It was a comforting thought. Keep your perspective, Fran warned herself. “Mr. Matthews,” she said, “I’m familiar enough with the law to know that your conversations with Molly are privileged and mine are not. I think you still are convinced that Molly killed Dr. Lasch. I started out believing that, but in the past few days I have developed some mighty serious doubts about her guilt. At the very least, I have a lot of questions I want to get answered.”
Philip Matthews continued to look at her coldly.
“I suppose you think this is a media trick,” Fran snapped. “It isn’t. As someone who likes Molly very much and wants to help her, who wants to learn the truth, however hurtful that may be, I suggest you develop an open mind where Molly is concerned; otherwise you should get the hell out of her life.”
She turned her back on him. I need a cup of coffee as much as Molly does, she decided.
Matthews followed her into the kitchen. “Look Fran… It is Fran, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, that’s what your friends call you?”
“Yes.”
“I think we’d better get on a first-name basis. Obviously when I talk to Molly, you can’t be in the room, but it would be helpful if you would fill me in on anything you know that might help her.”
The antagonism was gone from his face. The protective way he said Molly’s name hit Fran. She’s a lot more to him than just a client, she decided. It was a tremendously reassuring thought. “Actually I’d like to go over a number of things with you,” she said.
Mrs. Barry had finished preparing a tray for Molly. “Coffee, juice, and toast or a muffin is all she ever has,” she explained.
Fran and Matthews helped themselves to coffee. Fran waited until Mrs. Barry had left to go upstairs with the tray before she asked, “Did you know that everyone at the hospital was surprised when they learned of Annamarie’s affair with Gary Lasch, because they thought she was romantically involved with Dr. Jack Morrow, who was also on the staff of Lasch Hospital? And that Jack Morrow just happened to be murdered in his office two weeks before Dr. Lasch died? Did you know that?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you ever meet Annamarie Scalli?”
“No, the case was resolved before she was scheduled to testify.”
“Do you remember if anything ever came up about a house key that was always kept hidden in the garden here?”
Matthews frowned. “Something may have come up, but it didn’t amount to anything. Quite frankly, my feeling was that, because of the circumstances of the murder and the way Molly was covered with Dr. Lasch’s blood, the investigation into his death began and ended with her.
“Fran, go upstairs and tell Molly I have to see her right away,” Matthews said. “I remember she has a sitting room in her suite. I’ll talk to her there before I let the police get near her. I’ll get Mrs. Barry to have them wait down here somewhere.”
Just then a distressed Mrs. Barry hurried into the kitchen. “When I went upstairs a moment ago with her breakfast, Molly was in bed, fully dressed and with her eyes closed.” She paused. “Dear God, it’s just like the last time!”
37
Dr. Peter Black invariably started his day with a quick check of the international stock market on one of the cable financial channels. He then ate a spartan breakfast-during which he insisted upon complete silence-and later listened to classical music on the car radio as he drove to work.
Sometimes when he reached the hospital grounds he would take a brisk stroll before settling down at his desk.
On Monday morning the sun was out. Overnight the temperature had risen almost twenty degrees, and Black decided a ten-minute walk this morning would clear his head.
It had been a troubled weekend. The visit to Molly Lasch on Saturday evening had been another failure, Cal Whitehall’s stupid, ill-conceived notion of the way to win the woman’s cooperation.
Peter Black frowned as he noticed a gum wrapper lying at the edge of the parking lot and made a mental note to have his secretary call the maintenance department and warn them about their sloppiness.
Molly’s stubborn insistence on pursuing this idea of her innocence in Gary ’s death infuriated him. “I didn’t do it. The killer went thataway”-Who did she think she was kidding? He knew what she was doing, though. He thought of it as Molly-strategy: Tell a lie loud enough, emphatically enough, often enough, and eventually some people will believe you.
It will be all right, he reassured himself. The mergers will go through. After all, they had the inside track to absorb the other HMOs, and the process already was underway. This is where we miss Gary, Black thought. I just don’t have the patience for the endless socializing and glad-handing needed to keep key company executives on board with us. Cal can use business leverage to keep some of them in line, he told himself, but Cal ’s kind of aggressive power plays don’t work with everyone. If we’re not careful, some might switch to other health plans.
Frowning now, his hands in his pockets, Peter Black continued his walk around the new wing of the hospital, thinking back to his early days there, and remembering with grim admiration how Gary Lasch used to seem to thrive on all the socializing. He could turn on the charm and, when necessary, his solicitous demeanor, that look of concern that he had perfected.
Gary knew what he was doing when he married Molly too, Black reflected. Molly was the perfect Martha Stewart-type hostess, with her looks and money and family connections. Important people were actually flattered to be invited to her dinner parties.
Everything had been going so smoothly, just like clockwork, Peter Black thought, until Gary was fool enough to get involved with that Annamarie Scalli. Of all the sexy-looking young women in the world, he had to go and pick a nurse who also happened to be smart.
Too smart.
He had reached the entrance to the colonial style brick building that housed the offices of Remington Health Management Organization. He debated briefly about continuing his walk, but then decided to go in. The day was ahead of him, and he would have to deal with it sooner or later.
At ten o’clock he received a call from a nearly hysterical Jenna. “Peter, have you heard the news? A woman who was murdered last night in the parking lot of a diner in Rowayton has been identified as Annamarie Scalli, and the police are questioning Molly. On the radio they just about came out and called her a suspect.”
“Annamarie Scalli is dead?! Molly is a suspect?!” Peter Black proceeded to ask rapid-fire questions, pressing Jenna for details.
“Molly apparently met with Annamarie at the diner,” Jenna told him. “You’ll remember she said on Saturday that she wanted to see her. The waitress said Annamarie left the diner first, but that Molly followed her out less than a minute later. When the diner closed a little later still, apparently somebody noticed that a car had been in the lot for some time, and they checked it out because they’ve been having trouble with teenagers parking there and drinking. But what they found was Annamarie, stabbed to death.”
After Peter Black replaced the receiver, he leaned back, a contemplative look on his face. A moment later he smiled and heaved a great sigh, as though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Reaching into one of the desk’s side drawers, he extracted a flask. Pouring himself a shot of whiskey, he lifted the small cup in a toast. “Thank you, Molly,” he said aloud, then drank.