Just Take My Heart (19 page)

With an ever increasing sense of urgency, Zach spent most Saturday searching for a car. He had no intention of going to a dealership where there would be a trail of documents for the Motor Vehicle Department. Instead he responded to the classified ads list used cars and the owners' telephone numbers.

He had seen the television news last night and the newspaper t morning, all filled with pictures and stories about the Aldrich verdict. He worried that there was so much publicity about Emily. He knew what could happen. Some reporter could do a follow-up story on her standing in front of her house and catch me on camera when I'm outside and didn't notice them coming. I could end up in the national news. Somebody, somewhere, could recognize me.

I have to be ready to leave.

The last ad he had responded to turned out to be exactly what wanted. The dark brown van was eight years old but in pretty decent shape. It was the kind of vehicle that wouldn't attract attention, one would even look at it twice. Just like me, he thought bitterly.

The owner, Henry Link, lived in Rochelle Park, a nearby town. He was an elderly man who liked to chat. "This was my wife, Edith's car," he explained. "She's been in a nursing home for six month always hoped she would be able to come home, but that's never going to happen. We had a lot of good times in it."

He was smoking a pipe. The air in the small kitchen was heavy with the odor of stale smoke. "Not that we went very far," he emphasized. "That's why the mileage is so low. We just drove up the Hud-son a little way in good weather, then found a place to have a picnic lunch. She made the best fried chicken and potato salad in the world! And . . ."

Zach had been sitting across from him at the kitchen table for fifteen minutes, listening to the seemingly endless details of Henry's life with Edith. Unable to waste any more time, he stood up abruptly. "Mr. Link, your ad said four thousand dollars for the van, as is. I'll give you three thousand in cash right now. I'll take care of turning in the license plates and registering the other paperwork. You won't have to be bothered with any of it."

"All right," Henry said, sensing that, as usual, he had lost his audience. "That's fair, seeing that you have the cash. Thanks for doing the paperwork. I hate standing in those long lines at the Motor Vehicle place. When do you want to pick it up? I mean, you can't drive two cars at once. You gonna come back with a friend?"

I don't have any, Zach thought, and if I did, they wouldn't know about this. "Leave it in the driveway and give me the keys. I'll get a ride back later tonight and pick it up. I won't even have to ring the doorbell."

"That'll work fine," Henry Link answered, heartily. "That will give me time to take Edith's things out of the car. You know, like her St. Christopher medal that's hanging from the visor. Unless you'd like to have it yourself. It kept her safe."

But then, frowning, he hesitated. "No, I'm sorry. You know what, she'd kill me if I gave it away."

Emily watched Courtside in her nightshirt, propped up in bed. As she listened to the comments of everyone, her emotions ranged between concern and dismay--concern that there was this much doubt about the verdict, and dismay that she found herself wishing that Dorothy Winters had been in the jury room.

If she had been, I'd be preparing this case for trial all over again. Is that what I really wanted to happen? she asked herself.

She turned off the light as soon as the show ended, but sleep was a long time coming. A heavy feeling of deep sadness had settled like a blanket upon her. She thought about the dozens of psychiatric reports she had read as a prosecutor, in which a doctor would write about a defendant's depression. Many of the symptoms that they discussed were the ones she had been feeling today. Weariness, tears, and pervasive sadness.

And resentment, she added. I've tried so hard to be sensitive to what Natalie's mother had been going through. How could she have turned on me like that today?

At midnight, she opened the drawer of the night table and reached for the mild sedative that she occasionally took when sleep eluded her. Within twenty minutes she had drifted off, but not before she envisioned Gregg Aldrich in a tiny cell, probably shared with another inmate who had also been convicted of a serious crime.

At seven a.m. she woke long enough to let Bess out for a few minutes, then brought her back upstairs and fell asleep again. The ringing of the phone at ten a.m. woke her. It was Investigator Jake Rosen.

"Emily, we missed you last night, but I can sure understand how you just wanted to get home. I was sorry the victim's mother lam-basted you the way she did. Don't let it get you down. You did a great job."

"Thanks, Jake. How was it last night?"

"In a way you were better off not being there. I know that Billy isn't your favorite person."

Now fully awake, Emily interrupted, "That's putting it mildly."

Jake chuckled. "I know. Anyhow, he was at his loudmouth best last night, and finally Ted Wesley told him to quit drinking and shut up."

Instantly reacting, Emily asked, "What was Billy talking about?"

"He was bragging at what a great coaching job he did with Jimmy Easton. He said that he basically handed the case to you on a silver platter. Emily, I wouldn't normally talk like this but that guy's ego is really out of control."

Emily sat up and slid her feet over the side of the bed. "He was talking the same way at his birthday dinner the other night. Jake, did you ever hear him feed Easton any information, or do you know if he did?"

"When Easton was arrested, I got to the police station just a cou-ple of minutes after Billy," Jake replied. "Billy was talking to the local police and as far as I know he hadn't seen Easton yet. I was with him when he spoke to him a little while later. I didn't see him do anything wrong. As far as I know, I've been there whenever Billy has spoken to Easton since then."

"Jake, we both know that over the years Billy has been accused of putting words into other people's mouths when it helped his case. Are you positive that he's never been alone with Easton?"

"I think so. And Emily, don't forget, Billy is a blowhard and a bragger, but he also has been investigating homicides for a long time. He's got great instincts and he knows where to look."

"All right, Jake, let's leave it at that. Maybe I'm getting paranoid. Or maybe I've been watching too much Courtside."

Jake laughed. "Right. Switch to Fugitive Hunt. It's on tonight. It -pretty good. They should call it Wacko Hunt. I can't believe all the creeps that are on the loose. Good talking to you, Em."

"You, too, Jake."

After she hung up, Emily went straight into the shower. As she dried her hair, she planned out her day. I'll see if I can get an appointment for a trim and a manicure, she thought. I've been so busy that my hair is practically in my eyes. Then I want to get over to Nordstrom's to get some stockings and makeup. I'll take a look at their suits. I could use a couple of new ones.

Before she made coffee, she walked out to the driveway to pick up the morning paper. Knowing what awaited her, she took it back into the kitchen and spread it open. A picture of Gregg Aldrich showing him slumped in his chair after the verdict had been delivered covered the top half of the front page. She cringed as she looked at the lower picture which showed a distraught Alice Mills pointing a finger at her.

She skimmed the article then threw the paper down. As she had expected, it had dramatically exploited the irony of Alice Mills's reference to her heart with the reality of Emily's medical history.

Disgusted, she vowed to put it out of her mind, and while she had coffee and toast, she made an appointment at the salon. There had been a noon cancellation and they were able to fit her in. "Something's going right, Bess," she said. "At least I can get a haircut. It's so long, I'm starting to look like you."

Four hours later, Emily pulled into the Garden State Plaza parking lot and headed into Nordstrom's. My luck's holding out, she thought forty-five minutes later as she handed her credit card to the saleslady.

"They're you!" the saleslady beamed cheerfully as she neatly folded the three new suits and placed them in a large shopping bag.

"Thanks very much for your help," Emily answered pleasantly. "I'm going to enjoy them."

She had already picked up stockings. Her final stop would be the makeup counter. While she was heading toward that area of the main floor, Emily felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around.

"Emily, it's so good to see you. We met at the Wesleys last week. Marion Rhodes."

It was the psychologist who had been at the dinner party. Emily thought of her mother, who had always told her never to assume that people she had only met casually would be able to remember either her name or where they had met. Marion's mother must have told her the same thing.

Today Marion was dressed casually in a cardigan and slacks, but she still had that same indefinable air of elegance that Emily had admired. Her smile was as warm as the tone in her voice. Emily was genuinely pleased to run into her.

"You've had quite a week, Emily. I've been reading about your case in the papers. Ted told me how proud he is of the job you did. Congratulations on getting a guilty verdict. You must be very pleased."

Emily realized that her eyes were suddenly moist. "By any chance did you see this morning's paper with the picture of Natalie Raines's mother pointing at me and basically accusing me of knowing in my heart that Gregg Aldrich is innocent?"

She knew that Marion, as a close friend of the Wesleys, had to have been told by them about her heart transplant.

"I know, Emily. I read the paper. It can't be easy when something like that happens."

Afraid to answer for fear her voice would break, Emily nodded. She was aware that Marion was studying her intensely.

Marion opened her bag, reached into it, and took out her card. "Emily, I wish you would call me. Maybe if we talked a few times, I could be of some help to you."

As Emily willingly accepted the card, she managed a half smile. "I remember Ted saying at dinner that you had helped him and Nancy through a rough patch, as he called it, a long time ago.

"I'm not embarrassed to admit that I feel kind of overwhelmed now. I'll call you next week."

Years of evading capture had taught Zach to be cautious. He returned home from Henry Link's smoky kitchen, had an early dinner, and was now thinking about how he would get back there to pick up the car. He would not call for a cab at his house because there would be a record of it.

Instead, he walked a mile to Fair Lawn and got on a bus to the Garden State Plaza in Paramus. From there he walked the half mile to Link's home in Rochelle Park. He hoped that Henry Link wouldn't see him and then come out and start talking his ear off again.

But there was no sign of Henry as he unlocked the door and started the van. At Route 17 he turned south and headed for the Turnpike, which would take him to Newark Airport, where he would leave the van in the long-term parking lot. His plan was to take a cab back to Fair Lawn and walk the rest of the way home.

It was 8:45 p.m. when he got back to his neighborhood. He looked over at Madeline Kirk's home. He could tell that the nosy old lady's house had the same layout as his, which meant that the light that was on was coming from her den next to the kitchen. She's probably watching television, he thought, maybe waiting for Fugitive Hunt to come on at nine o'clock.

I wonder if they'll do an update to last week's segment about me? I wonder if they'll talk about tips that have come in?

Zach's feet were turning up his own driveway. But then he stopped. If Kirk did watch the show last week, she couldn't have called in a tip yet because the cops would have been all over me. But if she did watch and she wasn't sure about whether to call, see-ing an update tonight might push her to do it. You never know . . .

He had to be sure. But first he had to get gloves from his house so that there would be no fingerprints. He hurried inside, took tight-fitting leather gloves from his hall closet, and put them on.

It was fairly dark on the street, making it easier to slink along the overgrown hedges that separated Kirk's property from her neighbor without being seen. He crouched as he reached the side window that looked into the den, then cautiously raised his head above the level of the sill.

Wearing a bathrobe and nightgown, the slight figure of Madeline Kirk was settled in a threadbare armchair with an afghan over her lap. He saw a phone, a pencil, and a small writing pad on the wooden end table next to her.

He had a good view of the television and the volume was so high that he could catch most of what was being said. It was a couple of minutes before nine and he heard the promo telling viewers to stay tuned for Fugitive Hunt.

He was certain that his instincts were correct. He couldn't wait any longer to see if she would write down the tip telephone number. If he stayed outside and she did begin to dial the number, he might not be able to stop her in time.

There could be an unlocked window or door somewhere, he thought. As he slithered around the outside of the house, he saw no evidence of wiring on the windows that would indicate an alarm. On the other side of the house, he found what he was looking for, a ground-floor window that was slightly raised. When he looked inside, he could see that it led into a small bathroom. A lucky break, he thought. And the door is closed so she won't be able to see me climbing in. Or hear me. With the television on so loud, she's probably almost deaf.

He used his pocketknife to cut away the netting of the screen. The old window's peeling frame shed paint particles that fell to the ground as he placed his gloved fingers in the small opening at the bottom and pushed upward. When he had it raised as far as it would go, he leaned his body forward, stood on his toes, grasped the sill with his hands, and hoisted himself through the opening.

With noiseless steps he made his way down the short hall to the den. Madeline Kirk's chair was positioned so that he was behind her.

Fugitive Hunt was in progress and the host, Bob Warner, was presenting an update on Zach. "We've received dozens of tips since last week's segment, and so far none of them has panned out. But we're still on his trail."

The computer-enhanced pictures of him, including the one that looked frighteningly similar to him now, were flashed across the screen. "Take a close look at them again," Bob Warner urged. "And remember, this guy likes to plant yellow mums around his home. And here again is our tip number."

As the telephone number appeared on the screen, Zach heard Madeline Kirk say aloud,

"I was right. I was right."

As she reached to grab the pencil and pad, Zach tapped her on the shoulder. "You know what, old girl? You were right. Too bad for you."

As Madeline Kirk let out a horrified gasp, Zach's gloved hands closed around her throat.