The Cradle Will Fall

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."