The sentencing had taken place six weeks after the trial ended. Kerry had actually gone in to witness it. Now she thought back to that day. She remembered Reardon as a big, handsome redhead who looked uncomfortable in his pin-striped suit. When the judge asked him if he wanted to say anything before sentence was passed, he had once again protested his innocence.

Geoff Dorso had been with Reardon that day, serving as assistant counsel to Reardon’s defense lawyer. Kerry knew him slightly. In the ten years since then, Geoff had built a solid reputation as a criminal defense lawyer, although she didn’t know him firsthand. She had never argued against him in court.

She came to the newspaper clipping about the sentencing. It included a direct quote from Skip Reardon: “I am innocent of the death of my wife. I never hurt her. I never threatened her. Her father, Dr. Charles Smith, is a liar. Before God and this court, I swear he is a liar.”

Despite the warmth from the fire, she shivered.

Everyone knew, or thought they knew, that Jason Arnott had family money. He had lived in Alpine for fifteen years, ever since he had bought the old Halliday house, a twenty-room mansion on a crest of land that afforded a splendid view of Palisades Interstate Park.

Jason was in his early fifties, of average height, with scant brown hair, weathered eyes and a trim figure. He traveled extensively, talked vaguely of investments in the Orient and loved beautiful things. His home, with its exquisite Persian carpets, antique furniture, fine paintings and delicate objets d’art, was a feast for the eyes. A superb host, Jason entertained lavishly and was, in return, besieged with invitations from the great, the near great and the merely rich.

Erudite and witty, Jason claimed a vague relationship with the Astors of England, although most assumed this affectation was a figment of his imagination. They knew he was colorful and a little mysterious and totally engaging.

What they didn’t know was that Jason was a thief. What no one ever seemed to piece together was that after a decent interval, virtually all of the homes he visited were burglarized by someone with a seemingly infallible method of bypassing security systems. Jason’s only requirement was that he be able to carry away the spoils of his escapades. Art, sculpture, jewelry and tapestries were his favorites. Only a few times in his long career had he looted the entire contents of an estate. Those episodes had involved an elaborate system of disguises and importing renegade moving men to load the van that was now in the garage of his secret dwelling in a remote area in the Catskills.

There he had yet another identity, known to his widely scattered neighbors as a recluse who had no interest in socializing. No one other than the cleaning woman and an occasional repairman was ever invited inside the doors of his country retreat, and neither cleaning woman nor repairmen had an inkling of the value of the contents.

If his house in Alpine was exquisite, the one in the Catskills was breathtaking, for it was there that Jason kept the pieces from his looting escapades that he could not bear to part with. Each piece of furniture was a treasure. A Frederic Remington occupied the wall of the dining room, directly over the Sheraton buffet, on which a Peachblow vase glistened.

Everything in Alpine had been bought with money received for stolen property Jason had sold. There was nothing housed there that would ever catch the attention of someone with a photographic memory for a stolen possession. Jason was able to say with ease and confidence, “Yes, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? I got it at Sotheby’s in an auction last year.” Or, “I went to Bucks County when the Parker estate was on the block.”

The only mistake Jason had ever made came ten years ago when his Friday cleaning woman in Alpine had spilled the contents of her pocketbook. When she retrieved them, she had missed her sheet of paper containing the security pass codes for four homes in Alpine. Jason had jotted them down, replaced the paper before the woman knew it was gone and then, tempted beyond control, had burglarized the four homes: the Ellots, the Ashtons, the Donnatellis. And the Reardons. Jason still shuddered with the memory of his narrow escape that horrific night.

But that was years ago, and Skip Reardon was securely in prison, his avenues of appeal exhausted. Tonight the party was in full swing. Jason smilingly acknowledged the gushing compliments of Alice Bartlett Kinellen.

“I hope Bob will be able to make it,” Jason told her.

“Oh, he’ll be along. He knows better than to disappoint me.”

Alice was a beautiful Grace Kelly-type blonde. Unfortunately, she had none of that late princess’ charm or warmth. Alice Kinellen was cold as ice. Also boring and possessive, Jason thought. How does Kinellen stand her?

“He’s having dinner with Jimmy Weeks,” Alice confided as she sipped champagne. “He’s up to here with that case.” She made a slashing gesture across her throat.

“Well, I hope Jimmy comes too,” Jason said sincerely. “I like him.” But he knew Jimmy wouldn’t come. Weeks hadn’t been to one of his parties in years. In fact, he had kept a wide berth of Alpine after Suzanne Reardon’s murder. Eleven years ago, Jimmy Weeks had met Suzanne at a party in Jason Arnott’s house.

It was clear that Frank Green was irritated. The smile that he flashed so readily to show off his newly whitened teeth was nowhere in evidence as he looked across his desk at Kerry.

I suppose it’s the reaction I expected, she thought. I should have known that, of all people, Frank wouldn’t want to hear anyone questioning the case that made him, and especially not now, with talk of his candidacy for governor so prevalent.

After reading the newspaper file on the Sweetheart Murder Case, Kerry had gone to bed trying to decide what she should do regarding Dr. Smith. Should she confront him, ask him point-blank about his daughter, ask him why he was re-creating her in the faces of other women?

The odds were that he would throw her out of the office and deny everything. Skip Reardon had accused the doctor of lying when he gave testimony about his daughter. If he had lied, Smith certainly wouldn’t admit it to Kerry now, all these years later. And even if he had lied, the biggest question of them all was, why?

By the time Kerry had finally fallen asleep, she had decided that the best place to start asking questions was with Frank Green, since he had tried the case. Now that she had filled Green in on the reason she was inquiring about the Reardon case, it was obvious that her question, “Do you think there is any possibility Dr. Smith was lying when he testified against Skip Reardon?” was not going to result in a helpful or even friendly response.

“Kerry,” Green said, “Skip Reardon killed his wife. He knew she was playing around. The very day he killed her, he had called in his accountant to find out how much a divorce would cost him, and he went bananas when he was told that it would involve big bucks. He was a wealthy man, and Suzanne had given up a lucrative modeling career to become a full-time wife. He would have to pay through the nose. So questioning Dr. Smith’s veracity at this point seems a waste of time and taxpayers’ money.”

“But there’s something wrong with Dr. Smith,” Kerry said slowly. “Frank, I’m not trying to make trouble, and no one more than I wants to see a murderer behind bars, but I swear to you that Smith is more than a grief-stricken father. He seems almost to be demented. You should have seen his expression when he lectured Robin and me about the necessity to preserve beauty, and how some people are given it freely and others have to attain it.”