The Shadow of Your Smile

45

His throat dry, Peter Gannon invited Detectives Barry Tucker and Dennis Flynn into the living room of his apartment. Why are they here? he wondered. Did I do something crazy when I blacked out? I don’t think I took the car out. God, I hope I didn’t run someone over!

Even deciding where to sit was nerve-wracking. Not the couch, he thought. It was lower than the chairs. He would feel even more intimidated. He chose the high-back wing chair, which forced the detectives to sit side by side on the couch.

The somber expression on both their faces telegraphed to Peter that whatever their purpose in coming, it was a serious matter. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak first. He had not intended to offer them coffee but he realized he was still carrying the cup that he had been sipping when the concierge phoned. Now he heard himself saying, “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. May I offer you…? ”

Before he had finished the sentence they both shook their heads. Then Detective Tucker spoke. “Mr. Gannon, did you meet Renée Carter last Tuesday evening?”

Renée, Peter thought, dismayed. She did go to the cops and tell them that Greg is an insider trader! Be careful, he warned himself. You don’t know that yet. Be cooperative. “Yes, I met her on Tuesday evening,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Where did you meet her?” Tucker asked.

“At a bar-and-grill type place, near Gracie Mansion.” I can’t even remember the name of the place, he thought. I’ve got to keep my head straight.

“Why did you meet her there?”

“It was at her suggestion.”

“Did you quarrel with her?”

They know that already, Peter thought. There were people at the bar who were probably watching us. Some of them would have heard her raise her voice and then would have seen her storm out. “We had a disagreement,” he said. “Look, what is this all about?”

“What it’s all about, Mr. Gannon, is that Renée Carter never reached home Tuesday night. Yesterday her body was found stuffed in a garbage bag on the East River walkway, near Gracie Mansion.”

Stunned, Peter stared at the two detectives. “Renée is dead? That can’t be,” he protested.

“Are you the father of her child?” Barry Tucker shot the question at him.

Renée is dead. They know we quarreled. They may think I killed her. Peter moistened his lips. “Yes, I am the father of Renée Carter’s child,” he said.

“Have you been supporting the child?” Detective Flynn asked, quietly.

“Supporting? The answer to that is yes and no.” I sound like a fool, Peter told himself. “Let me explain what I mean by that,” he added hastily. “I met Renée over four years ago at the opening-night party of a play I was producing. My former wife is an attorney and skipped that kind of late-evening event. I ended up escorting Renée home and getting involved with her. It lasted less than two years.”

“You mean you haven’t been involved with her for two years?” Tucker asked.

“Renee knew I was sick of her and regretted the relationship had ever begun. That was when she managed to get pregnant. She told me that she wanted two million dollars from me to take care of her while she had the baby, then she planned to give it up for adoption.”

“Did you agree to that?” Flynn asked.

“Yes. That was before several of my spectacular flops on Broadway. I thought it was worth it to have Renée out of my life. She told me she knew some very nice, substantial people who would give anything to have a baby and that they would be overjoyed to adopt it.”

“You had no interest in your own child?” Flynn asked.

“I’m not proud of that fact, but frankly no, I didn’t. Renée cost me my marriage. My wife had found out about the affair and divorced me. When I got back some sense in my head, I realized I had thrown away something terribly precious and would regret it for the rest of my life. The last thing I wanted was to hurt her even more by having her find out that Renée was pregnant with my child. Renée was bored with New York. She told me she was moving to Vegas for good and that the two million dollars would be the last I’d ever see or hear from her.”

“Were you sure that the child was yours, Mr. Gannon?”

“I absolutely believed it when I paid her the money. I knew the way Renée’s mind worked. It was worth getting pregnant to get that money out of me. Then, nineteen months ago, when the baby was born, she sent me a congratulations card and enclosed with it was a copy of the DNA report of her, me, and the baby. She had been smart enough to collect some DNA from me before she left, just in case I had lingering doubts. I had it checked. I’m the baby’s father.”

“When did you hear from Renée Carter again?”

“About three months ago. She told me that she was back in New York, that she had decided to keep the baby, and that she would need help raising it.”

“You mean child support?” Tucker queried.

“She demanded an additional one million dollars. I told her I simply didn’t have that kind of money anymore. I reminded her that our agreement when I gave her the two million was that it was the end of any obligation I had for her and the baby.”

“Have you ever seen your child, Mr. Gannon?” Flynn asked.

“No.”

“Then you don’t know that she is in the hospital and has been gravely ill with pneumonia?”

Peter felt his face redden at the scorn in Tucker’s voice. “No, I didn’t know that. You said she was gravely ill. How sick is she now?”

“Sick enough. By the way, her name is Sally,” Flynn told him. “Do you know that?”

“Yes, I do,” Peter snapped.

“When you told Ms. Carter that you couldn’t raise that kind of money, how did she react?” Flynn asked.

“She demanded that I find a way to get it. I was panicked and told her that she had to give me time. I’ve been stalling her, frankly. When I met her on Tuesday night I had one hundred thousand dollars cash for her and told her that would be it.”

“Even if you had one million dollars, how could you be sure she still wouldn’t go to court and demand child support?” Tucker leaned forward as he asked the question, his eyes boring into Peter’s face.

Be careful, Peter warned himself again. You can’t let them know she was blackmailing you. It would bring Greg down. “On Tuesday evening, I warned Renée that we had made a deal and that if she got nasty I would go to the police and charge her with extortion. I think she believed me.”

“All right,” Tucker told him. “You met her. You tried to scare her off. You handed her one hundred thousand dollars, not a check for a million. What was her reaction?”

“She was furious. I guess I’d given her the impression I was going to have the full million. She grabbed the shopping bag with the money out of my hand and took off.”

“Do you think anyone saw her take the bag from you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Almost every barstool was taken, and there were a few people still lingering over dinner. Renée raised her voice.”

“When you followed her out of the restaurant, what happened?”

“I caught up with her on the street. I took her arm and said something like, ‘Renée, be reasonable. You’ve read the papers. I just lost a fortune in the musical. I haven’t got it.’ ”

“What happened then?”

“She hauled off and whacked me across the face. She dropped the bag.” Let them know how much you were drinking, Peter told himself. Get that in now.

“Who picked up the bag?” Tucker asked.

“She must have picked it up. You don’t think Renée Carter would leave one hundred thousand dollars on the street, do you? Frankly, I’d been so down in the dumps about the play closing and the bills I couldn’t pay piling up and then having to meet Renée that I’d been drinking all day in my office. I got to that bar first, and had two double scotches while I was waiting for her. By the time I ran after her I was close to passing out. My memory is that I said something pretty nasty to her, then walked away. That’s all I know until I woke up in my office yesterday afternoon.”

“You just left her standing on the street?”

“Thinking about it, I’m sure of that. She was leaning down to pick up the bag. I thought I was going to get sick and hurried away.”

“Oh, now you definitely remember that she bent down to pick up the bag. That’s helpful, Mr. Gannon,” Tucker said sarcastically. “I notice you have a nick on your face. How did you get it?”

“Renée’s nail scratched me when she slapped me.”

“And you remember that?”

“Yes.”

Tucker stood up. “Would you be willing to give a sample of your DNA? It only involves a swab with a cotton tip on the inside of your mouth. We have a kit with us. We can’t force you to take the test now, but if you refuse we will get a court order, and you will have to comply with it.”

They think I killed her, Peter thought. Panic-stricken, he tried to keep his voice steady. “I am perfectly willing to take that test now. I have no reason to refuse. I had an argument with Renée. I absolutely did not kill her.”

Tucker looked unimpressed. “Mr. Gannon, where are the clothes you were wearing Tuesday evening?”

“In a private bathroom in my office suite. I always keep a change of clothes there. When I woke up on the couch there yesterday, I showered and changed. The dark blue jacket and tan slacks are in the closet. My underwear and socks are in the bin in the bathroom. I wore the dark brown loafers home.”

“You’re referring to your office on West Forty-seventh Street.”

“Yes. That is my only office.”

“Very well, Mr. Gannon, you are required to leave this apartment at once. A police officer will be stationed at the door until we have obtained a search warrant for these premises, as well as your office. Do you have a car?”

“Yes. A black BMW. It’s in the garage in this building.”

“When did you last use it?”

“I think last Monday.”

“You think last Monday?”

“I simply don’t know if I used it after I left Renée. Frankly, I thought I might have driven it and you were here to follow up on a fender bender.”

“We’ll obtain a search warrant for your car as well,” Tucker told him, crisply. “Would you be willing to come down to headquarters and give a formal statement of everything you have just told us? That does not mean you are under arrest. However, we consider you to be a person of interest in the death of Renée Carter.”

Peter Gannon realized he was in the fight of his life. Everything that had happened before, all the money problems and Broadway failures, did not compare with what was happening to him now. I was wild at her, he thought. I was furious and frustrated. Did I kill her? Dear God, did I kill her?”

He looked straight into Tucker’s eyes. “You may take the DNA sample. However, I will not cooperate with you any further. I will not answer any more questions nor sign any statements until I have consulted an attorney.”

“Very well. As I told you, you are not under arrest at this time. You will be hearing from us shortly.”

“What hospital is my daughter in?”

“She is in Greenwich Village Hospital, but you will not be allowed to visit her, so please don’t try.”

Ten minutes later, after allowing the DNA sample, Peter Gannon walked out of his apartment building. The weather was threatening rain. His head was splitting and he was close to despair. Help me, dear God, help me, please, he prayed, I just don’t know what to do.

He began to walk aimlessly down the block, thoroughly traumatized. “Where do I go?” he agonized. “What do I do?”