Twenty minutes later, after Corinne left, Kerry reached for the phone. Corinne’s mention of the investigator had given her an idea.

When Joe Palumbo answered with his usual “Yup,” Kerry asked, “Joe, have you got lunch plans?”

“Not a one, Kerry. Want to take me to Solari’s for lunch?”

Kerry laughed. “I’d love to, but I have something else in mind.

How long have you been here?”

“Twenty years.”

“Were you involved with the Reardon homicide about ten years ago, the one the media called the Sweetheart Murder?”

“That was a biggie. No, I wasn’t on it, but as I remember it was pretty open and shut. Our Leader made his name on that one.”

Kerry knew that Palumbo was not enamored of Frank Green.

“Weren’t there several appeals?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. They kept coming up with new theories. It seemed like it went on forever,” Palumbo replied.

“I think the last appeal was turned down just a couple of years ago,” Kerry said, “but something has come up that has me curious about that case. Anyhow, the point is, I want you to go to the files at The Record and dig out everything they printed on the case.”

She could picture Joe good-naturedly rolling his eyes.

“For you, Kerry, sure. Anything. But why? That case is long gone.”

“Ask me later.”

Kerry’s lunch was a sandwich and coffee at her desk. At one-thirty Palumbo came in, carrying a bulging envelope. “As requested.”

Kerry looked at him affectionately. Short, graying, twenty pounds overweight and with a ready smile, Joe had a disarmingly benevolent appearance that did not reflect his ability to instinctively home in on seemingly unimportant details. She had worked with him on some of her most important cases. “I owe you one,” she said.

“Forget it, but I do admit I’m curious. What’s your interest in the Reardon case, Kerry?”

She hesitated. Somehow at this point it didn’t seem right to talk about what Dr. Smith was doing.

Palumbo saw her reluctance to answer. “Never mind. You’ll tell me when you can. See you later.”

Kerry was planning to take the file home and begin to read it after dinner. But she could not resist pulling out the top clipping. I’m right, she thought. It was only a couple of years ago.

It was a small item from page 32 of The Record, noting that Skip Reardon’s fifth appeal for a new trial had been turned down by the New Jersey Supreme Court, and that his attorney, Geoffrey Dorso, had vowed to find grounds for another appeal.

Dorso’s quote was, “HI keep trying until Skip Reardon walks out of that prison exonerated. He’s an innocent man.”

Of course, she thought, all lawyers say that.

For the second night in a row, Bob Kinellen dined with his client Jimmy Weeks. It had not been a good day in court. Jury selection still dragged along. They had used eight of their peremptory challenges. But careful as they were being in choosing this jury, it was obvious that the federal prosecutor had a strong case. It was almost certain that Haskell was going to cop a plea.

Both men were somber over dinner.

“Even if Haskell does plead, I think I can destroy him on the stand,” Kinellen assured Jimmy.

“You think you can destroy him. That’s not good enough.”

“We’ll see how it goes.”

Weeks smiled mirthlessly. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Bob. It’s about time you got yourself a backup plan.”

Bob Kinellen decided to let the remark pass. He opened the menu.

“I’m meeting Alice at Arnott’s later. Were you planning to go?”

“Hell, no. I don’t need any more of his introductions. You should know that. They’ve done me enough harm already.”

Kerry and Robin sat in companionable silence in the family room. Because of the chilly evening, they had decided to have the first fire of the season, which in their case meant turning on the gas jet and then pressing the button that sent flames shooting through the artificial logs.

As Kerry explained to visitors, “I’m allergic to smoke. This fire looks real and gives off heat. In fact, it looks so real that my cleaning woman vacuumed up the fake ashes, and I had to go out and buy more.”

Robin laid out her change-of-season pictures on the coffee table. “What a terrific night,” she said with satisfaction, “cold and windy. I should get the rest of the pictures soon. Bare trees, lots of leaves on the ground.”

Kerry was seated in her favorite roomy armchair, her feet on a hassock. She looked up. “Don’t remind me of the leaves. I get tired.”

“Why don’t you get a leaf blower?”

“I’ll give you one for Christmas.”

“Funny. What are you reading, Mom?”

“Come here, Rob.” Kerry held up a newspaper clipping with a picture of Suzanne Reardon. “Do you recognize that lady?”

“She was in Dr. Smith’s office yesterday.”

“You’ve got a good eye, but it’s not the same person.” Kerry had just begun reading the account of Suzanne Reardon’s murder. Her body had been discovered at midnight by her husband, Skip Reardon, a successful contractor and self-made millionaire. He had found her lying on the floor in the foyer of their luxurious home in Alpine. She had been strangled. Sweetheart roses were scattered over her body.

I must have read about that back then, Kerry thought. It certainly must have made an impression on me, to bring on those dreams.

It was twenty minutes later when she read the clipping that made her gasp. Skip Reardon had been charged with the murder after his father-in-law, Dr. Charles Smith, had told the police that his daughter lived in fear of her husband’s insane attacks of jealousy.

Dr. Smith was Suzanne Reardon’s father! My God, Kerry thought.

Is that why he’s giving her face to other women? How bizarre. How many of them has he done that to? Is that why he made that speech to me and Robin about preserving beauty?

“What’s the matter, Mom? You look funny,” Robin said.

“Nothing. Just interested in a case.” Kerry looked at the clock on the mantel. “Nine o’clock, Rob. You’d better pack it in. I’ll come up in a minute to say good night.”

As Robin gathered her pictures, Kerry let the papers she was holding fall into her lap. She had heard of cases in which parents could not recover from the death of a child, where they had left the child’s room unchanged, the clothes still in the closet, just as the child had left them. But to “re-create” her and do it over and over? That went beyond grief, surely.

Slowly she stood up and followed Robin upstairs. After she kissed her daughter good night, she went into her own room, changed into pajamas and a robe, then went back downstairs, made a cup of cocoa and continued to read.

The case against Skip Reardon did seem open and shut. He admitted that he and Suzanne had quarreled at breakfast the morning of her death. In fact, he admitted that in the preceding days they had fought almost continually. He admitted that he had come home at six o’clock that evening and found her arranging roses in a vase. When he asked her where they came from, she had told him it was none of his business who sent them. He said he had then told her that whoever sent them was welcome to her, that he was getting out. Then he claimed he had gone back to his office, had a couple of drinks, fallen asleep on the couch and returned home at midnight, to find her body.

There had been no one, however, to corroborate what he said. The file contained part of the trial transcript, including Skip’s testimony. The prosecutor had hammered at him until he became confused and seemed to be contradicting himself. He had not made a very convincing witness, to say the least.

What a terrible job his lawyer had done in preparing him to testify, Kerry thought. She didn’t doubt that, with the prosecutor’s strong circumstantial case, it was imperative that Reardon take the stand to deny that he had killed Suzanne. But it was obvious that Frank Green’s scathing cross-examination had completely unnerved him. There’s no question, she thought, Reardon had helped to dig his own grave.