You belong to me (34 page)

She spent it studying the file she had compiled as a result of the events of the past week. It included Regina Clausen's memorabilia from her cruise on the Gabrielle, Carolyn Wells's similar memorabilia from the Seagodiva, and the photographs of Tiffany's turquoise ring that Pete Sanchez had sent her.

Study as she might, however, they revealed nothing new to her. Finally she listened to segments of three of last week's programs: the one with Carolyn Wells calling on Monday, and the ones with calls from Tiffany Smith on Tuesday and Wednesday. She listened carefully to Carolyn, so upset and fearful of becoming involved; Tiffany, so apologetic on Wednesday because when she called in on Tuesday she had belittled the gift of the turquoise ring.

Susan's careful attention to the tapes proved fruitless too, however-they revealed nothing new.

She had asked Janet to hold off ordering lunch until after one o'clock. At one-thirty, Janet came in with the usual lunch bag. She was humming "YouBelong to Me."

"Dr. Chandler," she said as she placed the lunch bag on Susan's desk, "that song has been going through my head all weekend. I just can't shake it. It was also driving me crazy, because I couldn't remember all the lyrics, so I phoned my mother and she sang them to me. It really is a pretty song."

"Yes, it is," Susan agreed absentmindedly as she opened the paper bag and took out the soup of the day. It was split pea, which she detested, and which Janet knew she detested.

She's getting married next month and moving to Michigan, Susan reminded herself. Don't say anything. This too will pass.

"'See the pyramids along the Nile- /Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle-'"

Unasked, Janet was singing the lyrics of "You Belong to Me."

"'See the marketplace in old Algiers-'"

Susan suddenly forgot her annoyance about the soup. "Stop for a minute, Janet," she said.

Janet looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry if my singing is bothering you, Doctor."

"No, no, you're not bothering me at all," Susan said. "It's just that while listening to you, something occurred to me about that song."

Susan thought of the news bulletin from the Gabrielle that had referred to Bali as a tropic isle, and the postcard of a restaurant in Bali, with a circle drawn around a table on the dining verandah.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Susan could sense that the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Yes, the pieces were there, but she still hadn't figured out who had been manipulating them.

"Win"-or Owen-wanted to show Carolyn Wells around Algiers, she thought. "See the marketplace in old Algiers."

"Janet, could you sing the rest of the lyrics, please? Now," Susan requested.

"If you want, Doctor. I'm not much of a singer. Let's see. Oh, I have them. 'Fly the ocean in a silver plane-'"

Three years ago, Regina disappeared after being in Bali, Susan thought. Two years ago, it could have been Carolyn-and there may have been someone else chosen in her stead-in Algiers. Last year he may have met a woman on a plane rather than a cruise ship. What would have been before that? she asked herself. Let's go back: Did he meet a woman four years ago in Egypt? That would fit the pattern, she decided.

"'See the jungle when it's wet with rain-'" Janet was singing.

That could be the lyric for this year's victim, Susan thought. Somebody new. Somebody who has no idea she's being staked out for death.

"'Just remember 'til you're home again-' "Janet obviously liked to sing the song. She softened her voice, giving it a plaintive touch as she concluded, "'...You belong to me.'"

Susan called Chris Ryan as soon as Janet left her office. "Chris, will you see if you can track something else down? I need to know if there are any reports of a woman-probably a tourist-who vanished in Egypt in mid-October, four years ago."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Ryan assured her. "I was just about to call you anyhow. You remember those names you gave me this morning? Of those passengers on the two cruise ships?"

"What about them?" Susan asked.

"Those guys don't exist. The passports they used were fakes."

I knew it! Susan thought I knew it!

At ten of five that afternoon, Susan took an urgent phone call from Chris Ryan. Susan broke one of her own cardinal rules and left her patient alone while she took the call. "You're pushing the right buttons, Susan," Ryan said. "Four years ago a thirty-nine-year-old widow from Birmingham, Alabama, disappeared while in Egypt. She was on a cruise to the Middle East. She apparently had skipped the regular land tour and gone off by herself. Her body was never found, and it was assumed that, given Egypt's ongoing political unrest, she had met with foul play from one of the various terrorist groups trying to overthrow the government."

"I'm fairly certain that had nothing to do with why she died, Chris," Susan said.

A few minutes later, as she was walking her patient to the door, a bulky package was delivered. The sender was Ocean Cruise Pictures Ltd. of London.

"I'll open it, Doctor," Janet volunteered.

"Not necessary," Susan told her. "Just leave it. I'll get to it later."

Her day was filled with late appointments, and she wouldn't be finished with her last patient until seven. Then she finally would be able to go through the photographs that might just reveal the face of the man who had killed Regina Clausen and so many others.

Her fingers itched to go through the photographs right away. The identity of this killer had to be discovered before someone else died.

Another reason to find him immediately was especially significant to Susan: She wanted to be able to tell the dying Jane Clausen that the man who had deprived her of her daughter would never again break another parent's heart.

101

Donald Richards had arrived on schedule at West Palm Beach Airport at nine Monday morning. He was met there by an escort from his publisher, and was driven to Liberty's, in Boca Raton, where he was scheduled to autograph his book at ten-thirty. When he arrived, he was pleasantly surprised to find people lined up and waiting for him.

"We've had forty phone orders as well," the clerk assured him. "I hope you're writing a sequel to Vanishing Women."

More Vanishing Women? I don't think so, Richards said to himself as he settled at the table set up for him, picked up his pen, and began to sign. He knew what lay ahead that day, and he knew as well what he had to do; a wild restlessness was making him desperate to bolt from the seat.

One hour and eighty signed books later, he was on his way to Miami, where he was scheduled for another autographing at two o'clock.

"I'm sorry, but signatures only, no personal messages," he told the bookshop proprietor. "Something has come up, and I have to leave here promptly at three."

A few minutes after three he was back in the car.

"Next stop, the Fontainebleau," the driver said cheerfully.

"Wrong. Next stop, the airport," Don told him. There was a plane leaving for New York at four. He intended to be on it.

102

Dee had arrived in Costa Rica on Monday morning and had gone directly from the airport to the harbor, where her cruise ship, the Valerie, had just docked.

Monday afternoon she halfheartedly joined the sightseeing tour she had signed up for. When she had impulsively decided to take this cruise, it had seemed a great idea. "The big escape," her father had called it. Now she wasn't so sure. Besides, now that she was here, she couldn't decide what she had been escaping from.

She returned to the Valerie, bedraggled from a cloudburst in the rain forest and regretting that she hadn't canceled the trip. Yes, her stateroom on the sun deck was beautiful and even had its own private verandah, and it was clear already that her fellow passengers were congenial enough. Still she felt restless, even anxious-she sensed that this just wasn't the time to be away from New York.

The next stop on the cruise was scheduled for tomorrow, at Panama's San Blas Islands. The ship would dock at noon. Maybe it would be possible to catch a plane there and fly back to New York, she decided. She could always say that she wasn't feeling well.

By the time she had reached the sun deck, Dee had definitely decided to try to head back home tomorrow. There was a lot to be taken care of in New York.

As she left the elevator and headed for her stateroom, the room stewardess stopped her. "The most beautiful bouquet just arrived for you," she said. "I put it on your dresser."

Forgetting that she felt wet and clammy, Dee rushed to her room. There she found a vase holding two dozen pale gold roses. She quickly read the card. It was signed, "Guess Who."

Dee cupped the card in her hand. She didn't have to guess. She knew who had sent them.

At the dinner Saturday night, when she had changed places with Susan, Alex Wright had said to her, "I'm glad Susan suggested you sit next to me. I can't abide seeing a beautiful woman be lonely. I guess I'm more like my father than I realized. My stepmother was beautiful like you, and also a lonely widow when my father met her on a cruise ship. He solved her loneliness by marrying her."

Dee remembered that she had joked that it seemed a little radical to marry someone just to cure her loneliness, and Alex had taken her hand and said, "Perhaps, but not as radical as some solutions."

It's Jack all over again, she thought as she inhaled the scent of the roses. I didn't want to hurt Susan then, and I certainly don't want to hurt her now. But I don't think she's really that interested in Alex yet. She hardly knows him. I'm sure she'll understand.

Dee showered, washed her hair, and dressed for dinner, imagining what fun it would be if instead of his going to Russia, Alex were a passenger on the ship with her.

103

"Thank you, Dr. Chandler. I'll see you next week."

At ten of seven, Susan escorted Anne Ketler, her last patient of the day, to the door. As she passed Janet's desk, Susan saw that the package of photographs had been opened, and the photographs were stacked on the desk. Thou hast ears, but hear not, she thought.

She opened the office's outer door for Mrs. Ketler, and from its easy click realized that it had been left unlocked. Janet's a really nice person, she thought, and in many ways a good secretary, but she's careless. And irritating. It's a good thing she's leaving next month; I would hate to have to fire her.

"It's very dark out there," Mrs. Ketler said as she stepped into the hallway.

Susan looked over the woman's shoulder. Only a couple of lights illuminated the hallway, which was filled with shadows. "You're absolutely right," she told Mrs. Ketler. "Here, take my arm. I'll walk with you to the elevator." Though not frail, Mrs. Ketler, a woman in her seventies, was prone to skittishness. She had come to Susan a year ago, looking to overcome the depression that had settled over her after she sold her home and moved into an assisted-living facility.

Susan waited until the elevator came, and she pushed the lobby button for Anna Ketler before hurrying back down the corridor. She paused for a minute at Nedda's office and tried the door. It was locked.

Things are improving here, at least, she thought. She had decided against the idea of asking Nedda for the use of her conference room tonight. With only four hundred or so pictures to go through, she wouldn't really need it.

It would be a different matter tomorrow evening, when she had the thousands of pictures from the Gabrielle to sort through. Nedda's long, wide table would be the perfect place to spread them out and group them. I'll have Chris Ryan help me, she decided. He has a good, quick eye.

Maybe this "Owen" person will be in the background of more than one picture, Susan thought. That would make the job much easier.

Entering the reception area, she picked up the stacks of photographs from Janet's desk, not noticing the note that Janet had left under the phone for her. She crossed to her office, aware of both the silence in the building and the accelerated heartbeat she felt at the thought of finally seeing a picture of the man responsible for this series of murders. What am I so nervous about? she wondered as she passed the supply closet. The door was open a fraction, but with her arms full she didn't pause to close it.

As she set the photos on her desk, she accidentally hit the beautiful Waterford vase Alex Wright had given her, sending it crashing to the floor. What a shame, she thought, as she swept up the shards of glass and loaded them into the wastebasket.

It's the effect of everything that's been going on, she decided as she put Anna Ketler's file in the bottom drawer of her desk. This past week has been a nightmare. She locked the drawer and put the key in the pocket of her jacket. I'll put it on the key ring later, she decided: Right now I just want to get at those pictures.

What will he look like? she wondered, aware that there was very little likelihood she would recognize him. I just pray the photo is clear enough to give the police something to go on, she thought.

An hour later she was still going through the photographs, still searching for the one with Carolyn Wells. It has to be here, Susan thought. They said they were going to send every print they had of a woman posing with the captain.

She had the crumpled piece of a picture that Carolyn had thrown in her wastebasket, and she kept referring to it, searching for its match in the stacks of photographs she had spread out before her. But no matter how many times she went through them, she couldn't find it. That photograph simply wasn't there.

"Where in God's name is it?" she asked out loud, exasperation and disappointment threatening to overwhelm her. "Why, of all of them, is that one missing?"

"Because I have it, Susan," a familiar voice said in response.

Susan spun around in time to receive the blow of a paperweight smashing against the side of her head

104

Just as he had planned, he would follow the same procedure with Susan Chandler that he had used for all the others. He would bind her arms and hands to her sides; bind her legs together; truss her so that as she woke up and realized what was happening, she would be able to squirm a little-just enough to give her hope, but not enough to save her.