“His specific identity? No, I don’t think so. But I believe she knew
Arthur was having an affair, and that it wasn’t with a woman.
I believe that was why the divorce was so acrimonious and so one-sided.
Arthur had to act quickly, lest his wife tell her attorneys, even, about
her suspicions. It cost him every penny he had. Arthur only disclosed
this information to me as the most personal secret one friend could tell
another. And I only tell it to you under those same strict,
confidential terms.”
“I appreciate that, Charles,” Sawyer said. “Only you have to understand
if Lieberman was the reason that plane went down, I have to explore
every possibility to solve that crime. However, I can promise you that
I won’t use the information you’ve just given me unless it directly
impacts on my investigation. If it turns out Lieberman’s affair is not
connected, then no one will ever learn from me what you’ve just
disclosed. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Tiedman finally said. “Thank you.”
Sawyer noted Tiedman’s exhaustion and decided to move forward quickly.
“You’re familiar with the circumstances of Steven Page’s death?”
“I read about it in the paper.”
“Did you know that he had tested positive for HIV?”
Tiedman shook his head.
Sawyer sat back. “A couple more questions. Did you know that Lieberman
had terminal pancreatic cancer?” Tiedman nodded.
“How did he feel about it? Devastated? Hurt?”
Tiedman didn’t answer immediately. He sat quietly, his hands clasped in
his lap. Then he looked at Sawyer. “Actually, Arthur seemed happy.”
“The guy was terminal and he seemed happy?”
“I know it sounds strange, but it’s the only way I can describe it.
Happy and relieved.”
The puzzled FBI agent thanked Tiedman and left, his head swimming with
an entirely new set of questions and no way, as yet, to answer them.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sidney sat alone in the dining car as the train rumbled through the
night on its way to New York. While darkened images flew past the
windows, she distractedly sipped at a cup of coffee and nibbled on a
microwave-warmed muffin. The steady clicking of the train wheels and
the car’s gentle swaying as it headed up the much-traveled northeast
corridor soothed her.
For a good part of the train trip her mind focused on her daughter.
It seemed like an eternity since she had held her little girl. Now she
had no idea when she would see her again. The only thing keeping her
away was the certainty that if she tried to see Amy, she would bring
harm to her little girl. She would never do that, not even if it meant
never seeing her again. She would call, though, as soon as she got into
New York. She wondered how she could explain to her parents the next
nightmare that awaited them: the headlines proclaiming their
overachieving, cherished daughter a murderer now on the run. She could
do nothing to shield them against the onslaught of attention that would
be hurtling their way. That attention would find its way to Bell
Harbor, Maine, she was sure, but perhaps her parents’ trip north would
buy them some precious time away from the hideous spotlight.
Sidney knew she had only one shot to unravel whatever it was that had
come and blasted her life to hell. That opportunity lay in the
information in the hard plastic shell that would soon be speeding its
way north as fast as Federal Express could ship it. The disk was all
she had. Jason seemed to think it vitally important. If he was wrong?
She shuddered and forced her thoughts away from that potential
nightmare. She had to trust her husband on that one. She peered out
the window as a blur of trees, modest homes with crooked TV antennas and
the cracked, ugly cinder blocks of abandoned businesses raced by. She
huddled into her coat and lay back in the seat.
As the train rolled into the dark caverns of Penn Station, Sidney stood
by the exit door. Her watch proclaimed it was five-thirty in the
morning. She didn’t really feel tired, although she couldn’t remember
the last time she had slept. Penn Station was fairly crowded for that