Silent Treatment

'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 seenhim.'

There was a prolonged silence.

'When did you want to see me?' she saidfinally.

'I don't know. Tonight?'

'Can't.'

'Tomorrow, then.' He considered addingthat it would be his birthday — his fiftieth birthday — but decided against it.'Maura, listen,' he said, 'if you're embarrassed about drinking, please don'tbe.'

'Seven-thirty,' she replied, 'You have mynumber, so I assume you know where I live.'

'I do. Thanks, Maura.'

'And Dr. Corbett?'

'Yes?'

'I can't remember the last time I caredenough 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 gotup 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 toforce desperation into the words. Again there was prolonged silence.

'I suppose I can keep it together at leastuntil tomorrow night. I think maybe I really don't want to drink. Maybe I'mjust 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 ofanything except hang around here, take naps, feel sorry for myself, and thinkabout drinking.'

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

If she was as depressed as she sounded, heknew there was no possibility she would agree. He could feel her choosing theway to tell him so.

'Do I have to get dressed up?' she askedsuddenly.

'Not unless you want to. When I'm not atwork, jeans is as dressy as I ever get.'

'In that case, sure,' Maura said. 'I'dlike that.'

Chapter16

At midnight, when he officially turnedfifty, Harry celebrated with a glass of champagne and a bag of Famous Amoschocolate chip cookies. He hadn't gotten cancer or been run over by a busduring 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 notbeginning with a great deal of promise. He indulged his self-pity for a time byflipping through his and Evie's wedding album, and then read himself to sleepwith half a page of his most dependable soporific, Moby-Dick. Ahabwasn'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 MarineCorps calisthenics he did on the days when he didn't run. He had always been anathlete of sorts — Little League baseball, cross-country, and some organizedbasketball 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 pastdecade, though, what intensity he still possessed was focused on holding hisground against the passing years. Now, as he grunted past sixty bent-kneesit-ups on the way to seventy-five, he found he was drawing strength from hisconsuming dislike for Albert Dickinson.

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

To Harry's profound relief, theone-and-a-half-hour inspection unearthed nothing. But with each fruitlessminute, Dickinson became more annoyed — and more determined. By the time he andthe other cop had left, he had reiterated in a variety of colorful and profaneways his threat to put the screws to Harry.

There was a small, enclosed terrace offthe master bedroom. It had a view of the midsection of another apartmentbuilding, and might have been considered a solarium if it ever receivedanything more than token sunlight. Evie had had many plans for the room whenthey first moved into the apartment, but soon lost interest in them. There weresimilar terraces all the way up the building. Those on the upper floors hadexpansive views and hours of direct sunlight. Over time, the room came tosymbolize those things she felt were second-rate in their life, and sheabsolutely never went out there.

Eventually, Harry had replaced the table,chairs, and small sofa with his exercise mat, stationary bicycle, weights, anda twelve-inch TV. Now, he turned on the early morning news and began a sequenceof lifts with ten- pound barbells, aimed at maintaining strength in the musclesin his back — muscles that had been surgically repaired after being shredded atNha-trang. The lead story this morning was about the cascading rumors of sexualimpropriety that continued to plague the president and undermine hiseffectiveness. The second story dealt with the Republican filibuster that hadall but damned the strict caps on health-insurance premiums demanded by theadministration's health-care package. The third story was about Evie's murder.

'Evelyn DellaRosa, consumer editor at Manhattan Woman magazine and wife of prominent Manhattan physician Dr.Harry Corbett, died of a brain hemorrhage last week at the Manhattan MedicalCenter.' Evie's stock photo appeared behind the anchorwoman with the word MURDEREDscrolled across it in crimson. 'Now, according to reliable police sources,the death of the former beauty queen and television reporter is being treatedas a homicide. .'

Harry set the weights aside and sank toone knee as the details of the medical examiner's findings were presented in TVshorthand. Behind the reporter flashed first a photo of MMC, then a close-up ofa vial labeled Aramine with a syringe protruding from the top, andfinally, one of Harry himself- a twenty-year-old shot of him in dress uniformthat someone had resurrected from the photo morgue at the Times.

'According to police sources, the onlysuspect currently under investigation in DellaRosa's murder is her husband, ageneral practitioner on the staff of the hospital in which she was slain.Reportedly, Dr. Corbett, who was awarded the silver star for bravery inVietnam, was his wife's last visitor before her fatal hemorrhage. Police claimthe couple was having marital difficulties. No other details are available atthis time

Harry buried his face in his hands.Weariness and perspiration burned in his eyes. As promised, Dickinson was offand running. And aside from remaining as composed as possible before theeruption that was about to occur, there wasn't a goddamn thing Harry could doabout it. At that moment, the phone began ringing. It was Rocky Martino, thenight doorman. A film crew from Channel 11 had just shown up in the lobby, andthe reporter was demanding to see Harry about the murder of his wife.

Tell them to go fuckthemselves, Harrythought.

'Tell them there will be no interviews,'he said, 'and don't say anything to them yourself. Nothing at all. Can I getout of the building through that metal door in the furnace room?. . Great.Rocky, believe me, I didn't do anything to hurt Evie. . Thank you. Thank youfor saying that. Now remember, no matter how much you want to help me, don'tsay anything at all to anyone.'

Seconds after he had hung up, the phonewas ringing again. This time it was his brother. Before Evie's funeral, Harryhad shared with Phil a good deal of what had transpired at the hospital withSidonis and Dickinson. Phil