Silent Treatment (21 page)

Harry felt his heart sink. The faint glimmer of hope that Evie’s blood analysis might be negative had just vanished.

“It’s meta
ram
inol,” he said, correcting the pronunciation. “The brand name we doctors know it by is Aramine.”

“And you know what it does?”

“Yes, I know what it does. Lieutenant, get to the point.”

“You keep any of this me-tar-am-i-nol around?”

“It’s almost never used by anyone anymore. I don’t keep it around. I never have. Now would you say what you have to say and leave? I have patients to—”

Dickinson whirled on him.

“I’ll say what I have to say when I am fucking good and ready,” he snapped, his fists clenched. “If you can’t do what my fucking doctor does, which is to keep everyone sitting around until he feels like seeing them, then call your receptionist out there and have her send them all home.”

“Get out of here,” Harry said. “Now.”

“Or what? Or you’ll call the cops?” Dickinson sighed, ostensibly to calm himself. “Look, Doc. Let’s try to work together on this thing. It will be better for everyone that way.”

Harry snatched up the phone to call the precinct house. Then he hesitated, set the receiver back down, and sank back in his chair.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to own up to what you did to your wife.”

“What?”

“Doc, I know you did it, you know you did it, anyone who knows anything about this case knows you did it. Now all you have to do is admit it.”

“I didn’t do anything. Did Evie have Aramine in her blood?”

Dickinson smiled condescendingly.

“Only enough to blow the tops off the heads of the whole New York Giants football team. The ME says no one but an M.D. or someone in the pharmaceutical business would have known about this stuff. Now come on, Doc. How about it?”

“I didn’t kill her.” This time it was Harry’s turn to sigh. As unsubstantiated as his information was, at this point there was no sense in keeping it from Dickinson. “She was killed by a man I believe is a doctor. Probably the man Maura Hughes saw come into the room. Evie was working on a story that was making someone very worried. All I know is that it had to do with high-priced call girls and very important people. She was killed to keep her from finishing it. The night after her funeral I found the stuff she had been working on in an apartment in the Village.”

“And?”

“And this doctor and two of his thugs broke in on me before I could read much of it.” Sooner or later he would have to disclose the nature of Evie’s alter ego and her writing. But he wasn’t ready yet.

“How do you know he’s a doctor?”

“I don’t know for sure. I just think he is because he knows his way around hospitals and drugs. He put an IV in my arm in the apartment, then he drugged me with some pretty sophisticated stuff and questioned me for several hours. Finally, he cleaned out the apartment completely and left.”

“Leaving you alive after you had seen his face?”

“I … I never did see his face. Or the other two for that matter.” He noted the cynicism in Dickinson’s expression
turn to incredulity. “The two thugs wore stocking masks,” he explained. “By the time the doctor or whatever he is came on the scene my eyes were taped over. Maura Hughes is the only one I know of who saw his face.”

It had not taken long for Harry to appreciate why the mysterious physician had let him live. Under the influence of the potent hypnotic chemicals he had told everything he knew, which was essentially nothing. The man knew he had been interrupted before he got more than a glance at Evie’s material. And there was nothing in what he had read or seen that would incriminate anyone. No names, no dates, no places. If the M.D. had faith in his methods—and there was every reason to believe he was expert at such interrogations—he knew Harry posed no threat to him.

But now Harry understood that there was another, more logical reason he had been left alive. If Caspar Sidonis had not stormed in with his anger and suspicion, no one would have questioned that Evie’s death was due to natural causes. Hemorrhage at any stage of the game was a well-accepted complication of berry aneurysms. The medical examiner would have signed her off without a second thought. Instead, at Sidonis’s insistence, a thorough analysis of her blood was being performed. The Aramine was bound to be identified, and Harry would be available to take the blame. His murder or disappearance now would only ensure an intensified investigation of Evie’s case. He had been spared death at the hands of the gladiators in favor of a more protracted demise from the lions.

“So tell me, Doc,” Dickinson asked, “how do you know this guy from the apartment is the same man who killed your wife?”

“I don’t—at least not for certain. Now, would you please go?”

“I have a warrant to search this office for that drug, Doc. Your condo, too.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous! If I had done what you say, I certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep a batch of Aramine around.”

“Doc, you were stupid enough to kill your wife and
think you could get away with it. That’s more than stupid enough to keep a batch of Aramine around. See, Graham? I told you. These M.D.s never give anyone credit for having any brains. That’s why they always fuck up, and that’s why they always get caught.”

The young officer shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked away.

“You’re going to search this office while I’m seeing patients?”

“We don’t have to if you just tell us the truth. Look, I know about your wife’s affair with Super Doc. I know she was planning on leaving you. I know about the tidy little insurance policy you stand to cash in. I know about the drug you used. And I know you were the last one to see her alive. Now how about it, Doc. Maybe it was just a spur of the moment thing. She was a beautiful woman. You couldn’t stand the thought of losing her. Suddenly you pass by the medication room. You think about that aneurysm of hers. Next thing you know the drug is in your hand.… Second degree. That’s what you’d get. Nothing more. Second degree’s not that big a deal, Doc. You could be out in five years. Maybe even get off entirely, you find yourself a good lawyer.”

Dickinson studied the citation framed alongside the silver star.
Killed three of the enemy
. Harry knew the words were not going unnoticed. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him—a question, complete with its answer.

“Lieutenant, tell me something,” he said. “If you know all this about me, and you’re so certain I murdered my wife, why haven’t you come here with a warrant for my arrest?”

“Pardon?”

“A warrant. Some judge or magistrate or whatever has refused to issue a warrant for you to arrest me for murder unless you find I’ve got a secret stash of Aramine. Isn’t that true?”

Dickinson’s expression—the tightness around his mouth—said that he had been nicked.

“What if it is?” he said. “In two weeks the grand jury sits. And I guarantee you that with the evidence I have to
present them, they won’t have any problem handing down an indictment. Graham, let’s get started.”

“Wait a minute, Officer.” On the offensive at last, Harry had no intention of letting up. “Lieutenant, there’s more, isn’t there? Is it Maura Hughes? Your magistrate believed her claim about someone else being in the room after me. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“You killed that woman, Corbett.”

“They believed her, didn’t they?”

“Not her,” Dickinson said, barely able to temper his frustration and anger. “Her goddamn Yalie brother. That asshole went over my head. Filed a report. Cooked his own friggin’ goose is what he did. Believe me, Charles Manson will get that goddamn detective slot before he does. And don’t think for a moment they bought his story, neither. He just made them decide to wait until a few things could be checked out, that’s all. And as for your drunken sot witness, her brother won’t be able to take the stand in her place. And as soon as anyone gets a look at her and hears what she’s like, there’s not a soul who’ll believe she saw anything except spiders and flies. Now, are you going to let us do our work?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, Corbett. You don’t have a fucking choice. You’re a smug bastard. I hate smug bastards. And you killed your wife. I hate people who do that, too. It’s just begun between us, Doc. Mark my words. I’m going to put the screws to you like you were a dime-store Erector set. And sooner or later you’re going to fuck up. Count on it. Come on, Graham. Let’s get started.”

It took two hours for Dickinson and Graham to finish their room-by-room search of the office. Harry waited a few minutes until he was certain the detective wasn’t going to return. Then he took a cup of tepid coffee and a bagel back to his office, fished out the slip of paper from his wallet, and called Maura Hughes. She answered on the sixth ring.

“Miss Hughes, it’s Harry Corbett, Evie’s husband. Remember?”

“I remember,”

Though her words weren’t slurred, her voice was husky, and her speech seemed a bit thick. Harry wasn’t sure whether she was drinking again.

“How are you feeling?” he tried.

“I’ve been better.”

“Sorry.”

“But I’ve been worse.”

He waited for more unsolicited conversation, but quickly realized there would be none. “Have the police been to see you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, they just left my office, and I think they might be contacting you soon. They found a drug in Evie’s blood. She was murdered.” There was silence on the other end. “That Lieutenant Dickinson is certain I did it. I think it must have been the doctor you saw.” Still silence, “Miss Hughes, are you still there?”

“It’s Maura. I’m still here.”

“Are you okay?”

“You mean am I drinking?”

Harry pictured the woman in her robe at the kitchen table of a small, dingy apartment, staring at a half-filled glass and a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort. The image brought a heavy sadness to his throat.

“Yes, guess I did mean that,” he said. “Sorry. It’s none of my business. Listen, I want to get together with you. It’s very important to me.”

“Why?”

“That cop, Dickinson, is on a mission to nail me for Evie’s murder. He just left here after searching my office for hours while all my patients watched. In fact, there were moments when the only thing that kept me from hitting him over the head with a chair was remembering what you called him. Pinhead.”

“I remember.”

“Well, the only reason they haven’t arrested me so far is
that someone—a judge or DA, or maybe one of Dickinson’s superiors—is worried that the man your brother reported you saw was actually there.”

“He was.”

“I know. That’s why I need to see you. Somehow, I’ve got to find out who he is and you’re the only one who’s seen him.”

There was a prolonged silence.

“When did you want to see me?” she said finally.

“I don’t know. Tonight?”

“Can’t.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He considered adding that it would be his birthday—his fiftieth birthday—but decided against it. “Maura, listen,” he said, “if you’re embarrassed about drinking, please don’t be.”

“Seven-thirty,” she replied. “You have my number, so I assume you know where I live.”

“I do. Thanks, Maura.”

“And Dr. Corbett?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t remember the last time I cared enough about what I did to be embarrassed about it. But since you keep asking, the truth is that if it sounds like I’ve been drinking it’s because I just got up from a nap. I haven’t had a drink since the day I was operated on.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

“But I was about to.”

“Please—don’t!” Harry did not have to force desperation into the words. Again there was prolonged silence.

“I suppose I can keep it together at least until tomorrow night. I think maybe I really don’t want to drink. Maybe I’m just bored.”

“Your brother said you were a painter. Have you been able to paint any since you’ve been home?”

“Not really. I haven’t done much of anything except hang around here, take naps, feel sorry for myself, and think about drinking.”

“Well, listen, maybe tomorrow night we could go out for dinner. You’re the main reason I’m still a free man. I
could pick your brain, and you could get away from your place for a while.”

If she was as depressed as she sounded, he knew there was no possibility she would agree. He could feel her choosing the way to tell him so.

“Do I have to get dressed up?” she asked suddenly.

“Not unless you want to. When I’m not at work, jeans is as dressy as I ever get.”

“In that case, sure,” Maura said. “I’d like that.”

At midnight, when he officially turned fifty, Harry celebrated with a glass of champagne and a bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies. He hadn’t gotten cancer or been run over by a bus during the past three hundred and sixty-five days, but all things considered, his fiftieth year had been a pretty lousy one. And his fifty-first was not beginning with a great deal of promise. He indulged his self-pity for a time by flipping through his and Evie’s wedding album, and then read himself to sleep with half a page of his most dependable soporific,
Moby-Dick
. Ahab wasn’t having such a great year either.

At 5:45, when his clock radio kicked in, he had already been awake for nearly an hour and was finishing the set of Marine Corps calisthenics he did on the days when he didn’t run. He had always been an athlete of sorts—Little League baseball, cross-country, and some organized basketball in college. He lacked the natural ability to be a star in any sport, but his competitive fire had made him a fairly
consistent winner. For the past decade, though, what intensity he still possessed was focused on holding his ground against the passing years. Now, as he grunted past sixty bent-knee sit-ups on the way to seventy-five, he found he was drawing strength from his consuming dislike for Albert Dickinson.

The previous evening, Harry had arrived at home to find the detective there, along with a new uniformed policeman. He was questioning Armand Rojas, the day-shift doorman, but stopped as soon as Harry appeared at the door, and produced a warrant to search the apartment. Following the Chinese-food deliveryman fiasco with Rocky, Harry had tipped both doormen handsomely and implored them to be on their toes. Still, he wondered, as the two policemen followed him into the apartment to begin their search, if the mystery physician had somehow gotten in there again to plant a few vials of Aramine. His other concern was that Dickinson himself might find a way to do it.