Chapter 40

WHEN I GOT back to my apartment, I called Bellevue to find out about Harrison’s condition. The operator connected me to the floor that held incarcerated patients.

The nurse who answered told me that a police detective named Flynn was there, getting the latest medical report. She couldn’t answer my question, but perhaps he could. She put G.G. Flynn on the line.

“Landers is in a coma,” he said. “Things don’t look too good.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “Then I’ve killed him.”

“No, not you,” he said. There was a gentleness in his voice I’d never heard before. “The doctor said it’s because of his previous stroke and coma. That’s why they think he probably won’t come out of this one.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Call me G.G.,” he said, which made me think Penny was right. G.G. Flynn was nicer than he seemed the first dozen times you met him.

“I’ll come to your precinct house later, to sign my statement,” I told him, and we said good-bye. I had two more calls to make.

First, Teresa Radford. She picked up immediately.

“It’s Morgan,” I said. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

There was a pause, and I could hear her breathing. Then, “What’s happened?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Harrison’s been hurt. He tried to kill me and I defended myself. The police have taken him to Bellevue.”

She gasped, then dropped the phone. I heard the clatter as it crashed against some hard surface, and then desolate sobs. She, or someone with her, replaced the receiver without another word. I had no doubt Teresa loved Harrison as much as he loved her. I wished I could have written a happy ending to their story.

My next call was to Winston Yarborough at The Carlyle. As soon as I gave my name, the hotel operator put me through to his apartment. No questions. No, “I’ll check to see if he’s available.” Like Teresa, Yarborough answered on the first ring.

“I need to see you,” I said.

“How soon can you be here?”

“I’ll leave my apartment in half an hour.”

“My car will be downstairs waiting for you.”

That was exactly what I needed at the moment: a no-frills conversation.

I heaped coffee into Mr. C’s filter-lined basket, and flipped the switch to On. I would need drinkable jet fuel to get myself through the next few hours. While the coffee was brewing, I brushed my teeth, showered, and grabbed the first outfit in my closet, a chestnut brown suede blazer with matching suede pants. I opened my drawer and pulled out an apple red cashmere sweater. Although I might still be shaking a little inside, the sweater would signal, “This woman is in control.”

I thought about that as I headed back down the hallway, inhaling the revitalizing scent of Southern Pecan roast as I went. When I got to the kitchen, and was about to pour the coffee, I put down my supersize Love of My Life mug and did something I had not done in the five years since I returned from Africa.

I tucked my too-big sweater into my pants.

I am a size thirty-six C, with a small waist; it was time to stop wearing tops meant for someone who’s a size sixteen.

WHEN I CAME through the courtyard of the Dakota, I saw Winston Yarborough’s chauffeur waiting for me at the entrance. I could have walked across Central Park faster than the Town Car made it through morning traffic, but I used the time to plan what I was going to say when I saw Global’s founder and chairman.

Yarborough was waiting for me when I stepped out of the elevator.

Through one of his many contacts, he already knew that Harrison had been arrested for the murders of Damon and Serena, and for attempting to kill me. And that Harrison had been taken to Bellevue. It saved me a lot of talking.

He led me into the living room, where we sat next to each other on the most comfortable sofa. Refusing his offer of breakfast, I got right to the point. “Harrison’s in a coma, and he’s not expected to recover. He won’t be able to contradict the story I have in mind to tell, nor will he be able to say anything negative about Damon.”

Yarborough leaned forward. “What story?”

“Harrison Landers killed Damon and Serena because of a mental disorder resulting from his previous stroke. It’s simple, and as far as the media’s concerned, it’s not sexy. This makes it nothing more than a one-day story. It will help if you can find a respected neurologist to state that’s what happened.”

“I’ll get two,” he said. “Thank you, Morgan. Now, tell me what I can do for you.”

“Pay Harrison’s medical bills. Please don’t let him be sent to some institutional warehouse. It doesn’t look as though he’s going to wake up, but will you make sure that for however long he’s alive, he has the best possible care?”

He nodded. “You may count on it,” he said.

Robo-Driver was so well-trained in keeping his face impassive he showed no reaction when I told him, “Bellevue. Four Sixty-Two First Avenue.”

AGATA, HARRISON’S LONGTIME housekeeper, was in the waiting room, clutching two women’s coats against her chest. One was an elegant number with a golden sable collar. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. She tried to smile when she saw me, and I devoutly hoped she didn’t know I was the one who put Harrison back in a coma. Or why I did it.

“Have you been able to see him?” I asked.

“No. The lady is with him now.”

The lady. “Do you mean Teresa?” I asked.

Agata nodded. She began to cry again.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Agata? Do you need a job?”

“No, I am going to be with Mrs. Teresa now.”

“Good.” I patted her shoulder, relieved she would be taken care of. “You’ll love her son, Jeremy.” I reached into my bag for my card. Slipping it into her hand, I told her to call me if she ever needed anything.

I had come to the hospital because I wanted to see Harrison. On the slim chance that he could hear me, I had hoped for the chance to say a soft good-bye to the man who had been my friend and mentor. The Harrison in my office was another man, one I would try to forget. But Teresa was at his beside. I had no doubt that she really loved him, so I wouldn’t intrude. With one last smile at Agata, I left quietly.

IT WAS A little before 10 A.M. when the Town Car dropped me off at Lenox Hill Hospital. At the reception desk, I learned Chet had been moved to a private room on the fourth floor an hour earlier.

He was lying in bed with his eyes closed, apparently sleeping. I was standing in the doorway, and he must have sensed my presence; he opened his eyes and said, “Hi, Beautiful. Did you bring the gang to spring me from this hellhole?”

“Lenox is the best hospital in Manhattan.” I moved to the side of his bed. “How do you feel?”

His smile turned into a grimace as he clenched his teeth against a sudden jab of pain. “I’m okay,” he said.

“That’s a huge exaggeration.”

“No, really, I’m fine—thanks to you. The surgeon was in here a little while ago . . . told me what a close call I had.” He moved with effort into a more comfortable position. “What did I miss after my lights went out?”

“The big finish,” I said.

He put on an exaggerated expression. “Who done it?” he asked. “Were you right about Teresa?”

I said, “Harrison Landers killed Damon, and Serena McCall.”

“How?”

“He was only pretending to be paralyzed.”

Chet’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Cocking his head, he studied my face. “What’s the rest of the story? Why? Why would he kill them?”

“He despised Damon,” I said. “Serena, because she discovered he was faking his paralysis.”

Chet stared at me with the skepticism of a skilled psychologist who knows when a patient is sanitizing a story. I tried to divert him with another piece of information. “It was Harrison who shot at us. He wasn’t trying to hurt me—hurt either of us—he wanted to scare me so I’d stop asking questions.”

“So we staked out the wrong suspect.”

“Guess I’m not as good a detective as I thought I was.”

“There’s a lot more to this story,” Chet said, staring at me. His voice was strong; his writer’s curiosity was tougher than his postappendectomy discomfort. “What are you saving it for?”

I hesitated for a moment, then I let out a sigh that seemed to come up all the way from the soles of my feet. I sat down hard on the chair next to his bedside “I haven’t been to bed since the day before yesterday, and a few hours ago somebody I trusted tried to kill me. So bear with me. I’m a little cranky.”

“Were you in love with Landers?” His voice was tender.

“Not in love with him, no, but I did love him for his kindness to me. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life after Ian died. Harrison trained me in his world, and then he shared it with me.”

He lay silent for a while, staring at the wall in front of him. Sitting there in the silence, in the warm hospital room, my eyes began to close. In spite of all the strong coffee I’d consumed, I was almost asleep.

“I’m not going to write the Radford book,” he said.

My eyes popped open. “What made you decide that?”

“When I tackle a story, I go for the full picture, wherever the investigation takes me. In order to make sense of the murders, I’d have to uncover whatever secrets Landers had. I won’t do that to you.”

I felt tears of relief well up and fought them back. Before I could reply, Chet reached for my hand, turned it over palm up, drew it to his mouth and kissed it. He released me, saying, “They’re throwing me out of here tomorrow. I’ll need to spend a few days up in Greenwich, then I’ll come back down. Are you free for dinner Sunday night?”

ROBO-DRIVER WAS STANDING beside the Lincoln, outside Lenox Hill Hospital.

“I’m going to the Dakota,” I told him, “but there’s one more stop I want to make first.” He nodded and opened the back door of the car for me.

I directed Mr. Bavaria to a boutique on Madison Avenue. While he waited, I bought two sweaters and a silk blouse in my correct size.

Then I went home and slept for twelve hours.