Second Chance (30 page)

"I tried like hell on that one," Sanchez
said unhappily. "I mean I liked the family, the folks. I wanted
to deliver for them. But once Jeanne left that hospital she simply
dropped off the face of the earth."

"What hospital was that?"

"Holmes. She'd gone there for an interview with
a doctor who'd advertised in one of the nursing journals. You know
Jeanne was trained as a nurse."

"Do you remember the doctor's name?"

"I've got it in my files. Hold on a minute."
He went off the line for a couple of minutes then came back on, with
a sound of papers rustling. "The doctor's name was . . .Morse.
Carl Morse. He was a psychiatrist, looking for a nurse who could also
act as a receptionist and keep the books. He'd had a girl who did
those things for him, but she'd retired the month before."

"Dr. Steele told me that Jeanne called her folks
after the interview to tell them she was going to stay in Cincinnati
for a few days. She said she'd run into an old friend at the
hospital."

"
Not a friend. I mean she didn't use the word
‘friend.' What she said was . . ." I heard him rustle through
the papers again. "She saw somebody at the hospital—someone
she knew. Her parents had the impression that seeing this person
upset Jeanne. At least, they thought something had upset her."

"Jeanne didn't say who this person was, did
she?" I asked.

"No," Sanchez said. "But I tried like
hell to find out. The interview was held in the afternoon. And you
know how busy hospitals get. There were scores of people around. It
could have been any of them."

"Morse didn't have any idea who Jeanne might
have seen, did he?"

"
No. He claimed no one else came into his office
during the interview. I went up and down the hall to every office on
the floor and no one recalled seeing her. Christ I got a list of
names a mile long. Flaigler, Thomas, Galaty, Pearson——"

"Hold up," I said. "Phil Pearson?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. Dr. Philip Pearson.
He was down the hall from Stein. Is that material?"

It could have been, if Phil Pearson had been meeting
with Sacks' secretary.

"What day did Jeanne disappear?"

"Wednesday, October 19, 1976."

I jotted the date down on my desk blotter. Almost
three weeks to the day before "Carla Chaney's" body was
found in the Ohio River.

"
I may have something for you on this," I
said.

"Christ, that would be terrific. The thing has
eaten at me for thirteen years."

"What I need is a photograph of the Chase woman,
her dental records, and a description of any distinguishing scars or
marks."

"You've found her body?" he asked.

"The cops found a body," I said carefully.
"Thirteen years ago, three weeks after Jeanne disappeared. At
the time the body was identified as someone else, but I've got reason
to think that it may have been misidentified. Deliberately."

"Why?" Sanchez said eagerly.

But I didn't know why—not for sure. What I
thought
was that someone had been impersonating Jeanne Chase for almost a
year—someone who looked very much like Carla Chaney. If Carla had
been visiting Phil Pearson that October afternoon, the Chase woman
could have seen her, could have found out that she had a double. A
woman masquerading as the late Dr. Chase's tony wife. A woman whom
the real Jeanne Chase had a terrific grudge against. If Jeanne had
confronted Carla with what she knew, it could have cost her her life.

Stelle was only one month dead at that point, and
Carla wouldn't have wanted anyone prying into her affairs—especially
someone with a score to settle. Plus eliminating the real Jeanne
Chase had some extra benefits: Carla would no longer have to worry
about exposure, or about crazy Herb Talmadge, who had obviously been
set up to take the rap for Jeanne Chase's murder.

It was beginning to look like Carla Chaney had left a
whole string of corpses behind her in her metamorphosis from Nola's
squalid daughter to the snooty girl that Sarah Washington had seen in
Jewish Hospital to whatever she'd become after Phil dumped her for
Louise. All it had taken to turn the tide of the past was a
half-dozen murders and two accomplices who were willing, for drugs or
sex or money, to go along with the mayhem. And Phil Pearson, of
course, to finance the deal.

For thirteen years she'd probably lived comfortably
in her new identity—off Phil Pearson's money. Just as Rita had. In
fact it wouldn't have surprised me to learn that there were three
more phony accounts in the kids' names at three more Cincinnati
banks, with regular monthly deposits to and withdrawals from them. It
would have stayed a nice life if Herb had not gotten out of prison,
bringing the past back with a vengeance. But he had gotten out,
dragging the Pearson kids in his wake.

Somehow Carla had found out about Ethan and Kirsty
and tracked them down to the motel. Talmadge had already made himself
known to her—Carla had even bought him a TV to keep him quiet.
Looking for a way out she'd callously pitted Kirsty and Ethan against
Herb, and when that didn't work she'd done the job herself with a
handful of pills and a butcher knife.

If Carla Chaney hadn't changed her name again I might
be able to find her through Shelley Sacks, who'd hired her in the
fall of '75 under the name Jeanne Chase. It was time to talk to
Sacks, anyway. There was too much that he'd been concealing for too
long. Motives and memories that could help me explain why Phil wanted
Stelle dead—and why thirteen years later Kirsten Pearson had joined
her brother on their strange ride toward death.

35
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It was almost one when I finished with Jim Sanchez. I
knew that Shelley Sacks wouldn't be in his office. If he was anywhere
other than at his own home he'd be with Louise. I went ahead and
phoned the Pearson house, knowing full well that she'd expected me to
come to her—that she was still expecting it.

Louise answered on the second ring. As soon as I
heard her voice I knew why I'd resisted making the call.

"
Hello, Louise."

"Hello, Harry," she said stiffly. "It
was nice of you to check in."

"
I'm sorry, Louise."

She laughed. "Of course you are."

"
What do you want me to say?" I said,
feeling the same deadly mix of lust and guilt I'd felt about three
hours before. Knowing deep down that the lust would win out.

"What I want clearly doesn't make any difference
to you."

"
That isn't true."

Her voice dropped to a wounded whisper—so full of
pain that it hurt me. "I needed you, damn you. And you didn't
come. You left me alone."

I didn't answer her. I didn't know how to answer.
After a moment's silence she found her voice again.

"What is it you wanted?"

"
Shelley Sacks," I said guiltily. "Is
he there with you?"

Louise laughed again. "He went home about two
hours ago. They've all gone home hours ago."

"Where does he live?"

"Two twenty-five Camargo Pike. Is that it?"

She hung up the phone before I could answer her.

I got in the car and started for Sacks' house. Out
I-71 into that rich preserve of mazey woods and hidden drives. But
somewhere along the way I got lost in the dark, and it was Pearson's
house I found myself parked in front of. There were no lights on. No
other cars in the driveway. I sat there for a long time, listening to
the December wind rattling the icy branches of the ginko trees,
without the guts to go in, without the guts to leave. I don't know
how much time passed before a light came on above the front
door—fierce and white as a spot.

The door opened and I saw her look out. She was
wrapped in a silk robe that seemed to have no color at all in the
fierce white light. Louise herself didn't look quite real in the
blazing light. She stared out at me for a long moment. Then the light
went out. All I could see in the sudden darkness was the glimmer of
her white wrap, trailing across the moonlit lawn like an afterimage.

I got out of the car and went after her. She was
shivering when I caught up to her. She looked at me wild-eyed, as if
she didn't recognize my face. A11 around us the wind chimed in the
trees.

"It's me," I said over the wind. "It's
Harry."

"I thought it was someone else," she said,
still looking wild-eyed. "I thought it was . . . someone."

I pulled her close, wrapped my coat around her
shoulders, and started her back to the house. She leaned heavily
against me.

As soon as we got in the door I flipped on the hall
light. The wind had disheveled her hair, leaving it tangled about her
face. Shivering all over Louise ducked her head in
embarrassment.

"I took some pills," she said weakly. "I
was asleep. I heard the car outside. I thought . . ."
Raising her head she reached for me. I pulled her
against my chest.

"I had a bad dream," she whispered. "And
I was alone."

"I'm here now," I said.

Holding her tight I guided her down the hall and
upstairs. There was an open door next to the landing. The room inside
was lit faintly by the moon. A canopied bed with lace valances. A
smoothly sculpted Italian bureau. A skeletal chair by the window,
casting long barred  shadows on the rug.

I guided her over to the bed and laid her down on it.
She wouldn't let go of my hand.

"Please don't leave me alone," she
whispered. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

"I won't leave you alone."

Working loose from her grasp, I went over to the
window, picked up the chair and brought it back to the side of the
bed. Sitting down I reached out and took her hand again.

"Are you all right?" I said to her.

"Better," she whispered. "You won't
go?"

"
No."

She lay back on the pillows and stared up at the
canopy above her. "I never liked being alone in the dark.
There's something in it, something that always terrifies me. Phil
says . . ." Her voice caught in her throat. "He said that
someday it would swallow me up."

"Why would he say that?"

"To frighten me." She giggled like_a child.
It sounded strange coming from her—huddled and sad.

She squeezed my hand, then dropped it and rolled onto
her side.

"You don't have to sleep in that chair, you
know," she said, sounding more like the woman I knew.

I watched her for a time, then got up and lay down on
the bed beside her. She put an arm around me.

"Thanks," she whispered.

When I was sure she was asleep I got up and went
downstairs. The flickering red-and-blue Christmas tree lights guided
me down the hall to Phil Pearson's study. I opened the door and went
inside. Enough moonlight was coming through the French windows for me
to make my way over to the glass desk. A small lamp sat on one comer.
I flipped it on.

Papers were scattered on the desktop where Pearson
had left them. I went through several of them—notes on patients,
bills. I was hoping to find something to lead me to Carla. But
nothing connected to the woman. I did find something connected to
Kirsten, however. Or disconnected. Facedown in the drawer of the desk
I found half of a picture that had been torn in two. It was a picture
of Kirsten when she was a little girl, standing on a lawn looking up
lovingly at someone in the missing half of the photo. I could have
been wrong, but I thought it might be the missing half of the photo
I'd found in the girl's room in Chicago—the photo of Pearson.

I was staring at it when Louise came in the room.

She startled me so much that I jumped.

"Sorry," she said. "I woke up and
thought you'd gone."

"I told you I wouldn't leave."

"People don't always do what they say." She
stared at the tom photo in my hand. "What's that?"

"A picture of Kirsten when she was a little
girl."

A dark look passed over Louise's face. "He would
keep such a thing. His hair shirt."

"What does that mean?"

Louise shook her head sleepily. "What difference
does it make anymore? Come back to bed."

"It makes a difference," I said sharply.

Louise stared at me with new interest. "I
thought this thing was over."

"It's not over."

"I told you I didn't want you to keep
investigating it."

"
I know what you said. I'm not working for you
now."

Louise went over to a chair and sat down heavily. "Is
there something I should know?"

"I think your late husband murdered his first
wife."

"Harry, I've already told you that he had no
reason to want Stelle dead."