Silent Treatment

Harry ambled down Lexington toFifty-eighth and then across toward Central Park South. He loved walking thecity at any hour, but especially at night. That he was in no particular hurrywas just as well. The double bourbon was definitely slowing him down. For atime, he considered simply writing the whole night off by stopping in anotherbar or two. But he wanted to think through what Julia Ransome had told him, andhe had never been much of a thinker when he was tight.

During his eighteen months in Nam, he hadbecome something of a functional alcoholic, often drinking to excess as a meansof coping with the horrors of his job. In that regard he was not much differentfrom many of the other officers. Fortunately, he had been able to practicallystop drinking after the war; and even more fortunately, he had never given into the urge to numb his feelings with narcotics. For many of those docs andmedics who did, the war was still raging, and would be until they died.

He was crossing by the fountain in frontof the Plaza when he glanced down Fifth Avenue. The offices of ManhattanWoman magazine were on Forty-seventh Street. It was almost eleven o'clock.Unless some of the staff was preparing for production, there was no chance ofhis actually making it up to her office. But he couldn't face going home yet,and C.C.'s Cellar would be uncomfortably crowded. The group performing thereright now wasn't one of his favorites anyway — a popular progressive quartetwhose music he found pretentious. Before he had a chance to rethink theone-night bender option, he turned downtown toward the magazine office, buyinga pack of mints along the way to cover the alcohol on his breath. He chewed allof them during the ten-block walk to Forty-seventh.

The guard at the desk in the lobby of thetastefully refurbished building put aside his National Enquirer and eyedhim suspiciously. Harry explained about Evie's death and his desire to gothrough her things before they were tossed into a carton by someone and putinto storage. He took her picture from his wallet and extracted a twenty at thesame time. The guard studied the spectacular woman in the photo for a longmoment, then slipped the bill into his shirt pocket and made a call. Threeminutes later, Harry stepped out of the elevator and into thetwenty-third-floor offices of Manhattan Woman magazine.

'Dr. DellaRosa, we're all so sorry aboutEvie. I'm Chuck Gerhardt, layout.'

The man, in his early thirties withthinning, closely cut hair, had on tight black jeans and a black turtleneck.The abstract metal-and-glass sculpture suspended from his neck by a heavy chainreminded Harry of a tuba. His tepid handshake could not have cost him more thana calorie.

'Pleased to meet you,' Harry said. 'Andthanks for your condolences. I can't believe she's gone.'

Dr. DellaRosa. Harry felt rapport with Evieand those other women who chose not to trade in their surname for theirhusbands. There was no point in correcting the man, though. Harry had not beeninvited up to the office in years, and he had no intention of setting foot inthe place again after tonight. He was searching for a clue — any clue as to whatEvie's secret project was, or where her Greenwich Village hideaway was located.Of course, he thought, any other tidbits offering insight into the life of thestranger to whom he had been married for nine years would be gratefullyaccepted.

'You're lucky I was here,' Gerhardt said.'First thing next week we put the rag to bed, and I have a ton of work to do.We call it panic mode. That's why I wasn't at the funeral today. All thebosses went, but the peons who actually do the work around here got chained toour desks.'

'I'm sorry you couldn't make it. It was abeautiful service. And I apologize for disturbing you this way.'

'Hey, no problem. I just can't believeEvie's gone. She was the best, Dr. DellaRosa. She'd give you the shirt off herback.'

'I know,' Harry said. The irony of theman's metaphor was not lost on him. 'Look, I haven't been able to sit stillsince the funeral. I was just walking around the city and I decided to come in,see if I could get Evie's things.'

Chuck Gerhardt looked at him strangely.

'Dr. DellaRosa, I'm certain the man yousent did that already, yesterday. No, no, the day before. I remember because — '

'Did you see this man?' Harry felt everymuscle in his body tense.

'Only for a moment. I happened to be bythe front desk when he came. Kathy — the receptionist — took him down to Evie'soffice. What's wrong?'

'Oh, nothing,' Harry said, feigning suddenunderstanding. 'I know what happened. It was my partner at work. His gym's justa few blocks from here. He volunteered to come by for me a few days ago. Witheverything that's been going on I just forgot. Okay if I just go down thereanyhow?'

'Sure.'

'The end of that hall, right?'

'No. . um. . her office is down thatcorridor there. It has been for a couple of years.'

'Yes, yes, of course. I haven't been herefor a while.'

Evie's name was still on the blond oakdoor. Harry went inside knowing the gesture was fruitless. He was right. Theoffice had been picked clean. Nothing on or in the desk, nothing in the filecabinet, nothing on the walls. The books that had been in her small bookcasewere neatly stacked in one corner. Harry had no doubt that every single volumehad been checked for papers or hollowed-out compartments. What little doubt hehad about the break-in at the apartment vanished. The robbery there was nothingmore than a smoke screen to cover a thorough search. But for what?

Just in case, he checked the underside ofeach shelf, as well as the bottom of all three desk drawers. Nothing. Thewastebasket was empty. Harry tried to imagine how anyone could have simplywalked into the office and stripped it so thoroughly. The story presented tothe receptionist had to have been convincing and smoothly told. The man,himself, must have been iceberg cool. This was no amateur.

Were the thefts from the co-opand Evie's office connected with her death? How could they not be? On impulse, Harry settled intothe desk chair and switched on Evie's computer. The hard disk prompt came on.Harry responded to it and waited. But nothing else happened. There were nofiles. Not one. Not a piece of correspondence or an article or even a wordprocessing program. The data in the computer had been extracted like coins froma piggy bank.

'Anything I can do to help?'

Chuck Gerhardt stood by the doorway,smiling understandingly.

Harry's weak, bewildered smile was totallygenuine.

'No. Thanks, though. Thanks foreverything.'

Gerhardt set three ten-dollar bills on thedesk.

'I owed this to Evie,' he said. 'Now Iguess I owe it to you.'

'Nonsense. Please keep it. If she thoughtenough of you to lend it, I'm sure she'd be happy to have it end at that.'

'Oh, it wasn't a loan. She had a friend inthe Village who works on unusual jewelry. This chain came undone and themedallion fell on the marble in the foyer downstairs. It broke into severalpieces. I got it in Germany on a very special holiday with a very specialfriend. I thought it was a total loss, but Evie's jeweler saved the day.'

The Village. Evie never shopped fartherdowntown than Saks Fifth Avenue. Even C.C.'s seemed Bohemian to her. The firsttime Harry had heard of any connection between her and Greenwich Village waswhen Julia had told him about the secret office. Now this.

'Chuck, do you by any chance know who thisjeweler is?'

'Well, Evie never really told me, but hiscard was taped inside the box that the medallion came back in. I'm almostcertain I kept it. Come on down to my office.'

Harry followed Gerhardt to a large studiothat was cluttered with the tools and products of his trade. The layoutdesigner rummaged through his desk for a time, then triumphantly surfaced witha business card. Paladin Thorvald, Fine Jewels, Antiques and Collectibles. Harrycopied the information down.

'Now you can feel perfectly comfortableabout keeping the money, Chuck,' he said, patting the man on the back. 'You'veearned it.'

Harry stopped by a money machine for somecash, and then took a cab down to the Village. The jewelry and antiques shop ofPaladin Thorvald was just off Bleecker Street, a couple of blocks from theBowery. It was nearly one in the morning, but here as in many areas ofManhattan there were still a fair number of people about — some, of course, theubiquitous shadow people, waiting for their portion of the night to begin.