66

When they were finally able to leave the courthouse, Willy stepped out through a sea of cameras, ran out into the street, and hailed a cab.

Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, and holding Charley Shore’s hand, Zan raced to get in the taxi. But she could not escape the flashing bulbs and the microphones that were thrust in front of her. “Any statement for us now, Zan?” a reporter called.

Stopping in her tracks, she screamed, “I am not the woman in those photos, I am not, I am not.”

At the curb Willy was holding the cab door open. Charley helped her into it. “The big guy will take care of you now,” Charley said quietly.

For minutes after the cab pulled away, neither Zan nor Willy said anything. Then when they were almost at Central Park, she turned to Willy. “I simply don’t know how to thank you,” she began. “My apartment is a sublet. My bank account is nonexistent. There’s no way I could have made that bail. I’d be in the Tombs tonight in an orange jumpsuit if it weren’t for you and Alvirah.”

“There was no way you were going to be in the Tombs tonight, Zan,” Willy said. “Not on my watch.”

When they reached the apartment, Alvirah was waiting with glasses on the coffee table. She said, “Charley called me, Willy. He said Zan needs something stronger than red wine. What will it be, Zan?”

“I guess a scotch.” Zan tried to smile as she untied her scarf and slipped off her outer jacket, but it was a forlorn effort. “Or maybe two or three,” she added.

As she reached to take the jacket from her, Alvirah wrapped her arms around Zan. “When Charley called to say you were on your way, he asked me to remind you that this is only the first move in a long process and that he is going to fight every step of the way for you.”

Zan knew what she had to say, but she was not sure how to put it. Stalling for time, she sat on the couch and looked around the room. “I’m so glad that you went ahead with these matching club chairs, Alvirah. Remember we debated about having one of them be a wing chair?”

“You told me all along that I should get the matching club chairs,” Alvirah said. “When Willy and I were married we, and everyone we knew, bought a couch, a wing chair, and a club chair. And the end tables matched the cocktail table. And the lamps matched, too. Let’s face it. There weren’t too many interior decorators running around Jackson Heights, Queens, at the time.”

As she spoke, Alvirah was studying Zan, taking in the deep shadows under her eyes, the alabaster white of her skin, the fact that although she was naturally slender, she now seemed actually frail.

Zan picked up the drink Willy had prepared for her, shook it slightly to rattle the ice cubes against the side of the glass, and began, “This is terribly hard for me to say because it seems so ungrateful.”

She looked up at their concerned faces. “I can read your minds,” Zan said quietly. “You think I’m going to come clean and tell you that yes, I did kidnap and maybe even kill my child, the flesh of my flesh.

“That’s not what I’m going to say. I am going to tell you that I am not bipolar. I am not neurotic. I am not a split personality. I know what it looks like, and I don’t blame you for believing any or all of that.”

Her voice rising with passion, she said, “Someone else took Matthew. Someone who cares enough to look exactly like me is the woman in those photos in Central Park. I just read about a woman who spent a year in prison because two of her ex-fiancé’s friends claimed she had held them up at gunpoint. Finally one of them broke down and admitted he was lying.”

Zan stared into Alvirah’s eyes, beseeching her understanding. “Alvirah, on Matthew’s life, I swear before God, I am innocent. You’re a good detective. I’ve read your book. You’ve solved some pretty important crimes. Now I am going to ask you to rethink this awful mess. Say to yourself, ‘Zan is innocent. Everything she has told me is true. How do I go about proving her innocence instead of just pitying her?’ Is that possible?”

Alvirah and Willy looked at each other, knowing they could read each other’s minds. Ever since they had seen those pictures of Zan — or the woman who strikingly resembled her—they had passed judgment on her. Guilty.

I never even considered that she isn’t the woman in the pictures, Alvirah thought. Maybe there is another explanation for all this. “Zan,” she began slowly, “I am ashamed, and you are right. I am a pretty good detective, and I’ve been too quick to judge you. You are presumed innocent, which is the foundation of justice, something which I, like many people, have forgotten in your case. Where do I look for answers?”

“I swear Bartley Longe is behind this,” Zan said promptly. “I rejected his advances—never smart if you worked for him. I quit and opened my own firm. I’ve taken some of his clients. Today I learned the job of doing the model apartments at Carlton Place is mine.”

She saw the surprised expression that came into both their eyes. “Can you believe that Kevin Wilson, the architect, hired me even though he knew I might be going to jail? Of course, now that I’m out on bail, I can work with Josh, but Kevin hired us knowing that Josh might have had to handle the job himself.”

“Zan, I know how much that assignment means to you,” Alvirah said. “And you won it over Bartley Longe!”

“Yes, but if he hates me now, can you imagine how much more he’ll hate me when he hears this?”

Alvirah had a frightening thought that Zan may have missed something. If she was right and some woman was skillfully impersonating her, and if Bartley Longe had hired a woman to dress up like Zan and kidnap Matthew, what might happen now? And what might Longe do to Matthew given this new insult of Zan getting a prestigious job that he wanted himself? If Longe is guilty and if Matthew is still alive, will Longe be driven even further in his need to harm Zan?

Before Alvirah could speak, Zan said, “I’ve been trying to sort everything out myself. For some reason Nina Aldrich told those detectives that I was to meet her at her apartment on Beekman Place. That simply isn’t true. Maybe the housekeeper was within earshot when Nina told me to meet her at the town house on Sixty-ninth Street that day.”

“All right, Zan, that may be a good lead. I’ll try to get to the housekeeper. I’m good at making friends with someone like that. Don’t forget I was a cleaning woman for years.” Alvirah hurried to get the pad and pen on the shelf under the kitchen phone.

When she returned, Zan said, “And, please talk to Tiffany Shields, the babysitter. She asked for a Pepsi and when I went to get it she followed me into the kitchen. She took it out of the refrigerator and opened it herself. I never touched it. She asked me if I had any cold pills. I gave her a Tylenol for colds. I’ve never had the Tylenol with a sedative in my home. Now she’s decided that’s what I gave her.”

The phone rang. “It always rings when we’re about to have dinner,” Willy grunted, as he went to pick it up.

An instant later his expression changed. “Oh my God! What hospital? We’ll go right over. Thanks, Father.”

Willy replaced the receiver, then turned to Alvirah and Zan who were staring at him.

“Who, Willy?” Alvirah asked, her hand over her heart.

“Fr. Aiden. Some guy with a lot of heavy black hair shot him in the Reconciliation Room. He’s in NYU Hospital, Alvirah. He’s in intensive care. His condition is critical. He may not last through the night.”