depart their homes at the same time, Emily's guard began to drop.

In the first weeks after she was assigned the Aldrich trial, she spent long hours reviewing and absorbing the file. It immediately became necessary for her to leave the office at five o'clock, race home to walk and feed Bess, then return to the office until nine or ten o'clock at night.

She liked the demands of her job. It gave her less time to dwell on her own sorrow. And the more she learned about Natalie, the more she felt a kinship with her. They had both returned to their childhood homes, Natalie because of a broken marriage, Emily because of a broken heart. Emily had reams of information she had downloaded on the subject of Natalie's life and career. She had thought of Natalie as being a natural blond, but the background material revealed that she had changed her hair color from brunette when she was in her early twenties. Seeing her early pictures, Emily was struck by the realization that there was a genuine resemblance between the two of them. The fact that Natalie's grandparents came from the same county in Ireland where her grandparents had been born made her wonder if four or five generations back, they would have been considered "kissing cousins," the Irish term for extended family.

Even though she loved the process of preparing a new case and truly didn't mind the hours, Emily soon began to realize that running back and forth from the office to the house to take care of Bess was just too time-consuming. She also felt guilty that Bess was alone so long every day and now late into the evening.

Someone else had noticed it, too. Zach Lanning had begun to prepare his yard for spring planting. Early one evening he was waiting after she had deposited Bess back into the house. "Miss Wallace," he began, his eyes slightly averted, "I can't help but notice that you seem to be hurrying home because of the dog. And I see you rush right out again. I read about that big case that you're involved in. I bet it's a lot of work. What I mean to say is that I love dogs, but the owner is allergic and won't let me have one in this house. I'd really enjoy having your dog--I heard you call her Bess -- as company when I get home. If your house is just like this one, your back porch is enclosed and heated. So if you wanted to leave the cage out there and give me a key to just the porch, I could let her out, then feed her, then take her for a nice long walk. My backyard is enclosed and she can run around a bit while I'm working in the garden. Then I'll put her back and lock the door behind me. That way you don't have to worry about her. I bet that she and I would get along great."

"That's really nice of you, Zach. Let me just give it some thought. I'm really rushed right now. I'll call you in the next day or so. Is your number listed?"

"I just have a cell phone," he responded. "Let me jot down the number for you."

As Emily pulled the car out of her driveway to head back to the office, Zach could barely contain his excitement. Once he had a key to her porch, it would be easy to take a wax impression of the lock on the door that led into the rest of the house. He was sure she was going to take him up on his offer. She really loves that useless hunk of fur, he thought. And once I'm inside, I'll go up to her bedroom and go through her drawers.

I want to touch everything that she wears.

Alice Mills dreaded the thought of being called as a witness at the trial. The loss of her only child, Natalie Raines, had left her more bewildered than bitter. How could he do that to her? was the question she asked herself over and over again during the day, and haunted her at night. In her recurring dream, she was always trying to reach Natalie. She had to warn her. Something terrible was going to happen to her.

But then the dream became a nightmare. As Alice ran blindly in the dark, she felt herself stumble and fall. The faint scent of Natalie's perfume filled her nostrils. Without seeing it, she knew she had tripped over Natalie's body.

And that was when she would wake and scream, "How could he do that to her?" as she bolted up from the pillow.

After the first year, the nightmare had come less frequently but then increased again after Gregg was indicted and the media frenzy began. That was why, when Alice received a call in mid-April from Assistant Prosecutor Emily Wallace asking her to come in for an interview the following morning, she sat up the night before in the comfortable chair where she often dozed off while watching television. It was her hope that if she did fall asleep, it would be a light slumber that wouldn't let her sink into the nightmare.

Her plan didn't work. Only this time she called out Natalie's name as she woke. For the rest of the night, Alice was awake thinking of her lost daughter, musing over the memory that Natalie had been born three weeks early, arriving on her thirtieth birthday. Of course, after a marriage that had been, to her sorrow, childless for eight years, that had made Natalie a true gift from heaven.

Then Alice thought about the evening a few weeks ago when her sisters had insisted on taking her to dinner for her seventieth birthday and toasted her at the table. They were afraid to mention Natalie's name but I insisted we toast her, too, Alice remembered. We even managed to joke about it. "Trust me, Natalie wouldn't have allowed a fortieth birthday party," she'd said. "Remember, she always told us that in show business it's a good idea to be eternally young."

She is eternally young, Alice thought, sighing, as she got up from the easy chair at seven a.m. and reached down to pull on her slippers. Her arthritic knees were always worse in the morning. Wincing as she got to her feet, she walked across the living room of her small apartment on West Sixty-fifth Street, closed the windows, and pulled up the shades. As always, the sight of the Hudson River in Manhattan lifted her spirits.

Natalie had inherited her love of the water. That was why she had so often driven up to Cape Cod, even for just a few days.

Alice tightened the sash on her soft cotton bathrobe. She loved fresh air, but it had become colder during the night and now the living room was chilly. She adjusted the thermostat upward, went into the galley kitchen, and reached for the coffeepot. It had been set to go on at 6:55. The coffee had brewed and her cup was on the sideboard next to it.

She knew she should eat at least a slice of toast, but she simply didn't want it. What would the prosecutor ask her? she wondered as she carried the cup into the dinette and sat at the table in the chair that gave the best view of the river. And what can I add to what I already told the detectives more than two years ago? That Gregg wanted a reconciliation and that I urged my daughter to go back to him?

That I loved Gregg?

That I now despise him?

That I will never understand how he could have done this to her?

For the interview, Alice decided to wear a black pants suit with a white blouse. Her sister had bought it for her to wear to Natalie's funeral. In these two years, she had lost a little weight and knew the suit hung loosely on her. But what difference does that make? she asked herself. She had stopped touching up her hair and now it was pure white, with a natural wave that saved her many trips to the beauty salon. The weight loss had caused the wrinkles on her face to deepen, and she had no energy to keep up with facials, as Natalie had always reminded her to do.

The meeting was scheduled for ten o'clock. At eight, Alice went downstairs, walked a block past Lincoln Center, went into the subway, and took the train that stopped at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. On the brief ride, she found herself thinking about the house in Closter. A real estate agent had urged her not to try to sell it while the newspapers were writing daily about Natalie. "Wait a while," he'd suggested. "Then paint the whole interior white. That will give it a nice clean and fresh feeling. Then we'll put it on the market."

Alice knew the man hadn't meant to be rude or insensitive. It was just that the idea of somehow whitewashing Natalie's death hurt so much. When his exclusive on the listing of the house ended, she did not renew it.

When she got to the Port Authority, it was, as usual, teeming with people rushing in and out of the building, hurrying to and from platforms to catch their buses or to flag down a cab. For Alice, like every-where she went, it was a reminder. She could see herself rushing Natalie through here after school for television commercial audi-tions as early as when she was still in kindergarten.

Even then, people stopped to look at her, Alice thought, as she waited on line to buy a round-trip ticket to and from Hackensack, New Jersey, where the courthouse was located. When all the other kids had long hair Natalie had the pageboy cut and bangs. She was a beautiful child and she stood out.

But it was more than that. She had Stardust clinging to her.

After all these years, it would have felt natural to go to Gate 210 where the bus to Closter was located, but Alice, her feet leaden now, went to Gate 232 and waited for the bus to Hackensack.

An hour later she was walking up the steps of the Bergen County Courthouse and, as she placed her bag on the electronic security monitor, timidly inquired as to the location of the elevator that would take her to the second-floor prosecutor's office.