It was perfect for Smith's plan of fitting in. He was the perfectly ordinary director of Folcroft Sanitarium, playing a perfectly ordinary game with perfectly ordinary companions. Nothing suspicious, everything aboveboard.
For almost two years in the early 1960s Smith had played regularly with the same three men. But then, slowly, he began missing dates.
The demands of his work. There was always some crisis that needed attention, always a catastrophe that needed to be averted. For a time the men would call his secretary asking where Smith was. Once or twice Smith did manage to get away to join them. Mostly he refused. Then one day he suddenly realized that it was the 1970s and his old golf companions had stopped calling almost a decade before.
It no longer mattered. Maude was active enough in the community for them both. And, luckily, over the years Americans had become more isolated. Gone were the days when neighbors knew every face on the block and the involvement of business leaders in the community was practically a requirement. As the century wound to a close, it was possible for people to live next door to one another for years without ever exchanging hellos. And the director of a private sanitarium could spend his every waking hour locked away in his office without ever venturing out to attend a city council meeting or to play even a single round of golf.
But things had changed once again-finally, blessedly-and Harold Smith, in the twilight of his life, was once more able to step out into the sunshine of the Westchester Golf Club. And to feel good in the process.
Drawing his clubs behind him, Smith entered the clubhouse. He found a smiling, fortyish woman with short blond hair and a tag on her jersey identifying her as staff.
"Good morning," Smith said. "Could you tell me if Dr. Glass is playing today?"
"Doctor who?" the woman asked.
"Dr. Robert Glass. He plays here every Wednesday."
"I'm sorry, but there's no Dr. Glass here."
Smith raised a thin brow. "You seem quite certain. You didn't even check."
"Actually, I don't really have to," the woman said. "I know everyone who's playing today. In fact, I know everyone who is a member at the club and we don't have a Dr. Glass."
Smith had met this kind of stubbornness before. He had seen it in all walks of life, from government bureaucrats to restaurant hostesses. People loved to see themselves as important and powerful. Obviously this woman's job as gatekeeper to the elite of Westchester County had gone to her head. But she had met her match today, for Harold Smith was in a rare good mood. The kind of mood where he would enjoy bringing an arrogant woman with clipboard delusions of grandeur down a peg or two.
He smiled. An uncomfortable twist of his thin lips. "Young lady, do you know who I am?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, no. Are you a friend of a member?"
"I am a member," Smith said. "Dr. Harold W. Smith. You will find that I have been a member of this club for over forty years. And since it is obvious you do not know me, we can safely dispense with your claim that you know everyone who belongs. Therefore you will concede that it is possible you've made a mistake and that Dr. Glass is a member, as well. Possibly he is even here today. Please check." Smith's acid tone did not allow for refusal. The woman felt a red rash of embarrassment color her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean-"
She quickly checked her reserved list. When she couldn't find a Dr. Glass there, she went behind the counter and checked the computerized membership rolls. Again she came up empty. Fortunately, the club director-a man Smith recognized from years before-happened to be passing by.
The club director had been a young assistant back then. He was older now, with white hair and a dark tan. Deep furrows of laugh lines crimped the corners of his eyes. When he was told there was a problem with a missing Westchester Golf Club member, the laugh lines blossomed, forming deep, sympathetic crevices. He frowned sadly.
"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dr. Smith," the man said, "but Dr. Glass passed away."
Smith blinked. "Oh," he said.
He was surprised he hadn't heard. His wife generally kept him up-to-date on such matters. Although Smith was the first to admit that as the years passed he found himself paying less and less attention to his wife's nightly reports on their community. Smith was usually distracted by CURE matters and generally tuned out Maude Smith, offering only a few "yes, dears" whenever they seemed warranted.
Obviously he had missed the death of his old golfing companion Robert Glass. He would have to send his widow a sympathy card.
"When did he die?" Smith asked.
The country club director checked his chart. "Ah, 1987," he replied.
"Oh," Smith said again. Perhaps it was too late for a sympathy card. "Is his wife still a member?"
"She moved to Florida. I believe she passed away last year. I could check if you'd like."
"Don't bother," Smith said, clearing his throat. "There were two other men Dr. Glass and I used to golf with. George Garner and Phillip Lassiter. Are they still, er, members?"
He could tell the answer from the fresh deeply sympathetic look that came over the man's face.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. Judge Garner passed on about five years ago." He pitched his voice low. "Actually, it happened here. He'd just played eighteen holes and came back to the clubhouse. It happened in the locker room. He just sort of fell over. Eighty-six years old. In remarkable shape for a man his age. We were all shocked and saddened."
Smith's earlier good mood had long evaporated. "Yes, thank you," he said tightly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned to go.
"Mr. Lassiter is still with us," the club director offered brightly. "An attorney here in Rye, correct?"
"That's right," Smith said, turning back.
"In fact, I saw him here this morning." The country club director's smile of optimism faded behind a somber cloud. "Oh, but you probably meant the father."
"Father?"
"Phillip Lassiter Senior. The name of the firm was changed to Lassiter and Lassiter years ago. The father and son are-were-both lawyers. Have you driven past their downtown offices in the last-oh, twenty years or so? That big sign out front?"
Now that he mentioned it, Smith had seen the name change driving through downtown Rye. He had noted it when it happened and then filed it away and forgot about it. The Lassiter and Lassiter, Attorneys at Law sign was now part of the background of his everyday life-just something he drove past and ignored.
"Yes," Smith said, already knowing where this was going.
"The second Lassiter is your Mr. Lassiter's son, also Phillip. Mr. Lassiter Junior is a member here, but I'm afraid Mr. Lassiter Senior is, well, no longer with us. Lung cancer, I'm afraid. He's been gone almost ten years. A shame, really. Such a gentleman. Never an unkind word for anyone. We all missed him dearly when he passed."
"Yes," Smith said. "Thank you. Excuse me, but I have a tee time."
Turning, Smith headed for the door, pulling his golf bag behind him. The wheels squeaked.
"Your clubs are wonderful, Dr. Smith," the club director called behind him. "Very old. Almost antiques, really. You don't see very many like those around these days."
"Yes," agreed Dr. Harold W. Smith, who, as he headed out the gleaming glass door into the spring sunshine, no longer felt the urge to whistle.
Chapter 11
The ivy-covered brick building that was Folcroft Sanitarium was nestled amid budding birch and lateblooming spring maples on the shore of Long Island Sound. In a small rear office on the second floor of the administrative wing, Mark Howard sat behind his scarred oak desk.
If he leaned over far enough, Mark could have just glimpsed the sparkling waters of the Sound out his office window. Mark didn't look out the window this day.
Intent brownish-green eyes were locked on the computer monitor on his desk. The monitor was attached by cable through the floor to four mainframes hidden behind a secret panel in the sanitarium's basement.
With a concerned expression on his wide face, Mark studied the data that scrolled across his computer screen.
At just under six feet tall, Howard was thin with broad shoulders. His face had the pleasant corn-fed wideness of America's heartland, ruddy at the cheeks. He lent the impression-even sitting-of a man who was always just a few seconds late for wherever he was going.