75

Among the lead stories for that night’s evening news was the death of Natasha Colbert after six years in an irreversible coma, followed by the death, less than twenty-four hours later, of her mother, socialite and philanthropist Barbara Canon Colbert.

Fran sat at her desk in the studio and watched with somber eyes as the pictures flashed on the screen-Tasha, radiant and alive, with flaming red hair; her handsome, elegant mother. Peter Black killed both of you, Fran thought, although realistically, I may never be able to prove it.

She had spoken to Philip Matthews and heard his grim prediction that Molly almost certainly would be back in prison by Monday afternoon. “I spoke to her shortly after you left, Fran,” Philip said. “Then I called Dr. Daniels. He’s going over to see her this evening; he agrees that if she’s taken into custody at the parole board meeting on Monday, she’ll probably have a complete collapse. I’ll be with her, of course, and he wants to be there as well, just to be on the safe side.”

This is one time I hate my job, Fran thought as she received the signal that she was on air: “The Connecticut parole board has called an emergency session for Monday afternoon, suggesting the strong probability that Molly Carpenter Lasch will be returned to prison to finish serving the time left on her original ten-year sentence in the death of her husband, Dr. Gary Lasch.”

She ended her report by saying, “In the past year in this country, three convicted killers have been exonerated of the crimes for which they were imprisoned, because of either new evidence or the confession of the real culprit. Molly Lasch’s attorney has vowed a ceaseless fight to overturn or vacate her plea, as well as to prove that she is innocent of the charge of murder filed against her in the death of Annamarie Scalli.”

With a sigh of relief, Fran unhooked her microphone and got up. She had reached the station barely in time to go into makeup and put on a fresh jacket. She hadn’t had time to do more than wave to Tim as she rushed onto the set. A commercial was running between their spots, and he called out to her, “Fran, wait for me. I want to talk to you.”

On her way into the studio she had dropped the magazines Molly gave her on her desk, and she hadn’t done more than merely glimpse at the material on Lasch and Whitehall that she’d requested from the research department. Now, while she waited for Tim, she reached for it, eager to get started.

Skimming through the research material, she could see that the pages on both Calvin Whitehall and Dr. Gary Lasch seemed detailed and extremely thorough. It looks like research has pulled out all the stops in this one, she thought gratefully. I have a hunch I’ll be doing a lot of reading tonight.

“You must plan to do a lot of reading.”

Fran looked up. Tim was at the door. “Make a wish fast,” she told him. “You just said exactly what I was thinking, and when that happens, you get whatever you wish for.”

“I never heard that one, but anyhow it’s easy to do. Here goes: I wish you’d have a hamburger with me. How’s that?” he asked with a laugh. “I was on the phone with my mother earlier today, and when I told her I let you pay for dinner the other night, she yelled at me. She said she doesn’t agree with this business of men and women splitting checks unless it’s a business appointment or a case of dire financial necessity. She said that with my paycheck and total lack of responsibilities, I shouldn’t be so chintzy.” He grinned. “I think she was right.”

“I’m not sure about that, but yes, I’d love to have a hamburger-if you don’t mind making it a fast one.” Fran pointed to the stack of files and magazines. “I need to start working my way through all this stuff tonight.”

“I was sorry to hear about the parole board emergency session. That’s not good for Molly, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

Fran hesitated. “There’s something terribly wrong, even bizarre, going on at Lasch Hospital, but in all fairness, since I don’t have a shred of proof yet, I shouldn’t even talk about it.”

“Maybe you should take a break from it anyhow,” Tim suggested. “P.J.’s okay with you?”

“You bet, and I’ll be home in two minutes from there.”

With an easy motion, Tim picked up the magazines and research data from her desk. “You want all this stuff?”

“Yes. I’ll have the whole weekend to wade through it.”

“Sounds like fun. Let’s go.”

Over hamburgers at P. J. Clarke’s they discussed baseball-the start of spring training and the strengths and weaknesses of the various players and teams. “I’d better be careful. You could take over the sports desk,” Tim told her as he paid the check.

“I might do a better job there than I’m doing right now,” Fran responded wryly.

Tim insisted on seeing Fran to her apartment. “I’m not going to let you carry all this stuff,” he said. “You’d break your arm. But I assure you I’ll get right out.”

As they left the elevator on her floor he mentioned the deaths of Natasha and Barbara Colbert. “I jog in the morning,” he said. “And today, while I was enjoying a run, I started thinking how Tasha Colbert went out one morning to jog, just like I do, and she tripped and fell and never had another thought.”

Tripped on a loose shoelace? Fran thought as she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. She switched on the light.

“Where do you want these?” Tim asked.

“Right on that table, please.”

“Sure.” He laid them down and turned to go. “I guess the reason Tasha Colbert was on my mind so much was that she went into the hospital while my grandmother was there.”

“She did?”

Tim was stepping into the hall. “Yes. I was visiting when she was brought in one afternoon in cardiac arrest. She was only two rooms away from Gran. Gran died the next day.” He was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. “Oh, well. Goodnight Fran. You look tired. Don’t work too late.” He turned and headed down the hall too soon to see the stricken look on Fran’s face.

She closed the door and leaned against it. With every fiber of her being, she was sure that Tim’s grandmother must have been the elderly woman Annamarie Scalli had referred to, the one with a heart condition who was the original intended recipient of the experimental drug that destroyed Tasha Colbert and, a night later, was also given to her.

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