Silent Treatment

The morning had begun like all of theothers since Evie's death, with Harry trying to appear focused and businesslikewhile his thoughts were swirling like a tornado. Although he felt almostcertain that the man who had drugged and then interrogated him that night wasresponsible for Evie's death, there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could doabout it. After leaving the apartment, he had stopped by Paladin Thorvald'sshop. The two thugs who had attacked him had used Thorvald's name. But thejeweler knew nothing about them and his manner suggested that he was becomingincreasingly suspicious of Harry's sanity. Harry sensed that before long,Thorvald would have company in that boat.

From Thorvald's shop he had gone to thelocal police station. He made it inside the front door. Then, knowing what layahead, he left and started for home. A block away, he screwed up his courage,prepared for yet another onslaught on his self-esteem, and went back to thestation. With no keys to Desiree's apartment, all he could do was file a reportand wait an hour and a half for the officer to locate the building manager.Apartment 2F had been leased to one Crystal Glass, with six months rent paid inadvance in cash. Harry wondered if Crystal Glass was another of Evie'spersonalities or merely a display of her wit. He hoped against hope thatsomething in the apartment might have been overlooked that would at least raisethe possibility that he might not be a head case. But there was nothing.Absolutely nothing.

'Be sure to check with us if you get anyfurther information, Dr. Corbett,' the investigating officer said, earning a9.5 on the 10-point patronization scale.

'Sure thing,' Harry responded.

The two intruders at the apartment had tohave been following him, he reasoned. But for how long? Harry worriedthat he might have inadvertently placed Julia Ransome in jeopardy and called towarn her. But over the intervening days, nothing had happened.

When Albert Dickinson arrived at hisoffice to announce the new evidence that elevated his status to sole suspect,Harry was just completing a cardiac treadmill test on a seventy-six-year-oldretired printer named Daniel Gerstein. Gerstein, a cantankerous survivor of theNazi camps, adamantly refused to see any other doctor for the stress test toevaluate his persistent chest pain, so Harry had temporarily abandoned hispolicy of not doing them. His patient had sailed through the protocol with nosymptoms and no changes on his cardiogram. Degenerative arthritis of the ribcage and shoulders, Harry told him. Gerstein demanded a more impressive diagnosisand the feel- good medicine his friends all got from their doctors. Hesettled for 'advanced noncardiac thoracic arthralgia' and some Motrin.

As he watched the elderly man's heart rateclimb without any abnormality on the monitor screen, Harry wondered if his ownstress test would look nearly so good. The chest pain he had experienced inEvie's apartment had prompted him to call a cardiologist. But when hewas informed the man was out of town at a meeting, he had made no attempt tocontact another. Instead, he ran especially hard during his next few workoutson the track. There was no recurrence of the discomfort. And each symptom-freeday dulled the memories of the numbing sensation and produced any number ofplausible explanations for it.

What was really happening, he decided, wasthat his family history — the Corbett curse he had created — had given him anabnormally high cardiac awareness. The minor aches and pains most people wouldsimply ignore were gaining heightened significance in his mind. His brother hadto have had some chest discomfort from time to time. There wasn't a soul whodidn't. Yet Phil wasn't running around checking calendars and callingcardiologists. It was because he didn't believe for one second that hisgenetics had doomed him to an early coronary.

Sometime soon, Harry was thinking as he wroteout renewals for Daniel Gerstein's blood-pressure pills. Sometime soon hereally would call someone and set up a stress test. But at the moment, curse orno curse, there were other, more pressing concerns in his life.

That was when Mary Tobin's voice crackledthrough his intercom announcing that he had two visitors, an Officer Graham anda Detective Dickinson.

Dickinson directed Officer Graham, who wasin uniform, to one of the chairs Harry offered, but remained standing himself,pacing as he talked. He still reeked of cigarettes and was dressed in whatlooked to Harry to be the same ill-fitting polyester suit he had had on at thehospital.

'So, Doc,' Dickinson began, surveying thediplomas and artwork, 'I told you that night in the hospital I'd be back. Andhere I am.'

'Here you are,' Harry echoed sardonically.

'That's a pretty full waiting room youhave out there. You always that busy?'

'Lieutenant, do you think you could comeback after five? A lot of those people out there have gone to a good deal ofinconvenience to make it in for their appointments. I try to be on time.'

'I wish my doctor cared so much aboutbeing on time. Dr. McNally on Central Park West. You know him?'

'I don't. Lieutenant, how long is thisgoing to take?'

'That depends.'

'On what?'

'On you, Doc. Does the name' — he pulledout his spiral-bound pad and read the word a syllable at a time — 'me-tar-am-i-nolmean anything to you?'

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

'It's metaraminol,' he said,correcting the pronunciation. 'The brand name we doctors know it by isAramine.'

'And you know what it does?'

'Yes, I know what it does. Lieutenant, getto the point.'

'You keep any of this me-tar-am-i-nolaround?'

'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 sayand leave? I have patients to — '

Dickinson whirled on him.

'I'll say what I have to say when I amfucking good and ready,' he snapped, his fists clenched. 'If you can't do whatmy fucking doctor does, which is to keep everyone sitting around until he feelslike seeing them, then call your receptionist out there and have her send themall 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 worktogether on this thing. It will be better for everyone that way.'

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

'What do you want?' he asked.

'I want you to own up to what you did toyour wife.'

'What?'

'Doc, I know you did it, you know you didit, anyone who knows anything about this case knows you did it. Now all youhave to do is admit it.'

'I didn't do anything. Did Evie haveAramine in her blood?'

Dickinson smiled condescendingly.

'Only enough to blow the tops off theheads of the whole New York Giants football team. The ME says no one but anM.D. or someone in the pharmaceutical business would have known about thisstuff. Now come on, Doc. How about it?'

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

'And?'

'And this doctor and two of his thugs brokein on me before I could read much of it.' Sooner or later he would have todisclose the nature of Evie's alter ego and her writing. But he wasn't readyyet.

'How do you know he's a doctor?'

'I don't know for sure. I just think he isbecause he knows his way around hospitals and drugs. He put an IV in