I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [46]
“Tiffany was absolutely hysterical,” Jennifer said, reflectively. “She was screaming, ‘How can I face Zan, how can I face her?’ But why didn’t we dig further? The thought that Tiffany may have been drugged never crossed my mind, either.”
“It should have crossed our minds. It was a hot day, but not many teenagers, even with the onset of a cold, would pass out midday in a deep sleep on the grass,” Billy said. “Oh, here we are.” He pulled to a stop in front of the handsome residence, double-parked, and slapped his ID on the windshield. “Let’s keep reconstructing our first impressions for a couple of minutes,” he suggested.
“Alexandra Moreland had a hard-luck story that would make a sphinx take pity on her,” Jennifer Dean said. “Parents killed on the way to the airport for a long-delayed reunion, marriage when she was an emotional wreck, a single mother struggling to start a business, and then her little guy gets abducted.” Her voice was becoming more disgusted with every word.
Billy tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he tried to recall every detail of the events that had taken place nearly two years ago. “We spoke to the Aldrich woman that night. She backed up Moreland’s story right away. They had an appointment. Moreland was with her going over sketches and fabrics in the new town house Aldrich just bought when I called Moreland to tell her her son was missing.” Billy stopped, then added angrily, “And we didn’t ask any more questions.”
“Let’s face it,” Jennifer said as she fished in her pocket for her handkerchief. “We had it all figured out. Working mother. Irresponsible babysitter. Predator snatching the opportunity to grab a child.”
“When I got home, Eileen had been watching television,” Billy recalled. “She told me she cried when she saw the expression on Moreland’s face. She said that she thought it was going to be like Etan Patz, that little boy who disappeared all those years ago and was never found.”
Looking out at the blustery wind and the persistent rain, Jennifer raised the collar of her coat. “All of us were willing to believe the sob story. But if those photos are legit, they prove that Moreland couldn’t have been with Nina Aldrich that whole time,” she said. “And if Aldrich can swear they were together, then the photos are probably fakes.”
“They’re not going to be fakes,” Billy said grimly, “so Aldrich wasn’t on the level when I spoke with her. But why would she have lied?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Okay, let’s go in.”
With that they dashed from the car to the door of the town house and rang the bell. “I imagine Aldrich paid a minimum of fifteen million bucks for this little nest,” Billy muttered.
They could hear the chimes inside, but before they had stopped ringing, the door was opened by a Latina woman in a black uniform. She appeared to be in her early sixties. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was drawn back into a neat bun. Her face was lined and there was a weary expression in her heavily lidded eyes.
Billy gave her their cards.
“I am Maria Garcia, Mrs. Aldrich’s housekeeper. She is expecting you, Detective Collins and Detective Dean. May I take your coats?”
Garcia hung the coats in the closet and invited them to follow her. As they walked down the hall, Billy glanced into the formal living room and slowed his pace to get a longer look at the painting over the mantel. He was a frequent visitor to museums and said to himself, I bet that’s a genuine Matisse.
The housekeeper led them into a large room that seemed to serve a double purpose. Butter-soft dark brown leather sofas were grouped around a recessed flat-screen television. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases covered three walls. All the books on the shelves were aligned in perfect symmetry. No casual reading in here, Billy thought. The walls were dark beige and the carpet a geometric brown and tan pattern.
Not my taste at all, Billy decided. Probably cost a fortune, but a little dab of color would go a long way in here.
Nina Aldrich kept them