Two Women

Twenty-Two

Neither was it a conscious intention – it hadn’t crossed her mind – to say what she did until Alice entered the building and realized she had to negotiate reception security to get to the sixth floor, where she knew John’s apartment to be. Nor, most stupid of all, had it occurred to her that there would obviously be CCTV cameras. The man smiled at her approach and asked who she was visiting and Alice said: ‘Mrs Carver’s expecting me. It’s about Rosemary Pritchard.’

‘She’s just got back from her husband’s funeral,’ frowned the man.

‘So have I.’ What was she doing here, saying here! This was knee-jerk, unthought-out madness.

‘Of course,’ he said, looking more closely at Alice’s veiled appearance. ‘I was told to expect some people. Rosemary Pritchard, you say?’

‘That’s right.’ Not a direct lie. By no means the truth, either. But the best – probably her only – chance of getting past the foyer to see Jane, who wouldn’t have responded – had her staff respond – if she’d correctly identified herself. Which was unthinkable anyway. Which people were expected? She was thinking on her feet now, intuitively, snatching at each and any opportunity. Easy enough to claim a misunderstanding. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to Jane. She heard the man recite the gynaecologist’s name into the internal telephone, her breath tight, and saw the man’s unthinking nod of acceptance. ‘You’re to go up,’ he told Alice, who was already moving towards the elevator.

It would have been Manuel who’d answered, she supposed. Or Jennings. John had talked of the staff transfers, after Northcote’s death. Would either know what Rosemary Pritchard looked like? It was doubtful. As far as Alice was aware Rosemary Pritchard didn’t make house calls. She’d get to Jane OK now. Nothing to stop her. To say what? She still wasn’t sure. Retained research material didn’t sound good enough any more, not now she was actually here. Never really had sounded right. So what was she going to say? She didn’t know. Couldn’t think of anything. Which could make this a bad mistake, ruining everything coming full frontal on to Jane like this with stories of murder and blackmail and Christ knows what else. Not could be a bad mistake. Would be a bad mistake, because she couldn’t tell Jane anything of why she was here. Whatever story she tried to tell would be gibberish, the ramblings of a lunatic.

The elevator stopped at six, John’s floor. Jane’s floor, she corrected herself. John didn’t live here any more. Never would, ever again. Or in Princes Street. Or in the cabin. The elevator doors sighed closed behind her but Alice didn’t move. She most definitely shouldn’t have come like this. This was panicked, ridiculous. Jane wouldn’t understand a thing she said about being in danger. Have her thrown out, seized maybe by the security man downstairs. She should have gone from the funeral to Federal Plaza and surrendered herself to someone called Gene Hanlan and persuaded him to come here with her. That would have made the approach official, to be taken seriously. If, that is, Hanlan could have been persuaded and not gone on demanding convincing proof of her claims before confronting a widow on the day of her husband’s funeral. Which Alice was sure he wouldn’t conceivably have done.

There were three doors off the corridor in which she was standing but she knew from John that the one into the apartment was directly ahead, at the corridor’s end. It was pale green, Jane’s favourite colour. Chosen by her, like the decor inside, pale green offset by cream, dark green for contrast in the carpets and drapes. John had liked it, too. Called Jane artistic. She should leave, Alice told herself. Call the elevator back and get out, before she was trapped by whoever else was expected. She couldn’t have gained more than fifteen minutes, leaving the wake early. Insane to be here like this.

She had to take a chance with the FBI agent. It was her only chance. It might have helped if she’d brought the IRS printouts from the cabin. Insufficient by themselves, but at least something. Perhaps not go to the FBI at all, not yet. But when? She wouldn’t be gaining anything by waiting to get any more tax records. So she wouldn’t wait. She had to live – survive – not wait.

The pale-green door was opened by Manuel, whom she recognized from John’s description of the dark-haired, dark-skinned butler. A Mexican with a Mexican wife. Resenting the intrusion of others.

Alice said: ‘The lobby called up.’

Manuel nodded and said: ‘Rosemary Pritchard?’

‘Mrs Carver’s expecting me.’

‘I was expecting Dr Mortimer. People from the firm.’

‘I’ve come direct from the funeral.’ Get out of the way, let me in!

As if aware of Alice’s thoughts, Manuel stood aside, gesturing Alice towards a door to the right. The drawing room, Alice knew, holding back for the butler to open it for her but immediately thrusting past before he could block her way.

Jane Carver was in a chair by the window, looking across the verandah in the direction of the park. She turned at Manuel’s voice, her features more squinting than frowning because at that moment Jane’s vision was blurred, as much from a close-to-exhaustion half doze as from the persistent hangover from chlorpromazine. ‘What…? Who …?’

‘Jane, we talked back at the hotel.’ How long would it be before the others arrived, behind her? Minutes. Probably no more than minutes.

Jane’s vision cleared. ‘Yes?’ She said, doubtfully. Something about her father. John. She wished she didn’t feel so tired: so disorientated.

Alice was conscious of Manuel, hovering at the door, face creased in uncertainty. He said: ‘Are you all right, Mrs Carver? Dr Mortimer’s on his way.’

Jane roused herself, physically straightening in her chair. ‘It’s OK. I dozed off. I don’t want anything, thank you.’ As Manuel closed the door after himself, still frowning, Jane looked back to Alice and said: ‘I’m sorry…?’

It had to be the FBI, Alice decided. There was no other choice. Somehow, anyhow, she had to get Jane to Federal Plaza, talk and plead there until they took her seriously enough to put them both under some sort of protection until Jane could get the documents that were going to save them from Citibank on Wall Street. It could be done by tomorrow. By tomorrow they could be out of danger. ‘I want you to come somewhere with me… it’s very important… it’s to do with…’

‘Rosemary Pritchard!’ exclaimed Jane, triumphantly. ‘Yes, of course!’

Until that moment Alice had been unaware of the depth of Jane’s confusion. She’d dismissed as understandable Jane’s strangeness during their brief encounter at the Plaza, the bewilderment of grief and of being among too many people too soon, engulfed in that grief. But now it was obviously something else, something she’d been given to help her get through the ordeal. Dr Mortimer’s on his way, Manuel had said. They’d be here soon, the prescribing doctor and people from the firm. She couldn’t possibly explain to them: convince them. She couldn’t be here when they arrived. ‘Yes, Rosemary Pritchard.’

‘Are you taking me to her?’

‘Yes. That’s what I want to do. Will you come with me now, right away?’

‘Of course. I’ve been waiting.’ Jane rose but swayed slightly, needing the support of the chair back. ‘Still a bit fuzzy.’

‘We’ve got to hurry, Jane.’ How long had she been in the apartment? Five minutes, ten minutes? They had to get out. She was taking advantage of someone who didn’t know what they were doing. She thought, forgive me, John. And then, forgive me, Jane. What she was doing was right, Alice told herself. It had to be.

Manuel must have used one of the side doors to get into the entrance lobby of the apartment. As they came out of the drawing room he said: ‘People are on their way, Mrs Carver.’

‘I need a coat, Manuel. We’re going to see Dr Pritchard.’

‘The others are coming,’ the butler insisted. ‘You should wait.’

‘They can wait. Tell them that. Tell them to wait. Could you get my coat, please?’

The man didn’t immediately move. He said to Alice: ‘I thought you were Rosemary Pritchard?’

‘No.’

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend.’

‘Manuel! My coat please!’ demanded Jane.

Alice couldn’t believe the sudden lucidity: was worried it might suddenly bring Jane back into proper, questioning awareness.

Manuel said: ‘I think you should wait, Mrs Carver. There are people…’

‘Who can wait. I’ll get my damned coat myself!’

Manuel got to the closet first. The coat was black, to match Jane’s funeral clothes. Jane took it but didn’t try to put it on, instead throwing it over her arm. Alice’s concentration was on the indicator board as they went down the outside corridor, alert for an ascending elevator, jabbing at the summoning button the moment she reached it. Manuel was at the still open door of the apartment, watching them.

‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ said Jane, obscurely.

‘I know it will be,’ said Alice, who didn’t.

The lobby was empty. The man at the reception desk smiled and said something Alice didn’t hear. Jane smiled back at him but didn’t say anything. Outside, Alice said: ‘I’ve got a car,’ and quickly turned Jane away from the direction from which vehicles would approach. Alice wanted to move faster but Jane was unsteady, scuffing her feet, needing a supporting arm. Alice could see the Volkswagen tantalizingly ahead, like a mirage, and for a moment, like a mirage, it didn’t seem to be getting any nearer. But then it did and she bustled Jane into the passenger seat and tightened the safety belt around her. As she did so, close to the other woman, Alice saw Jane’s eyes droop, then blink open, her head jerking back. Then it fell again.

Alice drove initially without thought, grateful she’d been facing east, making the right on Second Avenue and staying on it through four intersections before making the cross-town turn, wanting to avoid going close to the Plaza. She’d done it! She’d got Jane – poor, momentarily bewildered and confused Jane – and through Jane the FBI could get what George Northcote was murdered for and what Janice Snow was murdered for and what John had finally – too late – been so desperately running to the police to preserve. Which they could get now. Alice couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, beyond that. Whatever the uncertainties ahead, things were going to happen and when they did she had to face them, adjust to them.

It was when Alice was actually making the cross-town turn that Jane slumped heavily against her and when she was fully halted by the jam at the Fifth Avenue junction Alice turned to see Jane’s head sunk deeply on to her chest, bubbling faint snores.

Loudly she said: ‘Jane!’ but Jane didn’t stir.

‘Jane!’

There was still no response.

It would be whatever Jane had been given, to get her through the funeral. That and the trauma of it all. Total exhaustion, as well. Alice felt close to total exhaustion herself. She wouldn’t get what she wanted the acceptance she wanted – taking a completely incomprehensible woman to the FBI. They’d most likely hospitalize Jane, separating them before there was any chance of even attempting to explain, which would make everything impossible.

Alice didn’t turn downtown on Broadway but continued on straight across to Twelfth Avenue to go north, on to West Side Highway. She hoped Jane would sleep until they got to the cabin. She’d run into the first of her uncertainties, Alice realized. And still wasn’t safe.

Gene Hanlan and the FBI became involved so quickly through a coincidental sequence of events. Geoffrey Davis didn’t raise the alarm by dialling 911 but called Sergeant P. David Hopper direct, with a lawyer’s recall that the man had been in charge of John Carver’s accident investigation. And Hopper remembered Hanlan’s unusual visit to the precinct house and called Federal Plaza after alerting his own detective division. Kidnapping is a federal offence and kidnapping had been the word Davis had used, in their conversation. And because it was the word Hopper continued to use, the NYPD detectives were led by a lieutenant, a short-cropped, trouser-suited woman whose ID badge said Barbara Donnelly. From the way in which they were trying to assemble people, with no interviews started, Hanlan guessed he was only five minutes behind the detectives.

‘I didn’t call you,’ the woman greeted Hanlan, walking away from her team, physically separating him from everyone.

‘So we’re saving time,’ said Hanlan. Sergeant Hopper had indeed been a rarity. This was the sort of instant and instinctive resentment to which he was accustomed.

‘How’d you find out so quick?’ The voice had a smoker’s hoarseness.

The Bureau already has an interest.’ Hanlan felt he was due the exaggeration. If Jane Carver had indeed been kidnapped there should be a lot of people in the J. Edgar Hoover building eating crow within the next twenty-four hours.

‘You want to explain that?’

Hanlan looked at the people now waiting on the far side of the apartment, close to the balcony window, and wondered if they could detect the antagonism between him and the woman in the exchange. It would worsen if he reminded her he didn’t have to explain anything. Lowering his voice and putting his back towards them, Hanlan said: ‘You know about the death of George Northcote, Carver’s father-in-law, up in Litchfield? And of Northcote’s personal assistant, out in Brooklyn?’

‘Read something about it, after Carver got killed,’ allowed the woman. ‘So?’

‘We’ve got an informant talking organized crime, money laundering and murder.’

‘Shit!’ she said, the hostility going from the manner in which she was confronting him.

‘It’s federal,’ he pointed out.

‘We’ve got pretty effective murder divisions here in the city.’

‘If they were murdered – they’ve been officially accepted as accidents: Carver’s most certainly was – they’re out of NYPD jurisdiction.’

‘We going to work together?’ The woman was retreating further.

‘I don’t see any benefit in working against each other. Never did,’ said Hanlan.

The detectives with Barbara Donnelly were shifting impatiently, knowing what was going on. There was some uncertain movement from near the window, too. She said: ‘Let’s just run through it, see how it goes.’

Hanlan turned to the waiting group, recognizing the two men and the woman who had stood in the receiving line with Jane Carver. There was one other woman, in a severely tailored suit, and three other men, one with a heavy moustache, another in the sort of black suit that staff often wore, and the third in a red blazer that also looked like a uniform. Hanlan introduced himself and asked for the general picture and at once Geoffrey Davis identified himself by name and position, taking control of the group as Hanlan hoped he was going to be able to take control of the law enforcement.

‘Jane became very tired by the end of the reception: under a lot of stress. She asked to come back, so Hilda brought her. Arrangement was that we’d give her time to settle down, get rested, and then we’d come by to see she was OK. There’s a few things I’ve got to see to. Will-readings, firm insurances and pensions that automatically revert to her…’

‘I’m not getting a clear picture here,’ protested Barbara, looking to one of the women. ‘You Hilda?’

Carver’s PA nodded.

‘If you came back with her, how come you didn’t stay until the others arrived?’

Hilda said: ‘Jane told me she wanted to rest. That there was something she had to do later. She’d asked several times earlier about Rosemary Pritchard…’ She hesitated, smiling towards the severely suited woman. ‘This is Dr Pritchard. Jane wanted to know whether she’d been at the funeral. I told her that while she was resting I’d go back to the cathedral and pick up the condolences books…’ She nodded to two bound volumes on a coffee table. ‘We’re going to need them, for the letters. When I got back, she’d gone.’

‘With someone who pretended to be Dr Pritchard,’ supplied a man in a blazer. ‘Tom Reynolds, downstairs security. The woman said she was Rosemary Pritchard and when I called up, Manuel told me to let her on past.’

‘But I was…’ began the swarthy man in the black suit but Hanlan cut him off. ‘OK, let’s hold it there. Everyone can make their own contributions later but for the moment, let’s get some continuity into this. You,’ he insisted, pointing to Davis.

It came with a lawyer’s precision and only took minutes. Davis finished by gesturing towards the gynaecologist and saying: ‘Dr Pritchard was obviously the first person I called when I heard what had happened…’

‘And I felt I should come straight over,’ said the woman.

‘We appreciate that very much. Thank you,’ said Barbara. ‘You had no appointment with Jane this afternoon?’

‘No.’

‘Nor arranged to be at the funeral: see her there?’

‘No,’ repeated the doctor.

‘Were you treating her, for anything specific?’

‘We’re into patient confidentiality here,’ refused the other woman.

‘Dr Pritchard,’ said the detective lieutenant, level-voiced. ‘The way it looks, someone who knows you – or knows that Jane is a patient of yours – impersonated you and kidnapped her. We’re not asking you to break any patient confidentiality. What we are asking is that you do all you can to help us find her and get her back safely.’

‘I understand that: that’s why I came as soon as I got the call.’

‘Jane knew you: the woman couldn’t have impersonated you,’ said Hanlan.

‘I asked her if she was Rosemary Pritchard,’ intruded Manuel. ‘She said she was a friend.’

‘A friend of mine? Or of Jane?’ demanded the gynaecologist.

Manuel shrugged and shook his head, unknowing.

‘How was she?’ asked Hanlan. ‘She look frightened, as if this other woman was threatening her?’

Manuel considered the question. ‘Not really.’

‘What’s not really mean?’

‘She got angry, when I asked her not to leave until Dr Mortimer and the others got here. She didn’t usually get angry.’

‘Was Jane Carver under treatment by you, Dr Pritchard?’ asked Barbara.

Rosemary Pritchard hesitated. ‘I had recently seen her. And John.’

‘How recently?’ demanded Hanlan.

‘A few days ago.’

‘Let’s try to get around this confidentiality problem by how I phrase my question,’ suggested the detective. ‘Because I’ve got a problem with Jane Carver coming home to rest after the ordeal of her husband’s funeral then suddenly getting up and leaving, if she wasn’t under any obvious pressure. Could whatever you were treating Jane for make her vulnerable? Behave in a way out of the ordinary?’

‘Chlorpromazine could,’ declared Peter Mortimer.

‘What’s that?’ asked Barbara.

‘What she was being given – wrongly given – to help her over the shock of her father’s death,’ said Mortimer. ‘It can have bad side effects on certain people and in my professional judgement Jane was one such person. It had been stopped but there was clearly a residue.’

‘What sort of bad side effects?’ asked Hanlan.

The psychiatrist shrugged. ‘Vulnerability, to repeat an already used word. Emotional dependency upon others. Fixation…’

‘I think you’re solving my problem,’ said Barbara. ‘All we need now is to know where she is.’

‘And who she’s with,’ added Hanlan. He looked at the policewoman. ‘You think your guys could get the initial statements?’

‘Sure,’ nodded Barbara. To her waiting squad she said: ‘OK guys,’ and followed Hanlan towards the window view, making room for the other detectives to start work. She said to Hanlan: ‘You going to bring in a big team?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ admitted Hanlan. ‘What I don’t want are any media leaks. If she’s being held, we’ve got to avoid spooking whoever’s got her into doing something in a panic to get rid of her. You warn your guys?’

‘Sure,’ agreed the woman again. ‘But a thing like this, it nearly always gets out.’

‘Let’s just do our best. If it is a kidnap, there’ll be ransom demands. We’ll need to get this place wired: people here permanently. And the Northcote building, as well. Have negotiators there, too.’

Barbara Donnelly looked at him sceptically. ‘And you want to keep it under wraps!’

‘Let’s just do our best,’ Hanlan repeated. ‘And…’ He stopped, abruptly, looking back into the apartment. ‘And at the moment we’re a hell of a long way short of doing that.’ He called out: ‘Mr Reynolds? Dr Pritchard…?’

The security guard and the gynaecologist crossed the room together.

Hanlan said: ‘Downstairs, in the lobby. There’s got to be CCTV?’

‘Sure thing,’ agreed the guard.

‘And a viewing room?’

‘Of course.’

‘You mind coming with us, Dr Pritchard?’

No one spoke in the descending lift, but Barbara Donnelly was smiling faintly and when she glanced in his direction Hanlan smiled back, hopefully. There were four monitors in the viewing room but Alice was only on the loop of the primary camera, directed at the main door. The film showed her turning away immediately after her first exchange with Reynolds and Barbara said: ‘She’s trying to cover herself: seen there’s a camera.’

Jane was between Alice and the camera as they left and the detective said: ‘Here she’s using Jane as a shield. And look, she’s holding her arm, forcing her along!’

‘Supporting, not forcing her,’ qualified Hanlan. To the gynaecologist he said: ‘Well? Do you know her?’

‘I think I do,’ said Rosemary Pritchard, although with doubtful slowness.

‘Who?’ demanded Barbara, eagerly. ‘Give us her name!’

The gynaecologist shook her head. ‘I don’t have one. I’m fairly sure that I know her, that I’ve seen her or met her. But I can’t recognize her: give her a name. There’s something…’ She shrugged. ‘… something, but I don’t know what.’

On the second re-run Hanlan realized that he’d seen her, too. That morning, at John Carver’s wake at the Plaza Hotel.

Jane had remained asleep, only occasionally stirring, during the drive up to the cabin and was very confused when Alice tried to rouse her, needing all Alice’s support to get her into the cabin, so unsteady and still so half asleep that Alice continued straight on into the bedroom and laid Jane under the comforter, only bothering to take off her shoes. Jane snuffled and shifted for a position, but slept on.

During the drive Alice had tried to put some sort of reason into what she’d done and justified most of it, but not all, and the part she couldn’t justify was the most important. But the major concern was Jane herself. However exhausted Jane might have been by the funeral it was surely unnatural, maybe dangerously so, to have slept for so long in a jolting car and to go on sleeping now, although the bed was far more comfortable than the Volkswagen’s passenger seat. Jane should be seen by a doctor. Who would ask questions about medication which Alice couldn’t answer. Want to know what Jane was doing there and maybe why. Alice reached out and felt Jane’s forehead. Jane stirred at the touch but didn’t wake up. She wasn’t running a fever and was breathing quite normally. She’d wait, Alice decided. Sit where she was, here in the bedroom, alert for any discernible change in Jane. She’d definitely get a doctor if Jane became obviously ill but at the moment she wasn’t obviously ill. Just deeply asleep. Which made Alice’s other difficulty the most important thing.

She’d kept the radio on low, throughout the drive, tuned to breaking news for the first flash on Jane’s disappearance, surprised she hadn’t heard it. There’d be a panic, though, police and FBI: Gene Hanlan involved, almost inevitably. It would be a hell of a risk, calling from here, but she had to do it to stop the panic. Stop them thinking something bad might have happened to Jane. It would only take a minute, maybe two: it would be all right to leave Jane alone for just two minutes.

But Alice hesitated at the telephone, the Federal Plaza number beside it, and had to force herself to lift up the receiver. The moment she said ‘Martha’ into the mouthpiece Hanlan was on the line.

‘You got her?’

The lobby camera, Alice knew. ‘She’s all right.’

‘You know what you’ve done?’ Hanlan certainly knew what he’d done, risking his entire career putting everything on hold in expectation of getting this call after seeing the CCTV film.

‘Of course I know!’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘To get the evidence you said I needed.’

‘She got it?’

‘She can get it.’

‘Now here’s what you’re going to do, Martha. You’re going to come in, like I’ve been asking you to all along. Come in, and we’re going to sort it all out. And now I want you to bring Jane to the phone so I can talk to her, hear that she’s OK.’

‘You can’t talk to her. She’s asleep.’

‘Martha! You could be in a whole lot of trouble. Serious, criminal trouble. I’m keeping a very tight lid on everything to protect you but …’

‘That’s what I want, protection!’

‘I know. And I promise I’ll give it to you. All you’ve got to do is come in. Or tell us where you are and we’ll come and get you.’

She’d held on the phone too long. ‘I’ll call again, later. I want to think.’

‘Martha! Don’t hang up!’

But Alice did.

The Bonanno’s Vito Craxi said: ‘I want to put things on notice here. We’re looking at a fucking disaster.’

‘A major fucking disaster,’ endorsed Carlo Brookier.

No one was admiring the Central Park view or helping themselves to drinks.

Bobby Gallo, the Gambino consigliere, said: ‘That’s my Family’s feeling, too. How we going to get what’s in Carver’s Citibank box? We don’t get it, the system’s bust. It’s a collapse we don’t want and can’t have.’

Charlie Petrie knew clearly enough it wasn’t general conversation. He, in particular, and the Genovese by unarguable association, were being held responsible. ‘What about Burcher’s idea, going to the firm direct, get back what belongs to us after Carver wrote his letters?’

‘We can’t be sure we know of everything Northcote held back. Who might be identified,’ warned Gino LaRocca. ‘We’re over a barrel here.’

‘We gotta shift something,’ insisted Gallo.

‘I’ll speak to Burcher about a strictly legal approach,’ undertook Petrie.

‘I think it’s dangerous,’ protested Craxi.

‘Let’s vote on it,’ suggested Petrie.

Craxi was the only objector.

Petrie said: ‘I’ll speak to him.’

Craxi said: ‘After this, Burcher is superfluous.’

‘He gets the stuff back from the Northcote firm, he provides a service,’ said Gallo.

‘He’s still superfluous,’ insisted Craxi.

‘He gets the stuff back, then he’s superfluous,’ agreed Petrie. ‘Right now he’s got a use.’