“Gus told me that your family lived in Greenwich and that you grew up there,” she said. “Did you know the Lasches?”

In other words, Tim thought, she’s saying I know you know who I am and all about my father, so let’s skip that. “Dr. Lasch, I mean Gary ’s father, was our family doctor,” he said. “A nice man and a good physician.”

“How about Gary?” Fran asked swiftly.

Tim’s eyes hardened. “A dedicated doctor,” he said flatly. “He took wonderful care of my grandmother before she died at Lasch Hospital. That was only weeks before his own death.”

Tim did not add that when his grandmother had been ill, the special-duty nurse who frequently attended her was Annamarie Scalli.

Annamarie, a pretty young woman, had been a terrific nurse and a nice, if rather unsophisticated, kid, he remembered. Gran had been crazy about her. In fact, Annamarie had been in the room with his grandmother when she died. By the time I got there, Tim thought, Gran was gone, and Annamarie was sitting by her bed, crying. How many nurses would react like that? he wondered.

“I’ve got to see what’s going on at my desk,” he announced. “Talk to you later, Gus. Nice to meet you, Fran.” With a wave he left the office and headed down the corridor. He did not think it fair to tell Fran how totally his opinion of Gary Lasch had changed after he heard about his involvement with Annamarie Scalli.

She’d been only a kid, Tim thought angrily, and in a way she was not unlike Fran Simmons, the victim of someone else’s selfishness. She’d been forced to give up her job and move out of town. The murder trial brought national attention, and for a time she was in every gossip column.

He wondered where Annamarie was now and worried briefly if Fran Simmons’s investigation would hurt the new life she might have built for herself.

15

Annamarie Scalli walked briskly down the block to the modest home in Yonkers where she began her daily rounds of home care for the elderly. After more than five years of working for the visiting nurse service, she had made her peace with life, at least to a degree. She no longer missed the hospital nursing she once had loved. She no longer looked every day at the pictures of the child she had borne. After five years it had been agreed that the adoptive parents were no longer required to send her an annual picture. It had been months since she received the last photo of the little boy who was growing up to be the image of his father, Gary Lasch.

She used her mother’s maiden name now, Sangelo. Her body had filled out and, like her mother and sister, she was now a size 14. The dark hair that used to bounce on her shoulders was a trim, curly cap around her heart-shaped face. At twenty-nine, she looked to be what she in fact was-competent, practical, kindhearted. Nothing in her appearance resembled the curvaceous “other woman” in the Dr. Gary Lasch murder case.

The night before last, Annamarie had caught on the evening news the clip of Molly Lasch making her statement to the media. The sight of Niantic Prison in the background had made her almost physically ill. Since then she had been haunted by the memory of the day three years ago when a desperate need made her drive past the prison. She’d tried to visualize herself in there as well.

It’s where I belong, she whispered fiercely to herself as she made her way up the cracked concrete steps to Mr. Olsen’s home. But driving past the prison that day, her courage had failed her, and she’d gone directly home to her little apartment in Yonkers. It was the only time she had come close to calling that fatherly lawyer who’d been her patient at Lasch Hospital to ask him to help her turn herself in to the state’s attorney.

As she rang Mr. Olsen’s bell, then let herself in with her key and called a cheery “Good morning,” Annamarie had the ominous feeling that the renewed interest in the Lasch murder would inevitably bring renewed interest in finding her. And she didn’t want that to happen.

She was afraid to have that happen.

16

Calvin Whitehall ignored Peter Black’s secretary as he walked past her desk and opened the door to Peter’s lavishly appointed corner office.

Black looked up from the reports he was reading. “You’re early.”

“No I’m not,” Whitehall snapped. “Jenna saw Molly last night.”

“Molly had the nerve to phone and warn me I’d better be available to Fran Simmons, that reporter on NAF. Did Jenna tell you about the True Crime show the Simmons woman is doing on Gary?”

Calvin Whitehall nodded. The two men stared across the desk at each other. “There’s worse,” Whitehall said flatly. “Molly seems to be determined to locate Annamarie Scalli.”

Black paled. “Then I suggest you find a way to send her on a wild goose chase,” he said quietly. “The ball is in your court on this one. And you’d better handle it carefully. I don’t need to remind you of what this can mean to both of us.”

Angrily he tossed the reports he had been studying across the desk. “All these are new potential malpractice suits.”

“Squash them.”

“I intend to.”

Cal Whitehall studied his partner, observing the slight tremor in Peter Black’s hand, the broken capillaries on his cheeks and chin. Cold distaste evident in his tone, he said, “We’ve got to stop that reporter and keep Molly away from Annamarie. In the meantime you’d better have a drink.”

17

Fran knew the instant she met Tim Mason that he was aware of her background. I might as well get used to it, she thought. I’ll see that reaction again and again from people in Greenwich. All they have to do is put two and two together. Fran Simmons? Wait a minute. Simmons. The speculative look. Why does that name sound familiar? Oh, of course. Her father was the one who…

She did not sleep well that night and was feeling less than chipper when she reached the office the next morning. An immediate reminder of her troubled dreams was waiting on her desk-a message from Molly Lasch, giving the name of the psychiatrist who had treated her pending the trial: “I called Dr. Daniels. He’s semiretired now but would be happy to see you. His office is on Greenwich Avenue,” her message said.

Dr. Daniels; Molly’s lawyer, Philip Matthews; Dr. Peter Black; Calvin and Jenna Whitehall; Edna Barry, the housekeeper Molly had rehired-these were the people Molly suggested she see as a starting point in her investigation, but Fran had other people in mind too. Annamarie Scalli, for one.

She picked up Molly’s message and studied it. I’ll start with Dr. Daniels, she decided.

John Daniels had been contacted by Molly Lasch and was expecting Fran’s call. He readily suggested that if she wanted to come up that afternoon, he would be able to see her. Although seventy-five on his last birthday, and semiretired, he had not been able to completely give up his practice, despite the coaxing of his wife. There were too many people who still depended on him and whom he could help.

One of the few he felt he had failed was Molly Carpenter Lasch. He had known her since she was a child and would sometimes come to dinner at the club with her parents. She had been a beautiful little girl, unfailingly polite, and composed beyond her years. Nothing in either her makeup or in the battery of tests he conducted after her arrest suggested she might be capable of the violent outburst that had resulted in Gary Lasch’s death.

His receptionist, Ruthie Roitenberg, had been with him twenty-five years and, with the privilege of longevity in a job, was not above stating her frank opinions and passing along gossip. It was she who, after being told Fran Simmons was expected at two o’clock, said, “Doctor, you do know whose daughter she is?”