Morning, Noon, and Night by Sidney Sheldon

“I…I don’t know. It’s possible.”

The guard gave Steve another look, then reached into a different drawer and pulled out a computer printout. He scanned it, and in the middle, he stopped. “Posner. Margo.”

“That’s right.” He was surprised. “Is she a patient here?”

“Uh-huh. Are you a relative?”

“No…”

“Then I’m afraid you can’t see her.”

“I have to see her,” Steve said. “It’s very important.”

“Sorry. I have my orders. Unless you’ve been cleared beforehand, you can’t visit any of the patients.”

“Who’s in charge here?” Steve asked.

“I am.”

“I mean, in charge of the hospital.”

“Dr. Kingsley.”

“I want to see him.”

“Right.” The guard picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “Dr. Kingsley, this is Joe at the front desk. There’s a gentleman here who wants to see you.” He looked up at Steve. “Your name?”

“Steve Sloane. I’m an attorney.”

“Steve Sloane. He’s an attorney…right.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Steve. “Someone will be along to take you to his office.”

Five minutes later, Steve was ushered into the office of Dr. Gary Kingsley. Kingsley was a man in his fifties, but he looked older and careworn.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Sloane?”

“I need to see a patient you have here. Margo Posner.”

“Ah, yes. Interesting case. Are you related to her?”

“No, but I’m investigating a possible murder, and it’s very important that I talk to her. I think she may be a key to it.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“You have to,” Steve said. “It’s…”

“Mr. Sloane, I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

“Because Margo Posner is in a padded cell. She attacks everyone who goes near her. This morning, she tried to kill a matron and two doctors.”

“What?”

“She keeps changing her identity and screaming for her brother, Tyler, and the crew of her yacht. The only way we can quiet her is to keep her heavily sedated.”

“Oh, my God,” Steve said. “Do you have any idea when she might come out of it?”

Dr. Kingsley shook his head. “She’s under close observation. Perhaps in time she’ll calm down, and we can reevaluate her condition. Until then…”

Chapter Thirty-two

At six A.M., a harbor patrol boat was cruising along the Charles River, when one of the policemen aboard spotted an object floating in the water ahead.

“Off the starboard bow!” he called. “It looks like a log. Let’s pick it up before it sinks something.”

The log turned out to be a body, and even more startling, a body that had been embalmed.

The policeman stared down at it and said, “How the hell did an embalmed body get into the Charles River?”

Lieutenant Michael Kennedy was talking to the coroner. “Are you sure of that?”

The coroner replied, “Absolutely. It’s Harry Stanford. I embalmed him myself. Later, we had an exhumation order, and when we dug up the coffin…Well, you know, we reported it to the police.”

“Who asked to have the body exhumed?”

“The family. They handled it through their attorney, Simon Fitzgerald.”

“I think I’ll have a talk with Mr. Fitzgerald.”

When Steve returned to Boston from Chicago, he went directly to Simon Fitzgerald’s office.

“You look beat,” Fitzgerald said.

“Not beat—beaten. The whole thing is falling apart, Simon. We had three possible leads: Dmitri Kaminsky, Frank Timmons, and Margo Posner. Well, Kaminsky is dead, it’s the wrong Timmons, and Margo Posner is locked away in an asylum. We have nothing to—”

The voice of Fitzgerald’s secretary came over the intercom. “Excuse me. There’s a Lieutenant Kennedy here to see you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Send him in.”

Michael Kennedy was a rugged-looking man with eyes that had seen everything.

“Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“Yes. This is my associate Steve Sloane. I believe you two have spoken on the phone. Sit down. What can we do for you?”

“We just found the body of Harry Stanford.”

“What? Where?”

“Swimming in the Charles. You ordered his body dug up, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

Fitzgerald told him.

When Fitzgerald was finished, Kennedy said, “You have no idea who it was that posed as this investigator, Timmons?”

“No. I talked to Timmons.” Steve answered. “ He has no idea, either.”

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