“Then who was stealing the paintings?”

“Elaine Carrington’s son, Richard Walker.”

79

Pat Jennings put down the book she was reading, picked up the television remote control, and flipped on the ten o’clock news. “Have to see what’s going on in the world,” she told her husband, who was dozing over a magazine. Not expecting a response, she turned her attention to the screen.

“We have a breaking news story,” the Fox News anchor was saying. “The body of forty-six-year-old Alexandra Lloyd has been found floating in the East River. The victim had been stabbed numerous times. A neighbor and close friend described her as an art teacher who had recently lost her job at a local high school because of budget cuts. Anyone with information should phone the tipster line, 212-555- 7000.”

“Alexandra Lloyd!” Pat exclaimed, just as the phone rang.

It was Trish. “Pat, I was just watching the news, and-”

“I know,” Pat said, “I was watching it, too.”

“Are you going to call that tip line and tell them about her calls to Richard Walker?”

“You bet I am, and right now.”

“That poor woman. That’s so awful, to be stabbed and dumped in the river. My God, do you think he did it?”

“I don’t know, but that’s for the police to figure out.”

“Keep me posted,” Trish urged as she hung up.

80

After Charles Althorp had completed his statement and departed with his lawyer, Barbara Krause and Tom Moran stayed in her office, discussing the impact of what they had heard, and assessing how it affected their case against Peter Carrington.

“Even if Walker was stealing good paintings and substituting copies, it doesn’t mean that he killed Susan. And much of what Althorp told us is hearsay,” Barbara Krause said, flatly.

“And it doesn’t answer why Carrington hid his dress shirt that night and why his father handed Maria Valdez a check for five thousand dollars,” Moran pointed out. “Anyhow, the statute of limitations has run out on prosecuting Walker for theft, even if we can prove that he was an art crook.”

Barbara Krause stood up. “I’m tired. Let’s give it a rest.”

Her phone rang. “My family probably thinks I ran off with you,” she told Moran as she picked up the phone. Then, as she listened, her expression changed, and she began to pepper the caller with questions: “When did you find her?…The secretary is sure she was threatening him?…He’s leaving for London tomorrow?…Okay. Thanks.”

She hung up and looked at Moran. “Richard Walker’s name has turned up again. The body of a woman who frequently called Walker at work, and who left an angry, almost threatening message a few days ago, has been found floating in the East River. Her name was Alexandra Lloyd. The information about Lloyd calling Walker came from his secretary. My God, I wonder if the two stepbrothers are both killers.”

“How did she die?” Moran asked.

“She was stabbed at least a dozen times,” Krause said.

“Walker’s mother, Elaine Carrington, lives in a house on that estate. He may be there now,” Moran said.

“We’ll alert the Englewood cops and have them send a squad car over there immediately,” Krause replied, a worried tone in her voice. “I know they have some private security outside the estate, but Kay Carrington is alone in that house at night.”

81

What are you doing here?” I asked Vincent Slater as I scrambled to get up from where I had been sitting on the floor. “How did you get in?”

“How did I get in? I cannot describe to you the indignity of your asking how I got in. After thirty years of having a key to my own office in this house, after all the years I have spent protecting Peter, including protecting him from prosecution, I arrived here earlier this evening to find that the locks had been changed.”

“What do you mean, protecting Peter from prosecution?” I screamed. “Peter is innocent!”

“No, he is not. He was sleepwalking the night Susan disappeared. He didn’t know what he was doing. I’m sure of that.”

“You believe that!”

“His father must have known what happened,” Vincent replied. “That’s why he paid off the maid. I have the shirt; it has blood on it. That’s why I know that he must have done it. You know, Kay, you really had me fooled. At first I thought you really loved Peter, and that you would be good for him. But then you hired Greco, the very man who had located Maria Valdez, whose testimony about a bribe from Peter’s father will put another nail in Peter’s coffin. Weren’t you really hoping that Greco would dig up more evidence, so you could bury Peter once and for all? I know you would have given the shirt to Greco, so that’s why I kept it. Admit it. You married Peter to get your hands on his money. Now that you’re carrying his child, you’ve got a lock on it. Or, is it really Peter’s child?”

I was too dumbfounded to even respond.

“Or is it the child of the man to whom you’ve given a key to my office? I just saw someone coming into the house through my office. He left the door open, and that is how I came in. I came back for two reasons: one, because I had to tell you what I thought about your humiliating me by changing the locks, without even a warning.”

“And the second reason?” I asked scornfully.

“The second reason,” he replied with equal scorn, “is that, if by some remote possibility, I am wrong about Peter having killed Susan, you were inviting disaster this evening by flaunting that page from People magazine in the library. I just can’t fathom why you did that. I don’t know what significance that page has, but I suspect it must have some. Why else would Grace have kept it?”

“Vince, you just told me you saw a man come into this house through your office. Who was it? That door should have been locked.”

“It was dark, and I couldn’t tell who it was. But I think you know damn well who it was. Where is he now-in your bedroom?”

“No, I’m right here. Kay, you shouldn’t have left the new keys in the kitchen drawer.”

Startled, we both turned and looked in the direction from which the voice had come. Richard Walker was moving toward us, a pistol in his hand.

82

Deciding not to use the patrol car’s overhead lights or sirens that would alert Richard Walker if he was at the Carrington estate, Englewood police officer Steven Hausenstock pulled his squad car up to the gate and spoke to the guard. “Do you know if Richard Walker is here?” he asked.

“He arrived around five o’clock,” the guard replied. “He’s still here. He sometimes stays overnight at his mother’s house.”

“Who else is here?”

“Mr. Carrington’s assistant, Mr. Slater, left about half an hour ago, but then came back in the last few minutes.”

“All right. I need to check on Mrs. Kay Carrington.”

“You can drive up to the front door and ring the bell. If she doesn’t answer, the other guard is stationed there and has a key. He can let you in.”

The officer drove up to the front entrance. He could see that the only lights visible in the house were on the third floor.

“Is Mrs. Kay Carrington home?” the officer asked the guard.

“Yes, she is,” the guard answered. “She had dinner guests earlier. They all left about half an hour ago.”

“Who was here?” the officer asked.

“Mrs. Elaine Carrington, her son Richard Walker, and Vincent Slater. Mr. Slater just returned and went around to the back of the house where his office is. He usually enters there.”

“Where did Richard Walker go when he left?” the officer asked.

“He walked with his mother toward her house,” the guard said, pointing in that direction. “He must still be there, because I haven’t seen him. His car is parked outside her house.”