Katie DeMaio's life was in deadly

peril—but she didn't know it. As Valley

County's assistant prosecutor,

she was busy investigating the mysterious

deaths of Vangie Lewis, a pretty,

young expectant mother, and Edna Burns,

receptionist at the maternity clinic at WestlakeHospital.

It was there that the esteemed Dr. Edgar Highley

was making medical history by helping

previously barren women achieve motherhood.

Vangie Lewis, for instance, had been

desperate to have a baby. Why, then, had she taken

her own life? It seemed unfathomable until,

one by one, clinic gave up its Westlake's maternity horrifying secrets.

CHAPTER ONE

IF HER mind had not been on the case she had won, Katie might

not have taken the curve so fast, but the intense satisfaction of the

guilty verdict was still absorbing her. It had been a close one.

Roy O'Connor was one of the top attorneys in New Jersey. The

defendant's confession had been suppressed by the court, a major

blow for the prosecution. But still she had convinced the jury that

Teddy Copeland had viciously murdered eighty-year-old Abigail

Rawlings during a robbery.

Miss Rawlings' sister, Margaret, was in court to hear the verdict.

"You were wonderful, Mrs. DeMaio," she'd said to Katie afterward.

"You look like a young college girl. I never would have

thought you could do it. But you proved every point; you made

them feel what he did to Abby." Her eyes filled with tears. "I keep

thinking how frightened Abby must have been. It would have been

awful if he'd gotten away with it"

"He didn't get away with it!" Katie said. The memory of that

reassurance distracted her now, made her press her foot harder

on the accelerator. As she rounded the curve, the car fishtailed on

the sleet-covered road.

"Oh . . . no!" She gripped the wheel frantically. The car raced

across the divider and spun completely around. She could see

headlights approaching.

She turned the wheel into the skid, but the car careened onto

the shoulder of the road, poised for an instant at the edge and

slammed down the embankment into the woods. Katie felt the

sickening crunch as metal tore into bark. Her body was flung

forward against the wheel, then backward. She raised her arms to

protect her face from the glass that exploded from the windshield.

Biting pain attacked her wrists and knees. Velvety blackness was

closing over her as she heard a siren in the distance.

The car door opening; a blast of cold air. "It's Katie DeMaio!"

A voice she knew. Tom Coughlin, that nice young cop. He had

testified at a trial last week. "She's unconscious."

She tried to protest, but her lips wouldn't form words. She

couldn't open her eyes.

"Looks like she's cut an artery."

Something tight was being pressed against her arm.

A different voice: "She may have internal injuries. Westlake's

right down the road. I'll call for an ambulance."

Hands lifting her onto a stretcher, a blanket covering her, sleet

pelting her face. She was being carried. An ambulance. Doors

opening and closing. If only she could make them understand. I

can hear you. I'm not unconscious.

Tom was giving her name. "Kathleen DeMaio, lives in Abbington.

She's an assistant prosecutor. Judge DeMaio's widow."

John's widow. A terrible sense of aloneness. The blackness was

starting to recede. A light was shining in her eyes. "She's coming

around. How old are you, Mrs. DeMaio?"

The question, so practical, so easy to answer. "Twenty-eight."

The tourniquet Tom had wrapped around her arm was being

removed. Her arm was being stitched. Needles of pain.

X rays. The emergency-room doctor. "You're fortunate, Mrs.

DeMaio. Some severe bruises but no fractures. I've ordered a

transfusion. Your blood count is very low. Don't be frightened."

"It's just—" She bit her lip, managed to stop herself before she

blurted out that terrible, childish fear of hospitals.

Tom asking, "Do you want us to call your sister?"

"No. Molly's just over the flu. They've all had it" Her voice

was so weak that Tom had to bend over to hear her.

"All right. Don't worry, Katie. I'll have your car hauled out"

She was wheeled into a curtained-off section of the emergency

room. Blood began dripping through a tube inserted into her right

arm. A nurse was smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

"You're going to be fine, Mrs. DeMaio. Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying." But she was.

She was wheeled into a room. The nurse handed her a paper cup

of water and a pill. "This will help you rest, Mrs. DeMaio." It

must be a sleeping pill. Katie was sure it would give her nightmares.

The nurse turned off the light as she left.

Katie slid into sleep knowing a nightmare was inevitable. This

time it took a different form. She was on a roller coaster and she

couldn't control it. It kept climbing higher and higher, and then it

went off the tracks and it was falling. She woke up trembling just

before it hit the ground.

Sleet rapped on the window. She sat up. The window was open

a crack and the shade, which was pulled halfway down, was rattling.

She'd close the window and raise the shade. Then maybe

she'd be able to sleep.

Unsteadily she walked over to the window. The hospital gown

they'd given her barely came to her knees. Her legs were cold.

She leaned against the windowsill, looked out. Sleet was mixed

with rain now. The parking lot was running with streams of water.

Katie gripped the shade and stared down into the lot one story

below. The trunk lid of a car was going up slowly. She was so dizzy

now. She let go of the shade. It snapped up. Was something white

floating down into the trunk? A blanket? A large bundle?

She must be dreaming, she thought. Then she pushed her hand

over her mouth to muffle the shriek that tore at her throat. The

trunk light was on. Through the waves of sleet-filled rain that

slapped against the window, she watched the white substance

part As the trunk closed, she saw a face—the face of a woman

grotesque in the uncaring abandon of death.

THE alarm had awakened him promptly at two o'clock. He was

instantly alert. Getting up, he went over to the examining-room

sink, splashed cold water on his face, pulled his tie into a smooth

knot, combed his hair and put on his steel-rimmed glasses. His

socks were still wet when he took them off the radiator. Grimacing,

he pulled them on and slipped into his shoes. He reached for his

overcoat. It was soaked through.

He'd wear the old Burberry raincoat he kept in the closet. It was

unlined. He'd freeze, but it was the only thing to do. Besides, it

was so ordinary that if anyone saw him, there was less chance of

being recognized.

He hurried to the closet, put on the raincoat and hung up the

heavy wet chesterfield. He went over to the window and pulled

the shade back an inch. There were still enough cars in the parking

lot so that the absence of his own would hardly be noticed.

He bit his lip as he realized that the back of his car was silhouetted

by the light at the far side of the lot. He would have to walk in

the shadows of the other cars and get the body into the trunk as

quickly as possible.

It was time. Unlocking the medical supply closet, he bent down

and picked up the body. She had once weighed around one hundred

ten pounds, but she had gained a lot of weight during her

pregnancy. His muscles felt every ounce as he carried her to the

examining table. There he wrapped a blanket around her. Noiselessly

he opened the door to the parking lot. Grasping the trunk

key in two fingers, he moved to the table and picked up the dead

woman. Now for the twenty seconds that could destroy him.

Eighteen seconds later he was at the car. Sleet pelted his cheek;

the blanket-covered burden strained his arms. Shifting the weight,

he inserted his key into the trunk lock. The lid rose slowly. He

glanced up at the hospital windows. From the center room on the

second floor a shade snapped up. Was anyone looking out? Impatient

to have the blanketed figure out of his arms, he moved

too quickly. The instant his left hand let go of the blanket, the

wind blew it open, revealing her face. Wincing, he dropped the

body and slammed the trunk closed.

The trunk light had been on the face. Had anyone seen? He

looked up again at the window where the shade had been raised.

Was someone there? He couldn't be sure. Later he would have to

find out who was in that room.

Driving swiftly from the lot, he kept the headlights off until he

was well along the road. Incredible that this was his second trip to

ChapinRiver tonight. Suppose he hadn't been leaving the hospital

when Vangie Lewis burst out of Dr. Fukhito's office and hailed

him. Vangie had been close to hysteria as she limped down the

covered portico to him. "Doctor, I'm going to Minneapolis tomorrow.

I'm going to see the doctor I used to have, Dr. Emmet Salem.

Maybe I'll even stay there and let him deliver the baby."

If he had missed her, everything would have been ruined.

Instead he had persuaded her to come into the office with him,

talked to her, calmed her down, offered her a glass of water. At

the last minute she'd suspected. That beautiful, petulant face had

filled with fear.

And then the horror of knowing that even though he'd managed

to silence her, the chance of discovery was still so great. He had

locked her body in the medical supply closet and tried to think.

Her bright red Lincoln Continental had been the immediate

danger. It would surely have been noticed in the hospital parking

lot after visiting hours.

He knew she lived on
Winding Brook Lane
in ChapinRiver.

She'd told him that her husband, a United Airlines pilot, wasn't

due home until tomorrow. He'd leave her body in the closet while

he took her car and handbag to the house, to make it seem as

though she'd driven home. He'd dispose of the body later.

It had been unexpectedly easy. The houses in ChapinRiver

were placed far back from the road and reached by winding driveways.

He'd parked the car inside her garage.

The door from the garage to the den was unlocked. There were

lamps on throughout the house, probably on a timing device. He'd

hurried through the den and down the hall. The master bedroom

was the last one on the right. There were two other bedrooms, one

a nursery, with colorful elves and lambs on the wallpaper and an

obviously new crib and chest.

That was when he realized he might be able to make her death

look like a suicide. If she'd begun to furnish the nursery three

months before the baby was expected, the threatened loss of that

baby would provide a powerful motive. He would have to get her

body back here, put it on top of her own bed! It was dangerous,

but not as dangerous as dumping her body in the woods somewhere.

That would have meant an intensive police investigation.

He had left her handbag on the chaise longue in the master

bedroom and then walked the four miles back to the hospital.

There he skirted the main entrance and let himself into his office

through the door from the parking lot. It was just ten o'clock.

His coat and shoes and socks were soaked. He was shivering.

He realized it would be too dangerous to carry the body out until

there was a minimal chance of encountering anyone. He'd set the

alarm for two o'clock, then lain down on the examining table and

managed to sleep until the alarm went off.

Now for the second time that night he was pulling into Vangie's

driveway. Turn off the headlights; back the car up to the garage;

put on surgical gloves; open the garage door; open the trunk;

carry the wrapped form past the storage shelves to the inside door.

He stepped into the den. In a few minutes he'd be safe.

He hurried down the hall to the master bedroom and placed

the body on the bed, pulling the blanket free. In the adjoining

bathroom, he shook crystals of cyanide into the flowered blue

tumbler, added water and poured most of the contents down the

sink. He rinsed the sink carefully and returned to the bedroom.

Placing the glass next to the dead woman's hand, he allowed the

last drops of the mixture to spill on the spread. He folded the white

blanket carefully.

The body was sprawled face up on the bed, eyes staring, lips

contorted in an agony of protest. That was all right. Most suicides

changed their minds when it was too late.

Had he missed anything? No. Her handbag, with the keys, was

on the chaise; there was a residue of the cyanide in the glass. Coat

on or off? He'd leave it on. The less he handled her the better.

Shoes off or on? Would she have kicked them off?

He lifted the long caftan she was wearing and felt the blood

drain from his face. The swollen right foot wore a battered moccasin.

Her left foot was covered only by her stocking. The other

moccasin must have fallen off. Where? He ran from the bedroom,

searching, retracing his steps. The shoe was not in the house or

garage. Frantic, he ran out to his car and looked in the trunk. The

shoe was not there. It had probably come off when he was carrying

her in the parking lot.

Because of her swollen foot, she'd been wearing the moccasins

recently. He'd heard the receptionist joke with her about them.

He would have to go back and search the parking lot. Suppose

someone said, "Why, I saw her moccasin lying in the parking lot.

She must have lost it on her way home Monday night"? But if she

had walked even a few feet off the portico without a shoe, the sole

of her stocking would be badly soiled. The police would notice that

it was not.

Rushing back to the bedroom, he opened the door of the walk-in

closet. A jumble of women's shoes were scattered on the floor. Most

of them had impossibly high heels for a woman in her condition

to wear. Then he saw a pair of sensible low-heeled shoes, the kind

most pregnant women wore. They looked fairly new. Relieved, he

grabbed them. Hurrying to the bed, he pulled the one moccasin

from the dead woman's foot and placed the shoes on her feet. The

right one was tight, but he managed to lace it. Jamming the moccasin

into the wide, loose pocket of his raincoat, he picked up the

white blanket and strode quickly to the garage.

At the hospital parking lot, he drove to a far corner and parked

the car. Then he hurried to retrace his steps from the space

where he'd kept the car to the door of the office. The shoe might

have fallen off when he'd shifted the body to open the trunk.

Bending forward, he searched the ground, working his way closer

to the hospital.

Headlights came around the bend into the parking lot. A car

screeched to a halt. The driver, probably looking for the emergency

entrance, made a U-turn and raced out of the lot.

He had to get out of here. He fell forward as he tried to

straighten up. His hand slid across the slippery macadam. And

then he felt leather under his fingers. He had found the shoe.

Fifteen minutes later he was turning the key in the lock of his

home. Peeling off the raincoat, he hung it in the foyer closet. The

full-length mirror on the door reflected his image. Shocked, he

realized that his trouser knees were wet and dirty. His hair was

badly disheveled. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were

bulging and dilated. He looked like a caricature of himself. Rushing

upstairs, he undressed, bathed, got into pajamas and a robe.

He was too keyed up to sleep, and savagely hungry.

The housekeeper had left slices of lamb on a plate. Crisp, tart

apples were in the fruit bin of the refrigerator. Carefully he prepared

a tray and carried it into the library. From the bar he poured

a generous whiskey and sat at his desk. As he ate, he reviewed

the night's happenings. If he had not stopped to check his calendar,

he would have missed her, been unable to stop her.

Unlocking his desk, he opened the large center drawer and slid

back the false bottom, where he kept his current special file. He

took out a single manila folder. Then he reached for a fresh sheet

of paper and made a final entry:

February 15

At 8:40 p.m. this physician was locking the rear door of his

office. Subject patient had just left Fukhito. She approached this

physician and said she was going home to Minneapolis and would

have her former doctor, Emmet Salem, deliver her baby. Hysteri

cal patient was persuaded to come inside. Obviously patient could

not be allowed to leave. Getting her a glass of water, this physi

cian dissolved cyanide crystals into the glass and forced patient to

swallow the poison. Patient expired at 8:51 p.m. Fetus was 26

weeks old. Had it been born it might have been viable.

Laying down the pen, he slipped the final entry into the manila

folder, then walked over to a panel on the bookcase. Reaching behind

a book, he touched a button, and the panel swung open,

revealing a wall safe. Quickly he opened the safe and inserted the

file, subconsciously noting the growing number of folders. He

could have recited the names on them by heart. Elizabeth Berkeley,

Anna Horan, Maureen Crowley, Linda Evans—over six dozen

of them: the successes and failures of his medical genius.

He closed the safe, snapped the panel back into place, then

went upstairs and got into bed. Had he overlooked anything? He'd

put the vial of cyanide in the safe. He'd get rid of the moccasins

tomorrow night. The events of the last hours whirled furiously

through his mind.

He'd drop his suit at the cleaners on the way to the hospital.

He'd find out what patient was in the center room on the second

floor of the hospital's east wing, what that patient could have seen.

Now he must sleep.

"IF YOU don't mind, we'd like you to leave through the rear

entrance," the nurse told Katie. "The front driveway froze over

terribly, and the workmen are trying to clear it. The cab will be

waiting in back."

"I don't care if I climb out the window, just as long as I can

get home," Katie said fervently. "And the misery is that I have to

come back here Friday. I'm having minor surgery on Saturday."

"Oh." The nurse looked at her chart. "What's wrong?"

"I seem to have inherited a problem my mother used to have.

I practically hemorrhage every month during my period."

"That must be why your blood count was so low when you

came in. Who's your doctor?"

"Dr. Highley."

"Oh, he's the best. He's top man in this place, you know." She

helped Katie with her coat.

The morning was cloudy and bitterly cold. Katie shivered as

she stepped out into the parking lot. In her nightmare, this was

the area she had been looking at from her room. A cab pulled up.

Gratefully she got in, wincing at the pain in her knees. "Where to,

lady?" the driver asked, and pressed the accelerator.

From the window of the room that Katie had just left, a man

was observing her departure. Her chart was in his hand. It read:

"Kathleen N. DeMaio,
10 Woodfield Way
, Abbington. Place of

Business: prosecutor's office, Valley County, New Jersey."

He felt a thrill of fear go through him. Katie DeMaio.

There was a note on the chart that the night nurse had found

her sitting on the edge of the bed at two eight a.m. in an agitated

state and complaining about nightmares. The chart also showed

she had been given a sleeping pill, so she would have been pretty

groggy. But how much had she seen? Even if she thought she'd

been dreaming, her professional training would nag at her. She

was a risk, an unacceptable one.

CHAPTER TWO

SHOULDERS touching, Chris Lewis and Joan Moore sat in the end

booth of the
Eighty-seventh Street
drugstore, sipping coffee. Her

left arm rested on the gold braid on his right sleeve. Their fingers

were entwined.

"I've missed you," he said carefully.

"I've missed you too, Chris. That's why I'm sorry you met me

this morning. It just makes it worse."

"Joan, give me a little time. I swear well work this out."

She shook her head. He saw how unhappy she looked. Her hazel

eyes were cloudy. Her light brown hair, pulled back in a chignon,

emphasized the paleness of her smooth, clear skin.

For the thousandth time he asked himself why he hadn't made

a clean break with Vangie when he was transferred to New York

last year. Why had he given in to her plea to try a little longer to

make a go of their marriage when ten years of trying hadn't done

it? And now a baby coming. He thought of the ugly quarrel he'd

had with Vangie before he left. Should he tell Joan about that?

No, it wouldn't do any good.

Joan was a flight attendant with Pan American. She was based

in New York and shared an apartment with two other Pan Am

attendants. Chris had met her six months ago at a party in Hawaii.

Incredible how right some people are together from the first

minute. He'd told her he was married, but was able to say honestly

that he had wanted to break with his wife when he transferred

from Minneapolis to New York. But he hadn't.

Joan was saying, "You got in last night?"

"Yes. We had engine trouble in Chicago, and the rest of the

flight was canceled. Got back around six and stayed in town."

"Why didn't you go home?"

"Because I wanted to see you. Vangie doesn't expect me till

later this morning. So don't worry."

"Chris, I told you I applied for a transfer to the Latin American

division. It's been approved. I'm moving to Miami next week."

"Joan, no!"

"I'm sorry, but it's not my nature to be an available lady for a

man who is not only married but whose wife is finally expecting

the baby she's prayed for for ten years. I'm not a home wrecker."

"Our relationship has been totally innocent."

"In today's world who would believe that?" She finished her

coffee. "No matter what you say, Chris, I still feel that if I'm not

around, there's a chance that you and your wife will grow closer.

A baby has a way of creating a bond between people." Gently

she withdrew her fingers from his. "I'd better get home. It was a

long flight and I'm tired. You'd better go home too."

They looked at each other. Chris tried to smile. "I'm not giving

up, Joan. I'm coming to Miami for you, and when I get there, I'll

be free."

THE cab dropped Katie off. She hurried painfully up the porch

steps, thrust her key into the lock, opened the door and murmured,

"Thank God I'm home." She felt that she'd been away weeks

rather than overnight and with fresh eyes appreciated the soothing

earth tones of the foyer and living room, the hanging plants.

Katie hung up her coat and sank down on the living-room couch.

She looked at her husband's portrait over the mantel. John Anthony

DeMaio, the youngest judge in EssexCounty. She could remember

so clearly the first time she'd seen him. He'd come to lecture to her

class at SetonHallLawSchool.

When the class ended, the students clustered around him.

Katie said, "Judge, I have to tell you I don't agree with your decision

in the Kipling case."

John had smiled. "That obviously is your privilege, Miss . .."

"Katie .. . Kathleen Callahan."

She never understood why at that moment she'd dragged up the

Kathleen, but he'd always called her that.

They'd gone out for coffee that day. The next night he'd taken

her to dinner in New York. Later, when he'd dropped her off, he

said, "You have the loveliest blue eyes I've ever had the pleasure

of looking into. I don't think a twelve-year age difference is too

much, do you, Kathleen?"

Three months later, when she was graduated, they were married

and came to live in the house John had inherited from his parents.

"I'm pretty attached to it, Kathleen, but maybe you want something

smaller."

"John, I was raised in a three-room apartment in Queens. I slept

on a daybed in the living room. I love this house."

Besides being so much in love, they were good friends. She'd

told him about her recurring nightmare. "It started when I was

eight years old. My father had been in the hospital recovering from

a heart attack and then he had a second attack. The old man in

the room with him kept buzzing for the nurse, but no one came.

By the time someone finally got there, it was too late. In my nightmare

I'm in a hospital going from bed to bed, looking for Daddy.

I keep seeing people I know asleep in the beds. Finally I see a

nurse and run up to her and ask her where Daddy is. She smiles

and says, 'Oh, he's dead. All these people are dead. You're going

to die in here too.'"

"You poor kid."

"Oh, John, I missed him so much. I was always such a daddy's

girl. All through school I kept thinking what fun it would be if he

were at the plays and the graduations."

"Kathleen, darling, I'm going to uproot that sadness in you."

"You already have, Judge."

They'd spent their honeymoon traveling through Italy. John's

pain had begun on that trip. He'd had a checkup a month after

they got home. The overnight stay at Mount SinaiHospital

stretched into three days of additional tests. Then one evening he'd

been waiting for her at the elevator, a wan smile on his face. He

said, "We've got trouble, darling."

Back in his room, he'd told her. "It's a malignant tumor. Both

lungs, apparently."

It seemed incredible. Judge DeMaio, not thirty-eight years old,

had been condemned to an indeterminate sentence of six months

to life. For him there would be no parole, no appeal.

Knowing their time was slipping away, they made every minute

count. But the cancer spread, and the pain got steadily worse. He'd

go to the hospital for chemotherapy. Her nightmare began again;

it came regularly.

Toward the end, he said, "I'm glad Molly and Bill live nearby.

They'll look out for you. And you enjoy the children."

They'd both been silent then. Bill Kennedy was an orthopedic

surgeon. He and Molly lived two towns away in ChapinRiver and

had six kids. John had bragged that he and Katie would beat Bill

and Molly's record. "We'll have seven," he'd declared.

The last time he went in for chemotherapy, he was so weak they

had him stay overnight. He was talking to her when he slipped into

a coma. He died that night.

The next week Katie applied to the prosecutor's office for a job

and was accepted. The office was chronically shorthanded, and

she always had more cases than she could reasonably handle. It

was good therapy. There was no time for introspection.

She'd kept the house, although it seemed silly for a young

woman to own a large home surrounded by five acres.

"You'll never put your life with John behind you until you sell

it," Bill had told her. He was probably right.

Now Katie shook herself and got up from the couch. She'd better

call Molly and tell her about the accident. Maybe Molly would

come over for lunch and cheer her up. Glancing into the mirror

over the couch, Katie saw that a bruise under her right eye was

turning a brilliant purple. Her olive complexion was a sickly yellow.

Her collar-length dark brown hair, which usually bounced

full and luxuriant in a natural wave, was matted against her face

and neck. After she talked to Molly, she'd bathe and change.

Before she could pick up the phone, it began to ring. It was

Richard Carroll, the medical examiner. "Katie, how are you? Just

heard that you were in some kind of accident last night."

"Nothing much. I took a little detour off the road. The trouble

is there was a tree in the way."

"Why the blazes didn't you call me?"

Richard's concern was both flattering and threatening. He and

Molly's husband were good friends. Several times Molly had

pointedly invited Katie and Richard to small dinner parties. But

Katie wasn't looking to get involved, especially with someone she

worked with. "Next time I run into a tree I'll remember," she said.

"You're going to take a couple of days off, aren't you?"

"Oh, no. I'm going to see if Molly's free for lunch; then I'll go

in to the office. I'm trying a case on Friday."

"There's no use telling you you're crazy. Okay. Gotta go. I'll

poke my head in your office around five thirty and catch you for

a drink. Then dinner." He hung up before she could reply.

Katie dialed Molly's number. When her sister answered, her

voice was shaken. "Katie, I guess you've heard about it. People

from your office are just getting there."

"Heard about what? Getting where?"

"Next door. The Lewises. That couple who moved in last summer.

That poor man; he came home and found his wife, Vangie.

She's killed herself. Katie, she was six months pregnant!"

The Lewises. Katie had met them at Molly and Bill's New Year's

Day open house. Vangie, a very pretty blonde. Chris, an airline

pilot. Numbly she heard Molly's shocked voice: "Katie, why would

a girl who wanted a baby so desperately kill herself?"

The question hung in the air. Cold chills washed over Katie.

Last night's nightmare. The face she'd glimpsed through the

hospital window was Vangie Lewis'.

RICHARD Carroll parked his car within the police lines on Winding

Brook Lane
. He was shocked to realize that the Lewises lived

next door to Bill and Molly Kennedy. Bill had been a resident

when Richard interned at St. Vincent's. Later he'd specialized in

forensic medicine, Bill in orthopedics. They had bumped into each

other in the ValleyCounty courthouse when Bill was appearing

as a witness in a malpractice trial, and their friendship was revived.

Now they golfed together frequently, and Richard often

stopped at the Kennedy house for a drink.

He'd met Molly's sister, Katie DeMaio, in the prosecutor's office

and had been immediately attracted to the dedicated young attorney,

with her dark hair and intense blue eyes. Katie had subtly

discouraged him, and he'd tried to dismiss her from his thoughts.

But in the past few months he'd seen her at a couple of parties at

Bill and Molly's and had found that he was far more intrigued

by Katie DeMaio than he wanted to be.

Richard shrugged. He was here on business. It was his job to

look for any medical signs that might indicate Vangie Lewis had

not taken her own life. Later in the day he'd perform an autopsy.

A young cop from ChapinRiver let him in. A man in an airline

captain's uniform was sitting in the living room, clasping and unclasping

his hands. He was pale and trembling. Richard felt a

twinge of sympathy. Some brutal kick to come home and find

your wife a suicide. "Which way?" he asked the cop.

"Back here." He nodded to the rear of the house. "She's in the

master bedroom."

In death Vangie Lewis was not a pretty sight. The long blond

hair seemed a muddy brown now; her face was contorted. Her

coat was buttoned, and the soles of her shoes were barely showing

under a long flowered caftan. Richard pulled the caftan up past

her ankles; the sides of her right shoe bit into the flesh of her

swollen foot. Expertly he picked up one arm, held it for an instant,

let it drop. He studied the mottled discoloration where the poison

had burned her mouth.

Charley Nugent, the detective in charge of the Homicide Squad,

was beside him. "How long you figure?"

"Anywhere from twelve to fifteen hours. She's pretty rigid."

Richard's voice was noncommittal, but his sense of harmony was

disturbed. Coat on. Shoes on. Had she just come home, or had she

been planning to go out? The tumbler was beside her on the bed.

Bending down, he sniffed it—the unmistakable bitter-almond scent

of cyanide. He straightened up. "Did she leave a note?"

Charley shook his head. "No letters; no nothing. Been married

ten years to the pilot. He seems pretty broken up. They're from

Minneapolis; moved east less than a year ago. She always wanted

to have a baby. Finally got pregnant and was in heaven. Starts

decorating a nursery; talks baby morning, noon and night."

"Then she kills it and herself?"

"Her husband says lately she's been afraid she was going to

lose the baby. Other times she'd act scared about giving birth.

Apparently she was showing signs of a toxic pregnancy."

"And rather than give birth or face losing the baby, she kills

herself?" Richard's tone was skeptical. He could tell Charley

wasn't buying it either. "Who found her?" he asked.

"The husband. He just got in from a flight."

Richard stared at the burn marks around Vangie Lewis' mouth.

"She must have really splashed that in," he said, "or maybe tried to

spit it out. Can we bring the husband in here?"

"Sure." Charley nodded to the young cop at the bedroom door.

When Christopher Lewis came in, he looked sick. His complexion

was now green; perspiration beaded his forehead. He had

pulled open his shirt and tie. Richard studied him appraisingly.

Lewis looked distraught, nervous. But not like a man whose life has

just been shattered.

Charley questioned him. "Captain, this is tough for you, but we

won't be long. When was the last time you saw your wife?"

"Two nights ago. I was on a run to the Coast."

"And you arrived home at what time?"

"About an hour ago."

"Did you speak with your wife in those two days?"

"No."

"What was your wife's mental state when you left?"

"I told you. Vangie was worried that she might miscarry. She'd

become quite heavy, and she was retaining fluid."

"Did you call her obstetrician to discuss this with him?"

"No."

"All right. Captain Lewis, will you look around this room and

see if you notice anything amiss? It isn't easy, but will you study

your wife's body carefully and see if there's anything that in some

way is different."

Chris obeyed, his face going white as he looked at every detail

of his dead wife's appearance.

Through narrowed eyes, Charley and Richard watched him.

"No," he whispered finally. "Nothing."

Charley's manner became brisk. "Okay. As soon as we take

some pictures, we'll remove your wife's body for an autopsy."

"I have some calls to make," Lewis said. "Vangie's father and

mother. They'll be heartbroken. I'll phone them from the den."

After he'd left, Richard and Charley exchanged glances.

"He saw something we missed," Charley said flatly.

Richard nodded grimly. "I know."

CHAPTER THREE

BEFORE she'd hung up, Katie had told Molly about the accident

and invited her over for lunch. But Molly's twelve-year-old, Jennifer,

and her six-year-old twin boys were home from school recovering

from flu. She would pick up Katie and bring her back to

her own house.

While she waited, Katie bathed quickly, then put on a red wool

sweater and tweed slacks. As she got herself ready, she tried to

rationalize last night's hallucination.

Had she even been at the window? Or was that part of the

dream? It had seemed so real: the trunk light had shone directly

on the staring eyes, the long hair, the high-arched eyebrows. What

frightened her was the clarity of the image.

Would she tell Molly about it? Of course not. Molly had been

worried about her lately. "Katie, you're too pale. You work too

hard. You're getting too quiet." Molly had bullied her into the

operation scheduled for Saturday. "You can't let that hemorrhaging

condition go on indefinitely. It can be dangerous."

From outside, a horn blew loudly as Molly pulled up in her

battered station wagon. Katie struggled into a warm beaver jacket

and hurried out as fast as her swollen knees would allow. Molly

pushed open the car door and eyed her critically. "You're not

exactly blooming. How badly were you hurt?"

"It could have been a lot worse."

The car smelled vaguely of peanut butter and bubble gum. It

was a comforting, familiar smell, and Katie felt her spirits lift.

But the mood was broken when Molly said, "Our block is some

mess. Your people have the Lewis place blocked off, and some

detective from your office is going around asking questions. Big

guy. Beefy face. Nice."

"Phil Cunningham. He's a good man. What kind of questions?"

"Pretty routine. Had we noticed what time she left or got back-

that kind of thing. We hadn't, of course."

They were approaching the turn to
Winding Brook Lane
. Katie

bit her lip. "Molly, drop me off at the Lewis house, won't you?"

Molly looked at her, astonished. "Why?"

Katie tried to smile. '"Well, I'm an assistant prosecutor and adviser

to the Chapin River Police Department. As long as I'm here,

I think I should go in."

The hearse from the medical examiner's office was just backing

into the driveway of the Lewis home. Richard stood in the doorway,

watching. He came over to the car when Molly pulled up.

Quickly Molly explained. "Katie's having lunch with me and

thought she should stop by here. Why don't you come over with

her, if you can?"

He agreed, and helped Katie out of the car. I'm glad you're

here," he said. "There's something about this setup I don't like."

Now that she was about to see the dead woman, Katie felt her

mouth go dry. She remembered the face in her dream.

"The husband is in the den," Richard said.

In the bedroom, Katie forced herself to look at the face. She

recognized it instantly. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

"You all right, Katie?" Richard asked sharply.

"I'm fine. I'd like to talk to Captain Lewis now."

When they got to the den, the door was closed. Without knock

ing, Richard opened it quietly. Chris Lewis was on the phone, his

back to them. His voice was low but distinct. "I know it's incredible,

but I swear to you, Joan, she didn't know about us."

Richard closed the door noiselessly. He and Katie stared at

each other. Katie said, "I'm going to recommend that we launch

a full investigation."

"I'll do the autopsy as soon as they bring her in," Richard said.

"Come on, let's make the stop at Molly's a quick one."

Molly's house, like her car, was a haven of normality. The smell

of good food cooking, the blare of the television set, the kids shouting.

When Katie went there, it was like reentering the real world,

especially after a day of dealing with murderers, muggers, vandals

and crooks.

The twins came whooping up to greet them. "Did you see all

the cop cars, Katie? Something happened next door!" Peter, older

than his twin by ten minutes, was always the spokesman.

"Next door!" John echoed. Molly called them Pete and Repeat.

"Get lost, you two," she ordered.

"Where's Jennifer?" Katie asked.

"She's in bed. Poor kid still feels lousy."

They settled at the kitchen table. Molly produced corned beef

sandwiches and poured coffee. But when Katie tried to eat, she

found her throat was closed. She glanced at Richard. He was eating

with obvious pleasure. She envied him his detachment. On

one level, he could enjoy a good sandwich. On the other, she was

sure that he was concentrating on the Lewis case. His forehead

was knitted; his thatch of brown hair looked ruffled; his blue-gray

eyes were thoughtful. She'd have bet they were both pondering

the same question: Who had been on the phone with Chris Lewis?

She remembered the only conversation she'd had with the airline

captain. It had been at Molly's New Year's party, and he'd

been interesting, intelligent, pleasant. With his rugged good looks,

he was very appealing. She also remembered that he'd been unenthused

when she congratulated him on the coming baby.

"Molly, what was your impression of the Lewises' marriage?"

she asked.

Molly looked troubled. "I think it was on the rocks. Whenever

they were here, she kept yanking the conversation back to babies,

and he was upset about it. Since I had a hand in the pregnancy, it

was a real worry for me."

Richard looked up. "You had what?"

"I mean, well, you know me, Katie. The day they moved in,

last summer, I went rushing over and invited them to dinner. Right

away Vangie told me how much she wanted a baby, and I told

her about Liz Berkeley. She never was able to conceive until she

went to a gynecologist who's something of a fertility expert. Liz

had just given birth to a little girl. So I told Vangie about Dr.

Highley. She went to him, and a few months later she conceived."

"Dr. Highley?" Katie looked startled.

Molly nodded. "Yes, the one who's going to ..."

Katie shook her head, and Molly's voice trailed off.

EDNA Burns liked her job. She was receptionist-bookkeeper for

the two doctors on the Westlake Maternity Concept team.

Dr. Edgar Highley was a gynecologist-obstetrician. As Edna

told her friends, "It's a riot to see the way his patients act when

they finally get pregnant; so happy you'd think they invented kids.

He charges plenty, but he's a miracle worker. On the other hand,

Highley is also the man to see if you've got an internal problem

that you don't want to grow. If you know what I mean."

Dr. Jiro Fukhito was the psychiatrist on the team. The Westlake

Maternity Concept was one of holistic medicine. It was based on

the idea that mind and body must be in harmony to achieve a successful

pregnancy.

Edna enjoyed telling her friends that the Westlake concept had

been dreamed up by old Dr. Westlake, who had died before he

could act on it. Then, eight years ago, his daughter Winifred had

married Dr. Highley, bought the River Falls Clinic, renamed it

for her father and set up her husband there. "She and the doctor

were crazy about each other," Edna would sigh. "She was ten

years older than he and nothing to look at, but they were real

lovers. It was some shock when she died. No one ever knew her

heart was that bad.

"But," she'd say philosophically, "he keeps busy. I've seen

women who never were able to conceive become pregnant two and

three times. Of course, a lot of them don't carry the babies to term,

but at least they know there's a chance. You can read about it

yourself," she'd add. "Newsmaker magazine is doing an article

about him. They photographed him last week in his office, and if

you think we're busy now, wait till that article comes out."

Edna was a born bookkeeper. Dr. Highley always complimented

her on the excellent records she maintained. The only

time he gave her the rough side of his tongue was once when he

overheard her talking to one patient about another's problems.

He had finished by saying, "Any more talking and you're through."

Edna sighed. She was tired. Last night both doctors had had

evening hours, and it had been hectic. Now, while it was quiet,

she'd check the calendar to make sure she'd made all the necessary

future appointments. She had been told by Dr. Highley that she

was to make follow-up appointments with people as they left.

Frowning, she leaned her broad, freckled face on a thick hand.

She was an overweight woman of forty-four who looked ten

years older. Her youth had been spent taking care of aging parents.

When Edna looked back at pictures of herself from secretarial

school, she was always surprised at what a pretty girl she'd

once been. A mite too heavy, but pretty nevertheless.

Her mind was only half on the page she was reading. Then

something triggered her full attention. Last night. The eight-

o'clock appointment Vangie Lewis had with Dr. Fukhito.

Vangie had come in early and sat talking with Edna. She was

sure upset. Vangie had put on a lot of weight during the pregnancy;

she really wasn't well. Last month she'd started wearing

moccasins because her other shoes didn't fit anymore. She'd shown

them to Edna. "Look at this. My right foot is so swollen, I can only

wear these clodhoppers my cleaning woman left behind. The left

one is always falling off."

Edna had tried to kid her. "Well, with those glass slippers, I'll

just have to start calling you Cinderella. We'll call your husband

Prince Charming." Vangie was nuts about her husband.

But Vangie had just pouted and said impatiently, "Prince

Charming was Sleeping Beauty's boy friend, not Cinderella's."

Edna had just laughed. "Never mind—before you know it, you'll

have your baby and be back in pretty shoes again."

Last night Vangie had pulled up that long caftan she'd started

wearing to hide her swollen leg. "Edna," she'd said, "now I can

hardly even get this clodhopper on. And for what? For what?"

She'd been almost crying.

"Oh, you're just down in the dumps," Edna had said. "Good

thing you came in to talk to Dr. Fukhito. He'll relax you."

Just then Dr. Fukhito had buzzed and asked her to send in Mrs.

Lewis. As Vangie started down the corridor to his office, she

stumbled. She'd walked right out of that loose left shoe.

"Oh, to hell with it!" she cried, and just kept going. Edna had

picked up the moccasin, figuring Vangie would come back for it

when she finished with Dr. Fukhito.

But when Edna was ready to go home around nine o'clock,

Vangie still hadn't come back. Edna decided to ring Dr. Fukhito

and tell him she had the shoe, but there was no answer. Vangie

must have left by the door that led directly to the parking lot.

That was crazy. She'd catch her death of cold getting her foot wet.

Irresolutely Edna had held the moccasin in her hand and locked

up. She went out to the parking lot toward her own car just in

time to see Vangie's big red Lincoln Continental pull out with Dr.

Highley at the wheel. She'd run a few steps to wave to him, but it

was no use. So she'd just gone home.

Now, checking her calendar, she wondered if Dr. Highley had

already made a new appointment with Vangie. She decided to

phone her just to be sure. She dialed the number. The Lewis phone

rang once, twice.

A man answered. "Lewises' residence."

"Mrs. Lewis, please. This is Dr. Highley's office. We want to

set up Mrs. Lewis' next appointment."

"Hold on."

She heard muffled voices talking. What could be going on? The

voice returned. "This is Detective Cunningham of the Valley

County prosecutor's office. I'm sorry, but Mrs. Lewis has died suddenly.

You can tell her doctor that someone on our staff will contact

him tomorrow."

"Mrs. Lewis died!" Edna's voice was a howl of dismay. "Oh,

what happened?"

"It seems she took her own life." The connection was broken.

Slowly Edna lowered the receiver. It just wasn't possible.

The two-o'clock appointments arrived together: Mrs. Volmer

for Dr. Highley, Mrs. Lashley for Dr. Fukhito.

"Are you all right, Edna?" Mrs. Volmer asked curiously.

Edna knew Mrs. Volmer had sometimes talked to Vangie in the

waiting room. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her she was

dead. But some instinct warned her to tell Dr. Highley first.

His one-thirty appointment came out. He was on the intercom.

"Send Mrs. Volmer in, Edna."

"Doctor, may I step into your office for a moment, please? I'd

like to have a word with you."

"Certainly." He didn't sound very happy about it.

She hurried down the hall to his office, then timidly stepped inside.

"Doctor," she began, "you'll want to know. I just phoned

Vangie Lewis to make an appointment. A detective answered and

said she killed herself. They're coming to see you tomorrow."

"Mrs. Lewis did what?"

Now that she could talk about it, Edna's words came tumbling

out in a torrent. "She was so upset last night, wasn't she, Doctor?

She acted like she didn't care about anything. But you must know

that; I thought it was the nicest thing when I saw you drive her

home. I waved to you, but you didn't see me. So I guess of all

people you know how bad she was."

"Edna, how many people have you discussed this with?"

There was something in his tone that made her nervous. Flustered,

she replied, "Why, nobody, sir. I just heard this minute."

"You did not discuss Mrs. Lewis with Mrs. Volmer or with the

detective on the phone?"

"No, sir."

"Edna, tomorrow when the police come, you and I will tell

them everything we know about Mrs. Lewis' frame of mind. But

listen to me now." He pointed his finger at her and leaned forward.

"I don't want Mrs. Lewis' name mentioned by you to anyone—

anyone, do you hear? Her suicide reflects very badly on our

hospital. How do you think it's going to look if it comes out that

she was a patient of mine? If I hear you have so much as mentioned

the Lewis case, you're finished here. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you going out with friends tonight? You know how you

get when you drink."

Edna was close to tears. "I'm going home tonight. I want to have

my wits about me tomorrow when the police talk to me. Poor

little Cinderella." Tears came to her eyes, but then she saw the

expression on his face. Angry. Disgusted.

Edna straightened up, dabbed at her eyes. "I'll send Mrs. Volmer

in, Doctor. And you don't have to worry," she added with dignity.

"I value our hospital. I know how much your work means to you

and to our patients. I'm not going to say one single word."

The afternoon was busy. She managed to push the thought of

Vangie to the back of her mind. Finally at five o'clock she could

leave. Warmly wrapped in a leopard-spotted fake fur coat, she

drove home to her apartment in Edgeriver, six miles away.

CHAPTER FOUR

IN THE autopsy room of the Valley County Morgue, Richard Carroll

gently removed the fetus from the corpse of Vangie Lewis.

It was a boy, and he judged that it weighed about two and a half

pounds. He noted that the amniotic fluid had begun to leak. Vangie

Lewis could not have carried this baby much longer; she had been

in an advanced state of toxemia. It was incredible that any doctor

had allowed her to progress so far in this condition.

Richard had no doubt that it was the cyanide that had killed

the woman. She'd swallowed a huge gulp of it, and her throat

and mouth were badly burned. The burns on the outside of her

mouth? Richard tried to visualize the moment she'd drunk the

poison. She'd started to swallow, felt the burning, changed her

mind, tried to spit it out. It had run over her lips and chin.

To him it didn't make sense.

There were fine white fibers clinging to her black coat. They

looked as though they'd come from a blanket. He was having

them analyzed, but, of course, they might have been picked up

at any time.

Her body had become so bloated that it looked as though she

had just put on any clothes she could find that would cover her.

Except for the shoes. They were an incongruous note. They were

well cut, expensive and looked quite new. It was unlikely that

Vangie could have been outdoors on Monday in those shoes. There

were no water spots on them, even though the ankles of her panty

hose were spattered. Which suggested that she must have been

out, come in, decided to leave again, changed her shoes and then

committed suicide. That didn't make sense either.

Another thing. Those shoes were awfully tight. Particularly on

the right foot. Considering the way she was dressed, why bother

to put on shoes that will kill you?

Richard straightened up. He was just about finished. Once

more he turned to study the fetus. Suddenly something struck him.

Was it possible? It was a hunch he had to check out. Dave Broad

was the man for him. Dave was in charge of prenatal research at

Mount Sinai. He'd send this fetus to him and ask for an opinion.

If what he believed was true, there was a good reason why Chris

Lewis would have been upset about his wife's pregnancy.

Maybe upset enough to kill her!

SCOTT Myerson, the Valley County prosecutor, had scheduled

a five-o'clock meeting in his office for Katie, Richard and the two

Homicide Squad detectives assigned to the Lewis suicide.

Katie arrived first. As she eased herself into a chair, Scott looked

at her with a hint of a smile. He was a small man with a surprisingly

deep voice. Large-rimmed glasses, a dark, neat mustache

and meticulously tailored conservative suit made him look more

like a banker than a law enforcer. Now he observed Katie's bandaged

arm and the bruise under her eye.

"Thanks for coming in, Katie," he said. "If you start feeling

rotten, you'd better go home." Then he became businesshke. "The

Lewis case. What have we got on it?"

While she was talking, Richard came in with Charley Nugent and

Phil Cunningham. Silently they settled in the remaining chairs.

Scott listened to Katie, then turned to the detectives. "What did

you come up with?"

Phil Cunningham pulled out his notebook. "That place was no

honeymoon cottage. The neighbors liked Chris Lewis, but they

thought Vangie was a pain in the neck. At parties she was always

hanging on him; got upset if he talked more than five minutes to

another woman. Then when she got pregnant she was really insufferable.

Talked baby all the time."

Charley opened his notebook. "Her obstetrician's office called

to make an appointment. I said we'd talk to her doctor tomorrow."

Richard spoke quietly. "There are a few questions I'd like to

ask that doctor about Vangie Lewis' condition."

Scott looked at Richard. "You've finished the autopsy?"

"Yes. It was definitely cyanide. She died instantly. Which leads

to the crucial point."

There were some paper cups and a water pitcher on top of the

file cabinet. Walking over to the file, Richard poured a generous

amount of water into a cup. "Suppose this is filled with dis

solved cyanide," he said. "I take a large gulp." Quickly he swallowed.

He held up the paper cup. It was still nearly half full. "In

my judgment, Vangie Lewis must have drunk at least the approximately

three ounces I just swallowed in order to have the amount

of cyanide we found in her system. But here's the problem. The

outside of her lips and chin and even her neck were burned. The

only way that could have happened would have been if she spit a

lot of the stuff out. But would she then take another mouthful? No

way. The reaction is instantaneous."

Richard went on to explain his belief that Vangie Lewis could

not have walked comfortably in the shoes that had been laced on

her feet. While Katie listened, she visualized Vangie's face. The

face she had seen in the dream and the face she'd seen on the bed

slid back and forth in her mind. She forced her attention back to

the room. Charley was saying, "Richard and I feel the husband

noticed something about the body that he didn't tell us."

"I think it was the shoes," Richard said.

Katie turned to Scott. "I told you about the phone call Chris

Lewis made."

"You did." Scott Myerson leaned back in his chair. "All right.

You two"—he pointed to Charley and Phil—"find out everything

you can about Lewis. See who this Joan is. Find out what time

his plane came in this morning. Check on phone calls Vangie Lewis

made the last few days. Katie, try to see Mrs. Lewis' doctor and get

his opinion of her mental and physical condition."

"I can tell you about her physical condition," Richard said.

"If she hadn't delivered that baby soon, she could have saved

her cyanide."

"There's another thing. Where did she get the cyanide?"

"No trace of it in the house," Charley reported. "Not a drop."

"Anything else?" Scott asked.

"There may be," Richard said. "But it's so far out. Give me

another twenty-four hours. Then I may have something."

Scott stood up. "I believe we all agree. We're not closing this

as a suicide." He looked at Richard. "Is there any chance that she

died somewhere else and was put back on her bed?"

Richard frowned. "It's possible."

Katie started to get up. "I know it's insane, but—" She felt

Richard's arm steadying her.

"You sure look stiff," he interrupted.

She'd been about to describe the crazy dream she'd had in the

hospital. His voice snapped her back to reality. What a fool she'd

have appeared to them. Gratefully she smiled at Richard. "Stiff

in the head mostly, I think," she commented.

HE COULD not let Edna destroy everything he'd worked for. His

hands gripped the wheel. He could feel them trembling. He had

to calm down.

It was ironic that she of all people had seen him drive the

Lincoln out of the parking lot. Obviously she'd assumed that

Vangie was with him. The minute she told her story to the police,

everything would be over.

Edna had to be silenced. His medical bag was on the seat next

to him. In it he had put the paperweight from his office desk. He

didn't usually carry a bag anymore, but he'd taken it out this

morning, planning to put the moccasins in it. He'd intended to drive

into New York for dinner and leave them in separate litter cans.

But this morning his housekeeper, Hilda, had come in early.

She'd stood talking to him while he put on his tweed overcoat. He'd

had no chance to transfer the moccasins from his Burberry to the

bag. No matter. He'd get rid of the shoes tomorrow night.

It was a stroke of luck that Edna lived quite near the hospital.

Several times he'd dropped off work for her when she was laid

up with sciatica. That was why he knew her apartment. He'd make

it look like a murder committed during a felony; take her wallet,

grab any bits of jewelry she had. Once, when he'd left some work

at her place, she'd shown him a butterfly-shaped pin with a

minuscule ruby, and her mother's engagement ring with a dot of a

diamond in it. She kept them in a plastic jewelry box in the night-

table drawer.

He thought about the apartment. How would he get in? Did he

dare ring the bell? Suppose she wasn't alone?

But she would be alone. He was sure of it. She was going home

to drink. He could tell. That's why he waited a few hours before

coming. So that she'd be drunk. Watching her from the corridor,

he'd seen how agitated she was, obviously filled with the stories

she wanted to tell to the police tomorrow.

He was driving into her apartment area. She lived on the

ground floor at the end of her building. Thick bushes and a rusting

chain link fence separated the complex from a steep ravine that

dropped down a dozen feet and terminated in railroad tracks.

Edna's bedroom window backed onto the parking lot. By now

she must be very drunk. He could go in and out by the window.

That would lend credence to a burglary.

He parked his car, then pulled on his surgical gloves. He put the

paperweight in his coat pocket and slid cautiously out, closing the

door noiselessly.

Edna's bedroom shade was pulled down most of the way, but

she had a plant in the window. The shade rested on the top of the

plant, and he could see in clearly. The room was partially lighted

by a fixture in the hall. The window was open a crack. She must

be in the living room. He could hear the faint sound of a television

program.

Glancing about to make sure that the area was deserted, he

raised the window, pulled up the shade, carefully lifted the plant

out onto the ground. He hoisted himself up to the sill.

He was inside. In the dim light he observed the virginal tidiness,

the crucifix over the bed, the lace runner on the dresser. Now for

the part he detested. He felt for the paperweight in his pocket and

began to tiptoe down the short hall, past the bathroom, to the

living room. Cautiously he peered in. The television set was on,

but the room was empty. He heard the sound of a chair creaking.

She must be at the table in the dinette. With infinite care he moved

into the living room. This was the moment. If she saw him and

screamed...

But her back was to him. Wearing a woolly blue robe, she sat

slumped at the table, one hand next to a cocktail glass, the other in

her lap. A tall pitcher was almost empty. Her head was on her

chest. She must be asleep.

Quickly he appraised the situation. His eye fell on the hissing

radiator to the right of the door. It was the old-fashioned kind

with sharp, exposed pipes. Was it possible he didn't need the

paperweight after all? Maybe ...

"Edna," he whispered softly as he came around the table.

"Wha . . ." She looked up at him with bleary eyes. Confused,

she began to rise, twisting in her chair. "Doctor . . ."

A mighty shove sent her smashing backward. Her head cracked

against the radiator. Blinding lights exploded in her brain. Oh, the

pain, the pain! Edna sighed, floated into darkness.

He jumped clear of the spattered blood. As he watched, the

pulse in her throat flickered and stopped. He bent over her carefully.

She had stopped breathing. He slipped the paperweight back

into his pocket. He wouldn't need it now. He wouldn't have to

bother robbing her. It would look as though she'd fallen.

Quickly retracing his steps, he went back into the bedroom. He

scanned the parking area, then stepped out the window, replaced

the plant, pulled down the shade and closed the window to the

exact place where Edna had had it. As he did, he heard the persistent

chiming of a doorbell—her doorbell! Frantically he ran back

to his car. He started the engine and drove out of the apartment

complex, not turning on his headlights until he approached

Route 4.

Who was standing on Edna's doorstep? It had been close, so terribly

close. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Now there was

only one threat left: Katie DeMaio. He would begin to remove

that threat at once. Her accident had given him the excuse he

needed to start medication.

It was a matter of hospital record that her blood count was low.

He would order another transfusion for her on the pretense of

building her up for the operation. He would give her large doses

of Coumadin pills to short-circuit her blood-clotting mechanism

and negate the benefits of the transfusion. By Friday, when she

came to the hospital for surgery, she'd be on the verge of hemorrhaging.

The surgery would then be very dangerous, and he would

make it even worse by giving her heparin, another anticoagulant.

The initial low blood count, the Coumadin and the heparin would

be as effective on Katie DeMaio as the cyanide had been on Vangie

Lewis.

AFTER THE MEETING IN SCOTT MYERSON'S office, Richard drove

Katie to a rustic restaurant perched precariously on the Palisades.

The small dining room was warmed by a blazing fire and lighted

by candles. The proprietor obviously knew Richard well. "Dr. Carroll,

a pleasure," he said as he guided them to the table in front

of the fireplace.

Richard ordered a bottle of wine; a waiter produced hot garlic

bread. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and nibbling.

Richard was a big man with a wholesome look, a thick crop of

dark brown hair, strong, even features and broad, rangy shoulders.

"Do you know I've been wanting to ask you out for months?" he

said. "But you release a do-not-disturb signal. Why?"

"I don't believe in going out with anyone I work with."

"I can understand that. But that's not what we're talking about.

We enjoy each other's company. We both know it. And you're having

none of it. Here's the menu."

His manner changed, became brisk. "L'entrecote and steak au

poivre are the specialties here," he told her. When she hesitated,

he suggested, "Try the steak au poivre. It's fantastic." He ordered

salads and baked potatoes, then leaned back and studied her.

"Are you having none of it, Katie?"

"The salad? The steak?"

"All right, I'm not being fair. I'm trying to pin you down and

you're a captive audience. But tell me what you do when you're

not at the office or your sister's. I know you ski."

"Yes. I rent a condominium in Vermont with some friends."

"Maybe you'll invite me up sometime with you." He did not

wait for an answer. "Sailing is my sport. I took my boat to the

Caribbean last spring. . . . Here's your steak."

They lingered over coffee. By then Richard had told her about

himself. "I was engaged during med school to the girl next door."

"What happened?" Katie asked.

"We kept postponing the wedding. Jean was a very nice girl.

But there was something missing."

"No regrets; no second thoughts?" Katie asked.

"Not really. That was seven years ago. I'm a little surprised that

the 'something missing' didn't turn up long before now."

He did not seem to expect her to comment. Instead he began

to talk about the Lewis case. "It makes me so angry, the waste of

life. Vangie Lewis had a lot of years ahead of her."

"You're convinced it wasn't a suicide?"

"I'll need much more information before I pass judgment."

"I don't see Chris Lewis as a murderer. It's too easy to get a

divorce today if you want to be free."

"There's another angle to that." Richard pressed his lips together.

"Let's hold off talking about it."

It was nearly ten thirty when they turned into Katie's driveway.

Richard looked quizzically at the handsome fieldstone house.

"How big is this place?" he asked. "How many rooms?"

"Twelve," Katie said reluctantly. "It was John's house."

Richard did not give her the chance to say good night at the

door. Taking the key from her hand, he unlocked it and followed

her in. "I'm not going to stay, but I do admit to an overwhelming

curiosity as to where you keep yourself."

She turned on some lights and watched somewhat resentfully as

he looked over the foyer, then the living room. He whistled. "Very

nice." He studied John's portrait. "I hear he was quite a guy."

"Yes, he was."

"How long were you married, Katie?"

"One year."

He watched as a look of pain flickered over her face. "When

did you find out that he was sick?"

"Shortly after we got back from our honeymoon."

"And ever since, it's been a deathwatch. Sorry, Katie; my job

makes me too blunt for my own good. I'll take off now." He hesitated.

"Don't you draw these drapes when you're alone here?"

She shrugged. "Why? No one's going to come barging in on me."

"You, of all people, should be aware of the number of home

burglaries. Do you mind?" He went to the window and pulled the

draperies shut. "See you tomorrow. How will you get to work?"

"The service-station people are going to lend me a car. They'll

drop it off in the morning."

"Okay." For a moment he stood with his hand on the knob of

the door, then in a highly credible brogue said, "I'll be leavin' ye,

Katie Scarlett. Lock your door now. I wouldn't want anyone tryin'

to break into Tara." He bent down, kissed her cheek and was gone.

Smiling, Katie closed the door. The clock chimed musically.

After Richard's bear-warm presence, the room seemed hollow.

Quickly she turned out the lights and went upstairs.

The phone rang just as she got into bed.

"Mrs. DeMaio?" It was a man's voice.

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Highley. I hope I'm not calling too late, but I've

tried several times to reach you this evening. The fact that you

were in an accident and were in our hospital overnight has come

to my attention. How are you feeling?"

"Quite well, Doctor. How nice of you to call."

"How is the bleeding problem?"

"I'm afraid it's about the same."

"Well, it will all be behind you by this time next week. But I

do want you to have another transfusion to build you up for the

surgery, and I also want you to start in on some pills. Can you come

to the hospital tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I was planning to come anyhow. You've

heard about Mrs. Lewis?"

"I have. A terrible situation."

"I'd like to discuss her emotional and physical states with you."

"Fine. Call in the morning to arrange a time."

"Thank you, Doctor," Katie said. As she hung up, she reflected

that Dr. Highley hadn't really appealed to her at first because of

his aloof attitude.

It shows how you can misjudge people, she decided.

CHAPTER FIVE

BILL Kennedy rang the bell of the Lewis house. Tall, prematurely

white, and scholarly, Bill was an orthopedic surgeon at Lenox

Hill Hospital. He had not heard about Vangie Lewis' death until

he returned home.

Briefly Molly had told him about it. "I called and asked Chris

to come to dinner. He doesn't want to, but you go drag him here."

As he walked between the houses, Bill considered what a shock

it would be to come home and find he had lost Molly. But no one

in his right mind could think that the Lewises' marriage had been

anything like his and Molly's. Bill had never told Molly that one

morning when he was having coffee at a drugstore in Manhattan

he'd seen Chris with a very pretty girl in her early twenties.

Chris Lewis opened the door, and Bill saw the sadness in his

eyes. He gripped the younger man's arm. "I'm terribly sorry."

Chris nodded woodenly. The meaning of the day was sinking

in on him. Vangie was dead. Had their quarrel driven her to kill

herself? He felt lonely, frightened and guilty. He allowed Bill to

persuade him to come to dinner. Numbly reaching for a jacket, he

followed Bill down the street.

Bill poured him a double Scotch. Chris gulped it. Calm down,

he thought, calm down. Be careful.

The Kennedy kids came into the den to say good night. Nice

kids, all of them. Well behaved too. Chris had always wanted

children. But not Vangie's. Now his unborn child had died. Another

guilt. His child, and he hadn't wanted it. And Vangie had

known it. What had, who had driven her to kill herself? Who? That

was the question. Because Vangie hadn't been alone last night.

He hadn't told the police. They would start an investigation.

And where would that lead? To Joan. To him.

The motel clerk in New York had seen him leave last night. He'd

gone home to have it out with Vangie. Let me go, please. I can't

spend any more of my life with you. It's destroying both of us.

He'd arrived at the house sometime after midnight. He'd driven

in, and the minute he opened the garage door he knew something

was up. Because she'd parked the Lincoln in his space. No, someone

else had parked her car in his space. Vangie always used the

wider side of the garage. And she needed every inch. She was a

lousy driver. But last night the Lincoln had been expertly parked

in his spot on the narrower side.

He'd gone in and found the house empty. Vangie's handbag was

on the chaise in their room. He'd been puzzled but not alarmed.

Obviously she'd gone off with a girl friend to stay overnight, taking

a suitcase and leaving her heavy purse behind.

The house had depressed Chris. He'd decided to go back to

the motel. And then this morning he'd found Vangie dead. Somebody

had parked the car for her before midnight. Somebody had

driven her home after midnight. And those shoes. The one day

she'd worn them she'd complained endlessly about how the right

shoe dug into her ankle.

For weeks now she'd worn nothing but those dirty moccasins.

Where were they? Chris had searched the house thoroughly. Whoever

had driven her home might know.

He hadn't told the police any of this. He hadn't wanted to involve

Joan. Besides, maybe the shoes really weren't that important.

Vangie might have wanted to be fully dressed when she was found.

That swollen leg embarrassed her.

But he should have told the cops about his having been here,

about the way the car was parked.

"Chris, come into the dining room. You'll feel better if you eat

something." Molly's voice was gentle.

Wearily Chris brushed a hand over burning eyes. "I'll have

something, Molly," he said. "But I'll have to leave pretty quickly.

The funeral director is coming to the house for Vangie's clothes."

"When is the funeral?" Bill asked.

"The coffin will be flown to Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon,

and the service will be the next day." The words hammered in his

ears. Coffin. Funeral. Oh, Vangie, he thought, I wanted to be free

of you, but I didn't want you to die.

At eight he went back to his house. At eight thirty, when the

funeral director came, he had a suitcase ready with underwear

and the flowing caftan Vangie's parents had sent her for Christmas.

The funeral director was quietly sympathetic. He requested

the necessary information quickly. Born April 15. He jotted down

the year. Died February 15—just two months short of her thirty-

first birthday, he commented.

Chris rubbed the ache between his eyes. Something was wrong.

"No," he said. "Today's the sixteenth, not the fifteenth."

"The death certificate clearly states that Mrs. Lewis died be

tween eight and ten last night, February fifteenth," the man said.

"You're thinking the sixteenth because you found her this morn

ing. But the medical examiner pinpointed the time of death."

Chris stared at him. Waves of shock swept over him. He had

been home at midnight and the car and Vangie's purse had been

here. He'd assumed that Vangie had come in and killed herself

sometime after he drove back to New York.

But at midnight she'd been dead two to four hours. That meant

that after he'd left, someone had brought her body here, put it

on the bed and laid the empty glass beside it. Someone had wanted

to make it seem that Vangie had committed suicide.

"Oh, Lord," Chris whispered. At the last moment Vangie must

have known. Someone had forced that poison into her, viciously

killed her and the baby she was carrying.

He had to tell the police. And there was one person they would

inevitably accuse. As the funeral director stared at him, Chris

said aloud, "They're going to blame it on me."

DR. HIGHLEY hung up the phone slowly. Katie DeMaio suspected

nothing. Her office apparently wanted nothing more of

him than to discuss Vangie Lewis' emotional state. Unless, of

course, someone had questioned Vangie's apparent suicide, perhaps

raised the possibility that her body had been moved. The

danger was still great.

He was in the library of the Westlake home—his home now.

The house was a manorlike Tudor with archways, marble fireplaces

and Tiffany stained-glass windows. The Westlake house. The

Westlake Hospital. The Westlake Maternity Concept. The name

had given him immediate entree, socially and professionally.

Marrying Winifred Westlake and coming to America to carry on

her father's work had been a perfect excuse for leaving England.

No one, including Winifred, knew about the years before Liverpool,

the years at Christ Hospital in Devon.

Toward the end she had started to ask questions.

It was nearly eleven o'clock and he hadn't had dinner yet.

Knowing what he was going to do to Edna had robbed him of the

desire to eat. But now that it was over, he craved food. He went

into the kitchen. Hilda had left dinner for him in the microwave

oven—a Cornish hen with wild rice. He just needed to heat it up.

Because he needed the freedom of the house, the privacy of

his library, he'd gotten rid of Winifred's live-in housekeeper. She

had looked at him with sour, sullen eyes, swollen with weeping.

"Miss Winifred was almost never sick until. . ." She was going to

say "until she married you," but she didn't finish.

Winifred's cousin resented him too. He had tried to make

trouble after Winifred's death, but couldn't prove anything. They'd

dismissed the cousin as a disgruntled ex-heir.

Selecting a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator, Highley

sat down to eat in the breakfast room. As he ate, his mind ran

over the exact dosage he would give Katie DeMaio. Traces of

the heparin and the Coumadin might show in her bloodstream if

there were a thorough autopsy. But he could circumvent that.

Before going to bed, he went out to the foyer closet. He'd get

those moccasins safely into his bag now. Reaching into one pocket

of the Burberry, he pulled out a misshapen moccasin. Expectantly

he put his free hand in the other pocket—first matter-offactly,

then rummaging frantically. Finally he pawed through

the overshoes stacked on the closet floor.

At last he stood up, staring at the battered moccasin he was

holding. The right one. The one he had tugged off Vangie's right

foot. Hysterically he began to laugh.

Somehow in the dark the moccasin had fallen out of his pocket.

The one he'd found after crawling around in the parking lot like

a dog was the one he'd already had. Somewhere the left moccasin

that Vangie Lewis had been wearing was waiting to trace her

footsteps back to him.

KATIE had set the clock radio for six a.m., but she was wide

awake long before. Her sleep had been troubled; several times

she'd almost started to jump up, frightened by a vague, worrisome

dream. Shivering, she adjusted the thermostat, then ran to the

kitchen, quickly made coffee and took a cup back upstairs to bed.

Propped against the pillows, the comforter wrapped around her,

she eagerly sipped as the heat of the cup warmed her fingers.

"That's better," she murmured. "Now, what's the matter with me?"

She glanced into the mirror of the antique mahogany dresser

opposite the bed. Her hair was tousled. The bruise under her eye

was now purple tinged with yellow. Her eyes were swollen with

sleep. I look like something the cat dragged in, she reflected.

But it was more than the way she looked. It was a heavy feeling

of apprehension. Had she dreamed that queer, frightening nightmare

again? She couldn't be sure.

Vangie Lewis. It seemed impossible that anyone would choose

to kill her by forcing cyanide down her throat. She simply didn't

believe Chris Lewis was capable of that kind of violence.

She thought of Dr. Highley's call. That damn operation. Well,

at least she was getting it over with. Check in Friday night. Operation

Saturday, home Sunday. At work Monday. No big deal.

As she sipped her coffee, she glanced instinctively at John's picture.

A handsome, grave-looking man with gentle, penetrating

eyes. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she was keeping a deathwatch.

John would be the first one to blast her for that.

A hot shower picked up her spirits. She had a plea-bargaining

session scheduled for nine, a sentencing at ten and Friday's trial

to prepare for. I'd better get a move on, she thought.

She dressed quickly, selecting a soft brown wool skirt and a

turquoise silk shirt with long sleeves that covered the bandage on

her arm. The car from the service station arrived as she finished a

second coffee. She took the driver back and drove to the office.

It had been a busy night in the county. There had been a

drunken-driving accident resulting in four deaths, and two armed

robberies.

Scott Myerson was just coming out of his office. "Lovely night,"

Katie observed.

He nodded. "Look, I'm interested in the psychiatrist Vangie

Lewis was going to. I'd like his opinion of her mental state. I can

send Phil, but a woman would be less noticeable over there."

Katie hesitated. "Maybe I can help out. Dr. Highley is my

gynecologist. I actually have an appointment with him today. Perhaps

I could see Dr. Fukhito before or after."

Scott's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you think of

Highley? Richard made some crack yesterday about Vangie's condition;

seemed to think that he was taking chances with her."

Katie shook her head, "I don't agree. Highley's specialty is difficult

pregnancies. That's the point. He tries to save the babies other

doctors lose." She thought of his phone call to her. "I can vouch

for the fact that he's a very concerned doctor."

Scott frowned. "How long have you known him?"

"Not long. My sister, Molly, has a friend who raves about Dr.

Highley, so I went to see him last month." She remembered his

words. "You're quite right to have come," he'd said. "I think of the

womb as a cradle that must always be kept in good repair." The

one thing that had surprised her was that he did not have a nurse

in attendance during the examination, unlike other gynecologists.

"All right," Scott said. "Talk to Highley. And the shrink too.

Find out whether or not they think she was capable of suicide.

See if she talked about her husband. Charley and Phil are checking

on Chris Lewis now. Talk to the nurses too."

"Not the nurses." Katie smiled. "The receptionist, Edna. She

knows everybody's business. I wasn't in the waiting room two

minutes before I found myself giving her my life history."

Katie went into her office for her files, then rushed to her appointment

with a defense attorney about an indicted defendant.

From there she hurried to a second-floor courtroom to hear the

sentencing of a youth she had prosecuted for armed robbery.

When she returned, she had two messages to call Dr. Carroll.

She tried to reach him, but he was out on a case.

She phoned Dr. Highley's office fully expecting to hear the

nasal warmth of Edna's voice. But whoever answered was a

stranger. "Doctors' offices."

Katie decided to ask for Edna. "Is Miss Burns there?"

"She called in sick today. I'm Mrs. Fitzgerald."

Katie realized then how much she had counted on talking to

Edna. Briefly she explained that Dr. Highley expected her to

call for an appointment and that she'd also like to see Dr. Fukhito.

Mrs. Fitzgerald put her on hold a few minutes, and then said, "Dr.

Fukhito is free at a quarter to four. Dr. Highley would prefer three

o'clock if it is convenient."

Katie confirmed the appointments, then turned to the work on

her desk. At lunchtime Maureen Crowley, one of the office secre

taries, popped her head in and offered to bring Katie a sandwich.

Deep in preparation for Friday's trial, Katie nodded.

"Ham on rye with mustard and lettuce," Maureen said.

Katie looked up, surprised. "Am I that predictable?"

The girl was about nineteen, with a mane of red-gold hair,

emerald-green eyes and a lovely pale complexion. "Katie, about

food you're in a rut." The door closed behind her.

You're on a deathwatch. You're in a rut. Katie was astonished

to realize she was close to tears. I must be sick if I'm getting this

thin-skinned, she thought.

When the lunch arrived she ate it, only vaguely aware of what

she was having. Vangie Lewis' face was constantly before her.

But why had she seen it in a nightmare?

CHAPTER SIX

RICHARD Carroll was in his office just after nine. Twice he tried

phoning Katie, hoping to catch her between court sessions. He

wanted to hear the sound of her voice. For some reason he'd felt

edgy about leaving her alone in that big house last night. Why

did he have a hunch that something was troubling her?

He went out on a case. When he returned to his office at four

thirty, he was absurdly pleased to see that Katie had returned

his calls. Quickly he phoned her, but the switchboard operator

said that she had left for the day.

That meant he wouldn't get to talk to her today. He was having

dinner in New York with Clovis Simmons, a TV actress. Clovis

was fun, but the signs were that she was getting serious.

Richard made a resolve. This was the last time he'd take Clovis

out. It wasn't fair to her. Refusing to consider the reason for that

sudden decision, he turned his thoughts again to the Lewis case.

He had not been exaggerating when he'd said that if Vangie

Lewis had not delivered her baby soon, she wouldn't have needed

cyanide. How many women got into that same condition under the

Westlake Maternity Concept? Had there been anything unusual

about the ratio of deaths among Westlake's patients? Richard

asked his secretary to come in.

Marge was in her mid-fifties, an excellent secretary who thoroughly

enjoyed the drama of the department.

"Marge," he said, "I want to do some unofficial investigating of

Westlake Hospital's maternity section. I'd like to know how many

patients died either in childbirth or from complications during

pregnancy. I also want to know the ratio of deaths to the number

of patients treated there. Do you know anybody at Westlake who

might look at the hospital records for you on the quiet?"

His secretary frowned. "Let me work on it."

"Good. And check into any malpractice suits that have been filed

against either of the doctors."

Satisfied at getting the investigation under way, Richard dashed

home to shower and change. Seconds after he left his office a call

came for him from Dr. David Broad at Mount Sinai Hospital.

Marge took the message asking Richard to contact Dr. Broad in

the morning. The matter was urgent.

KATIE was a few minutes early for her appointment with Dr.

Highley. The other receptionist, Mrs. Fitzgerald, was coolly pleasant,

but when Katie asked about Edna's illness, the woman seemed

nervous. "It's just a virus," she replied stiffly.

A buzzer sounded. The receptionist picked up the phone. "Mrs.

DeMaio, Dr. Highley will see you now," she said.

Katie walked quickly down the corridor to Dr. Highley's office.

She knocked, then opened the door and stepped inside. The office

had the air of a comfortable study. Bookshelves lined one wall;

pictures of mothers with babies nearly covered another. A club

chair was placed near the doctor's elaborately carved desk. The

doctor stood up to greet her. "Mrs. DeMaio." His tone was courteous,

the faint British accent barely perceptible. His face was

round and smooth-skinned. Thinning sandy hair, streaked with

gray, was carefully combed in a side part. Eyebrows and lashes,

the same sandy shade, accentuated protruding steel-gray eyes. Not

an attractive man, but authoritative.

As they sat down, Katie thanked him for the phone call.

He dismissed her gratitude. "If you had told the emergency-

room doctor that you were my patient, he would have given you

a room in the west wing. Far more comfortable, I assure you. And

about the same view."

Katie fished in her shoulder bag and took out her notebook and

pen. She looked up quickly. "Anything would be better than the

view I thought I had the other night. . . ." She stopped. She was

here on official business, not to talk about her nightmares. "Doctor,

if you don't mind, let's talk about Vangie Lewis." She smiled. "I

guess our roles are reversed for a few minutes. I get to ask the

questions."

His expression became somber. "That poor girl. I've thought

of little else since I heard the news."

Katie nodded. "When was the last time you saw her?"

He leaned back in the chair. His fingers interlocked under his

chin. "It was last Thursday evening. I'd been having Mrs. Lewis

come in weekly since the halfway point of her pregnancy."

"How was she," Katie asked, "physically and emotionally?"

"Her physical condition was a worry. There was danger of toxic

pregnancy, which I was watching very closely. But every additional

day she carried increased the baby's chance of survival."

"Could she have carried the baby to full term?"

"Impossible. In fact, I warned Mrs. Lewis last Thursday that

we'd have to bring her in soon and induce labor."

"How did she respond to that news?"

He frowned. "I expected her to be concerned for the baby's life.

But the closer she came to delivery, the more it seemed to me that

she was morbidly fearful of giving birth."

"Did she show any specific depression?"

Dr. Highley shook his head. "I did not see it. But Dr. Fukhito

should answer that. He saw her on Monday night, and he's better

trained than I to recognize the symptoms."

"A last question," Katie said. "Your office is right next to Dr.

Fukhito's. Did you see Mrs. Lewis at any time Monday night?"

"I did not."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful." She slipped her notebook

back into her bag. "Now it's your turn to ask questions."

"You answered them last night. Now, when you've finished talking

with Dr. Fukhito, please go to room 101. You'll be given a trans

fusion. Wait about half, an hour before driving after you've received

it. Also..." He reached into the side drawer of his desk and

selected a bottle containing a number of pills. 'Take one of these

tonight. Then one every four hours tomorrow; the same on Friday.

I must stress that this is very important. If this operation does not

cure your problem, we must consider more radical surgery, perhaps

a hysterectomy."

"I'll take the pills," Katie said.

"Good. You'll be checking in around six o'clock Friday evening.

I'll look in on you." He opened the door for her. "Till Friday, then,

Mrs. DeMaio," he said softly.

THE investigative team of Phil Cunningham and Charley Nugent

returned to the prosecutor's office at four p.m. exuding the

excitement of hounds who have treed their quarry. Rushing into

Scott's office, they proceeded to lay their findings before him.

"The husband's a liar," Phil said crisply. "He wasn't due back till

yesterday morning, but his plane developed engine trouble. The

passengers were off-loaded in Chicago, and he and the crew

deadheaded back to New York. He got in Monday evening."

"Monday evening!" Scott exploded.

"Yeah. We talked to his crew on the Monday flight. Lewis gave

the purser a ride into Manhattan. Told him his wife was away

and he was going to stay in the city overnight and take in a show.

He parked the car and checked in at the Holiday Inn on West

Fifty-seventh Street; then he and the purser had dinner together.

The purser left him at seven twenty. After that, Lewis got his car.

The garage records show he brought it back at ten. And get this.

He took off again at midnight and came back at two."

Scott whistled. "He lied to us about his flight. He lied to the

purser about his wife. He was somewhere in his car between

eight and ten and between midnight and two a.m. And Vangie

Lewis died between eight and ten."

"There's more," Charley Nugent said. "Lewis has a girl friend, a

Pan Am stewardess. Name's Joan Moore. Lives on East Eighty-

seventh Street. Her doorman told us that Captain Lewis drove her

home from the airport yesterday morning. She left her bag with

him and they went for, coffee in the drugstore across the street."

"It's four o'clock," Scott said crisply. "The judges will be leaving

soon. Phil, get one of them on the phone and ask him to wait

around for fifteen minutes. Tell him we'll need a search warrant.

Charley, you find out what funeral director picked up Vangie

Lewis' body in Minneapolis. Get to him. The body is not to be

interred. Did Lewis say when he was coming back?"

Charley nodded. "Tomorrow, after the service."

"Find out what plane he's on and invite him here for questioning.

And I want to talk to Miss Moore. What do you know about her?"

"She shares an apartment with two other stewardesses. She's

planning to switch to Pan Am's Latin American division and fly

out of Miami. She's down there now, signing a lease on an apartment.

She'll be back Friday afternoon."

"Meet her plane too," Scott said. "Bring her here for a few

questions. Where was she Monday night?"

"In flight on her way to New York."

"All right." He paused. "Something else. I want the phone records

from the Lewis house, particularly from the last week. See if

they had an answering service, since he's with an airline. And look

again for cyanide. We've got to find out fast where Vangie Lewis

got the stuff that killed her. Or where Captain Lewis got it."

DR. FUKHITO'S office was spacious and bright. There was a long

writing table, graceful cane-backed chairs with upholstered seats,

and a matching chaise. A series of exquisite Japanese woodcuts

decorated the walls.

Dr. Fukhito was conservatively dressed: pin-striped suit, light

blue shirt, blue silk tie. His jet-black hair and small, neat mustache

complemented pale gold skin and brown eyes. He was a strikingly

handsome man, Katie thought as she reached for her notebook.

"Doctor, you saw Vangie Lewis at about eight o'clock Monday

night. How long did she stay?"

"About forty minutes. She phoned Monday afternoon and

asked for an appointment. She sounded quite distressed. I told her

to come in at eight."

"Why was she so distressed, Doctor?"

He chose his words carefully. "She had quarreled with her

husband. She was convinced he did not love her or want the baby.

And, physically, the strain of the pregnancy was beginning to

tell on her. She was quite immature, really—an only child who had

been inordinately spoiled and fussed over. The physical discomfort

was appalling to her, and the prospect of the birth had become

frightening."

His eyes shifted away. This man was nervous, Katie thought.

What advice had he given Vangie that had sent her rushing home

to kill herself? Or had sent her to a killer?

Leaning forward, Katie said, "Doctor, I realize that Mrs. Lewis'

discussions with you are confidential, but we need to know all you

can tell us about the quarrel she had with her husband."

He looked at Katie. "Mrs. Lewis told me that she believed her

husband was in love with someone else. She'd accused him of

that. She'd warned him that when she found out who the woman

was, she'd make her life hell. She was angry, bitter and frightened."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her that the baby might be the instrument to give her

marriage more time. She began to calm down. But then I felt it

necessary to warn her that if her marriage did not improve, she

should consider the possibility of divorce. She became furious.

She swore that she would never let her husband leave her, that

I was on his side, like everyone else. She got up, grabbed her coat

and left. She used my private entrance to go out the back way."

"And you never heard from her again?"

"No."

"I see." Katie got up and walked over to the wall with the

pictures. Dr. Fukhito was holding something back. "I was a

patient here myself Monday night, Doctor," she said. "I had a

minor automobile accident and was brought here around ten

o'clock. Can you tell me, is there any chance that Vangie Lewis

did not leave the hospital shortly after eight thirty? That after I

was brought in, semiconscious, I might have seen her?"

Dr. Fukhito stared at Katie. "I don't see how," he said. But

Katie noticed that his knuckles were clenched and white, and

something—was it fury or fear?—flashed in his eyes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AT FIVE o'clock Gertrude Fitzgerald turned the phone over to the

answering service and locked the reception desk. Nervously she

dialed Edna's number. Again there was no answer. There was no

doubt. Edna had been drinking more and more lately. She was

such a good person. They had both worked for Dr. Highley for

several years and often had lunch together. Sometimes Edna

would want to go to a pub for a manhattan. Gertrude understood

her need to drink, understood that hollow feeling when all you do

is go to work and then go home and stare at four walls.

Gertrude was a widow, but at least she had the children and

grandchildren to care about her. She had her own lonely times,

but it wasn't the same as it was for Edna. She'd lived. She had

something to look back on.

She could swear Dr. Highley had known she was lying when she

said Edna had called in sick. But suppose Edna hadn't been drinking?

Suppose she was sick or something? She'd have to find out.

She'd drive over to her house right now.

Her mind settled, Gertrude left the office briskly and drove the

six miles to Edna's apartment. She parked in the visitors' area and

walked around to the front. As she neared Edna's door, she heard

the faint sound of voices. The television set, of course.

Gertrude rang the bell and waited. There was no familiar voice

calling "Right with you." Gertrude firmly pushed the bell again.

Maybe Edna was sleeping it off.

By the time she'd rung the bell four times, Gertrude was thoroughly

alarmed. Something was wrong. The superintendent, Mr.

Krupshak, lived across the court. Hurrying over, Gertrude told

her story. The super was eating dinner and looked annoyed, but

his wife, Gana, reached for the keys. "I'll go with you," she said.

The two women hurried across the courtyard together. "Edna's

a real friend," Gana Krupshak volunteered. "Sometimes in the

evening I pop in on her. Just last night I stopped over at about

eight. I had a manhattan with her, and she told me that one of her

favorite patients had killed herself. Well, here we are."

They were on the small porch leading to Edna's apartment. The

superintendent's wife inserted the key into the lock, twisted it and

pushed open the door.

The two women saw Edna at the same moment: lying on the

floor, her legs crumpled under her, her graying hair plastered

around her face, her eyes staring, crusted blood making a crimson

crown on the top of her head.

"No. No." Gertrude's voice rose, high and shrill. She pressed

her knuckles to her mouth.

In a dazed voice Gana Krupshak said, "It's just last night I was

sitting here with her. And she was talking about a patient who

killed herself. And then she phoned the woman's husband." Gana

began to sob. "And now poor Edna is dead too!"

CHRIS Lewis stood next to Vangie's parents at the right of the

coffin, numbly acknowledging the sympathetic utterances of

friends. When he'd phoned her parents about her death, they had

agreed that they would view her body privately and have a memorial

service the next morning followed by a private interment.

Instead, when he'd arrived in Minneapolis, he found that they

had arranged for a public viewing that night.

"So many friends will want to say good-by to our little girl," her

mother sobbed.

Our little girl. If only you had let her grow up, Chris thought,

it might all have been so different.

Vangie's parents looked old and tired and shattered with grief.

They were plain, hardworking people who had brought up their

unexpectedly beautiful child to believe her wish was law.

Would it be easier for them when it was revealed that someone

had taken Vangie's life? Or did he owe it to them to say nothing,

to keep that final horror from them? He wanted badly to talk to

Joan. She'd been so upset when she heard about Vangie. "Did she

know about us?" He'd finally had to admit to her that Vangie

suspected he was interested in someone else.

Joan would be back from Florida on Friday, two days away.

He was going to return to New Jersey tomorrow right after the

funeral. He would say nothing to the police until he had warned

Joan that she might be dragged into this. The police would be

looking for a motive for him to kill Vangie. In their eyes, Joan

would be the motive.

Chris glanced over at the coffin, at Vangie's now peaceful face,

the quietly folded hands. He and Vangie had scarcely lived as

man and wife in the past few years. They'd lain side by side like

strangers, he emotionally drained from the endless quarreling, she

wanting to be cajoled, babied.

A suspicion that had been sitting somewhere in his subconscious

sprang to life. Was it possible that Vangie had become involved

with another man, a man who did not want to take responsibility

for her and a baby? Had she confronted that other man, hurled

hysterical threats at him?

He realized that he was shaking hands, murmuring thanks to

a man in his mid-sixties. He was slightly built but sturdily attractive,

with gray hair and bushy brows over keen, penetrating

eyes. "I'm Dr. Salem," he said. "Emmet Salem. I delivered Vangie

and was her first gynecologist. She was one of the prettiest things I

ever brought into this world, and she never changed. I only wish I

hadn't been away when she phoned my office Monday."

Chris stared at him. "Vangie phoned you Monday?"

"Yes. My nurse said she was quite upset. Wanted to see me

immediately. I was teaching a seminar in Detroit, but the nurse

made an appointment for her for today. She was planning to fly

out yesterday. Maybe I could have helped her."

Why had Vangie called this man? Chris tried to think. What

would make her go back to a doctor she hadn't seen in years? A

doctor thirteen hundred miles away?

"Had Vangie been ill?" Dr. Salem was looking at him curiously.

"No, not ill," Chris said. "As you probably know, she was expecting

a baby, and it was a difficult pregnancy."

"Vangie was pregnant?" The doctor stared in astonishment.

"I know. She had just about given up hope. But in New Jersey

she started the Westlake Maternity Concept. You may have heard

of it, or of Dr. Highley—Dr. Edgar Highley."

"Captain Lewis, may I speak with you privately?" The funeral

director had a hand under his arm.

“Excuse me,” Chris said to the doctor. He allowed the funeral

director to guide him into the office.

The director closed the door. “I’ve just received a call from the

prosecutor’s office in Valley County, New Jersey,” he said.

“Written confirmation is on the way. We are forbidden to inter

your wife’s body. It is to be flown back to the medical

examiner’s office in Valley County immediately after the

service tomorrow.”

They know it wasn’t suicide, Chris thought. Without

answering the funeral director, he turned and left. He wanted to

see Dr. Salem, find out what Vangie had said to the nurse on the

phone.

But Dr. Salem was already gone. Vangie’s mother rubbed

swollen eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. “What did you say

to Dr. Salem that made him leave like that?” she asked. “Why

did you upset him so terribly?”

WEDNESDAY evening Edgar Highley arrived home at six

o’clock. Hilda was just leaving. He knew she liked this job.

Why not? A house that stayed neat; no mistress to constantly

give orders; no children to clutter it.

No children. He went into the library, poured a Scotch and

watched from the window as Hilda disappeared down the street.

He had gone into medicine because his own mother had died

in childbirth. His birth. “Your mother wanted you so much,” his

father had told him again and again. “She knew she was risking

her life, but she didn’t care.”

Sitting in the chemist’s shop in Brighton, watching his father

prepare prescriptions, asking questions: “What is that? What

will that pill do? Why do you put caution labels on those

bottles?”

He’d gone to medical school, finished in the top ten percent of

his class. He’d interned at Christ Hospital in Devon, with its

magnificent research laboratory. He’d become a member of staff;

his reputation as an obstetrician had grown rapidly. But his project

had been held back by his inability to test it.

At twenty-seven he'd married Claire, a distant cousin of the

earl of Sussex. She was infinitely superior to him in social background,

but his growing reputation had been the leveler. And what

incredible ignominy. He who dealt in birth and fertility had

married a barren woman.

When had he started to hate Claire? It took a long time—seven

years. It was when he realized that her disappointment was faked;

that she'd known all along that she could not conceive.

Impatiently he turned from the window. It would be another

cold, wind-filled night. When all this was over, he'd take a vacation.

He was losing his grip on his nerves. He had nearly given

himself away this morning when Gertrude told him that Edna had

phoned in sick. He'd grasped the desk, watched his knuckles

whiten. Then he'd realized: Gertrude was covering for her friend.

The missing shoe. This morning he'd gone to the hospital soon

after dawn and once again searched the parking lot and the office.

Had Vangie been wearing it when she came into his office Monday

night? He couldn't be sure. The other shoe, the right one, was still

in his bag in the trunk of the car.

Even if the police started an investigation into Vangie's death,

there was no evidence against him. Her file in the office could

bear intensive scrutiny. All the true records of the special cases

were here in the wall safe, and he defied anyone to locate that safe.

It wasn't even in the original plans of the house.

Anyway, no one had any reason to suspect him—no one except

Katie DeMaio.

Fukhito had come in to see him just as he was locking up tonight.

He'd said, "Mrs. DeMaio was asking a lot of questions. Is

it possible that they don't believe Mrs. Lewis committed suicide?"

"I really don't know." He'd enjoyed Fukhito's nervousness.

"The interview you gave to that magazine comes out tomorrow?"

"Yes. But I gave them the impression I use a number of psychiatric

consultants. Your name will not appear in the article."

"Still, it's going to put the spotlight on us."

"On yourself. Isn't that what you're saving, Doctor?"

He'd almost laughed aloud at the troubled, guilty look on

Fukhito's face. Now, finishing his Scotch, he realized that he had

been overlooking another avenue of escape. If the police concluded

that Vangie had been murdered, if they did investigate

Wesdake, he could reluctantly suggest that they interrogate

Dr. Fukhito. Especially in view of his past. After all, Fukhito was

the last person known to have seen Vangie Lewis alive.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AFTER leaving Dr. Fukhito, Katie went to the east wing of the

hospital for the transfusion. She had a long wait, and didn't leave

the hospital until nearly six o'clock. She was hungry, and the idea

of going home did not appeal to her. She thought she had learned

to cope with loneliness. The feeling of emptiness that had been

coming over her lately was something new.

She passed the restaurant where she and Richard had eaten

the night before, and on impulse swung into the parking area.

Maybe in the warm, intimate atmosphere she'd be able to think.

The proprietor recognized her, beamed with pleasure and led

her to a table near the one she had shared with Richard.

Nodding at the suggestion of a glass of Burgundy, Katie leaned

back. Now if she could just sort out the impressions she'd received

talking with Dr. Highley and Dr. Fukhito.

Taking out her notebook, she began to scan what she had jotted

down during the interviews. Dr. Highley. He'd explained that

Vangie Lewis was in serious trouble with her pregnancy. What

he told Katie was completely reasonable. What then? What more

did she want of Dr. Highley? He'd expressed regret over Vangie's

death, but certainly not sorrow. Of course, a doctor had to stay

objective, as she'd heard both Bill and Richard say.

Richard. Her eyes slid over to the table where they'd sat together.

Was it possible that it could happen twice in a lifetime,

that from the very beginning you know someone is right?

When she and Richard were leaving Molly's after lunch yesterday,

Molly had asked them both to dinner Thursday night-

tomorrow—to meet Liz and Jim Berkeley. "She's the one who

thinks Dr. Highley is God," Molly had said. Katie realized how

much she was looking forward to that dinner.

Again she looked down at her notes. Dr. Fukhito. Something

was wrong there, the way he'd weighed every word when he'd

discussed Vangie's Monday-night visit. It had been like watching

someone walk step by step through a minefield. What was he

afraid of? He had said Vangie left by his private entrance.

No one had seen her go.

Suppose she hadn't left? Suppose he'd gone with her or followed

her home. Suppose he'd realized that she was suicidal, that he

was responsible in some way.. . .

The waiter arrived to take her order. She made one final entry

in her notebook: "Investigate Fukhito's background."

EVEN before he crossed the George Washington Bridge, Richard

knew that he should have canceled the date with Clovis. He was

preoccupied with Vangie Lewis' death. He had missed something

in the autopsy. What was it?

And he was worried about Katie. She had looked so thin and

pale last night. She wasn't well. That accident. Was it possible that

she'd been hurt more than anyone realized? The thought haunted

Richard as he turned into East Fifty-fourth Street and headed for

Clovis' apartment.

Clovis had a pitcher of martinis waiting, and a plate of crab-meat

puffs fresh from the oven. With her flawless skin and Viking

coloring, she reminded Richard of a young Ingrid Bergman. Until

recently he'd thought they might end up together. But as he returned

her kiss, he was acutely aware that he'd never worry about

Clovis the way he was now worrying about Katie.

He realized Clovis was talking to him as she filled two glasses.

"... and I just got home. So I fixed the drinks and figured you could

relax while I get dressed. Hey, are you listening to me?"

Richard accepted the drink and smiled apologetically. "I'm

sorry. Do you mind if I make some calls while you get ready?"

"Go ahead and dial away," She picked up her glass and started

toward the hall that led into the bedroom and bath.

Richard took out his credit card and dialed the operator. He

gave his account number and the call went through. The phone

rang a dozen times before he gave up. Katie wasn't home.

Next he tried Molly's house. But Molly had not spoken to Katie

today. "She'll probably call me later. But I wish she was home by

now. She should take it easy."

It was the opening he needed. "Molly, what's the matter with

Katie? There is something wrong physically, isn't there? Besides

the accident, I mean?"

Molly hesitated. "You'd better talk to Katie about that."

Cold fear washed over him. "What's the matter with her?'

"Oh, not much. I promise you that. But it's nothing she wants

discussed. See you tomorrow night. Don't forget."

The connection broke. Richard frowned into the dead receiver.

Then he called the prosecutor. "Anything going on?"

Scott did not waste time on preliminaries. "The body of a woman

was found in an apartment in Edgeriver. She was the receptionist

Katie wanted to talk to at Westlake. Name's Edna Burns. We're

heading over there, and we need you."

"Give me the address," Bichard said.

He wrote it quickly and hung up the phone. Vangie Lewis and

now Edna Burns. He knocked on Clovis' bedroom door. Wrapped

in a terry-cloth robe, she opened it. "Hey, what's the hurry?"

"Clo, I'm sorry." Quickly he explained. He was frantic to get

away.

She was clearly disappointed. "Oh, of course I understand. Go,

but let's have dinner tomorrow night. Promise?"

Richard temporized. "Well, very soon."

ON THE way home from the restaurant, Katie thought about

the conversation she'd had with Edna Burns on her first visit to

Dr. Highley. Edna was a bom listener. How much had Vangie

told her? And how much did Edna know about Dr. Fukhito?

Katie pulled up in front of her house and decided not to put the

car away yet. Suppose she phoned Edna and suggested driving

over to see her? If Katie was any judge, Edna Burns would love a

chance to have a cup of tea and gossip about Vangie Lewis.

Inside, Katie looked up Edna's number in the telephone book

and quickly dialed it. The phone rang once and was picked up.

A man said, "Yes." The short word was delivered in a clipped,

familiar voice. It belonged to Charley Nugent from the prosecutor's

office.

"Charley? It's Katie. What are you doing in Edna's apartment?"

"She's dead. Fell—or was pushed—into the radiator. Split her

head open." His voice became a whisper. "Get this, Katie. She

was last seen alive around eight o'clock last night. A neighbor was

with her. The neighbor heard her on the phone with Chris Lewis.

Edna Burns told Lewis that she was going to talk to the police

about Vangie's death. You better come right down."

AFTER he finished a second Scotch, Highley went into the kitchen

and opened the refrigerator. He had told Hilda not to prepare

anything for him tonight, but had given her a shopping list: lamb

chops, fresh asparagus, and watercress for a salad.

Emotional exhaustion always compelled him to eat. After Winifred's

death, he'd left her relatives and friends at the grave site,

refusing invitations to join them for dinner. "No. No. I need to be

alone." Then he'd driven to the Carlyle Hotel in New York. There

he had requested a quiet table and ordered dinner. Halfway

through the meal he looked up and saw Winifred's cousin, Glenn

Nickerson, seated at a table across the room. He was dressed in the

dark blue suit and black tie he'd worn to the funeral. It was obvious

that he had followed Highley to the Carlyle. Nickerson had

lifted his glass in a toast, a mocking smile on his face. He might as

well have shouted, "To the grieving widower."

A week later Alan Levine, the doctor who'd treated Winifred,

indignantly told him that Glenn Nickerson had asked to see Winifred's

medical records. "I told him that Winifred had developed

classic angina symptoms. Even then, he had the gall to speak to

the police. I had a call from a fellow in the prosecutor's office asking

if a heart ailment could be induced. I told him that being alive

today was enough to induce heart trouble. They backed off, said

it was obviously a disinherited relative trying to cause problems."

But you can induce heart trouble, Dr. Levine. You can prepare

intimate little dinners for your dear wife. You can use her sus

ceptibility to gastroenteritis to bring on attacks that register as

heart seizures on her cardiogram. After enough of these, the lady

has a fatal seizure. No one suggests an autopsy. And even if someone

had, there would have been little risk.

But if they had thought to delve into Claire's death . ..

The chops were nearly cooked. He expertly seasoned the watercress,

removed the asparagus from the steamer and took a half

bottle of Beaujolais from the wine rack in the pantry.

He had just begun to eat when the phone rang. He hurried to

the extension in the kitchen. "Dr. Highley," he said curtly.

A sob sounded over the phone. "Oh, Doctor, it's Gertrude Fitzgerald.

I decided to go see Edna on my way home."

He tightened his grip on the receiver.

"Doctor, Edna is dead. The police are here. She fell. Doctor,

could you come right away? They're talking about performing an

autopsy. She hated autopsies. She used to say how terrible it was to

cut up dead people. Doctor, oh, please come here and convince

them that she fell and that they don't have to cut her up."

KATIE made a cup of tea and took it with her in the car. She'd

planned to have tea with Edna. And now Edna was dead.

How could a person she'd met only once have made such an

impression on her? In that one conversation they'd had, Edna

had understood perfectly about John. She'd said, "I know what

it is to watch someone die. You want the misery to be over for

them, but you don't want to let them go. When Mom and Dad

died, all my friends said, 'Now you're free, Edna.' And I said, 'Free

for what?' I bet you felt that way too."

Edna had reassured her about Dr. Highley. "You couldn't find

a better doctor. That's why it makes me so mad when I hear him

criticized. And those people who file malpractice suits! I could

shoot them. I tell you, when a doctor loses a patient today, he has

to worry. I guess nobody's supposed to die anymore."

What had Charley meant by saying that Edna had phoned

Chris Lewis last night? Was Charley suggesting that Edna might

in some way have threatened him?

As she drove into the parking lot of Edna's apartment complex,

she slowed down; a black medium-size car was pulling in ahead

of her. The driver chose the first spot available on the right. Katie

found a space directly behind the building, parked and got out of

the car. Suddenly she heard footsteps and turned quickly. A figure

loomed near her, a silhouette accentuated by the dim light from

a solitary lamppost. "Excuse me. I hope I didn't startle you." The

cultured voice had a faint English accent.

"Dr. Highley! Did my office call you?"

"Mrs. DeMaio. We didn't expect to see each other so soon and

under such tragic circumstances, Here. Let's take this footpath

around the building." Lightly touching her elbow, he followed

her on the path. "Mrs. Fitzgerald called me. Evidently she was

the one who found Edna."

They were turning the corner to the front of the building when

Richard appeared. She was very glad to see him. He grasped both

her shoulders and pulled her to him. Then his hands dropped.

"Scott reached you?"

"No. I happened to call Edna myself. Oh, Richard, this is Dr.

Edgar Highley." The two men shook hands.

Charley let them into the apartment. He said to Richard, "We've

got pictures, but I'd like you to have a look too."

Katie was used to death. She often studied gory pictures of

crime victims. But it was a different matter to see Edna crumpled

against the radiator, to see the solid evidence of loneliness—the

slices of canned ham, the empty cocktail glass.

Gertrude Fitzgerald was sitting on a couch, sobbing softly.

Katie and Dr. Highley sat down beside her as Richard went into

the dinette to examine the dead woman.

Gertrude tried to talk to them. "Oh, Dr. Highley, Mrs. DeMaio,

isn't this just terrible?" The words brought a fresh burst of sobs.

"She was always such fun. She always made me laugh. Maybe

she had that little weakness, but she never bothered anyone with

it. Oh, Dr. Highley, you'll miss her too."

"I surely will, Mrs. Fitzgerald."

"Doctor," Gertrude blurted out, "I told them you've been here,

that you knew about Edna's little problem. It's just silly to say she

didn't fall. Why would anyone want to hurt her?"

Dr. Highley looked at Katie. "Edna suffered from sciatica, and

a few times when she was laid up I dropped off work for her to

do at home. On one occasion I came unexpectedly. It was then I

realized that she had a drinking problem."

Katie nodded, looking past him. Richard had completed examining

the body. Getting up, she walked over to him and asked what

he had found.

He shrugged. "I'll have to see how bad the fracture is. Certainly

it was a hell of a smash. But she might have stumbled when she

tried to get up."

"Any sign of forced entry?" Katie asked Charley.

"None. But you could spring these locks with a credit card. If

she was as drunk as we think, anyone could have walked in."

"What were you telling me on the phone about Chris Lewis?"

"The superintendent's wife—name's Gana Krupshak—was a

buddy of Edna Burns. She was with Mrs. Fitzgerald when the

body was found. We let her go to her own apartment just before

you came. She's shook up bad. Anyhow, last night she came over

here around eight o'clock. She said Edna already had a bag on.

She stayed till eight thirty, then put out the ham, hoping Edna

would eat something and sober up. Edna told her about Vangie's

suicide. Then, when Mrs. Krupshak went into the kitchen, she

heard Edna on the phone. She swears Edna called whoever she

was talking to 'Captain Lewis,' and told him she had to talk to

the police tomorrow. And get this. Krupshak swears she heard

Edna give Lewis directions for driving here. Then Edna said something

about Prince Charming."

"Prince Charming?"

Charley shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Richard said, "Obviously we'll treat this as a potential homicide.

I know Scott has a hunch about Lewis. I can see why."

Katie thought, I do not believe Chris Lewis could have done

this to Edna; I don't believe he killed his wife. She looked around.

"Are you sure there's nothing valuable missing?"

Charley shrugged. "Her wallet's in her pocketbook; eighteen

dollars there. Credit cards. The usual. No sign of anything being

disturbed, let alone ransacked."

"All right." Katie returned to Dr. Highley and Gertrude. "Mrs.

Fitzgerald, I think it would be best if we have you driven home."

Dr. Highley reached into his pocket. "I brought these sedatives

along in case you needed them. Here, take one now."

"I'll get a glass of water," Katie said. She went down the hall to

the bathroom, then came back to Gertrude and sat beside her.

"Mrs. Fitzgerald, do you know whether Edna kept any valuables

here—any jewelry, perhaps?"

"She had a ring and a pin she wore on special occasions. I

wouldn't know where she kept them. Oh, wait a minute. Doctor,

I remember that Edna said she showed you her ring and pin when

you were here. Perhaps you can help Mrs. DeMaio."

Katie looked into the cold gray eyes. He hates this, she thought.

He's angry about being here.

"One time Edna did show me a pin and ring that were in a

box in her night-table drawer."

"Would you show me, Doctor?" Katie asked.

Together they walked down the hall into the bedroom.

"It was in there," Dr. Highley told her, pointing to the night

table on the right side of the bed.

Using only the tips of her fingers, Katie opened the drawer. She

knew that the fingerprint experts would be called in.

The drawer was deep. Reaching in, Katie pulled out a blue

plastic jewelry case. She raised the lid to find a small butterfly-

shaped brooch and a thin old diamond ring nestled against cotton

velvet.

"That eliminates the robbery theory, I guess," Katie said. She

started to close the drawer, then stopped. "Oh, Doctor, look."

Setting the jewelry box on the bed, she reached back into the

drawer. "My mother kept her mother's old black hat for sentimental

reasons. Edna must have done the same thing."

She was holding up an object for him to see. It was a scuffed

brown moccasin, shaped for the left foot.

As Dr. Highley stared at the shoe, Katie said, "This was probably

her mother's and she considered it such a treasure she kept

it with that pathetic jewelry. Oh, Doctor, if memorabilia could

talk, we'd hear a lot of stories, wouldn't we?"

EDGAR HIGHLEY STARED AT KATIE DEMAIO as she stood there

holding that shoe in her hand. Was she mocking him? No. She

believed that the shoe had had some sentimental meaning for

Edna. Suppose she showed it to the detectives? Or to Gertrude?

She'd been at the desk many times when Vangie came in.

He had to have that shoe.

Katie put it back, closed the drawer and walked out of the bedroom,

the jewelry box tucked under her arm. He followed her,

desperate to hear what she would say. But she simply handed

the jewelry box to the detective. "The ring and pin are here,

Charley," she said. "I guess that shoots any possibility of burglary."

There was a rap at the door, and Katie opened it to admit two

men carrying a stretcher. Edgar Highley said to Gertrude, "I'll

get you more water, Mrs. Fitzgerald." The others were watching

the attendants as they lifted the body. It was his chance. He had to

risk taking the shoe.

He walked rapidly to the bathroom, turned on the tap, then

slipped across the hall to the bedroom. Using his handkerchief to

avoid fingerprints, he opened the night-table drawer. He was

reaching for the shoe when he heard footsteps coming down the

hall. Quickly he pushed the drawer shut, stuffed his handkerchief

into his pocket, and was standing at the door of the bedroom when

Richard Carroll appeared. "Dr. Highley," he said coldly, "I'd like

to ask you a few questions about Edna Burns."

"Certainly." Then, in what he hoped was a casual tone, Highley

said, "Excuse me. I'm letting the tap run. I want to get Mrs. Fitzgerald

a glass of cold water. The poor woman's terribly distressed."

Richard Carroll stood aside to let him pass. Highley filled the

glass and took it to Gertrude. The attendants had left with the

body, and Katie DeMaio was not in the room.

"Has Mrs. DeMaio left?" he asked the detective.

"She's talking to the super's wife. She'll be right back."

He could not leave until he was sure that Katie did not talk

about the shoe. When she came back a few minutes later, she did

not mention it.

They left the apartment together. Deliberately he stayed with

Katie as she walked to her car, but then Richard Carroll joined

them. "Let's get some coffee at the Golden Valley diner, Katie,"

he said, and Highley watched them drive off.

On his way home, Edgar Highley decided there must be a personal

relationship between Katie DeMaio and Richard Carroll.

When Katie bled to death, Carroll would be both professionally

and emotionally interested in the cause of death. He would have

to be very careful.

He drove into his garage, then entered the house. The cold lamb

chops were on the plate; the asparagus had wilted; the salad was

limp and warm. He would reheat the food in the microwave oven,

prepare a fresh salad.

As he set to work, he found himself becoming calm. He was

so near to being safe. And soon it would be possible to share his

genius with the world. He already had his success. He could prove

it beyond doubt. He had accurate records, pictures, X rays, the

step-by-step accounts of how he had dealt with all the problems

that had arisen. All in the files in his secret safe.

When the proper time came, he would burn the files on the

failures and claim the recognition that was due him. By then there

would surely be more triumphs. He sat down at the table and

slowly ate his dinner. As always, food restored his sense of wellbeing.

Tomorrow the Newsmaker article would appear. It would

enhance his social as well as his medical prestige.

"My patients are not allowed to drink or smoke during their

pregnancies," he had told the Newsmaker interviewer. "They are

required to follow a specific diet. I will not accept a patient who

will not cooperate with my methods. I can show you dozens of

women I have treated who have had a history of several miscarriages

but now have children. Many more could experience that

same joy, if they were willing to change their habits, particularly

their eating and drinking habits."

The Newsmaker reporter had been impressed. But her next

question was a loaded one. "Doctor, isn't it true that a large number

of women have miscarried, even after following your schedule

rigidly—and paying you ten thousand dollars?"

"It would be insane for me to claim that I bring every difficult

pregnancy to term. Yes. There have been occasions where a de

sired pregnancy was spontaneously aborted. After several of these

occurrences, I suggest that my patient adopt a child, and I help

to arrange a suitable adoption."

"For a fee."

"Young woman, I assume you are being paid to interview me.

Why don't you use your time for volunteer work?"

It had been foolish to antagonize her, foolish to give her any

reason to want to discredit him or to delve into his background.

The interviewer's next question had been meant to entrap him.

"Doctor, you also perform abortions. Isn't it incongruous to try

to save one fetus and to eliminate another?"

"I refer to the womb as a cradle. I despise abortion. But I also

deplore the grief I witness when women come to me who cannot

conceive because their wombs have been damaged during abortions.

It is my wish that all women carry their babies to term.

For those who do not want to, at least I can make sure that when

they do want a child, they will still be able to have one."

That point had been well received.

He finished eating, leaned back in the chair and poured himself

more wine. He was feeling expansive. Tomorrow morning he had

a cesarean section scheduled—another difficult case that would

add to his reputation. The mother was from the socially prominent

Payne family. The father, Delano Aldrich, was an officer of a prestigious

foundation. This was the sort of family whose championship

he needed.

Only one obstacle left. He had brought Katie DeMaio's file home

from the office. He would begin now to prepare the substitute file

that he would show to the police after her death.

Instead of the history she'd given him of prolonged periods of

bleeding, he would write, "Patient complains of frequent hemorrhaging,

unrelated to monthly cycles." Instead of sponginess of

uterine walls, a condition that could be remedied by a simple

operation, he would note signs of vascular breakdown. Instead of

a slightly low hemoglobin, he would indicate that the hemoglobin

was chronically in the danger zone.

He went into the library. Her official file was on top of his desk.

From the drawer he extracted a new folder, put Katie's name on

it and set down her previous medical history. This was the folder

he would take to the hospital. He added several paragraphs to the

file he would put in the wall safe when completed.

Patient was in minor automobile accident on Monday night,

February 15. At 2:00 a.m. sedated patient observed the transferal

of the remains of Vangie Lewis by this physician. Patient still does

not understand that what she observed was a true event rather than

a hallucination, but inevitably she will. She cannot be permitted

to remain as a threat to this physician. On pretense of preparation

for Saturday surgery, this physician prescribed anticoagulant medication

to be taken on regular basis until Friday night.

He laid down his pen. It was easy to imagine how he would

complete this report.

Patient entered the hospital at 6:00 p.m. Friday, February 19,

complaining of dizziness and general weakness. At 9:00 p.m. this

physician, accompanied by Nurse Renge, found the patient hemorrhaging.

Blood pressure was falling rapidly. Emergency surgery

was performed at 9:45 p.m. The patient expired at 10:00 p.m.

He smiled in anticipation. Every detail was perfectly planned,

even to assigning Nurse Renge to floor duty Friday night. She was

young, inexperienced and terrified of him. Putting the file in the

temporary hiding place in the top desk drawer, he went upstairs to

bed and slept soundly until six in the morning.

Three hours later he delivered a healthy baby boy by cesarean

section to Mrs. Delano Aldrich and accepted as his due the tearful

gratitude of the patient and her husband.

CHAPTER NINE

AT EIGHT a.m. Thursday morning the Investigative Squad of the

Homicide Division of Valley County pulled up to the Lewis home.

The six-man team was headed by Phil Cunningham and Charley

Nugent. The detectives in charge of fingerprinting were told to

concentrate on the master bedroom and bath and the kitchen.

According to the lab report, Vangie's fingerprints had been

found on the tumbler that had been lying next to her. She had

been right-handed. When she poured the cyanide crystals into

the glass, it would have been natural for her to hold the glass with

her left hand and pour with her right. Yet only her right prints

were on the tumbler. This further discredited the suicide theory.

Every bottle in the medicine chest was opened, sniffed. But the

bitter-almond scent they were looking for was not to be found.

The bedroom was carefully vacuumed in the hope of finding

human hair. As Phil put it: "Any house can have hairs from delivery

people, neighbors, anybody. We're all shedding hair all the

time. But most people don't bring even good friends into the bedroom.

So if you find human hair that doesn't belong to the people

who sleep in the bedroom, you might have something."

Close attention was given to the shelves in the garage. The usual

garden tools, hoses, insecticides and weed killer were there in

abundance. Phil grunted in annoyance as a prong of a gardening

fork pulled at his jacket. The prongs had been protruding over

the edge of the shelf, the handle wedged in by a heavy paint can.

Bending to free his sleeve, he noticed a sliver of printed cotton

hooked on the prong.

That flowered print. He'd seen it recently. It was the dress

Vangie Lewis was wearing when she died.

He called the police photographer out to the garage. "Get a

picture of that," he said, pointing to the tool. When the picture

was taken, he removed the material and sealed it in an envelope.

In the house, Charley was going through the desk. When Phil

came in, Charley said, "We've come up with a big zero. Wait a

minute. They had an answering service. We'd better check it for

messages."

He got the number of the answering service from a file in the

desk, then dialed and identified himself. "Give me any messages

left for either Captain or Mrs. Lewis starting with Monday."

Taking out his pen, he began to write: "Monday, February 15,

4:00 p.m. Northwest Orient reservations phoned. Mrs. Lewis is

confirmed on Flight 235 at 4:10 p.m. from La Guardia Airport to

Minneapolis/St. Paul on Tuesday, February 16."

Charley asked, "Did Mrs. Lewis receive that message?"

"Oh, yes," the operator said. "I gave it to her myself at about

seven thirty Monday evening. She sounded very relieved."

"All right," Charley said. "What else have you got?"

"Also on Monday a Miss Edna Burns called at ten p.m. She

wanted Mrs. Lewis to phone her no matter how late it was. But

Mrs. Lewis never contacted us again that night."

There were no further messages on the service, but the operator

knew a call had come through Tuesday evening and had been

picked up by Captain Lewis. "I was just starting to answer when

he came on," she explained. "I got right off."

Charley thanked the operator, then hung up the receiver and

looked at Phil. "Let's go. Scott's going to want to hear about this."

"How do you read it?" Phil asked.

Charley snorted. "How else can I read it? As of seven thirty

Monday evening Vangie Lewis was planning to go to Minneapolis.

A couple of hours later she's dead. As of ten o'clock Monday night,

Edna Burns had an important message for Vangie. The next night

Edna's dead, and the last person who saw her alive heard her

telling Chris Lewis she had information for the police."

FOR Katie, Wednesday night had seemed endless. She'd gone

to bed as soon as she returned from Edna's apartment, first taking

one of the pills Dr. Highley had given her. She'd awakened feeling

vaguely troubled. Her grandmother's old black hat. Why was she

thinking about that hat? Of course. Because of that shabby old

shoe Edna obviously prized. But why just one shoe?

Grimacing, she got out of bed. The soreness throughout her

body had intensified during the night. Hoping that a hot bath

might soak some of the achiness away, she went into the bathroom

and turned on the taps in the tub. A wave of dizziness made her

sway, and she grabbed the side of the tub to keep from falling. The

bathroom mirror revealed the deathly pallor of her skin. It's this

bleeding, she thought. If I weren't going into the hospital tomorrow

night, I'd probably end up being carried in.

The bath did reduce some of the stiffness, and foundation makeup

minimized the paleness. With her orange juice Katie swallowed

another of Dr. Highley's pills. Then she grabbed a coat and her

handbag and went out to the car.

Charley and Phil were searching the Lewis house this morning.

Scott was drawing a web around Chris Lewis. If only she could

find another avenue to explore before Chris was indicted.

She arrived at the office just before eight and found Maureen

Crowley already there. "Maureen," Katie said, "I've got a job.

Could you come in when you have a minute?"

The girl got up quickly. She had a narrow-waisted, graceful-

young body. The green sweater she was wearing accentuated the

vivid green of her eyes. "How about coffee, Katie?"

"Great. But no ham on rye—at least not yet."

Maureen looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry I said that yesterday.

You, of all people, are not in a rut."

"I'm not sure about that." Katie hung up her coat and settled

down with her notebook. Maureen brought in the coffee, pulled

up a chair and waited silently, her steno pad on her lap.

Katie said slowly, "We're not satisfied that the Vangie Lewis

death is a suicide. Yesterday I talked with her doctors, Dr. Highley

and Dr. Fukhito, at Westlake Hospital."

She heard a sharp intake of breath and looked up quickly. The

girl's face had gone dead white.

"Maureen, is anything the matter?"

"No. No. I'm sorry."

Unconvinced, Katie looked back at her notes. "As far as we

know, Dr. Fukhito was the last person to see Vangie Lewis alive.

I want to find out as much as I can about him. Find out where

he came from, where he went to school, other hospitals he's been

connected with, his personal background."

"You don't want me to talk to anyone at Westlake Hospital?"

"No. I don't want them to know we're checking on him."

For some reason the younger woman seemed relieved. "I'll get

right on it."

"You'd be a good lawyer," Katie said, meaning it. "I'm surprised

you didn't go to college."

"I was insane enough to get engaged the summer I finished

high school. My folks persuaded me to take a secretarial course

before I got married so at least I'd have some kind of skill. How

right they were. The engagement didn't stand the year's wait."

She looked unhappy, and Katie decided she must have been

pretty hurt about the breakup.

Maureen went out of the room. The telephone rang. It was

Richard. "Katie, I've just been talking to Dave Broad, the head of

prenatal research at Mount Sinai. On a hunch, I sent him the fetus

Vangie Lewis was carrying. My hunch was right. Vangie was not

pregnant with Lewis' child. The baby was distinctly Oriental!"

CHAPTER TEN

THE funeral service for Vangie Lewis was held on Thursday

morning in the chapel of a Minneapolis funeral home. Chris stood

beside Vangie's parents, their muffled sobs assaulting him like

hammerblows. They had been outraged to hear that Vangie could

not be buried, that her body was to be shipped back east, then

returned later for burial. "Why?"

"I simply don't know." There was no use saying more—not now.

He thought of Edna's call. Could she throw some light on Vangie's

death? Before he left Minneapolis, he had to call Dr. Salem. What

did he know about Vangie that had made him react with such

shock last night? Why had Vangie wanted to see him?

There had been someone else in Vangie's life. He was sure of

it now. Suppose Vangie had killed herself in front of someone

and that person had brought her home?

The minister was saying the final prayer. "When every tear shall

be dried . . ." Chris led Vangie's parents into the anteroom to accept

the sympathy of their friends.

When he was able to get away to a phone, Chris called Dr.

Salem's office. "This is Vangie Lewis' husband," he said. "It's

urgent I speak with the doctor immediately."

"I'm sorry," the nurse told him. "Dr. Salem left a short time ago

for the American Medical Association convention in New York.

He will not be back until next week."

"New York! Can you tell me where he's staying, please?"

The nurse hesitated. "I suppose it's all right. I know Dr. Salem

intends to get in touch with you. He took your wife's medical

records with him. You can reach him at the Essex House Hotel on

Central Park South."

SCOTT Myerson had called a noon meeting to discuss Vangie

Lewis' death. When Katie arrived, Maureen was there with a pen

and paper.

"We're bringing sandwiches in," Scott said. "I'm due in court

again at one thirty. We've got to move fast on Captain Lewis."

As Katie had expected, Scott was zeroing in on Chris. She

looked at Maureen. The girl had an aura of nervousness around

her. "Any results on Dr. Fukhito?"

"So far not much. He's not a member of the AMA or the Valley

County Medical Society. But I have a call in to the University of

Massachusetts. He attended medical school there."

"Who told you that?" Katie asked.

"I remember hearing it somewhere."

Katie sensed that Maureen was being evasive.

At that moment Richard, Charley and Phil came into the office.

Quickly they gave Maureen their lunch choices. Scott began to

speak. "By now you all know that the Lewis baby had Oriental

characteristics. So that opens two possibilities. One: with the

birth imminent, Vangie panicked and killed herself because she

knew she could never pass the baby off as her husband's. Two:

Chris Lewis found out that his wife had been having an affair and

killed her. She could have been rushing home to Minneapolis because

she was afraid of him. From what Katie tells us, the psychiatrist

claims she ran out of his office nearly hysterical."

"The Japanese psychiatrist," Katie said.

"Are you suggesting there was something between him and

Vangie?"

"I'm not suggesting anything yet. Vangie could have known

another Oriental man. But he was nervous when I spoke with

him yesterday. He carefully chose every word he said to me, and

I certainly did not get the whole truth from him."

"Which brings us to Edna Burns," Scott said. "What about it,

Richard? Did she fall, or was she pushed?"

"It's possible that she fell. The alcohol level in her blood was

point two five. She was blotto."

"But it is possible she was murdered?" Scott persisted.

"Absolutely."

"And Edna was heard talking to Chris Lewis about Prince

Charming." Katie thought of the handsome psychiatrist. Would

Edna refer to him as Prince Charming?

"Maybe Vangie told her something Monday night," Charley

suggested. "Maybe she knew Chris and Vangie had quarreled and

why they'd quarreled. Maybe she was putting the arm on Lewis.

She did threaten to go to the police."

"She said she had something to tell the police," Katie objected.

"That's the way the super's wife put it."

"All right," Scott said. "What turned up at the Lewis house?"

"Not much," said Charley. "There's a phone number with a 612

area code scribbled on the pad beside the kitchen phone. We

thought we'd call it from here. The other thing is that she tore her

dress on a prong sticking out from a shelf in the garage."

Scott picked up the message pad Charley had handed him and

tossed it to Katie. "Why don't you try this number now?"

Katie dialed the number and waited while the phone rang.

"Dr. Salem's office."

"Perhaps you can help me. I'm Kathleen DeMaio from the

Valley County, New Jersey, prosecutor's office. We're conducting

an inquiry into the death of Vangie Lewis last Monday. She had

Dr. Salem's phone number on her pad."

"Oh, that is a coincidence. I was just about to call your medical

examiner. Dr. Salem wants to talk with him. The doctor is on

his way to New York right now for the AMA convention. Can your

medical examiner phone him around five p.m. at the Essex House

Hotel on Central Park South?"

"Yes. I'll give him the message." Then, on a chance, Katie added,

"Do you know anything about Mrs. Lewis' call? Did she speak with

the doctor?"

"No. She spoke to me. She called Monday and was so disappointed

that he wasn't going to be back till Wednesday. I made

an emergency appointment for her for Wednesday."

"One last question. What kind of doctor is Dr. Salem?"

"Oh, he's a prominent obstetrician and gynecologist."

"I see. Thank you. You've been very helpful." Katie hung up

the phone and reported the conversation to the others.

There was a knock at the door and Maureen came in with

coffee and sandwiches. "Katie," she said, "that call from Massa

chusetts about Dr. Fukhito is just coming in. Want to take it?"

Katie nodded and picked up the phone. As she waited for the

call to be switched, she became aware of a slow, persistent head

ache. I'm not operating on all cylinders, she thought. So many

things were teasing her mind. What was she trying to recall?

The personnel director at the University of Massachusetts

Medical School answered guardedly. "Yes, Dr. Fukhito graduated

from U. Mass. He interned at Massachusetts General and later became

affiliated with the hospital. He also had a private practice. He

left the hospital seven years ago."

"Why did he leave?" Katie asked. "You must understand this is

a police investigation. All information will be kept confidential."

There was a pause. "Dr. Fukhito was asked to resign. He was

found guilty of unethical behavior after he unsuccessfully defended

a malpractice suit."

"What was the cause of the suit?" Katie asked.

"A patient sued Dr. Fukhito for inducing her to have a personal

relationship with him. She bore Dr. Fukhito's child."

MOLLY bustled around her kitchen, rejoicing in the fact that

all the children were back in school. Bill was not going into New

York for another half hour. They were enjoying a rare chance to

chat in peace, as Bill sat at the table sipping coffee and Molly

sliced vegetables. "I'm sure Katie and Richard and the Berkeleys

will enjoy each other," Molly was saying. "Now if Liz just doesn't

spend the whole evening talking about the baby . . . When I

phoned to invite her, she spent the first twenty minutes on Maryanne's

latest trick . . . which is to blow her oatmeal all over the

place. Isn't that cute?"

"It is if it's your first baby and you waited fifteen years to have

one," Bill commented.

"Anyhow, even if Liz does rave about the baby tonight, maybe

a little of it will sink in on Katie and Richard."

Bill's eyebrows rose. "Molly, you're not very subtle. You'd better

watch out or they'll start avoiding each other."

"Haven't you noticed the way they act together? There's something

smoldering there. And Richard called me last night and

wanted to know if there was something the matter with Katie."

"Did you tell him about the operation?"

"No. Katie doesn't want me to. But the poor guy is so worried

about her. I don't think it's fair to him."

Bill got up and put his cup and saucer in the dishwasher. "If

Katie doesn't want to tell Richard about this operation, don't fill

him in. That's not fair to her. You've gotten them together. Now—"

"Now bug off." Molly sighed.

"Something like that. And tomorrow night when Katie goes

into the hospital, you and I are going to the opera. You can be at

the recovery room Saturday morning, but it won't hurt to have

her wish she had someone with her Friday evening. Maybe she'll

do a little thinking."

"Let her go into the hospital by herself?" Molly protested.

"By herself," Bill said firmly. "She's a big girl."

The telephone rang. Molly picked it up. "Hello. . . . Liz, hi."

She listened. "Oh, for heaven's sake, bring her along. She can

sleep up in our room. . . . Great. See you at seven. By."

She hung up. "Liz Berkeley's regular baby-sitter had to cancel,

so she's bringing the baby along."

"Fine." Bill looked at the clock. "I'd better go." He kissed Molly's

cheek. "Will you quit worrying about your little sister?"

Molly bit her lip. "I can't. I've got this creepy feeling about

Katie, like something might happen to her."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHEN Richard returned to his office after the meeting with Scott

and the others, he stood for a long time staring out the window.

In the pocket-size park in front of the courthouse a flurry of snow

pelted the already frozen grass.

He glanced up at the sky. Vangie Lewis' body was being flown

to Newark from Minneapolis on a two-thirty flight. It would be

brought to the morgue, and tomorrow morning he'd reexamine

it. There was something about her left foot or leg that he had

noticed and dismissed as irrelevant. He pushed that thought aside.

It was useless to speculate until he could reexamine the body.

Sighing, he snapped on the intercom and asked Marge to bring in

his phone messages.

She hurried in with a sheaf of slips in her hand. "None of these

are too important," she said. "But I got the statistics on the Westlake

obstetrical patients. In the eight years of the Westlake Maternity

Concept, sixteen patients have died either in childbirth or of

toxic pregnancies."

"Sixteen?"

"Sixteen," Marge repeated with emphasis. "However, the practice

is huge. And all the women who died had been warned by

other doctors that they were high pregnancy risks."

"I'll study the fatalities," Richard said. "Anything else?"

"Maybe. Two people filed malpractice suits against Dr. High-

ley. Both were dismissed. And a cousin of his wife's claimed that

he didn't believe she'd died of a heart attack. The prosecutor's

office contacted her physician, Dr. Alan Levine, and he said the

cousin was crazy. The cousin had been the sole heir before Winifred

Westlake married Dr. Highley."

"I'll have a talk with Dr. Levine."

"And these are the people who filed the malpractice suits."

Richard looked down at the two names on the sheet of paper

Marge handed him. Anthony Caldwell, Old Country Lane, Pea-

pack, New Jersey, and Anna Horan, 415 Walnut Street, Ridgefield

Park, New Jersey. "You do nice work, Marge," he said.

She nodded. "I know."

He phoned Dr. Levine and caught him as he was leaving his

office. They agreed to meet at the Parkwood Country Club.

Alan Levine was a Jimmy Stewart look-alike, which endeared

him to his older patients. He and Richard enjoyed the easy cordiality

of professionals who respected each other. At the club,

Richard came directly to the point. "Winifred Westlake was your

patient. Her cousin suggested that she did not die of a heart attack.

What can you tell me about it?"

Levine sipped his martini and glanced out the picture window at

the snow-covered fairway. "I have to answer that question on a

couple of levels. First: Winifred for years had all the classic

symptoms of a duodenal ulcer, except it never showed up on

X ray. When she'd experience pain, I'd prescribe an ulcer diet

and she'd feel relief almost immediately. No great problem.

"Then the year before she married Highley she had a severe

attack of gastroenteritis, which actually altered her cardiogram.

I put her in the hospital for a suspected heart attack. But after two

days the cardiogram was well within the normal range."

"So there might or might not have been a heart problem?"

"I didn't think there was. But her mother died of a heart attack

at fifty-eight, and Winifred was nearly fifty-two when she died.

She was older than Highley by some ten years. Several years after

her marriage she began to complain of frequent chest pains. The

tests produced nothing significant. I told her to watch her diet."

"And then she had a fatal attack?" Richard asked.

The other doctor nodded. "One evening, during dinner, she

had a seizure. Highley had his service call me. When I got there,

he was still trying to revive her. But it was hopeless. She died a

few minutes after I arrived."

"And you're satisfied it was heart failure?"

There was a hint of hesitation. "I was satisfied at the time."

"At the time." Richard underscored the words.

"I suppose the cousin's absolute conviction that something was

wrong about her death has troubled me these three years. I practically

threw Glenn Nickerson out of my office when he came in

and as much as accused me of falsifying records. But he is a family

man, active in his church, on the town council; certainly not the

kind to go off half-cocked at being disinherited. And he must have

known that Winifred would leave her estate to her husband. She

was crazy about Highley. Why, I never could see. But I've got to

hand it to him. He's an excellent doctor."

"Excellent enough to have chemically induced a heart attack in

his wife?"

Dr. Levine looked directly at Richard. "Frankly, I've often

wished I'd insisted on an autopsy."

They parted at the entrance to the bar. Richard fished in his

pocket for change, went over to the public telephone and dialed

the Essex House in New York. "Dr. Emmet Salem, please."

There was the repeated sound of a phone ringing. The operator

broke in. "I'm sorry, but there's no answer."

"Are you sure Dr. Salem has checked in?" Richard asked.

"Yes, sir. He called specifically to say that he was expecting an

important call and he wanted to be sure to get it. That was only

twenty minutes ago. But I guess he changed his mind. Because

we are definitely ringing his room and there's no answer."

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE Newsmaker article was on the stands Thursday morning.

The phone calls, had begun as soon as Highley went to his office

after delivering the Aldrich baby. The response was beyond his

expectations. The Dartmouth Medical School phoned. Would he

consider a guest lecture? A writer for Ladies' Home Journal wanted

an interview. Would Dr. Highley appear on Eyewitness News?

Smiling, he signaled for his first patient to come in. She was an

interesting case: her womb was so tipped that she'd never conceive

without intervention. She would be his next Vangie.

The phone call came at noon, just as he was leaving for lunch.

The nurse covering the reception desk was apologetic. "It's long

distance from a Dr. Emmet Salem in Minneapolis."

Emmet Salem! He picked up the phone. "Edgar Highley here."

"Dr. Highley. From Christ Hospital in Devon?"

"Yes." He felt a chill, sickening fear.

"Doctor, I learned last night that you treated my former patient

Vangie Lewis. I'm leaving for New York immediately. In fact,

I'm at the airport now. I am planning to consult with the medical

examiner in New Jersey about Mrs. Lewis' death. I have her records

with me. In fairness to you, I suggest we discuss her case first."

"Doctor, I'm troubled by your tone and insinuations."

"I'll be checking into room 3219 at the Essex House shortly

before five. You can call me there." The connection was broken.

Highley was waiting at the hotel when Emmet Salem emerged

from the cab. Swiftly he took an elevator to the thirty-second floor,

walked past room 3219 and around a corner. Another elevator

stopped at the floor. He listened as a key clicked and a bellman

said, "Here we are, Doctor." A minute later the bellman emerged

from the room. "Thank you, sir." Highley waited until the corridors

were silent. Quickly he opened his bag and took out the paperweight

He slipped it into his coat pocket, put on his gloves,

grasped the bag firmly in his left hand and knocked on the door.

Emmet Salem pulled the door open. He had just removed his

suit coat.

"Dr. Salem!" Highley reached for Salem's hand, walking forward,

backing the older man into the room, closing the door behind

him. "I'm Edgar Highley. It's good to see you again. You

got off the phone so abruptly that I couldn't tell you I was coming

into town for dinner. I have only a few minutes, but I'm sure we

can clear up any questions." He was still walking forward, forcing

the other man to retreat. The window behind Salem was wide

open. He'd probably had the bellman open it because the room

was very hot. The sill was low. "I tried to phone you, but your extension

is out of order."

"Impossible. I just spoke to the operator." Salem stiffened.

"Then I do apologize. But I'm so anxious to go over the Lewis

file with you. I have it right here." He put his bag down and

reached for the paperweight in his pocket, then cried, "Doctor,

behind you, watch out!"

The other man spun around. Highley crashed the paperweight

on Salem's skull. Emmet Salem slumped against the windowsill.

Jamming the paperweight back into his pocket, Edgar Highley

cupped his palms around Salem's foot and shoved up and out.

"No. No. Please!" The half-conscious man slid out the window

and landed on the roof of the extension some fifteen floors below.

The body made a muffled thud.

From Salem's suit coat on the bed Highley pulled out a key

ring. The smallest key fitted the attache case on the luggage rack.

The Vangie Lewis file was on top. Grabbing it, he shoved it into

his own bag, relocked Salem's bag, returned the keys to the suit-

coat pocket. He placed the bloodstained paperweight in his bag,

then glanced around. The room was in perfect order.

He opened the door and looked along the corridor. It was empty.

As he stepped out, the phone in Salem's room began to ring. An

elevator was just stopping. He got on, his eyes scanning the passengers.

No one he knew.

At the lobby, he walked rapidly to the Fifty-eighth Street exit.

Ten minutes later he reclaimed his car from a park-and-lock

garage, tossed his bag into the trunk and drove away.

WHEN she left Scott's office, Katie called in Rita Castile, one of

the investigators, and together they went over the material Katie

would need for upcoming trials. "That armed robbery on the

twenty-eighth, where the defendant had his hair cut the morning

after the crime. Well need the barber to testify. It's no wonder the

witnesses couldn't make a positive identification. Even though we

made him wear a wig in the lineup, he didn't look the same."

Rita jotted down the barber's address.

"That's about all I have for you now," Katie said, "but I won't

be coming in over the weekend, so next week will really be a

mess. Be prepared."

"You won't be coming in?" Rita raised her eyebrows. "Well,

it's about time. You haven't taken a full weekend in a couple of

months. I hope you're planning to have some fun."

Katie grinned. "I don't know how much fun it will be. Oh, Rita,

I have a hunch that Maureen is upset about something. Is it the

breakup with her fiance?"

Rita shook her head. "No, that was just kid stuff, and she knew

it. The problem is, just about the time they broke up she realized

she was pregnant and had an abortion. She's weighted down with

guilt about it. She told me that she keeps dreaming about the

baby, that she'd do anything to have had it, even though she

would have given it out for adoption."

Katie remembered how much she had hoped to conceive John's

child. "That does explain it. Thanks for telling me. I was afraid

I'd said something to hurt her."

After Rita left, Katie called Westlake Hospital. She wanted to

talk again with the receptionist, Gertrude Fitzgerald. Then she

would call Gana Krupshak.

The hospital told her that Mrs. Fitzgerald was home ill, and

gave Katie her home phone number. When the woman answered,

her voice was weak and shaking. "I have one of my migraines,"

she said, "and no wonder. Every time I think of poor Edna . . ."

"I would like to ask you something," Katie said. "Did Edna ever

call either of the doctors she worked for Prince Charming?"

"Prince Charming? Dr. Highley or Dr. Fukhito? Why would

she call either of them Prince Charming? My heavens, no."

"All right. It was just a thought." Katie said good-by and dialed

Mrs. Krupshak. The superintendent answered. His wife was out,

he explained. She'd be back around five.

Katie glanced at the clock. It was four thirty. "Do you think

she'd mind if I stopped to talk to her for a few minutes?"

"Suit yourself," the man answered shortly.

MRS. Krupshak was home when Katie rang her bell. "Now, isn't

that timing!" she exclaimed. For her, the shock of discovering

Edna's body had worn off and she was enjoying the excitement.

"This is my bingo afternoon," she explained. "When I told my

friends what happened they could hardly keep their cards

straight."

She ushered Katie into an L-shaped living room, and they both

sat down on an imitation-leather couch.

"Mrs. Krupshak," Katie said, "I wonder if you would go over

with me very carefully what happened Tuesday night: how long

you were with Edna; what you talked about. When she spoke to

Captain Lewis, did you get the impression that she made an appointment

with him?"

Gana Krupshak leaned back. "Now, let's see. I went over to

Edna's right at eight o'clock, because Gus started to watch the

basketball game and I thought I'd go have a beer with Edna.

The thing is, Edna had made a pitcher of manhattans and they

were about half gone and she was pretty rocky. She talked in

a sort of rambly way about this patient who had died, how

beautiful she'd been, how sick she'd been getting and how she-

Edna, I mean—could tell the cops a lot about her."

"Then what happened?" Katie asked.

"Well, I had a manhattan, or two, with her and then figured I'd

better get home. But I hated to see Edna drink much more, so

I got out that nice canned ham for her."

"And that was when she made the call to Captain Lewis and

mentioned Prince Charming?"

"As God is my witness."

"All right, but one last thing, Mrs. Krupshak. Do you know if

Edna kept any articles of clothing of her mother's as a sentimental

keepsake? I noticed a shabby old moccasin in Edna's night-

table drawer. Did she ever show it to you or mention it?"

Gana Krupshak looked directly at Katie. "Absolutely not," she

said flatly.

CHRIS Lewis arrived at the Twin Cities airport at one thirty.

He had an hour to wait before his plane left for Newark. Vangie's

body would be on that plane. At Newark the medical examiner's

office would be waiting for it.

And the prosecutors office would be waiting for him. Of course.

If they were suspicious in any way about Vangie's death, they

were going to look to him for answers. If they'd investigated at

all, they knew by now that he'd returned to the New Jersey area

Monday night. He had to see Dr. Salem, find out why he had

been so upset. If Chris were detained for questioning, he might not

be able to talk to him.

He also had to talk to Joan. He had the number of the stewardess,

Kay Corrigan, with whom she was staying in Florida. Not

knowing what he would say, he put through the call.

Kay answered. "It's Chris, Kay. Is Joan there?"

"Chris, the Valley County prosecutor's office has been calling

here asking questions about you two. Joan is frantic!"

"Is she there?"

"No. She won't be here till about eight tonight."

"Tell her to stay in till I call her. Tell her-" He broke the con

nection, leaned against the phone and pushed back a sob. It was

all too much. He didn't know what to do. In a few hours he'd be

in custody, suspected of killing Vangie.

No. There was another way. He'd get the flight into La Guardia.

He could still make it. Then he'd be able to see Dr. Salem at almost

the same time he reached the hotel. Maybe Dr. Salem could help

him somehow.

He barely made the La Guardia flight. On the plane, he listlessly

thumbed through Newsmaker magazine. His eye caught

the headline WESTLAKE MATERNITY CONCEPT OFFERS NEW HOPE

TO CHILDLESS COUPLES. Westlake. He read the first paragraph.

"For the past eight years, a private clinic in New Jersey has been

making it possible for childless women to become pregnant The

program is carried on by Dr. Edgar Highley...."

Highley. Vangie's doctor. Funny she never talked very much

about him. It was always the psychiatrist, Fukhito.

The plane landed at four thirty. Chris hurried through the

terminal and hailed a cab. It was five when he reached the Essex

House. He headed for a lobby telephone, asked the operator for

Dr. Salem's room number and dialed it. The phone rang . . .

again . . . again. After six rings he hung up. He dialed the operator

and asked her to try it for him.

The operator hesitated. "Sir, when Dr. Salem checked in, he told

me that he expected an important call. But apparently he's stepped

out. Why don't you try again in a few minutes?"

"I'll do that." Chris hung up the phone, walked over to a lobby

chair facing an elevator bank and sat down. The elevators opened,

dislodged passengers, filled again, disappeared.

One elevator caught his attention. There was something

vaguely familiar about someone on it; a middle-aged man with a

turned-up coat collar. Dr. Salem? No. Not Salem.

At five thirty Chris tried again. And at quarter to six. At five

past six he heard the whispers that ran through the lobby like a

flash fire. "Someone jumped out a window." From outside came

the wail of an ambulance and the yip-yip of police cars.

Chris went to the bell captain's desk. "Who was it?" he asked.

"Dr. Emmet Salem. A big shot in the AMA. Room 3219."

Walking like an automaton, Chris pushed through the revolving

door to Fifty-eighth Street. He hailed a cab and got in. "La

Guardia, please," he said.

There was a seven-o'clock flight to Miami. He had to get to

Joan, try to make her understand before he was arrested.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TWELVE-year-old Jennifer threw open the door for Katie. "Katie,

hi." The two smiled at each other. With her intense blue eyes,

dark hair and olive skin, Jennifer was a young Katie.

"Hi, Jennie. Anybody here yet?"

"Everybody. The Berkeleys brought their baby. Richard is here

too. His first question was 'Is Katie here yet?' He's got a case on

you, Katie."

"Jennifer!" Half laughing, half irritated, Katie walked inside.

In the den, Liz and Jim Berkeley were seated on the couch.

Molly was passing hors d'oeuvres. Richard was standing by the

window, talking to Bill. He turned and saw her. "Katie." He came

hurrying over. "I've been listening for the doorbell."

So often since John's death she'd entered a room where she

was the outsider, the loner, amid couples. Tonight, Richard had

been waiting for her, listening for her. Before she had time to

consider her feelings, everyone was saying hello.

On the way to the dining room she asked Richard if he'd reached

Dr. Salem. He said, "I just missed him at five. I left this number

with the hotel operator and with my answering service."

At dinner Liz Berkeley said, "I'm holding my breath hoping

Maryanne won't wake up. Poor kid, her gums are swollen."

Jim Berkeley laughed. He was darkly handsome, with brown

eyes and thick black eyebrows. "When Maryanne was born, Liz

used to wake her up every fifteen minutes to make sure she was

okay. Now it's always, 'Quiet, don't wake up the baby.' "

Liz, who was a slender woman with flashing brown eyes, made

a face at her husband. "I'm calming down, but she is a miracle

to us. I'd just about given up hope. Dr. Highley's a genius."

Richard s eyes narrowed. "You really think so?"

"Positively. He isn't the warmest person," Liz began.

"But he knows his business," her husband interrupted. "He put

Liz to bed in the hospital almost two months before the delivery

and personally checked on her three or four times a day."

"Listen, I pray for that man every night," Liz said. "The difference

that baby has made in our lives! Don't let Jim fool you. He's

up ten times a night to make sure that Maryanne is covered."

As the others chatted, Katie only half listened. She felt tired and

light-headed, but she did not want to break up the party.

Her chance came as they headed for the living room for a

nightcap. "I'm going to say good night," Katie said. "I'm bushed."

Molly did not protest. Richard said, "I'll take you to your car."

The night air was cold, and she shivered as they started down

the walk. "Katie, I'm worried about you," Richard said. "I know

you're not feeling up to par. You don't seem to want to talk about

it, but at least let's have dinner tomorrow night."

"Richard, I'm sorry. I can't. I'm going away this weekend."

"You're what? With all that's happening at the office?"

"I.. . I'm committed." What a lame thing to say, Katie thought.

This is ridiculous. She would tell Richard that she'd be in the hospital.

. .

Suddenly the front door was thrown open. "Richard," Jennifer

shouted. "Clovis Simmons is on the phone."

"Clovis Simmons!" Katie said. "The actress?"

"Yes. Oh, hell, I was supposed to call her."

"I'll see you in the morning." Katie got into the car and closed

the door. Richard hesitated, then hurried into the house as Katie

drove away. His "Hello, Clovis" was brusque.

"Well, Doctor, it's a shame I have to track you down, but we did

discuss dinner, didn't we?"

"I'm sorry. Clovis, let me call you tomorrow. I can't talk now."

There was a sharp click in his ear. Richard hung up the phone

slowly. Tomorrow he must call and apologize and tell her that

there was someone else. For now he'd make his excuses and go

home. Maybe try Dr. Salem again.

He went into the living room. Molly, Bill and the Berkeleys

were there. And swathed in blankets, sitting on Liz's lap, was a

baby girl.

"Maryanne decided to join the party," Liz said. "What do you

think of her?" Proudly she turned the baby to face him.

It might have been a magazine cover: the smiling parents, the

beautiful offspring. The mother and father olive-skinned, brown-

eyed, square-featured; the baby fair-complexioned, red blond, with

a heart-shaped face and brilliant green eyes.

Richard stared at the family group. Who do they think they're

kidding? he thought. That child has to be adopted.

PHIL Cunningham and Charley Nugent watched in disgust as

the final stragglers came through Newark airport's gate 11.

"That's it." Charley shrugged. "Lewis must have figured we'd

be waiting for him. Let's go."

From a nearby pay phone he dialed Scott. "You can go home,

boss," he said. "The captain didn't feel like flying tonight."

"He wasn't on board? How about the coffin?"

"That came in. Richard's guys are picking it up. Want us to

hang around? There are a couple of other flights he might be on."

"Forget it. If he doesn't contact us tomorrow, I'm issuing a

pickup order for him as a material witness. And first thing in the

morning you two go through Edna Burns's apartment again."

Charley hung up. He turned to Phil. "If I know the boss, I'd

say that by tomorrow night at this time there'll be a warrant out

for Lewis' arrest."

RICHARD phoned the Essex House as soon as he got home from

the Kennedys'. Again there was no answer in Dr. Salem's room.

The operator came back on the line. "Operator, did Dr. Salem

receive the message to phone me? I'm Dr. Carroll."

The woman's voice was hesitant. "I'll check, sir."

While he waited, Richard flipped on the television to Eyewitness

News. The camera was focusing on Central Park South. He

watched as the marquee of the Essex House appeared on the

screen. Even as the telephone operator said, "I'm connecting you

with our supervisor," the television reporter was saying, "This

evening in the prestigious Essex House Hotel, Dr. Emmet Salem

of Minneapolis, Minnesota, fell or jumped to his death. . . ."

JOAN MOORE SAT DISTRACTEDLY BY THE phone in Miami. "Kay,

what time did he say he'd phone?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I told you," said the other young woman. "He said he'd be in

touch with you tonight and that you should wait for his call. He

sounded upset."

The doorbell rang insistently, making them both jump from

their chairs. Joan ran to the door and yanked it open.

"Chris—oh, Chris!" She threw her arms around him. He was

ghastly white; he swayed as she held him. "Chris, what is it?"

His voice was nearly a sob. "I don't know what's happening.

There's something wrong about Vangie's death, and now the only

man who might have told us about it is dead too."

HE HAD planned to go directly home from the Essex House, but

after he drove out of the garage, he changed his mind. He was

very hungry. He needed to correct the terrible depletion of energy

now that the business with Salem was over. He'd go to the Carlyle

for dinner.

After tomorrow he'd be safe. Inevitably there'd be an investigation

when Kathleen DeMaio died. But her former gynecologist

had moved away. No old medical records would loom up from the

past. Right now, at the AMA convention, doctors were probably

discussing the Newsmaker article and the Westlake Maternity

Concept. He was on the path to fame, and Salem, who might

have stopped him, was out of the way. He was anxious to go

through Vangie's medical history in Salem's file. It would be invaluable

in his future research.

He parked on the street in front of the Carlyle. His bag was

locked in the trunk. Salem's file on Vangie, the paperweight and

the moccasin were in it. He could dispose of the shoe and the

paperweight in one of the city's trash baskets. They'd be lost among

the decaying food and discarded newspapers. He'd do it on the way

home, under cover of darkness.

He got out of the car and carefully locked it. He walked to the

entrance of the Carlyle, his dark blue suit covered by a blue

cashmere coat, his shoes shined to a soft luster.

The doorman held the door open for him. "Good evening, Dr.

Highley." In the dining room, the maitre d' led him to the corner

table he preferred.

Wine warmed and soothed him. The dinner restored him, as he

had anticipated. He was just signing his check when the maitre d'

came hurrying over. "Dr. Highley, I'm afraid there's a problem."

His fingers tightened on the pen. He looked up.

"It's just, sir, that a young man was observed prying the trunk

of your car. The doorman saw him just as he got it open. Before

he could be stopped, he had stolen a bag from the trunk. The

police are outside. They believe it was a drug addict who chose

your car because of the MD license plates."

When Highley spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. "Do the

police believe that my bag will be recovered?"

"I'm afraid they don't know, sir. It might be discarded a few

blocks from here after he's taken what he wants from it, or it

might never show up again. Only time will tell."

BEFORE she went to bed, Katie packed an overnight bag for her

stay in the hospital. She realized how glad she'd be to get the

operation over with. The sense of being physically out of tune was

wearing her down. She felt depleted, exhausted, depressed. It

was all physical, wasn't it? Or was part of it the thought that

Richard might be involved with someone else?

By Monday she'd be feeling better. Wearily she showered,

brushed her teeth and got into bed. A minute later she pulled

herself up on one elbow, reached for her handbag and fished out

the small bottle Dr. Highley had given her. Almost forgot to take

this, she thought as she swallowed the pill with water from the

glass on her night table.

GERTRUDE Fitzgerald opened the prescription bottle. The migraine

was letting up. This last pill should do it.

Something was bothering her . . . something over and beyond

Edna's death. It had to do with Mrs. DeMaio's call. Prince Charming.

Edna had mentioned him in the last couple of weeks. If she

could only remember. It was eluding her, the exact circumstance.

When this headache was gone she'd be able to think. She

swallowed the pill, got into bed, closed her eyes. Edna's voice

sounded in her ears. "And I said that Prince Charming won't. . ."

She couldn't remember the rest.

AT FOUR a.m. Richard gave up trying to sleep. He had phoned

Scott Myerson about Emmet Salem's death, and Scott had in

formed the New York police of their interest. More than that had

been impossible to accomplish. Mrs. Salem was not at home in

Minneapolis. Nor could he reach the doctor's nurse.

Richard got up and began making notes. "1. Why did Salem

want to talk to him? 2. Why did Vangie want to see Salem? 3. The

Berkeley baby."

The baby was the key. Was the Westlake Maternity Concept

as successful as had been touted? Or was it a cover-up for secret

adoptions? Were the women being put to bed in the hospital two

months before the supposed delivery to hide the fact that they

were not pregnant?

But Vangie Lewis had been pregnant. So she didn't fit into the

adoptive pattern. She was desperate to have a child, but how did

she expect to pass off an Oriental baby on her husband?

The malpractice suits. He had to find out the reason those

people sued Highley. And Emmet Salem's office would have

Vangie's medical records. That would be a place to start.

Vangie's body was back in the lab now. First thing in the

morning he'd review the autopsy findings, go over the body again.

There was something. .. .

At five thirty Richard set the alarm for seven and turned out

the light. When sleep came at last, he dreamed of Katie. She was

standing looking in the rear window of Edna Burns's apartment,

and Dr. Edgar Highley was watching her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHILE the jury was deliberating, Katie went into the courthouse

cafeteria and sat at a table with her back to the room. She did

not want anyone to join her. She felt fatigued and weak, but not

hungry. Just a cup of tea, she thought. Mama always said that a

cup of tea would cure the ills of the world.

She sat for nearly an hour, sipping the tea, reviewing the proceedings.

The Odendall boys were blaming the fires on a friend

who was killed in a motorcycle accident last November. Had she

convinced the jury that they were lying?

At five o'clock she returned to the courtroom. Five minutes later

the jury came in and the foreman announced the verdict: Robert

and Jonathan Odendall were "not guilty on all counts."

"I don't believe it." Katie wasn't sure if she had spoken aloud.

The judge dismissed the jury curtly and told the defendants to

stand up. "You are very lucky," he snapped, "luckier than I hope

you'll ever be again. Now clear out of my courtroom, and if you're

smart, you'll never appear before me again."

Katie stood up. No matter if the judge clearly felt the verdict

was erroneous, she had lost the case. She saw the victorious smile

the defense attorney shot at her. She stuffed her notes into her

file. Maybe if she hadn't felt so lousy all week she'd have conducted

a better case. She should have had this hemorrhaging problem

taken care of a year ago instead of putting it off because of her

childish fear of hospitals.

"Will the State please approach the bench?"

She walked over to the judge. "Your Honor." Katie managed

to keep her voice steady.

The judge leaned forward and whispered to her, "Don't let it

get you down, Katie. You proved that case. They'll be back here

in two months on other charges. Next time you'll nail them."

Katie tried to smile. "Thanks, Judge."

She left the courtroom and went back to her office. Maureen

looked up hopefully, but Katie shook her head.

Maureen's expression changed to sympathy. "Katie, I'm sorry

about the Odendall verdict, but try not to take it too hard. You

really look sick. Are you all right to drive? You're not dizzy or

anything?"

"No, really. I'm not going far. Then I won't budge till Sunday."

JIM Berkeley parked his car in the courthouse lot, went into the

main lobby and checked the directory for the medical examiner's

office. He had seen the expression on Richard Carroll's face last

night when he'd looked at the baby. Angered, he'd wanted to say,

"So the baby doesn't look like us. So what?"

After several wrong turns, he found Richard's office. The door

was open and Richard came out immediately. "Jim, it's good of

you to come." Jim's own greeting was reserved and cautious.

As they went inside, Richard's manner became businesslike.

"Jim, we're investigating Vangie Lewis' death. She was a patient

at Westlake's maternity clinic. Where your wife had the baby."

Jim nodded.

Richard chose his words carefully. "Our investigation is turning

up some disturbing problems. Now I want to ask you a few questions,

and I swear to you that your answers will remain in this

room. But you can be of tremendous help to us if—"

"If I tell you that Maryanne is adopted. Is that it?"

"Yes."

Jim thought of Maryanne. Whatever the cost, she was worth

having. "No, she is not adopted. I was present at her birth. I

filmed it."

"It is quite unlikely for two brown-eyed parents to have a

green-eyed child," Richard said flatly. Then he stopped. "Are you

the baby's father?" he asked quietly.

"If you mean did Liz have an affair with another man? No. I'd

stake my life on that."

"How about artificial insemination?" Richard asked.

"Liz and I rejected that possibility years ago."

"Might Liz have changed her mind and not told you?"

Jim looked away a moment and then said, "I've often wondered

about Maryanne's coloring, but I haven't let it bother me. That

baby is everything to us." He looked at Richard. "My wife is the

most honest person I've ever known. Last month I decided to make

it easy for her. I said that I'd been wrong about artificial insemination,

that I could see why people went ahead with it."

"What did she say?" Richard asked.

"She said that if I thought she could make a decision like that

and not tell me, I didn't understand our relationship. I swore I

didn't mean that; went through hell trying to reassure her. Finally

she believed me. But, of course, I know she did have artificial insemination.

She was lying."

"Or else she wasn't aware of what Highley did to her," Richard

said flatly.

AT THE hospital, the admitting clerk was briskly bright. "You

certainly rate, Mrs. DeMaio. Dr. Highley has given you suite one

on the third floor of the west wing. That's like going on a vacation.

You'll never dream you're in a hospital."

"He said something about that," Katie murmured. She was not

about to confide her fear of hospitals to this woman.

"You may be a bit lonesome up there. The other two suites on

that floor are empty. And Dr. Highley is having the living room

of your suite redecorated. Why, I don't know. It was done less

than a year ago. Anyhow, if you want anything, all you have to

do is press the buzzer. Now here's your wheelchair. We'll just

whisk you upstairs."

Katie stared. "I have to use a wheelchair?"

"Hospital regulations," the admitting clerk said firmly.

John in a wheelchair going up for chemotherapy. John's body

shrinking as she watched him die. The antiseptic hospital smell.

Katie sat down in the chair and closed her eyes. There was no

turning back. The attendant, a middle-aged volunteer, pushed the

chair down the corridor to the elevator.

"You're lucky to have Dr. Highley," she informed Katie. "His

patients get the best care in the hospital."

They got off the elevator at the third floor. The corridor was

carpeted in soft green. Reproductions of Monet and Matisse paintings

hung on the walls. In spite of herself, Katie was reassured.

The corridor turned to the right. "You're in the end suite," the

volunteer explained. "It's kind of far off."

She wheeled Katie into a bedroom. The walls were ivory, the

carpet the same soft green as in the corridor. The furniture was

antique white. Printed draperies in shades of ivory and green

matched the bedspread. "Oh, this is nice!" Katie exclaimed.

"I thought you'd like it. The nurse will be in in a few minutes.

Why don't you just make yourself comfortable?"

She was gone. Katie undressed, put on a nightgown and warm

robe. She put her toilet articles in the bathroom and hung her

clothes in the closet. Suddenly she was swaying. She held on to

the dresser until the light-headed feeling passed. It was probably

just the rushing and the aftermath of the trial and, let's face

it, she thought—apprehension. She was in a hospital. Daddy. John.

The two people she'd loved best in the world had gone into the

hospital and died. No matter how she tried, she could not lose

that terrible feeling of panic.

There were four doors in the room. The closet door, the bathroom

door, the one leading to the corridor. The other one must

go into the living room. She opened it and glanced in. As the admitting

clerk had said, it was pulled apart. The furniture was in

the middle of the room, covered with painter's drop cloths.

She closed the door and walked over to the window. The hospital

was U-shaped, with the two side wings facing each other

across the parking lot. On Monday night she'd been exactly opposite

where she was now. Where was the parking stall she'd dreamed

about? Oh, of course—that one, over to the side, directly under the

last light post. There was a car parked there now, a black car, just

as in her dream. Those wire spokes on the wheels; the way they

glinted in the light.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. DeMaio?"

She spun around. Dr. Highley was standing in the room. A

young nurse was hovering at his elbow.

"Oh, you startled me. I'm fine, Doctor."

He came over to the window and drew the draperies. These

windows are drafty. Suppose you sit on the bed and let me check

your pressure. We'll want blood samples too."

The nurse followed him. Katie noticed that the girl's hands

were trembling. She was obviously in awe of Dr. Highley.

The doctor wrapped the pressure cuff around Katie's arm. A

wave of dizziness made her feel as though the walls of the room

were receding. She clutched at the mattress.

"Is there anything wrong?" The doctor's voice was gentle.

"No, not really. I'm just a touch faint."

He began to pump the bulb. "Nurse Renge, kindly get a cold

cloth for Mrs. DeMaio's forehead." He studied the pressure gauge.

"You're low. Frankly, if you hadn't scheduled this operation, I'm

sure you'd have had it on an emergency basis."

The nurse came out of the bathroom with a neatly folded

cloth. She was biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Katie

felt a rush of sympathy for her. She neither wanted nor needed

a cold compress, but she let the nurse put it on her forehead. The

cloth was soaking, and freezing water ran down her hairline. A

flash of humor raised her spirits. She could just see telling Richard

about this poor, scared kid who'd practically drowned her.

Richard. She should have told him she was coming here. She

wanted him with her now.

Dr. Highley drew blood from a vein in her right arm and put

the blood-filled tubes on the tray the nurse held out to him.

"I want these run through immediately," he said brusquely.

"Yes, Doctor." The nurse scurried out.

Dr. Highley sighed. "I'm afraid that timid young woman is on

desk duty tonight. But you won't require anything special, I'm

sure. Did you take all the pills I gave you?"

Katie realized that she had not taken the three-o'clock pill and

it was now nearly seven. "I'm overdue for the last one. They're in

my handbag." She glanced at the dresser.

"Don't get up. I'll hand it to you."

When she took the bag from him, she unzipped it, fished inside

and brought out the small bottle, which she held out to him.

There were just two pills in it. Dr. Highley poured a glass of water

from the carafe on the night table. "Take these," he said. He

handed her the glass and dropped the empty bottle into his pocket.

Obediently she swallowed the pills, feeling his eyes on her.

His steel-rimmed glasses glinted under the overhead light. The

glint. The spokes of the car glinting. There was a blur of red on

the glass as she laid it down. He noticed it, reached for her hand

and examined her finger. The tissue had become damp again.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. Just a paper cut. But it keeps bleeding."

"I see." He stood up. "I've ordered a sleeping pill for later."

"I really prefer not to take sleeping pills, Doctor."

"I'm afraid I insist. I want you well rested in the morning. Oh,

here's your dinner now."

A thin, sixtyish woman carrying a tray came into the room and

glanced nervously at the doctor. They're all petrified of him, Katie

thought. Unlike the usual plastic or metal hospital tray, this one

was made of white wicker and had a side basket that held the

evening newspaper. A single red rose stood in a slender vase.

Double loin lamb chops were carefully arranged on the dinner

plate. The china was delicate. The attendant turned to go.

"Wait," Dr. Highley commanded. He said to Katie, "As you

will see, all my patients are served fare that compares favorably

with the food in a first-class restaurant." He frowned, then added,

"However, I would prefer if you did not eat dinner tonight. I've

come to believe that the longer a patient fasts before surgery, the

less likelihood she will experience discomfort after it."

"I'm not at all hungry," Katie said.

"Fine." He nodded to the attendant. She picked up the tray

and hurried out.

"I'll leave you now," Dr. Highley told Katie.

At the door he paused. "Oh, I regret, your phone apparently

isn't working. The repairman will take care of it in the morning.

Is there anyone you expect to call you here tonight? Any visitors?"

"No. My sister is the only one who knows I'm here, and she's at

the opera tonight."

He smiled. "I see. Well, good night, Mrs. DeMaio, and please

relax. You can trust me to take care of you."

"I'm sure I can."

He was gone. She leaned back on the pillow, closing her eyes.

She was floating somewhere; her body was drifting like . . .

"Mrs. DeMaio." The young voice was apologetic. Katie opened

her eyes. It was Nurse Renge carrying a tray with a pill in a small

paper cup. "You're to take this now. It's the sleeping pill. Dr.

Highley said I was to stay and be sure you took it."

"Oh." Katie put the pill in her mouth, swallowed water from her

carafe. Then she pulled herself up and went into the bathroom

while the nurse turned down the covers. In the bathroom, she removed

the sleeping pill from under her tongue. No way, she

thought. I'd rather be awake than have nightmares. She splashed

water on her face, brushed her teeth and returned to the bedroom.

She felt so weak, so vague.

The nurse helped her into bed. "You really are tired, aren't you?

Just push the buzzer if you need me for anything."

"Thank you." Her head was so heavy.

Nurse Renge went to pull down the shade. "Open the drapes and

raise the window about an inch, won't you?" Katie murmured. "I

like fresh air in my bedroom."

"Certainly. Shall I turn off the light now, Mrs. DeMaio?"

"Please." She didn't want to do anything except sleep.

The nurse left. Katie closed her eyes. Minutes passed. Her

breathing became even. She was not aware of the faint sound when

the door from the living room began to open.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AFTER Gana Krupshak's excellent pot-roast dinner, Gertrude

gratefully accepted a generous slice of homemade chocolate cake.

"I don't usually eat this much," she apologized, "but I haven't

swallowed a morsel since we found poor Edna."

Gana nodded soberly. Her husband picked up his coffee cup.

"I'm gonna watch the Knicks," he announced, not ungraciously.

He settled himself in the living room in front of the television.

Gana sighed. "The Knicks . . . the Mets . . . the Giants. . . .

But at least he's here. When I come home from bingo, I know I'm

not going into an empty place, like poor Edna always had to."

"I know." Gertrude thought of her own solitary home, then reflected

on Nan, her oldest granddaughter. "Gran, why not come

to dinner?" or "Gran, are you going to be home Sunday? We

thought we'd drop in to say hello." She could have it a lot worse.

"Maybe we should go take a look at Edna's place," Gana said.

"I kind of hate to do it, but it's something you can't avoid."

"I'll get the key."

As they hurried across the courtyard, Gana thought of Edna's

lovely imitation-leopard coat. Maybe she could take it home tonight.

It was hers.

Inside the apartment, they became quiet. Inadvertently they

both stared at the spot where Edna's crumpled body had lain.

"There's still blood on the radiator," Gana muttered.

"Yes." Gertrude shook herself. Get this over with.

Gana went to the closet and removed the leopard coat. It did

not take them long to finish sharing the contents of the apartment.

Gana had little interest in the furniture; what Gertrude did not

want Gana was giving to the Salvation Army, but she was delighted

when Gertrude suggested she take the silver plate and

good china. "I guess that's it." Gana sighed. "Except for the jewelry,

and the police will give that back to us pretty soon."

The jewelry in the night-table drawer. Gertrude thought of Dr.

Highley. He had started to open that drawer.

"That reminds me," she said, "we never did look there. Let's

make sure we didn't forget anything." She pulled it open. The

police had removed the jewelry box. But the deep drawer was

not empty. A scuffed moccasin lay at the bottom of it.

"Now why would Edna save that thing?" Gana said. She held

it up. It was stained and out of shape.

"That's it!" Gertrude cried. "That's what had me mixed up."

Gana looked mystified, and Gertrude tried to explain. "Mrs.

DeMaio asked me if Edna called one of the doctors Prince Charming.

She didn't, of course. But Edna did tell me how Mrs. Lewis

wore terrible old moccasins for her appointments. The left shoe

was too loose, and Mrs. Lewis was always walking out of it.

Edna used to tease her that she must be expecting Prince Charming

to pick up her glass slipper."

Gertrude reflected. "I wonder. Could Mrs. Lewis' shoe be what

Dr. Highley wanted from this drawer? You know, I've half a mind

to go to Mrs. DeMaio's office and talk to her, or at least leave a

message. Somehow I feel I shouldn't wait till Monday."

Gana thought of Gus, who wouldn't have his eyes off the set

until midnight. Her desire for excitement surged. "Tell you what:

I'll drive over there with you. Gus'll never know I'm gone."

DANNYBOY Duke zigzagged across Third Avenue, racing toward

Fifty-fifth and Second, where he had the car parked. The woman

had missed her wallet just as he got on the escalator. He'd heard

her scream, "That man robbed me."

She had come rushing down the escalator after him, shouting

and pointing as he went out the door. The security guard would

probably chase him.

If he could just get to the car. He couldn't ditch the wallet. It

was stuffed with bills. He'd seen them, and he needed a fix.

Was he being followed? He didn't dare look back. He'd call too

much attention to himself. In a minute he'd be in the car. He'd

drive home to Jackson Heights and get his fix.

He looked back. No one running. No cops. Last night had been

so lousy. The doorman had almost grabbed him when he broke

into that doctor's car. And what did he get for his risk? No drugs

in the bag. A medical file, a messy paperweight and an old shoe.

He'd have to get rid of it all.

He was at the car. He opened it, slipped in. He put the key into

the ignition, turned on the engine, then heard the siren as the

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

family that it had been impossible to stop the hemorrhaging.

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 table 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 remembered. 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

went out there. Stumbling to the living-room door, she opened

it, got inside, closed it before he came into the bedroom.

Where could she go? She couldn't stay here. She heard a door

open inside. He was in the bathroom looking for her. Hide under

the drop cloth? No. He'd find her, drag her out. Dizziness clawed

at the space behind her eyes. Her legs were rubbery.

She stumbled to the door that led to the hall. There was a fire

exit there. She'd seen it when she was wheeled in. She'd go down

that way to the second floor. She'd get help.

The door to the fire stairs was heavy. She tugged at it . . .

tugged again. Reluctantly it gave way. She stepped inside. It

closed so slowly. Would he see it closing? The stairs. It was so

dark here, terribly dark. She grabbed the banister. The stairs

were steep. There was a landing after eight steps. Another short

flight, then she was at the door. She tried the handle. It was

locked. It could be opened only from the other side.

Then she heard the third-floor door open and heavy footsteps

coming down the stairs.

CHRIS refused to call a lawyer. He sat opposite the prosecutor;

he looked at the two detectives who had met him at the airport.

"I have nothing to hide," he said.

Scott was unimpressed. A young man carrying a stenographer's

pad came into the room, sat down and took out a pen. Scott looked

directly at Chris. "Captain Lewis, it is my duty to inform you that

you are a suspect in the deaths of Vangie Lewis, Edna Burns and

Dr. Emmet Salem. You may remain silent. You are not required to

answer any questions. You are entitled to the services of a lawyer.

Any statement that you make can be used against you. Is that

perfectly clear?"

"Yes."

Scott shoved a paper across the desk. "This is a copy of the

Miranda warning you have just heard. Please read it carefully. Be

sure you understand it. If you are so disposed, sign it."

Chris read the statement, signed it and handed it back. He

braced himself for Scott's question. "Did you murder your wife,

Vangie Lewis?"

Chris looked directly at him. "I did not murder my wife. I do

not know if she was murdered. But I do know this. If she died

before midnight Monday, she did not kill herself in our home."

Scott, Charley and Phil were astonished as Chris calmly said,

"I was there a short time after midnight Monday. Vangie was not

home. I returned to New York. At eleven the next morning I

found her on the bed. It wasn't until the funeral director told me

the time of death that I realized her body must have been returned

to our house. But even before that I knew something was wrong.

My wife would never have worn the shoes she was wearing when

she was found. Her right leg and foot were badly swollen, and

the only shoes she could wear were a pair of battered moccasins."

It was easier than he had expected. The questions came at him.

"You left the motel at eight Monday night and returned at ten.

Where did you go?"

"To a movie in Greenwich Village. After I got back to the motel,

I couldn't sleep. I decided to drive home and talk to Vangie. That

was shortly before midnight."

Then the hammerblow. "Did you know your wife was carrying

an Oriental fetus?"

"Oh, my God!" Horror mingled with a sense of release flooded

over Chris. It hadn't been his baby. An Oriental fetus. That psychiatrist.

Oh, the poor kid. That must have been why she had

called Dr. Salem. She wanted to hide.

"You didn't know she was involved with another man?"

"No. No."

"Why did you go to Edna Burns's apartment Tuesday night?"

"Wait, please—can we take this just the way it happened?"

Coffee was brought in, and he began to sip it. It helped. "Edna

Burns called me Tuesday night, just after I realized that Vangie

must have died before she was brought home. Miss Burns was

almost incoherent. She rambled on about Cinderella and Prince

Charming, said she had something for me and that she had a story

for the police. I thought she might know who Vangie had been

with. I drove to her apartment complex. Some kid pointed out

where she lived. I rang the bell and knocked. The television was

on, the light was on, but she didn't answer. I figured she'd passed

out and there was no use trying to talk to her. I went home."

"What time was that?"

"About nine thirty."

"All right. What did you do then?"

More questions, one after another; he drank more coffee. Truth.

The simple truth. It was so much easier than evasion. He took a

deep breath. They were asking about Dr. Salem.

RICHARD sat at Katie's desk as he waited for the head of personnel

of Christ Hospital in Devon, England, to answer his phone.

Only by emphasizing his need to talk to someone who had been

in authority at the hospital for more than ten years had he been

given the man's private number.

"Yes." An angry, sleepy voice had answered.

Richard introduced himself and went directly to the point. "Sir,

I apologize for calling you at this hour, but the matter is vital.

This is a transatlantic call. I must have information about Dr.

Edgar Highley."

The man's voice became wary. "What do you want to know?"

"I have just spoken with Queen Mary Clinic in Liverpool and

was surprised to learn that Dr. Highley had been on staff there

a relatively short time. We had been led to believe otherwise.

However, I was told that Dr. Highley was a member of the Christ

Hospital staff for at least nine years. Is that accurate?"

"Edgar Highley interned with us after his graduation from Cambridge,

then became staff. He is a brilliant doctor."

"Why did he leave?"

"After his wife's death, he relocated in Liverpool. Then we

heard that he had emigrated to the United States."

"Sir, I can't waste time being discreet. I believe that Dr. Highley

may be experimenting with his pregnant patients. Is there any

information you can offer to support that possibility?"

The words that came next were slow and deliberate. "While

he was with us, Dr. Highley was deeply involved in prenatal research.

He did quite brilliant experiments on embryos of frogs

and mammals. Then a fellow doctor began to suspect that he was

experimenting with aborted human fetuses—which is, of course,

illegal."

"What was done about it?"

"He was watched very carefully. Then a tragedy occurred. Dr.

Highley's wife died suddenly. There was the suspicion that he

had implanted her with an aborted fetus. Dr. Highley was asked

to resign. This is absolutely confidential. There is no proof."

Richard absorbed what he had heard. His hunch had been right.

A question came into his mind—a long shot. "Sir, do you by any

chance know a Dr. Emmet Salem?"

The voice warmed. "Of course. A good friend. Dr. Salem was

visiting staff here at the time of the Highley scandal."

SILENTLY KATIE RAN DOWN THE STATUS to the main floor. Desperately

she grasped the knob, tried to open the door. But it was

locked. Upstairs the footsteps had paused. He was trying the

second-floor knob, making sure that she had not escaped him. The

footsteps started again. He was coming down. Through these

heavy doors no one would hear her if she screamed.

She felt dull pain in her pelvic area. Whatever he had given her

had started the hemorrhaging. She was dizzy. But she had to get

away. Wildly she began rushing down the staircase. One more

flight. It probably led to the basement. He'd have to explain how

and why she'd gotten there. The farther she got, the more questions

would be asked. She stumbled on the last stair. Don't fall. Don't

make it look like an accident.

But she'd be trapped down here. Another door. This one would

be locked too. She tried the knob. He was coming. Dark as it was,

she could sense a presence rushing down at her.

The door opened. The corridor was dimly lighted. She was in

the basement. She saw rooms ahead. The door snapped closed

behind her. Could she hide somewhere? Help me. Help me. There

was a switch on the wall. She turned it off. The corridor disappeared

into blackness. Then, a few feet behind her, the door

from the stairwell burst open.

HIGHLEY was suspected of causing his first wife's death. Winifred

Westlake's cousin believed he had caused Winifred's death.

Highley was a brilliant researcher. Highley may have been experimenting

on some of his patients. Highley may have injected

Vangie Lewis with the semen of an Oriental male. But why?

Would he try to accuse Fukhito? Or had Vangie been involved

with Fukhito? Was Highley's possible experimentation only incidental

to Vangie's pregnancy?

Richard could not find the answers. He sat at Katie's desk

twirling her pen. He wished he knew where she was. He wanted

to talk to her.

There was a soft knock on the door and Maureen looked in.

Her eyes were emerald green, large and oval. Beautiful eyes.

"Dr. Carroll.''

"Maureen, I'm sorry I asked you to stay. I thought Mrs. Horan

would be here long ago."

"She phoned. She's on her way. Something came up at work

and they needed her. But there are two women here. They're

friends of Edna Burns. They wanted to see Katie. One of them,

Mrs. Fitzgerald, said she met you the other night at the Burns

apartment."

"Right. Tell them to come on in. If it's anything much, we'll make

them wait to talk to Scott."

They entered the office together, Gana's eyes snapping with excitement.

Gertrude was carrying the moccasin in a paper bag. Her

gray hair was neatly in place. She leaned forward, shook the bag,

and the shabby moccasin fell onto Katie's desk. Primly she began

to explain. "That shoe is the reason we are here."

SHE zigzagged down the corridor. Would he know where the

light switch was? He knew this hospital. Where would she go?

There had been a door at the end of the hall. If she ran straight,

she'd get to it. Maybe she could lock herself in there somehow.

Maybe he'd try the other doors first.

He was standing still. He was listening for her. Her outstretched

hand touched a cold wall, then a doorframe. Her hand found a

knob. She turned it. A heavy formaldehyde smell filled her nostrils.

From behind her she heard rushing feet. She stepped inside

and tried to push the door closed, but she was so dizzy. She stumbled

and fell. She reached out. Her hand touched a pant leg.

"It's all over, Katie," Dr. Highley said.

"ARE you sure this is your wife's shoe?" Scott demanded.

Wearily Chris nodded. "I am absolutely certain. This is the

one that was so loose on her ... the left one."

"When Edna Burns phoned you, did she tell you she had this?"

"No. She said she had something to tell the police and that she

wanted to talk to me."

"All right. Your statement will be typed immediately. Read it

carefully, sign it if you find it accurate, and then you can go home.

We'll want to talk with you again tomorrow morning."

For the first time Chris felt as though the prosecutor had begun

to believe him. He got up to go. "Where is Joan?"

"She's completed a statement. She can go with you. Oh, one

thing. What impression do you have of Dr. Highley?"

"I never met him."

"Did you read this article?" Scott held up a copy of Newsmaker

magazine.

Chris looked at the picture of Dr. Highley. "I saw this yesterday

on the plane into New York." Memory jogged. "That's it. That's

what I couldn't place. He's the man who got off the elevator at the

Essex House last night when I was trying to reach Dr. Salem."

HE SWITCHED on a light and stood staring down at her, his

sandy hair falling untidily on his forehead.

She managed to stumble to her feet. She was in a small area

like a waiting room. It was so cold. A thick steel door was behind

her. She shrank back against it.

"You've made it so easy for me, Mrs. DeMaio." Now he was

smiling at her. "Everyone knows about your fear of hospitals.

When Nurse Renge and I make rounds in a few minutes, we'll

assume you left the hospital. Certainly no one will dream of looking

for you in the morgue.

"An old man died in the emergency room tonight. He's in one of

those vaults. Tomorrow, when the undertaker comes for his body,

you'll be found on the floor. What happened will be obvious. You

were hemorrhaging; you became disoriented. Tragically, you wandered

down here and bled to death."

"No." His face was blurring. She was dizzy, swaying.

He opened the steel door, pushed her through it, held her as

she slid down. She had fainted. Kneeling beside her, he injected

the last shot of heparin. She probably wouldn't regain consciousness.

Even if she did, she couldn't get out. From this side the

door was locked. He closed it and turned out the light. At last he

was finished with Katie DeMaio.

Cautiously he opened the door into the corridor and hurried out

into the parking lot by the fire exit through which he'd entered

fifteen minutes before.

Moments later he was drinking lukewarm cappuccino, waving

away the offer of the waitress to bring him a hot cup. "My calls

took a bit longer than I expected," he explained. "And now I must

hurry back to the hospital. There's a patient there about whom I'm

quite concerned."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"GOOD night, Dr. Fukhito. I feel much better. Thank you." The boy

managed a smile.

"I'm glad. Sleep well tonight, Tom." Jiro Fukhito got up slowly

from his desk at the Valley Pines Psychiatric Clinic, where he did

volunteer work. This young man had been in deep depression for

weeks, nearly suicidal. He'd been doing eighty miles an hour in a

car that crashed. His younger brother had been killed.

Fukhito knew he had helped the boy get through it. The work

he did here with disturbed children was so satisfying, he reflected,

as he walked toward the elevator. And now he'd been asked to

join the staff. He wanted to accept that offer.

Should he start the investigation that would destroy him? Edgar

Highley would instantly reveal the Massachusetts case if he found

that Fukhito had taken his suspicions to the police.

He got into his car, sat there thinking. Vangie Lewis did not

commit suicide. She absolutely did not willingly drink cyanide.

She had gotten on the subject of the Jones cult during one of their

sessions. "Those cults, they're all crazy. Remember all those people

who killed themselves because they were told to? Did you

hear the tape of them screaming after they drank that stuff? I had

nightmares about it. And they looked so ugly."

Pain. Ugliness. Vangie Lewis? Never!

Jiro Fukhito sighed. He knew that he had to tell the police

about Vangie. She had run out of his office toward the parking lot.

But when he left, fifteen minutes later, her Lincoln Continental

was still there. There was no longer any doubt in Fukhito's mind.

Vangie had gone into Edgar Highley's office.

He drove out of the clinic's parking lot and turned in the direction

of the Valley County prosecutor's office.

SCOTT HELD THE MOCCASIN. RICHARD, Charley and Phil sat around

his desk. "Let's try to put this together," Scott said. "The last

known place Vangie Lewis visited was Dr. Fukhito's office. She

was wearing the moccasins. Somewhere in the hospital she lost one

of them, and Edna Burns found it. Whoever brought her home put

other shoes on her to try to cover up for the missing one. Edna

Burns found the missing shoe. And Edna Burns died.

"Emmet Salem wanted to talk to Richard about Vangie's death.

He fell or was pushed to his death, and the file he was carrying

on Vangie Lewis disappeared."

"And Chris Lewis swears that he saw Edgar Highley in the Essex

House," Richard interjected.

"Which may or may not be true," Scott reminded him.

"But Dr. Salem knew about the scandal in Christ Hospital,"

Richard said. "Highley wouldn't want that to come out."

"That's no motive to kill," Scott said.

"How about Highley trying to get the shoe?" Charley asked.

"We don't know that. The woman from his office claimed he

was opening the drawer. He didn't touch anything." Scott

frowned. "We're dealing with a prominent doctor. We can't go off

half-cocked. The big problem is motive. Highley had no motive to

kill Vangie Lewis."

The intercom buzzed. Scott switched it on. "Mrs. Horan is here

to see Dr. Carroll," Maureen said.

"All right, bring her into my office," Scott directed. "And I want

you to take down her statement."

Richard leaned forward. This was the woman who had filed the

malpractice suit against Edgar Highley.

The door opened and a young Japanese woman preceded

Maureen into the room. Her hair fell loosely on her shoulders. Her

delicate, graceful carriage gave a floating effect even to the inexpensive

pantsuit she was wearing.

Scott stood up. "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Horan?"

She nodded. Clearly nervous, she deliberately folded her hands

in her lap. Maureen sat behind her with her steno pad.

"Mrs. Horan, you were Dr. Highley's patient?" Scott asked.

Richard turned suddenly as he heard Maureen gasp. But the girl

quickly recovered and, bending forward, resumed taking her notes.

Anna Horan's face hardened. "Yes, I was that murderer's

patient."

"That murderer?" Scott said.

Now her words came in a torrent. "I went to him five months ago.

I was pregnant. My husband is a law student. We live on my

salary. I didn't want to, but I decided I had to have an abortion."

Scott sighed. "And now you're blaming Dr. Highley?"

"No. He told me to come back the next day. And I did. He

brought me to an operating room. He left me, and I knew—I

knew—that no matter how we managed, I wanted my baby. Dr.

Highley came back; I was sitting up. I told him I'd changed my

mind. He said, 'Lie down.' He pushed me down on the table."

"Was anyone else in the room? The nurse?"

"No. Just the doctor and me."

"And you allowed him to persuade you?"

"No. No. I don't know what happened. He jabbed me with a

needle while I was trying to get up. When I woke up, I was lying

on a stretcher. The nurse said it was all over."

"You don't remember the procedure?"

"Nothing. The last I remember is trying to get away. Trying to

save my baby. Dr. Highley took my baby from me."

A harsh cry echoed Anna Horan's heartbroken sobs. Maureen's

voice was a wail. "That's, exactly what he did to me."

Richard stared at the weeping women: the Japanese girl; Maureen,

with her red-gold hair and emerald-green eyes. And with absolute

certainty he knew where he had seen those eyes before.

WHEN Edgar Highley reached the second floor of the hospital,

he instantly felt the tension in the air. Frightened-looking nurses

scurried in the hall. A man and woman in evening dress were

standing by the nurses' desk. Quickly he walked over. His voice

was brittle. "Nurse Renge, is there something wrong?"

"Doctor, it's Mrs. DeMaio. She's missing."

The woman in evening clothes must be Katie DeMaio's sister.

What had made her come to the hospital?

"I'm Dr. Highley," he said to her. "What does this mean?"

Molly found it hard to talk. "Katie—" Her voice broke.

Her husband interrupted. "I'm Dr. Kennedy," he said. "My wife

is Mrs. DeMaio's sister. When did you see Mrs. DeMaio, Doctor,

and what was her condition?"

This was not a man to be easily deceived. "I saw Mrs. DeMaio

earlier this evening and her condition was not good. As you probably

know, she's had two units of whole blood this week. The

laboratory is analyzing her blood now. I expect the count to be

low, so I plan to perform surgery tonight. I think Mrs. DeMaio

has been concealing the extent of her hemorrhaging."

"Oh, God, then where is she?" Molly cried.

He looked at her. "Your sister has an almost pathological fear

of hospitals. Is it possible that she would simply leave?"

"It's possible," Bill said slowly.

"Doctor." Nurse Renge spoke up. "That sleeping pill should have

put her to sleep. It was the strongest one I've ever seen."

He glowered at her. "I ordered it because I understood Mrs.

DeMaio's anxiety. You were told to see that she took it."

"I saw her put it in her mouth."

"Did you watch her swallow it?"

"No... not really."

He turned his back on the nurse and spoke to Molly and Bill,

his voice reflective, concerned. "I hardly think Mrs. DeMaio is

wandering around the hospital. Do you agree that she might

simply have walked out among the visitors?"

"Yes. Yes. I do." Molly prayed, Please let it be that way.

"I want to see if her car is in the parking lot," Bill said.

The car. He hadn't thought about her car. If they started looking

for her in the hospital now . . .

Bill frowned. "Oh, hell, she's still got that loan car. Molly, what

make is it? I don't think I've even seen it."

"I .. . I don't know," Molly said.

Edgar Highley sighed. "I suggest that you phone her home. If

she's not there, go and wait for her to come in. She's scarcely been

gone an hour now. When you do find her, please insist she return

to the hospital. Mrs. DeMaio is a very sick girl."

Molly bit her lip. "I see. Thank you, Doctor. Bill, let's just go to

her house. She could he there and not answering the telephone."

They believed him. They would not suggest searching the hos

pital for several hours. And that was all he needed.

He turned to the nurse. "I am sure that we'll be hearing from

Mrs. DeMaio shortly. Call me immediately when you do. I'll be at

my home." He smiled. "I have some records to complete."

"WE MUST seize Dr. Highley's records before he has a chance

to destroy them. Does he keep all his records in his office?"

Jiro Fukhito stared at Richard. He had gone to the prosecutor's

office to make a statement. They had listened to him almost impatiently,

and then Dr. Carroll had outlined his incredible theory.

Was it possible? Fukhito reviewed the times when suspicions had

formed in his mind. Yes, it was possible.

Records. They had asked him about records. "Highley frequently

takes files to his home," he said.

"Have search warrants sworn out immediately," Scott told

Charley. "I'll take the squad to the house. Richard, you come with

me. Charley, you and Phil take the office. Pick up Highley as a

material witness. If he's not there, we'll nab him as soon as he

gets home."

"What worries me is that he may be experimenting on someone

now," Richard said. He wished Katie were here. She'd be relieved

to know that Chris Lewis had been eliminated as a suspect.

Dr. Fukhito stood up. "Do you need me any longer?"

"Not right now, Doctor," Scott said. "We'll be in touch with you.

If by any chance you happen to hear from Dr. Highley before

we arrest him, please do not discuss this investigation with him."

Dr. Fukhito smiled wearily. "Edgar Highley and I are not

friends. He would have no reason to call me at home. He hired me

because he knew he'd have a hold over me. How right he was."

He left the room. As he walked down the corridor, he saw a

nameplate on a door: Mrs. K. DeMaio. Katie DeMaio. Wasn't

she supposed to have gone into the hospital tonight? But, of

course, she never would go through with her operation while

Edgar Highley was under investigation.

Jiro Fukhito went home.

SHE WAS DRIFTING DOWN A DARK CORRIDOR. At the very end there

was a light. It would be warm when she got there. Warm and safe.

But something was holding her back. Before she died, she had to

make them know what Dr. Highley was. Her finger was dripping

blood; she could feel it. She'd smear Highley's name on the floor.

He was insane. He had to be stopped. Slowly, painfully, Katie

moved her finger. Down, across, down again. H . . .

HE GOT home at quarter past nine. Having at last eliminated the

final threat, he was feeling buoyant. He had finished eating less

than an hour ago, but somehow could not even remember the

meal. Perhaps Hilda had left something for a snack.

It was better than he had hoped. Fondue. Hilda made remarkably

good fondue. He lit the Stemo can under the pot, adjusted it

to a low flame. A crisp loaf of French bread was in a basket, covered

by a damask napkin. He'd make a salad.

While the fondue heated, he would complete Katie DeMaio's

file. He was anxious to be finished with it. He wanted to think

about tomorrow's two patients: the donor and the recipient. He

was confident that he could duplicate his success.

He went into the library, opened the desk drawer and withdrew

Katie DeMaio's file from its compartment. He made a final entry:

Patient entered hospital at 6:00 p.m. with blood pressure

100/60, hemoglobin no more than 10 grams. This physician administered

the final two Coumadin pills at 7:00 p.m. At 8:30 this

physician returned to Mrs. DeMaio's room and administered 5-ml

heparin injection. Mrs. DeMaio awakened briefly. In a near

comatose state she asked, "Why did you kill Vangie Lewis?"

This physician left to obtain more heparin. When this physician

returned, patient had left room in attempt to escape. Patient was

apprehended and another 5 ml of heparin was administered. Patient

will hemorrhage to death tonight in Westlake Hospital. This

file is now closed.

He put down his pen, stretched, walked over to the wall safe

and opened it. Bathed in light from the crystal sconces, the buff-

colored files inside took on an almost golden sheen.

They were golden: the records of his genius. Expansively he

lifted them all out and laid them on his desk, savoring his great successes:

Berkeley and Lewis. Then his face darkened at the sight

of the failures: Appleton, Carey, Drake, Elliot . . . Over eighty

of them. But not really failures. He had learned so much, and they

had all contributed. Those who had died, those who had aborted.

From somewhere in the distance a sound was beginning to

penetrate the library: the wail of a siren. He hurried to the window,

snatched back the drapery and glanced out. A police car had

pulled into the driveway.

Had Katie been found? Had she been able to talk? Running to

the desk, he stacked the files, replaced them in the safe, closed it

and pushed back the panel. Calm. He must be calm.

If Katie had talked, it was all over.

All the possibilities and consequences were exploding in his

mind. And then it came. The icy calm, the sense of power, the

godlike omniscience that never failed him during difficult surgery.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Slowly, deliberately he

smoothed his hair, then tightened the knot in his tie. He walked to

the front door and opened it.

CHAPTER TWENTY

IN HIGHLEY'S driveway, the two detectives who were in the front

seat of the squad car jumped out. As he and Scott followed, Richard

noticed the movement of a drapery in a window at the far

right of the house.

They had parked behind a black car with MD plates. Scott

touched the hood. "It's still warm. He hasn't been here long."

The younger detective rapped sharply on the front door. They

waited. The door opened. Edgar Highley was standing in the

foyer. Scott spoke first. "Dr. Highley?"

"Yes?" The tone was cold and questioning.

"Dr. Highley, I'm Scott Myerson, the Valley County prosecutor.

We have a search Warrant for these premises, and it is my duty to

inform you that you have become a suspect in the deaths of Vangie

Lewis, Edna Burns and Dr. Emmet Salem. You have the right to

consult a lawyer. You can refuse to answer questions. Anything

you say may be used against you."

Suspect. They weren't sure. They hadn't found Katie. With controlled

fury he said, "Come in, gentlemen. I will answer any

questions you have, and you are welcome to search my home.

However, when I consult a lawyer, it will be to bring suit against

Valley County and against each one of you personally."

He led them into the library. He knew he looked imposing

sitting behind the massive Jacobean desk. It was vital that he

unnerve them, make them afraid to question too closely. With a

gesture of contempt, he waved them to the leather couch and

chairs. Scott Myerson handed him the printed Miranda warning.

Scornfully he signed it Myerson and Dr. Carroll sat down; the

other two did not.

"We'll proceed with the search," the older detective said politely.

"Where do you keep your medical records, Dr. Highley?"

"At my office, of course," he snapped. "However, please satisfy

yourselves." He stood up, walked to the bar and poured Scotch

and water into a crystal tumbler. Then he sat down in the high-

backed striped velvet chair near the fireplace, sipped the Scotch

and eyed them coldly.

The questions began. "Did Mrs. Lewis enter your office after

leaving Dr. Fukhito last Monday night?"

"As I told Mrs. DeMaio . . ." They had absolutely no proof.

"Where were you that night, Doctor?"

"Home. I came home directly after my office hours."

"Were you in Edna Burns's apartment on Tuesday night?"

His smile, contemptuous. "Hardly."

"We'll want some hair samples from you."

Hair samples. Had some been found in Edna's apartment? But

he'd been there with the police on Wednesday night. And Vangie

always wore that black coat to the office. If strands of his hair

had been found near the dead women, they could be explained.

"Were you in the Essex House last night after five o'clock?"

"Absolutely not."

"We have a witness who is prepared to swear that he saw you

get off the elevator there at approximately five thirty."

Who had seen him? He had glanced around the lobby as he got

off the elevator. He was certain that no one he knew was there.

Maybe they were bluffing.

"I was not in the Essex House last night. I was at the Carlyle! I

dine there frequently; in fact, my medical bag was stolen while I

was dining there."

He'd make it seem that he was cooperating.

"What was in your bag?" The question seemed perfunctory.

"A basic emergency kit, a few drugs. Hardly worth a thief's

effort." Should he mention that it contained files? No.

The prosecutor beckoned to the younger investigator. "Get that

package out of the car."

What package? Highley gripped the glass.

They sat in silence, waiting. The detective returned and handed

Scott a small parcel. He pulled off the wrapping paper. "Do you

recognize this moccasin, Doctor?"

Careful. Careful. He leaned over, examined it. The left shoe, the

one from Edna's apartment. They had not found his bag.

"Certainly not. Should I recognize it?"

"Your patient Vangie Lewis wore this shoe for weeks. Didn't you

ever notice?"

"Mrs. Lewis wore a pair of rather shabby shoes. I certainly

would not recognize one particular shoe."

"Did you ever hear of a Dr. Emmet Salem?"

"The name seems familiar. I'd have to check my records."

"Wasn't he on staff with you at Christ Hospital in Devon?"

"Of course. Yes. He was visiting staff. Indeed, I do remember

him." How much did they know about Christ Hospital?

"Were you aware Mrs. Lewis was carrying an Oriental baby?"

So that was it. He said, "That explains why Mrs. Lewis was becoming

terrified of giving birth. She knew that she could never

make anyone believe her husband was the father."

Now they were asking about Anna Horan and Maureen Crowley.

They were coming close, too close.

"Those two young women are typical of many who demand

abortions and then blame the physician when they experience

emotional reactions."

Richard listened bleakly. Highley was so composed, so sure.

Unless they could prove wrongful death in the maternity cases, it

would be impossible to charge him with anything and make it

stick. He felt certain they'd never find anything incriminating in

Highley's records. He was far too clever for that.

Scott was asking about the Berkeley baby. "Doctor, you are

aware that Elizabeth Berkeley gave birth to a baby who has green

eyes. Isn't that a medical improbability when both parents and

all four grandparents have brown eyes?"

"Clearly Mr. Berkeley is not the baby's father," Highley said.

Neither Scott nor Richard had expected the admission. "I don't

know who the father is," Highley continued smoothly, "but it is

hardly the obstetrician's business to delve into such matters."

A shame, he thought. He would have to defer fame a little

longer. He'd never be able to admit the success of the Berkeley

baby now.

Scott looked at Richard, sighed and stood up. "Dr. Highley,

when you go to your office, you will learn that we have seized

your records. We are concerned at the number of maternity deaths

at Westlake, and that matter is under intensive investigation."

He was on safe ground. "I invite minute scrutiny of my patients'

records. I can assure you that the death ratio is remarkably low in

consideration of the kinds of cases we handle."

The smell of the fondue was filling the house. Unless it was

stirred, it would surely burn. Just a few minutes more.

The phone rang. Undoubtedly it would be the hospital saying

that Mrs. DeMaio had not yet returned home and her sister was

frantic. He picked up the phone. "Dr. Highley here."

"Doctor, this is Lieutenant Weingarden of the Seventeenth Precinct

in New York. We've just arrested a man who answers the description

of the person who stole a bag from the trunk of your car

last night."

The bag. "Has it been recovered?" Something in his voice was

giving him away. Scott Myerson stalked over to the desk and

reached for the extension.

"Yes. And several items in it may lead to far more serious charges

than theft Doctor, will you describe the contents of your bag?"

"Some medicine—a few basic drugs. An emergency kit."

"What about a patient's file from the office of a Dr. Emmet

Salem, a bloodstained paperweight and an old shoe?"

Highley closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was remarkably

controlled. "Are you joking?"

"I thought you'd say that, sir. We're cooperating with the Valley

County prosecutor's office concerning the suspicious death of

Dr. Salem. I'll call the prosecutor now. It looks as though the

suspect might have killed Dr. Salem during a theft. Thank you, sir."

He heard Scott Myerson say on the extension, "Don't hang up!"

Slowly Highley replaced the receiver. It was all over.

Dr. Carroll was looking at him curiously. Somehow Edgar High-

ley was sure that Richard Carroll was the man who had become

suspicious of him. But he had his revenge. Katie DeMaio's death

was his revenge on Richard Carroll. Highley smiled. "I have just

remembered that I do have some medical records that might interest

you," he said. He walked over to the bookcase, released the

spring. The panel swung out. Mechanically he opened the wall

safe. Let them know his genius. Let them mourn it.

He lifted out the files, stacked them on the desk. The prosecutor

had hung up the phone. They were all staring at him now.

"Oh, there is another case you'll want to have." He reached for

his drink and sipped it casually as he walked over to the safe. The

vial was there, right in the back. He'd put it away Monday night

for possible future use. The future was now.

At the safe, he quickly flipped the vial open and dumped the

cyanide crystals into his glass. As understanding swept over

Richard's face, Highley held up the glass in a mocking toast.

Richard leaped across the room as Highley raised the glass to

his lips and gulped down the contents. Richard knocked the glass

away as Highley fell, but it was too late. The four men watched

helplessly as Highley's screams and groans died into silence.

The younger detective bolted from the room, his face green.

Richard bent over the body. Highley's face was contorted; the

protruding gray eyes were open and staring.

"Why'd he do it?" the other detective asked.

"He knew he couldn't murder his way out anymore," Scott said.

Straightening up, Richard went over to the desk and scanned

the names on the files. Berkeley. Lewis. "These are the records

we're looking for." He opened the Berkeley file. The first page

began, "Elizabeth Berkeley, age 39, became my patient today. She

will never conceive her own child. I have decided that she will be

the next extraordinary patient."

"There's medical history here," Richard said quietly, and

thought, He could have done so much good.

Scott was standing over the body. "And when you think that

this nut was Katie's doctor," he muttered.

Richard looked up. "What? Highley was treating Katie?"

"She happened to mention it when—" The phone interrupted

him. Scott picked it up. "Yes," he said, then, Tm sorry, this is not

Dr. Highley. Who is calling?" His expression changed. "Molly!

This is Scott Myerson. What's the matter?" He listened, then covered

the mouthpiece with his hand. "Highley admitted Katie to

Westlake tonight and she's missing."

Richard yanked the phone from him. "Molly, what do you mean

she's missing?" He listened. "Come on, Molly. Katie would never

walk out of a hospital. You know that. Wait."

Dropping the phone, he frantically scattered the files on the

desk. Near the bottom of the pile he found the one he dreaded:

DeMaio, Kathleen. He raced through it, his face paling as he

read. He came to the last paragraph. He picked up the phone.

"Molly, put Bill on," he ordered. "Bill, Katie is hemorrhaging

somewhere in Westlake Hospital. Call the lab. We'll need to hang

a bottle of O negative the minute we find her. Have them ready

to analyze a blood sample and cross-match for four units of whole

blood. Tell them to have an operating room ready. I'll meet you

there." He broke the connection and turned to the detective at

the desk. "Call the hospital and have them start looking for Katie.

Tell them to look everywhere—every room, every closet. Get all

available hospital personnel to help. Every second counts."

"Come on, Richard," Scott snapped.

Richard grabbed Katie's file. "We have to know what he's done

to her." They'd been seconds too late preventing Edgar Highley's

death. Would they be too late for Katie?

With Scott, he hunched in the back of the squad car as it raced

through the night. Katie, he thought, why didn't you tell me? If

you'd only trusted me, told me you were seeing Highley. I'd

never have let you go near him. Katie, don't die. Let me find you.

Katie, hang on. . . .

They were at the hospital. Squad cars were roaring into the

parking lot. Scott and Richard dashed up the stairs into the lobby.

Phil, his face drawn, was commanding the search.

Bill and Molly came running in. Molly was sobbing. Bill was

deadly calm. "They've got a reasonable supply of whole blood on

hand here. Have you found her?"

"Not yet," Phil answered.

The door to the fire stairs, partly ajar, burst open. A young

policeman ran out. "She's on the floor in the morgue. I think she's

gone."

Seconds later Richard was cradling her in his arms. Her skin

and lips were ashen. He could not get a pulse. "Katie. Katie."

Bill gripped his shoulder. "Let's get her upstairs. We'll have to

work fast if there's any chance at all."

SHE was in a tunnel. At the end there was a light. It was warm

at the end of the tunnel. It would be so easy to drift there.

But someone was keeping her from going. Someone was holding

her. A voice. Richard's voice. "Hang on, Katie, hang on."

She wanted so not to turn back. It was so hard, so dark. It

would be so much easier to slip away.

"Hang on, Katie."

Sighing, she turned and began to make her way back.

ON MONDAY evening Richard tiptoed into Katie's room, a dozen

roses in his hand. She'd been out of danger since Sunday morning,

but hadn't stayed awake long enough to say anything. Her eyes

were closed. He decided to go out and ask the nurse for a vase.

"Just lay them across my chest."

He spun around. "Katie. How do you feel?"

She grimaced at the transfusion apparatus. "I hear the vampires

are picketing. I'm putting them out of business."

"You're better." He pulled up a chair. He hoped the sudden

moisture in his eyes wasn't noticeable.

She had noticed. She gently reached up and brushed a finger

across his eyelids. "Before I fall asleep again, please tell me what

happened. Why did Dr. Highley kill Vangie?"

"He was experimenting on his patients, taking fetuses from

women who had abortions and implanting them in the wombs of

sterile women. In these past eight years he learned how to immunize

a host mother to prevent her from rejecting an alien fetus,

at least for a few months. Most cases eventually ended in spontaneous

abortion, but he did have one complete success.

"After that one success, he wanted to break more new ground.

An Oriental woman named Anna Horan, who's married to a Caucasian,

claims he knocked her out and took her fetus when she

was unconscious. She was right. He had Vangie Lewis in the next

room waiting for the implant. Vangie thought she was simply

having some treatment to help her become pregnant. Highley

never expected Vangie to retain the Oriental fetus so long. When

her body did not reject the developing fetus, he decided to bring

it to term. Who would blame him if Vangie had a partly Oriental

child?"

"He was able to suppress the immune system?"

"Yes, and without harm to the developing fetus. But the danger

to the mother was great. He's killed sixteen women. Vangie was

getting terribly sick. Unfortunately for her, she ran into Highley

last Monday evening just as she left Fukhito. She told him she was

going to consult her former doctor in Minneapolis. That would

have been a risk because her gynecologist would know that a

natural pregnancy for Vangie was a million-to-one shot. And when

she mentioned Emmet Salem's name, she was finished. Highley

knew that Dr. Salem would guess what had happened. Salem was

in England when Highley's first wife died. He knew about the

scandal.

"And now," Richard said, "that's enough of that. All the rest

can wait. Your eyes are closing again."

"No ... You said Highley had one success."

"Yes. And if you had stayed five minutes longer at Molly's last

www.read.forumsplace.com

Thursday night and seen the Berkeley baby, you could guess who

it is. Liz Berkeley carried Maureen Crowley's baby to term."

"Maureen's baby." Katie tried to pull herself up.

"Easy, you'll pull that needle out." Gently he touched her

shoulder, holding her until she leaned back.

"Does Maureen know?" she asked.

"It was only right to tell her and the Berkeleys. Jim has been

living with the belief that his wife lied to him about artificial insemination.

You know how Maureen felt about that abortion. It's

been destroying her. She went to see her baby. She's one happy

girl, Katie. She would have given it out for adoption if she had

delivered it naturally. Now that she's seen Maryanne, sees how

crazy the Berkeleys are about her, she's in seventh heaven."

"What about the mother of Vangie's baby?"

"Anna Horan is heartbroken enough about the abortion. We

saw no point in telling her what Highley did with her baby. She'll

have other children."

Katie bit her lip. "Richard, tell me the truth. When they found

me, how far did they have to go to stop the bleeding?"

"You're okay. You can still have a dozen kids if you want them."

His hand reached over to cover hers. That hand had been there,

had pulled her back when she was so near to death. That voice had

made her want to come back.

For a long, quiet moment she looked up at Richard. Oh, how

I love you, she thought. How very much I love you.

His troubled expression changed suddenly into a broad smile.

Obviously he was satisfied at what he saw in her face.

Katie grinned back at him. "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you,

Doctor?" she asked him crisply.