Nighttime Is My Time

86

The car with Robby Brent's body had gone into the Hudson at Cornwall Landing. The normally tranquil park, with its benches and weeping willows, was now the center of police activity. The area had been hastily taped-off to hold back the curious bystanders who, like the media, were gathering in ever-increasing numbers.

When Sam arrived at ten-thirty, the body of the late Robby Brent had already been placed in a body bag and in the morgue wagon. Cal Grey, the medical examiner, filled Sam in. "He's been dead at least a couple of days. Stab wound in the chest. Went right through his heart. I have to wait till I can take measurements, but I've got to tell you, Sam, that it appears to be the same kind of jagged-edge knife that killed Helen Whelan. From what I can see, whoever murdered Brent was either a lot taller or was standing on something like a staircase where he was above the victim. That knife went in at a distinct angle.

Mark Fleischman is tall, Sam thought. Talking to Fleischman, he could understand why Jean had been drawn to him. He had a plausible explanation for the reason he had inquired about the fax and for his knowledge that Jean had been a patient of Dr. Connors. Was he being honest, or was he a little too glib? Sam wasn't sure.

Before coming to the crime scene, Sam had called Jean on her cell phone, but she had not answered. He left her an urgent message to call him and then dialed Alice Sommers again.

Alice had partially reassured him. "Sam, when Jean was talking about meeting Lily's adoptive parents tonight, she mentioned that she wished she had brought more clothes with her. Woodbury Mall is less than half an hour away. I wouldn't be surprised if she simply decided to ride over there and do some shopping."

It was a reasonable supposition, and it had helped to partially allay Sam's concern for Jean. But now the concern was building, and he knew it was his instinct warning him not to wait any longer to begin an active search for her.

"Robbery wasn't the motive," Cal Grey was saying. "Brent was wearing an expensive watch and has six hundred bucks in his wallet and a half-dozen credit cards. How long has he been missing?"

"He hasn't been seen since after dinner on Monday night," Sam said.

"My bet is that he didn't last long after that," Grey commented. "Of course the autopsy will pin down the time of death much more accurately than I can now."

"I was at that dinner," Sam said. "What was he wearing when you got him out of the trunk?"

"Beige jacket, dark brown slacks, and a brown turtleneck sweater."

"Then unless he slept in his clothes wherever he went, he died on Monday night."

Cameras were flashing as photographers behind the tape took pictures of the car that had been Robby Brent's coffin. A salvage truck had hoisted it out of the river, and now, still attached to the cable, it was standing on the bank, dripping water as technicians continued to photograph it from every angle.

A local policeman filled Sam in on the details, sketchy as they were. "We think the car may have been dumped around ten o'clock last night. A couple who live in New Windsor were jogging past here at about a quarter often. They say they saw a car parked near the railroad tracks and that someone was in it. They turned and started back about half a mile down the road. When they reached this point again, the car was gone, but a man was walking fast along Shore Road."

"Did they get a good look at him?"

"No."

"Did they mention if he was tall? I mean really tall?" Sam asked.

"They can't agree. The husband said the guy was average size; the wife thought he was pretty tall. Both of them wear distance glasses and admit they barely got an impression of the guy, but they are sure that a car was parked here, that ten minutes later it was gone, and that someone was leaving this area on foot and in a big hurry."

God deliver me from eyewitnesses, Sam thought. As he turned back, he spotted Jake Perkins pushing his way to the front of the group behind the tape. He was carrying a camera that reminded Sam of the kind he had seen in a book about the great World War II photographer Robert Capa.

I wonder if that kid has the gift of bilocation, Sam thought. It's not only that he seems to be everywhere; he is everywhere. His eyes met Jake's, but Jake looked away immediately. He's sore at me for telling Tony to throw him in jail after he claimed to be my special assistant investigating Laura's disappearance, Sam thought. I could have given him a break and at least said that he's trying to be helpful, because he was. After all, he was the one who tipped me off that Laura sounded nervous on that phone call.

He was debating whether to go over and speak to Jake when his cell phone rang. He snapped it out of his pocket, hoping the call would be from Jean. Instead it was from Joy Lacko. "Sam, a call came into 911 a few minutes ago. A BMW convertible registered to Dr. Jean Sheridan has been parked at Storm King Lookout on 218 for a couple of hours. The call was made by a salesman who drove past it around seven-forty-five and then again twenty minutes ago. He thought it seemed odd that the car was there so long and decided to check to see if there was a problem. The keys are in the ignition, and her pocketbook is on the passenger seat. It doesn't look good."

"That's why she hasn't been answering her phone," Sam said heavily. "My God, Joy. Why didn't I insist that she have a bodyguard? Is the car still at the Lookout?"

"Yes. Rich knew you'd want to look over the location before we moved it." Joy's voice was sympathetic. "I'll keep in touch, Sam."

The vehicle with Robby Brent's body was starting to back up. Three bodies in less than a week in that meat wagon, Sam thought. Don't let the next one be Jean Sheridan, he prayed. Please don't let the next one be Jean.