“Crap. Have you matched the eight partials?”

“Three of them. One is the victim’s thumb and two belong to—the name seems to be Hatfield. None of the prints from the building staff match, but we still need prints from Loring, Gomez, Revueltas, and Stinson.”

“What about the saw?”

“Wiped clean. Not a print on it. But we did find a male body hair embedded in the oil on the rotor. Caucasian. Not pubic. Probably forearm. Wild. Not from the victim. Who handled the saw?”

Cardozo thought back. “I did. Monteleone did. We were wearing gloves.”

“I’ll still need a hair from each of you. Soon as you can, Vince.”

8

STARTLED, BABE LIFTED HER head from the pillow. Light rippled across the walls as curtains shifted in the breeze from the air conditioner.

“Did we wake our little girl?” Lucia Vanderwalk was standing there in a pinstripe white cotton suit and polka-dot navy blouse.

“That’s all right, Mama.”

The gold bracelet on Lucia Vanderwalk’s wrist jangled softly as Hadley Vanderwalk helped her into a chair.

“Babe, you’re looking dandy,” Hadley said; “Just dandy.”

Hadley was wearing a dark three-piece suit, and as he took the chair beside Lucia’s she reached over to level the tilt of his bow tie.

Babe pressed the button that buzzed her bed up into a sitting position.

“Are you feeling strong enough to go over your appointments?” Lucia asked.

“I didn’t realize I had appointments,” Babe said.

“Hadley.” Lucia held out a hand.

Hadley Vanderwalk handed his wife her oversized handbag. She reached into it and set a desk-sized ledger on her knees. The cover was gleaming morocco, with the name Beatrice in gold-leaf letters on the front. “A wonderful bookbinder on West Twenty-seventh did this on two hours’ notice, over the holiday—can you imagine? Such craftsmanship.”

She flipped almost halfway through the book, to the pages marked May. Babe saw that it was an appointment calendar, and many of the blanks were already filled in, in Lucia’s looping Miss Porter’s penmanship.

“You’ll be seeing Dr. Eric Corey, your neurologist, twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays at eleven. You’ll see your bone specialist daily at nine in the morning, except weekends of course.”

Babe was silent, knowing better than to voice outright opposition to her mother’s organizing.

“You’ll see your physiotherapists daily at three, weekends included. Dr. Corey says it’s important to keep moving, not to lose a single day. And you’ll see your psychotherapist two times a week.”

“Psychotherapist?” Babe said.

Hadley lifted his gaze and stared silently at Lucia.

“Ruth Freeman,” Lucia said. “She’s terribly popular. Your father and I met her at a dinner at Cybilla deClairville’s—can you believe the luck?—and of course we spent the entire evening talking about you.”

The word psychotherapist brought back an image to Babe’s mind, a flickering glimpse of a white room and strange masked figures moving in evening clothes. “I was dreaming when you came in,” she said suddenly.

“How nice.”

“Richard Nixon and Winnie the Pooh and Porky Pig were giving some sort of horrible party. I’ve had that dream before.”

Lucia drew a long breath, studying her daughter carefully. “It’s not unusual to have the same dream over again. I often dream of Southampton as it was during the summer of 1948: Your father gave me the most splendid birthday present—a fancy dress ball. We had Eddy Duchin and his orchestra.”

“Wonderful man, Duchin,” Hadley said. “Played golf every bit as well as he did the piano.”

“Remember how he played ‘Just One of Those Things,’ Hadley? Your favorite song.”

“It’s your favorite, Mama—not Papa’s.”

“Your father adores ‘Just One of Those Things’—don’t you, Hadley?”

Hadley smiled pleasantly. “Passionately.”

“You know you only adore it to please her, Papa.”

“You’re in a mood, dear heart,” Lucia said. “Was your dream so terribly upsetting?”

“I can’t remember it now.”

“Why don’t you discuss it with Dr. Freeman?” Lucia said. “She knows everything about the mind. She wrote the book on recovering from schizophrenia. She’ll see you here at the hospital, of course. No one expects you to be up and running about town just yet.”

“I’m not schizophrenic. There’s nothing wrong with my mind. It’s my brain that was in coma.”

“Of course. You’re absolutely right.” Lucia looked into Babe’s eyes and smiled her most conciliatory smile, inviting Babe’s.

Babe did not smile back. “I want Scottie to visit.”

Lucia’s face became expressionless. Babe could feel her mother mustering the case for refusal.

“That’s rather awkward,” Lucia said.

“I believe I have a say in my own life.”

“Beatrice, could you at least please trust your father and me? We’ve stood by you seven years when half the specialists in the country told us it was hopeless. Strange as it may seem to you, we’re standing by you now.”

“Mama, do you think I don’t know what Scottie was accused of?

Lucia floated Babe a worried look. “Who told you?”

“A detective was here.”

Lucia was silent a moment. “There was more to it than mere accusation. Scottie was guilty.”

“Of trying to murder me? That’s absolutely asinine.”

“He admitted it.”

Silence wrapped itself around the room.

“He hasn’t admitted it to me,” Babe said.

Lucia sighed tolerantly. “The first order of the day is for you to get well.”

“How do you expect me to get well if you treat me like a baby? Mama, I want my life back. And I want to start by having visits from the people who matter to me.”

Lucia gloved her voice in gentleness. “But you have started. What do you call your father and me, and Cordelia and Billi? Don’t we matter? Aren’t we enough for a beginning?”

“I want to see my husband. I want to see friends.”

Lucia leaned forward to pat Babe’s arm. Her hand was cool and soft, with the touch Babe remembered from childhood, the touch that said Trust Mama, it will all be all right. “I know, dear heart.”

“I want to see Ash Canfield.”

Lucia took a moment to arrange herself in her chair, a moment of breathing deep, of recomposing the careful neutrality of her expression. “Ash is dying to visit. Of course you’ll see her.”

“I’ve known Ash since childhood and she’s my best friend and I’ve a right to see her now.”

“Yes, yes, dear heart.” Lucia kissed her fingers and pressed them over Babe’s lips. “Papa and I will take care of all that.”

“Why can’t Babe be permitted at least to see Ash?” Hadley asked.

“Beatrice’s condition is far too delicate to allow that,” Lucia said sharply.

They had returned to the Bentley. The chauffeur was driving them home.

“I couldn’t disagree more,” Hadley said. “Babe is damned sturdy. She could use a little laughter, though. Bet your life Ash would pep her up.”

“Ash Canfield is the world’s sloppiest gossip. She’ll wear Beatrice out. Frankly, I’m opposed to her even knowing our daughter has recovered.”

“You expect to keep the news secret?”

“For a week or two. Till we decide.”

Hadley looked at his wife, interested now in what she was thinking. “Till we decide what?”

Lucia turned and stared at Hadley as if it took all her strength and all her will not to upbraid him for imbecility. “Till we decide our child’s future. And I hope we shall be able to do that calmly.”

“That’s ridiculous. Babe’s future isn’t ours to decide.”

Something hard was creeping into Lucia’s eyes. “It is till the court decrees otherwise.”

Hadley frowned. “A five-minute visit from Ash Canfield, a woman she’s known since kindergarten—how on earth is that going to blight Babe’s future?”

“Ash has always had an enormous talent for stirring up mischief and she has always encouraged the, same talent in Beatrice.”