I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [30]
“It doesn’t matter what you believe, Elaine. The proof is in the photos. You don’t think that magazine would have bought them if there was any doubt about what they show, do you?” The smirk was leaving Bartley’s face. “It is clear now that Zan picked up her own little boy and walked out of the park with him. It’s up to the police to find out what she did with him after that. But if you want my theory, I’ll give it to you.”
Bartley Longe pointed his finger at Elaine for emphasis. “When she worked here, how often did you hear Zan whine that she wished she had grown up in one home in the suburbs instead of moving from place to place because of her father’s job?” he demanded. “My theory is that all the sympathy she got after her parents’ death was over and she needed a new tragedy in her life.”
“That’s absolutely crazy,” Elaine said, heatedly. “Zan may have mentioned that she would have preferred not to have moved around all the time, but she said it in a general way when we were talking about our backgrounds. It certainly doesn’t mean she said it all the time to gain sympathy. And she was crazy about Matthew. What you’re insinuating is disgusting, Mr. Longe.”
Elaine realized that Bartley Longe’s cheeks were becoming flushed. Thou shall not contradict the boss, she thought. But how could he possibly suggest that Zan might have kidnapped Matthew to get sympathy?
“I forget how partial you were to my former assistant,” Bartley Longe snapped. “But I will bet you that, as we speak, Zan Moreland is hunting for a lawyer, and I can assure you that she’s going to need a good one.”
22
Kevin Wilson admitted to himself that it was almost impossible to concentrate on the drawings on his desk. He was looking at the landscaper’s sketches for the plantings in the lobby of 701 Carlton Place, as the new apartment complex would be called.
The name had been agreed upon only after a heated discussion with the directors of Jarrell International, the multibillion-dollar company that was financing the building. Several members of the board of directors had suggestions of names they thought would be more appropriate. Most of them were in the romantic or would-be historical vein, Windsor Arms, Camelot Towers, Le Versailles, Stonehenge, even New Amsterdam Court.
Kevin had listened with increasing impatience. Finally it had been his turn. “What is considered to be the most exclusive address in New York?” he had asked.
Seven of the eight board members named the same address on Park Avenue.
“Exactly,” Kevin had told them. “My point is that we’ve got a very expensive building to fill. As we speak, there are many very expensive residential buildings in Manhattan under construction. I don’t have to remind you that this is a tough economy, or that it’s our job to make our pitch to potential buyers a very special one. Our location is spectacular. Our views of the Hudson River and of the city are spectacular. But I want us to be able to tell our prospective buyers that when the name 701 Carlton Place is mentioned, everyone hearing that address will know that the person giving it is lucky enough to be living in a privileged location.”
I guess I carried the day, he thought as he turned his chair from the table to the desk, shaking his head. Dear God, if Pop were around what would he think if he heard that spiel? His grandfather had been the superintendent of the building next door to where he and his parents had lived. The name, Lancelot Towers, had been carved in stone over the six-story walk-up with its dreary railroad flats, creaking dumbwaiters, and ancient plumbing, on Webster Avenue in the Bronx.
Pop would have thought I was crazy, Kevin acknowledged, and so would Dad, if he were still alive. Mom is used to my salesmanship pitch by now. After Dad died, when