The Cradle Will Fall (12 page)
Read The Cradle Will Fall Online
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Thrillers, #Suspense
EDNA Burns had kept meticulous records. When the search team
headed by Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent descended on
her apartment on Friday morning, they found a statement in the
old-fashioned breakfront.
I leave my worldly goods to my friends, Gertrude Fitzgerald and
Gana Krupshak. Mrs. Fitzgerald is to receive my diamond ring
and whatever household possessions she cares to have. Mrs.
Krupshak is to receive my ruby pin, my imitation fur coat and
whatever household possessions Mrs. Fitzgerald does not wish to
have. My $10,000 insurance policy less funeral expenses is assigned
to the nursing home which took such fine care of my parents.
Methodically the team dusted for fingerprints, vacuumed for
hair and fibers, searched for signs of forced entry. As the final
step, they asked the neighbors if anyone had noticed any strangers
in the vicinity on Tuesday night. At the last apartment they had a
break. An eleven-year-old boy had just come home from school
for lunch. He heard the question asked of his mother.
"Oh, I told a man in a car which apartment Miss Burns lived in,"
he reported. "You remember, Ma, when you made me walk Porgy
just before I went to bed."
"That was about nine thirty," the boy's mother said.
"What did the man look like?" Charley asked.
"He had sort of dark hair. His car was neat. It was a Corvette."
Charley looked at Phil. "Chris Lewis drives a Corvette," he said
flatly.
THROUGH the long, sleepless night, Edgar Highley rationalized
the problem of the stolen bag. The odds were it would be abandoned
after the thief went through it. Few people would take the
trouble to return it.
Suppose the New York police recovered the bag intact? His
name and address were inside it. If they phoned and asked him for
a list of the contents, he'd simply mention some standard drugs
and a few patients' files. They would assume that Vangie Lewis'
file was his. If they asked about the shoe and the bloodstained
paperweight, he'd say that the thief must have put them there.
It would be all right. And tonight the last risk would be removed.
At five a.m. he gave up trying to sleep, showered and went
downstairs. He was not going in to the office until noon. Meanwhile
he'd go over his research notes. Yesterday's patient would
be his new experiment. But he hadn't yet chosen the donor.
ON FRIDAY MORNING KATIE GOT IN TO the office by seven o'clock
and began a review of the case she was trying. The defendants
were teenage brothers accused of setting fires in two schools.
Maureen came in at eight thirty, and immediately made fresh
coffee. Katie looked up. "Boy, I'm going all out to nail those two,"
she said. "They did it for kicks. It's sickening."
Maureen reached for Katie's coffee cup and filled it. "Katie . .."
Katie looked into troubled green eyes. "Yes?"
"Rita told me that she told you about . . . about the baby."
"Yes, she did. I'm terribly sorry, Maureen."
"The thing is I can't seem to get over it. I've been trying to forget,
and now this Vangie Lewis case brings it back."
Katie nodded. "Maureen, I'd have given anything to have had
a baby when John died. That year I prayed I'd get pregnant so
I'd have something of him. When I think of all the friends I have
who elect never to have children, I wonder about the way life
works out. But we'll both have children someday, and we'll appreciate
them because of not having the ones we wanted before."
Maureen's eyes were filled with tears. "I know. But the thing
about the Vangie Lewis case is—"
The telephone rang. Katie reached for it. It was Scott Myerson.
"Glad you're in, Katie. Can you run over here for a minute?"
"Of course." Katie got up. "Scott wants me now. Well talk
later, Maureen." Impulsively she hugged the girl.
Scott was standing by the window staring out. He turned when
she came in. "You're on trial today—the Odendall brothers?"
"Yes. We have a good case. We'll get them."
"You usually do, Katie. Have you heard about Dr. Salem?"
"The doctor from Minneapolis? No, I haven't spoken to anyone
this morning. I went straight to my office."
"He fell—or was pushed—out a window in the Essex House a
few minutes after he checked in. We're working with the New York
police on it. Incidentally, Vangie Lewis' body arrived from Minneapolis
yesterday. Lewis wasn't on the flight."
Katie stared at Scott. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that he probably took the flight that went into La
Guardia. It would have gotten him into New York about the time
Salem checked in. I'm saying that if we find he was anywhere in
the vicinity of that hotel, we may be able to wrap this case up."
"I don't believe Chris Lewis is a murderer," Katie said flatly.
"Where do you think he is now?"
Scott shrugged. "I think his girl friend will lead us to him. She's
due in from Florida tonight. Can you hang around?"
Katie hesitated. "This is one weekend I have to be away. But
I'll be honest, Scott. I feel so lousy that I'm not thinking straight.
I'll get through this trial, but then I will leave."
Scott studied her. "You should have a checkup. You look paler
than you did right after your accident. All right, get the trial over
with and clear out of here. We'll go over everything Monday
morning."
Katie went back to her own office. It was nearly nine, and she
was due in the courtroom. Mentally she reviewed the schedule
of the pills Dr. Highley had given her. She'd taken one last night,
one early this morning. She swallowed another, washing it down
with the last sip of coffee from the cup on her desk, then gathered
her file. The sharp edge of the top page of the brief slit her finger.
She gasped at the quick thrust of pain and, wrapping a tissue
around it, hurried from the room.
Half an hour later, as she rose with the rest of the people in the
courtroom to acknowledge the entrance of the judge, the tissue
was still wet with blood.
EDNA Burns was buried on Friday morning after a Mass at St.
Francis Xavier Church. Gana Krupshak and Gertrude Fitzgerald
followed the coffin to the nearby cemetery and watched Edna
placed in the grave beside her parents. After the ceremony, the
priest, Father Durkin, escorted them back to their cars.
"Will you ladies join me for a cup of coffee?" he asked.
Gertrude dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. "I really have
to get to work," she said.
Mrs. Krupshak also declined. Then, turning to Gertrude, she
said, "Why don't you come by for dinner tonight?"
Gertrude quickly accepted. It would be good to talk about
Edna, and about what a shame it was that neither of the doctors
had come to the Mass, although at least Dr. Fukhito had sent
flowers. Maybe talking with Gana would help her get a handle
on the thought that kept buzzing around inside her head—about
something that Edna had said to her.
She said good-by to Gana and the priest, got into her car, turned
on the ignition. Dr. Highley's face loomed in her mind: those big,
fishlike, cold eyes. There'd been something funny about him
Wednesday night. Like when he went to get her a drink of water,
she'd started to follow him. He'd turned on the tap, then gone into
the bedroom. From the hall she'd seen him take out his handkerchief
and start to open Edna's night-table drawer.
Then that nice Dr. Carroll had started to come down the hall
and Dr. Highley had closed the drawer. Gertrude had let Dr.
Carroll pass her, then slipped back into the living room. She didn't
want them to think she was trying to eavesdrop. But if Dr. High-
ley wanted something from that drawer, why didn't he just say
so and get it? And why on earth would he open the drawer holding
a handkerchief over his fingers? Why, Edna's apartment was
immaculate!
THE lifeless body of Vangie Lewis was placed on the slab in
the autopsy room of the Valley County medical examiner. Richard
watched as his assistant removed the silk caftan that was to have
been Vangie's burial robe. He had missed something on Tuesday
afternoon—something to do with her legs or feet.
Minutes later he found what he was seeking: a fresh two-inch
scratch on Vangie's left foot. That was what had bothered him.
Vangie's foot had been scratched shortly after her death, and
Charley had found a piece of the dress she was wearing when she
died, dangling from a sharp implement in the garage.
Richard turned to his assistant. "Dress Mrs. Lewis in the clothes
she had on Monday night. Call me when she's ready."
Back in his office, he scribbled on a pad: "Shoes she was wearing
were cut fairly high. Could not have been wearing them when
foot was scratched."
He began to examine the notes he'd made during the night.
The Berkeley baby. He was going to talk to Jim Berkeley, get
him to admit that the baby was adopted. Once that admission was
made, the whole Westlake Maternity Concept would be exposed
as a fraud. Would someone kill to prevent that fraud from being
exposed?
He needed to see Dr. Salem's medical records on Vangie.
Quickly he dialed Scott. "Have you spoken to Salem's nurse?"
"Yes, and also to his wife. They're terribly broken up. Both
swear he had no history of high blood pressure or dizziness. No
personal problems, no money problems. I say forget both the suicide
and the accidental-fall angles."
"How about Vangie Lewis? What did the nurse know?"
"Dr. Salem asked her to get out Vangie's file yesterday morning.
She saw him put it in his attache case. That case was found in his
hotel room. But the Lewis file wasn't in it. And get this: after Dr.
Salem left his office, Chris Lewis phoned. Said he had to talk to
Salem. The nurse told him where Salem would be staying in New
York. I'll tell you something, Richard: by the end of the day I
expect to be swearing out a warrant for Lewis' arrest."
"You mean you think there was something in that file that Chris
Lewis would kill to get? I find that hard to believe."
"Someone wanted that file," Scott said.
Richard hung up the phone. Who would know what was in a
medical file that might be threatening? A doctor.
Was Katie right in her suspicions about the psychiatrist? And
what about Edgar Highley? Impatiently Richard searched on his
desk for the slip of paper Marge had given him with the names of
the two patients who had filed malpractice suits against Edgar
Highley: Anthony Caldwell of Peapack, Anna Horan of Ridgefield
Park. Over the intercom he asked Marge to phone them both. And
to try to reach Jim Berkeley.
She came in a few minutes later. "Berkeley wasn't in. I left a
message. Anthony Caldwell moved to Michigan last year. I got
one of his former neighbors on the phone. She told me that his
wife died of a tubal pregnancy. Mrs. Caldwell had been told by
two other doctors that she'd never conceive, but as soon as she
started at Westlake she became pregnant. She was terribly sick
all the time, however, and died in her fourth month."
That gives me what? I need," Richard said. "We're going to
subpoena the hospital records. What about Mrs. Horan?"
"I caught her husband home. Says she works as a computer
programmer. Here's her office number."
Richard dialed it. "Mrs. Horan," he said.
"Yes."
Richard introduced himself. "Mrs. Horan, you filed a malpractice
suit last year against Dr. Highley. I wonder if I might ask
you some questions about that case. Are you free to talk?"
Her voice became agitated. "No ... not here." She had an accent
he could not place.
"I understand. But it's urgent. Would it be possible for you to
stop by the prosecutor's office after work today and talk with me?"
"Yes .. . all right. I know where it is. I'll be there by five thirty."
The connection was broken.
It was nearly noon. Richard decided to go to the courtroom
where Katie was trying her case and see if she'd have lunch with
him. He wanted to ask her about Highley. Would she agree that
maybe something was wrong at Westlake—a baby ring, or a doctor
who took criminal chances with his patients' lives?
The courtroom was deserted except for Katie, who still sat at
the prosecutor's table. Preoccupied with her notes, she shook her
head when he came over and asked her to lunch.
"Richard, those skunks are trying to say someone else set the
fires, and I swear the jury is falling for it."
Richard studied her. Her skin was deadly pale. He noticed the
tissue wrapped around her finger. Gently he unwound it.
"That darn thing," Katie said. "It must be deep. It's been bleeding
off and on all morning."
Richard studied the cut. Released from the tissue, it began to
bleed rapidly. Pressing the tissue over the cut, he picked up a
rubber band and wound it above the cut. "This should stop it.
Have you been having any clotting problems, Katie?"
"Yes, some. But I can't talk about it now. This case is running
away from me and I feel so lousy." Her voice broke.
Richard reached down and hugged her head against his chest.
"Katie, I'm going to clear out of here. But wherever you go this
weekend, do some thinking. Because I'm throwing my hat in the
ring. I want you. I want to take care of you."
He straightened up. "Now go and win your case. You can do it.
And please, take it easy this weekend. Monday I'm going to need
your input on an angle I see in the Lewis case."
All morning she'd felt so cold—so desperately, icy cold. Even
the long-sleeved wool dress hadn't helped. Now, close to Richard,
she felt the warmth of his body. As he turned to leave, she impulsively
grasped his hand and held it against her face. "Monday,"
she said.
"Monday," he agreed, and left the courtroom.
BEFORE they left Edna's apartment complex, Charley and Phil
rang the Krupshaks' doorbell.
"We're finished with our examination," Charley told Cana.
"You're free to enter the apartment." He showed her Edna's note.
"You and Mrs. Fitzgerald can look the stuff over and divide it
between yourselves, but don't remove anything yet."
The two investigators returned to the office and went directly
to the lab, where they turned in the contents of the vacuum bag.
"Run this through right away," Phil directed.
Scott was waiting for them in his office. At the news that Chris
had been in the vicinity of Edna's apartment on Tuesday night,
he grunted with satisfaction. "Lewis seems to have been all over
the map this week," he said, "and wherever he's been someone
has died. Two bellmen positively identify him as being in the
lobby of the Essex House around five o'clock."
The phone rang. Impatiently he answered it. Then his expression
changed. "Put her on," he said quickly. Holding his hand
over the mouthpiece, he said, "Chris Lewis' girl friend is calling
from Florida. .. . Hello, yes, this is the prosecutor. .. . Yes, we are
looking for Captain Lewis. Do you know where he is?"
Scott's forehead furrowed as he listened. "Newark at seven?
Very well. I'm glad he's surrendering voluntarily. If he wishes
a lawyer, he may want to have one here." He hung up the phone.
"Lewis is coming in," he said. "We'll crack this case open tonight
Now let's see what Richard's got."
The three men went to the autopsy room; with Richard they
studied the body of Vangie Lewis, now dressed in the clothes in
which she had died. The scrap of flowered material that had been
found on the prong in the garage exactly fitted the tear near the
hem of her dress. The panty hose on her left foot showed a two-inch
slash directly over the fresh cut.
"No blood on the hosiery," Richard said. "She was already dead
when her foot caught on the prong."
"How high was the shelf that prong was on?" Scott asked.
"About three feet from the floor," Phil answered.
"So someone carried her in through the garage, laid her on her
bed and tried to make it look like suicide," Scott said.
"Without question," Richard agreed. A few moments later he left
the autopsy room and returned to his office. ,
At four thirty Jim Berkeley called. "I understand you've been
trying to reach me." His voice was guarded.
"It's important. Can you stop in my office on your way home?"
"Yes, I can." Now Jim's voice became resigned. "And I think
I know what you want to talk about."
EDGAR Highley turned from the girl on the examining table.
"You may get dressed now."
She had claimed to be twenty, but he was sure she wasn't more
than sixteen or seventeen. "Am I—"
"Yes, my dear. You are very definitely pregnant. About five
weeks. I want you to return tomorrow morning and we will terminate
the pregnancy."
"I was wondering: Do you think I should maybe have the baby
and have it adopted?"
"Have you told your parents about this?"
"No. They'd be so upset."
"Then I suggest you postpone motherhood for several years at
least. Ten o'clock tomorrow."
He left the room, went into his office and looked up the phone
number of the new patient he had chosen yesterday. "Mrs. Englehart,
this is Dr. Highley. I want to begin your treatment. Kindly
come to the hospital tomorrow morning at eight thirty."