ex-heir.
Selecting a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator, Highley
sat down to eat in the breakfast room. As he ate, his mind ran
over the exact dosage he would give Katie DeMaio. Traces of
the heparin and the Coumadin might show in her bloodstream if
there were a thorough autopsy. But he could circumvent that.
Before going to bed, he went out to the foyer closet. He'd get
those moccasins safely into his bag now. Reaching into one pocket
of the Burberry, he pulled out a misshapen moccasin. Expectantly
he put his free hand in the other pocket—first matter-offactly,
then rummaging frantically. Finally he pawed through
the overshoes stacked on the closet floor.
At last he stood up, staring at the battered moccasin he was
holding. The right one. The one he had tugged off Vangie's right
foot. Hysterically he began to laugh.
Somehow in the dark the moccasin had fallen out of his pocket.
The one he'd found after crawling around in the parking lot like
a dog was the one he'd already had. Somewhere the left moccasin
that Vangie Lewis had been wearing was waiting to trace her
footsteps back to him.
KATIE had set the clock radio for six a.m., but she was wide
awake long before. Her sleep had been troubled; several times
she'd almost started to jump up, frightened by a vague, worrisome
dream. Shivering, she adjusted the thermostat, then ran to the
kitchen, quickly made coffee and took a cup back upstairs to bed.
Propped against the pillows, the comforter wrapped around her,
she eagerly sipped as the heat of the cup warmed her fingers.
"That's better," she murmured. "Now, what's the matter with me?"
She glanced into the mirror of the antique mahogany dresser
opposite the bed. Her hair was tousled. The bruise under her eye
was now purple tinged with yellow. Her eyes were swollen with
sleep. I look like something the cat dragged in, she reflected.
But it was more than the way she looked. It was a heavy feeling
of apprehension. Had she dreamed that queer, frightening nightmare
again? She couldn't be sure.
Vangie Lewis. It seemed impossible that anyone would choose
to kill her by forcing cyanide down her throat. She simply didn't
believe Chris Lewis was capable of that kind of violence.
She thought of Dr. Highley's call. That damn operation. Well,
at least she was getting it over with. Check in Friday night. Operation
Saturday, home Sunday. At work Monday. No big deal.
As she sipped her coffee, she glanced instinctively at John's picture.
A handsome, grave-looking man with gentle, penetrating
eyes. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she was keeping a deathwatch.
John would be the first one to blast her for that.
A hot shower picked up her spirits. She had a plea-bargaining
session scheduled for nine, a sentencing at ten and Friday's trial
to prepare for. I'd better get a move on, she thought.
She dressed quickly, selecting a soft brown wool skirt and a
turquoise silk shirt with long sleeves that covered the bandage on
her arm. The car from the service station arrived as she finished a
second coffee. She took the driver back and drove to the office.
It had been a busy night in the county. There had been a
drunken-driving accident resulting in four deaths, and two armed
robberies.
Scott Myerson was just coming out of his office. "Lovely night,"
Katie observed.
He nodded. "Look, I'm interested in the psychiatrist Vangie
Lewis was going to. I'd like his opinion of her mental state. I can
send Phil, but a woman would be less noticeable over there."
Katie hesitated. "Maybe I can help out. Dr. Highley is my
gynecologist. I actually have an appointment with him today. Perhaps
I could see Dr. Fukhito before or after."
Scott's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you think of
Highley? Richard made some crack yesterday about Vangie's condition;
seemed to think that he was
Selecting a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator, Highley
sat down to eat in the breakfast room. As he ate, his mind ran
over the exact dosage he would give Katie DeMaio. Traces of
the heparin and the Coumadin might show in her bloodstream if
there were a thorough autopsy. But he could circumvent that.
Before going to bed, he went out to the foyer closet. He'd get
those moccasins safely into his bag now. Reaching into one pocket
of the Burberry, he pulled out a misshapen moccasin. Expectantly
he put his free hand in the other pocket—first matter-offactly,
then rummaging frantically. Finally he pawed through
the overshoes stacked on the closet floor.
At last he stood up, staring at the battered moccasin he was
holding. The right one. The one he had tugged off Vangie's right
foot. Hysterically he began to laugh.
Somehow in the dark the moccasin had fallen out of his pocket.
The one he'd found after crawling around in the parking lot like
a dog was the one he'd already had. Somewhere the left moccasin
that Vangie Lewis had been wearing was waiting to trace her
footsteps back to him.
KATIE had set the clock radio for six a.m., but she was wide
awake long before. Her sleep had been troubled; several times
she'd almost started to jump up, frightened by a vague, worrisome
dream. Shivering, she adjusted the thermostat, then ran to the
kitchen, quickly made coffee and took a cup back upstairs to bed.
Propped against the pillows, the comforter wrapped around her,
she eagerly sipped as the heat of the cup warmed her fingers.
"That's better," she murmured. "Now, what's the matter with me?"
She glanced into the mirror of the antique mahogany dresser
opposite the bed. Her hair was tousled. The bruise under her eye
was now purple tinged with yellow. Her eyes were swollen with
sleep. I look like something the cat dragged in, she reflected.
But it was more than the way she looked. It was a heavy feeling
of apprehension. Had she dreamed that queer, frightening nightmare
again? She couldn't be sure.
Vangie Lewis. It seemed impossible that anyone would choose
to kill her by forcing cyanide down her throat. She simply didn't
believe Chris Lewis was capable of that kind of violence.
She thought of Dr. Highley's call. That damn operation. Well,
at least she was getting it over with. Check in Friday night. Operation
Saturday, home Sunday. At work Monday. No big deal.
As she sipped her coffee, she glanced instinctively at John's picture.
A handsome, grave-looking man with gentle, penetrating
eyes. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she was keeping a deathwatch.
John would be the first one to blast her for that.
A hot shower picked up her spirits. She had a plea-bargaining
session scheduled for nine, a sentencing at ten and Friday's trial
to prepare for. I'd better get a move on, she thought.
She dressed quickly, selecting a soft brown wool skirt and a
turquoise silk shirt with long sleeves that covered the bandage on
her arm. The car from the service station arrived as she finished a
second coffee. She took the driver back and drove to the office.
It had been a busy night in the county. There had been a
drunken-driving accident resulting in four deaths, and two armed
robberies.
Scott Myerson was just coming out of his office. "Lovely night,"
Katie observed.
He nodded. "Look, I'm interested in the psychiatrist Vangie
Lewis was going to. I'd like his opinion of her mental state. I can
send Phil, but a woman would be less noticeable over there."
Katie hesitated. "Maybe I can help out. Dr. Highley is my
gynecologist. I actually have an appointment with him today. Perhaps
I could see Dr. Fukhito before or after."
Scott's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you think of
Highley? Richard made some crack yesterday about Vangie's condition;
seemed to think that he was
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