Free The Second Time Around by Mary Higgins Clark

“Why are you so interested in Spencer? You a reporter or something?”
    â€œYes, I am,” I admitted.
    â€œYou’re not the first nosing around about him. Someone from the FBI was in here asking questions about who his friends might be. I said he didn’t have any left.”
    On that note I paid my bill, gave Milly my card, saying, “In case you ever want to get in touch with me,” and got back in the car. This time I drove to 71 Winslow Terrace.

E LEVEN

    S ometimes I get lucky. Dr. Philip Broderick did not have office hours on Thursday afternoon. When I arrived, it was a quarter of twelve and his last patient was leaving. I gave one of my brand-new Wall Street Weekly cards to his receptionist. Looking doubtful, she asked me to wait while she spoke to the doctor. Keeping my fingers crossed, I did just that.
    When she returned, she said, “The doctor will see you.” She sounded surprised, and frankly I was, too. While doing the freelance profiles I learned that when the subject is controversial, you have just as good a chance of getting an interview by ringing a doorbell as you have by phoning and trying to make an appointment. My theory is that some people still have an innate sense of courtesy and feel that if you take the trouble to come to them, you deserve to be tolerated if not welcomed. The rest of that theory is that some peopleworry that if they refuse you on their own doorstep, you might write something negative about them.
    Anyhow, whatever this doctor’s reasons, we were about to meet. He must have heard my footsteps because he got up from behind his desk as I entered his office. He was a lean, tall man in his mid-fifties, with an abundance of gray hair. His greeting was courteous but businesslike. “Ms. DeCarlo, I’ll start off by being very frank. I’ve only agreed to speak with you because I read and respect the magazine you represent. However, you must understand that you are not the first or the fifth or the tenth reporter to call or to drop in here.”
    I wondered how many cover stories there were going to be on Nicholas Spencer. I only hoped that what I contributed to ours would at least give it something fresh or newsworthy. I did have one approach that I hoped might work. I quickly thanked the doctor for seeing me without notice, took the seat he’d indicated, and cut to the chase. “Dr. Broderick, if you read our magazine regularly, you know that the editorial policy is to tell the absolute truth without sensationalism as the facts are revealed. I intend to do that for the magazine, but also on a personal level, three years ago my widowed mother remarried. My stepsister, whom I know only casually, is Nicholas Spencer’s wife. She is in the hospital recovering from injuries she suffered when her home was deliberately set on fire the other night. She doesn’t know what to believe about her husband, but she wants and needs to know the truth. Any help you can give will be greatly appreciated.”
    â€œI read about the fire.”
    I detected the note of sympathy I wanted from him, even while I hated myself for playing that card. “Did you know Nicholas Spencer?” I asked.
    â€œI knew his father, Dr. Edward Spencer, as a friend. I shared his interest in microbiology and often came over to observe his experiments. For me it was a fascinating hobby. Nicholas Spencer had already graduated from college and moved to New York by the time I settled here.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw Nicholas Spencer?”
    â€œFebruary 16, the day after the fund-raiser.”
    â€œHe stayed in town overnight?”
    â€œNo, he came back the morning after the fundraiser. I did not expect to see him. Let me explain. This is the home where he grew up, but I assume you’re aware of that.”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    â€œNick’s father died suddenly of a heart attack twelve years ago, right around the time Nick was