"And what about the ones you don't reach? Monsignor, this nineteen-year-old girl may be in grave danger."

Monsignor Dillon picked up the fax, his expression deepening with concern as he studied it. "Sam, as you say, this last communication is frightening, but you can understand why we have to be careful. To protect us from possible legal problems, get a subpoena. That way we can release the names to you immediately. But I would suggest that you allow me to talk to as many of these families as possible."

"Thank you, sir. I won't take any more of your time right now."

They both stood up. "It occurred to me that your correspondent is something of a Shakespearean scholar/' Monsignor Dillon observed. "Not too many people would have used a fairly obscure quote like this one about the lilies."

"That occurred to me as well, Monsignor." Sam paused. "I should have thought to ask this immediately: Are any of the priests who were assigned here at the time Jean's baby might have been baptized still with the diocese?"

"Father Doyle was the assistant pastor, and he died years ago. Monsignor Sullivan was the pastor at that time. He moved to Florida with his sister and brother-in-law. I can give you the latest address we have for him."

"I'd like to have that."

"It's right here in my file drawer. I'll give it to you now." He opened the drawer, pulled out a folder, glanced in it, and wrote a name, address, and phone number on a slip of paper. He handed it to Sam, saying, "Dr. Connors' widow is a parishioner. If you wish, I can call and ask her to see you. She might remember something about that adoption."

"Thanks, but that won't be necessary. I spoke to Jean Sheridan just before coming here. She found Mrs. Connors' address in the phone book and is probably on her way to see her right now."

As they walked to the door, Monsignor Dillon said, "Sam, I just remembered something. Alice Sommers is our parishioner also. Are you the investigator who has continued to work on her daughter's case?"

"Yes, I am."

"She has told me about you. I hope you know how much comfort it has given her to know that you haven't stopped trying to find Karen's murderer."

"I'm glad that it's helped her. Alice Sommers is a very brave woman."

They stood at the door. "I was shocked to hear on the radio this morning that the body of the woman who was walking her dog has been found," Monsignor Dillon commented. "Is your office involved with that case?" Yes, we are.

"I understand that, like Karen Sommers, it appears to be a random killing and that she was also stabbed to death. I know it seems implausible, but do you think there is any chance that there is a connection between those murders?"

"Monsignor, Karen Sommers died twenty years ago," Sam said carefully. He did not want to share the fact that the same possibility had been preying on his mind, particularly since the stab wounds had been in exactly the same area of the chest.

The Monsignor shook his head. "I guess I'd better leave the detecting to you. It was just a thought that occurred to me, and because you're so close to the Sommers case, I felt I should mention it." He opened the front door and shook Sam's hand. "God bless you, Sam. I'll pray for Lily, and I'll get back to you with the names as fast as we can put them together."

"Thank you, sir. Do pray for Lily, and while you're at it, remember Laura Wilcox."

"The actress?"

"Yes. We're afraid she's in trouble, too. No one has seen her since Saturday night."

Monsignor Dillon stared at Sam's retreating back. Laura Wilcox was at the Stonecroft reunion, he thought incredulously. Has something happened to her as well? Dear God, what's going on here?

With a fervent silent prayer for the safety of both Lily and Laura, he returned to his office and dialed his secretary. "Janet, please drop everything else you're doing and get out the baptismal records of nineteen years ago, from March through June. As soon as Father

Arella returns, tell him I have a job for him and to cancel any other plans he may have made for the day."

"Of course, Monsignor." Janet hung up the phone and looked longingly at the grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and container of coffee that had just been delivered to her desk. As she pushed back her chair and begrudgingly got to her feet, she mumbled to herself, "My God, from the tone of his voice you'd think it was a matter of life and death."

45

Dorothy Connors was a frail septuagenarian who Jean could see at first glance suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. She moved slowly, and the joints of her fingers were swollen. Her face showed lines of pain, and she wore her white hair very short, probably, Jean thought, because raising her arms was a distinct effort.

Her home was one of the desirable high-up properties that overlooked the Hudson. She invited Jean to the sunroom off the living room where, as she explained, she spent most of her waking time.

Her vivid brown eyes brightened when she talked about her husband. "Edward was the most wonderful man and husband and doctor who ever walked the face of the earth," she said. "It was that dreadful fire that killed him, the loss of his office and all his records. It brought on his heart attack."

"Mrs. Connors, I explained to you on the phone that I've been getting threats about my daughter. She would be nineteen and a half now. I am frantic to find her adoptive parents and warn them about the possible danger to her. I was a girl from this town. Please help me. Did Dr. Connors talk to you about me? I could see where he would. My mother and father were the town joke, with their public quarrels, and they only stayed together long enough to shove me into college. That was why your husband understood I could never go to them for help. He arranged the cover-up story, establishing my reason for going to Chicago. He even came out and delivered the baby himself in the emergency section of the nursing home."

"Yes, he did that for a number of girls. He wanted to help them maintain their privacy. Jean, fifty years ago it wasn't easy for a girl to have a baby out of wedlock. Do you know that the actress Ingrid Bergman was denounced in Congress when she gave birth to an illegitimate child? Standards of behavior change-for better or worse, you decide. Today most of the world doesn't think a thing about an unmarried woman bearing and raising a child, but my husband was old-fashioned. Twenty years ago he was deeply concerned about protecting his young pregnant mothers' privacy, even with me. Until you told me, I never even knew that you had been his patient."

"But you did know about my parents."

Dorothy Conners looked at Jean for a long moment. "I knew they had problems. I also saw them at church and chatted with them a number of times. My guess, my dear, is that you only remember the bad times. They were also attractive, intelligent people who unfortunately were ill-suited to each other."

Jean felt the sting of a rebuke and in an odd way sensed that she had been put on the defensive. "I can guarantee you that they were ill-suited to each other," she said, hoping that the anger she felt was not reflected in her voice. "Mrs. Connors, I do appreciate that you let me visit you on such short notice, but now I'll be brief. My daughter may be in very real danger. I know that you fiercely guard Dr. Connors' memory, but if you know anything about where he might have placed her, you owe it to me and to her to be honest with me."

"Before God, Edward never discussed patients in your situation with me, and I never heard your name mentioned by him."

"And he kept no records at home, and all his office records are gone?"

"Yes, they are. The entire building was so totally destroyed that arson has always been suspected but never proved. Certainly no records survived."