The Second Time Around by Mary Higgins Clark Page B

and by twelve-thirty was home and inbed. Under questioning he admitted that at the bar he had sounded off about the Spencers’ mansion in Bedford and how for two cents he’d torch it.
    His wife corroborated the testimony about the time he had arrived home and gone to bed, but she also admitted that when she woke up at three o’clock, he was not there. She also said that she had not been surprised at his absence, because he was a restless sleeper, and sometimes in the middle of the night he would put a jacket over his pajamas and go out on the back porch to smoke. She went back to sleep and did not wake up until seven. At that time he was already in the kitchen and his hand was burned. He said it had happened when his hand touched the flame on the stove while he was cleaning up spilled cocoa.
    I had told the investigator from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Jason Knowles, that I did not think the man I now knew was Marty Bikorsky had anything to do with the fire, that he was troubled rather than vindictive. I wondered if I was losing the instinct that is essential to anyone in the news business. Then I decided that no matter how it looked for Bikorsky, I still felt that way.
    As I drove, I realized that something had been flickering in and out of my subconscious. Then it registered: It was the face of the man who had briefly stood at the door of Lynn’s hospital room. I knew I’d seen him before. Tuesday, he’d been standing outside the hospital when I was interviewed.
    Poor guy, I thought. He looks so defeated. I wonderedif someone in his family was a patient in the hospital.
    *   *   *
    That evening I had dinner with Gwen Harkins at Neary’s on East 57th Street. Growing up, she lived near me in Ridgewood. We went through grammar school and high school together. For college she went south to Georgetown, and I went north to Boston College, but we took semesters in London and Florence together. She was my maid of honor when I married the lemon of the century, and she was the one who kept making me go out with her after the baby died and the lemon took off for California.
    Gwen is a tall, willowy redhead who usually wears high heels. When we’re together, I’m sure we make an odd sight. I’m single courtesy of a decree that says that what God has put together, the State of New York can declare asunder. She’s had a couple of guys she could have married, but neither one, she says, made her want to keep the cell phone pinned to her ear rather than miss his call. Her mother, like mine, assures her that someday she’ll meet “Mr. Right.” Gwen is a lawyer for one of the major drug companies, and when I called her and suggested dinner at Neary’s, I had two reasons for wanting to see her.
    The first, of course, is that we always have a good time together. The second is that I wanted to get her take on Gen-stone and what the people in the pharmaceutical industry were saying about it.
    As usual, Neary’s was bustling. It’s a home away from home for many people. You never know which celebrity or politician might be at one of the corner tables.
    Jimmy Neary joined us at the table for a moment, and as Gwen and I sipped red wine, I told him about my new job. “Nick Spencer would drop by here from time to time,” he said. “I’d have pegged him as a straight arrow. Shows you never can be sure.” He nodded toward two men standing at the bar. “Those fellows lost money in Gen-stone, and I happen to know they can’t afford it. Both of them have kids in college.”
    Gwen ordered red snapper. I chose my favorite comfort food, a sliced steak sandwich and French fries. We settled back to talk.
    â€œThis dinner is on me, Gwen,” I said. “I need to pick your brain. How was Nick Spencer able to get so much hype going on his vaccine if it’s a sham?”
    Gwen shrugged. She’s a good lawyer, which means that she