Silent Treatment (44 page)

“But—”

“Dr. Corbett, I have no time for this. I have preparations of my own to make. Nine o’clock tonight. If you know The Doctor, you know why I do not trust anyone. You must do exactly as I say or we will both lose out. Now, here is what you are to do …”

Harry’s bank was open until six that night. He had a total of $29,350 in his savings account, plus another five thousand or so in checking. He also had no personal connection whatsoever with anyone at the bank. Cursing himself for not making more money, and for not having taken the Hollins/McCue job, and for not going into ophthalmology, and for ever trusting Ray Santana, Harry took his savings and checkbooks and, with Maura, slipped out the rear basement door. They hurried to his garage for the BMW, stopped briefly at a newsstand, and then drove to his bank. With no idea how much space twenty-five thousand dollars
would take up, especially in bill sizes of one hundred dollars or less, as the caller demanded, Harry had dumped out a briefcase and brought it along.

He entered the bank half an hour before closing. It was a moderately large branch and was still servicing a line waiting to see the six tellers. Twenty-five thousand was more cash than he had ever handled at one time. Was it conceivable the bank wouldn’t have that much on hand?

Outside, Maura sat behind the wheel of Harry’s BMW, the driver of the getaway car. The ground rules Perchek’s security chief had laid down were that Harry was to bring the money to a landfill on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, not far from the city of Fort Lee. He was to come alone and to arrive at exactly 9
P.M
. The directions to the spot were minutely detailed. The landfill was a dump site at the end of a winding dirt and gravel road. Harry was to drive to the center of the clearing, flash his lights four times, and wait beside the driver’s-side door. The caller insisted on knowing the make and plate number of his car. If any other vehicle approached the landfill, whether it had anything to do with Harry or not, the meeting would be off … forever.

“The money means a lot to me,” the caller had said, “but not enough to die for.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Harry asked.

“What kind of trap? To what end? If my employer wanted to kill you, you would be dead. It is that simple. If you know him at all, surely you know that. You are much more important to him alive. Besides, he delights in inflicting pain. The permanence and peace of death are his enemy.”

Harry fought off an involuntary chill.

“I’ll have a gun.”

“You would be foolish if you didn’t. I can assure you I will.”

“I want a chance to inspect what you have before I turn over the money.”

“You will have five minutes.…”

The young teller studied Harry’s withdrawal slip for
fifteen seconds. Then she verified his balance and looked through her Plexiglas cage at him, smiling.

“How will you want this?” she asked.

This was New York City, Harry reminded himself, not some boondocks village. A twenty-five-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal was everything to him, but probably not so uncommon to any of these people.

“Hundreds or less,” he said, knowing that there was no sense trying for an air of nonchalance when she had his bank balance on the screen right in front of her.

“Did you bring something to carry the money in?” she asked, “or would you like one of our bags?”

“I have a briefcase.”

He held it up for her to see. Her expression made it clear that she knew he was not one of the do-this-all-the-time people.

“I’ll need to get an authorization from Mr. Kinchley,” she said.

She left her post and headed out from behind the cages to the desks where the junior officers sat. Harry followed her with his eyes and saw her approach a nattily dressed man in his late thirties with a sailor’s tan and a chiseled jaw.

Come on
, Harry thought.
Just give me the goddamn money
. If the bank withdrawal fell through, he had decided to call his brother Phil, who lived in Short Hills, about forty-five minutes from Fort Lee. But if he had to go that route, everything would become immeasurably more complicated.

He risked a glance out the front window. Maura was parked directly across the street. She was wearing dark glasses and a white, floppy-brimmed hat, which was bobbing animatedly—probably to something on the radio. The sight of her that way brought Harry a smile in spite of the tenseness of his situation.

Their relationship was being forged in the intense heat of the events that had drawn them together. But in just a short time, they had become friends in a way he and Evie
never had. And that friendship, in turn, had given their lovemaking an openness and mutual caring that had never existed in his marriage.

Now, reluctantly, he was testing that friendship. Despite the mysterious caller’s quite credible story, and his use of Perchek’s initials, neither Harry nor Maura was at all comfortable with what he was being asked to do. Still, as the caller had said, they could think of no reason Perchek would want to lure him into a trap. It couldn’t be for the money. Surely, twenty-five thousand dollars was nothing more than petty cash to the man.

It seemed as if there was nothing he could do but follow the instructions to the letter and hope for the best. But when Maura noticed the phone Evie had installed in the BMW, she had the germ of an idea. And soon after that, they had a plan. There were three elements essential to their strategy, and Maura possessed them all: another car, a cellular phone, and the courage and willingness to put herself in harm’s way. They had stopped by a newsstand and bought a detailed street map of the area surrounding Fort Lee. On it, the landfill was nothing more than a blank spot near the river, two blocks square, surrounded by suburban streets. As soon as possible, Maura would pick up her car and her phone. She would then drive someplace near the landfill and, without being seen, find her way to a spot where she could hide and watch the field. At eight-twenty, after he had left the garage, she would call him. She would check in once again after he had reached the New Jersey side. If there was no sign of a trap, he could proceed to the landfill with more confidence. If problems did develop, she would have the phone to call for help. They had a gun, the one Harry had taken from the killer in Central Park. After arguing for Harry to keep it, she finally agreed that it made more sense for her to have it.

“Sir, I’m sorry for the delay.”

Harry spun around to the teller’s cage and then realized that the young woman was standing next to him.

“Oh, yes. No problem.”

He held his breath and clenched his fists to keep his
hands from shaking. It was already nearing rush hour. If the bank came through, Maura would still have a tough enough time getting across the George Washington Bridge, finding a place to leave her car, and then locating a back way into the landfill. If they had to deal with Phil, whether or not he came through with the money, it would be nearly impossible for her to get there in time.

“If you’ll come with me, sir, Mr. Kinchley will have your money.”

“That would be fine,” he said, smiling calmly, his pulse hammering in his ears.

*   *   *

Kevin Loomis sat alone in his basement office, photographs of his family and his life with Nancy spread out on his desk beneath a checklist he had drawn up. Every item on the list had been taken care of now. The insurance policies were absolutely airtight as long as there was no suspicion that his death was a suicide. Suicide would cost him—would cost
Nancy
—two million of the three and a half million he had in force, to say nothing of five hundred thousand dollars in double indemnity accidental-death benefits. But he had worked out every movement, every moment, in the most exhaustive detail. There’ would be no suspicion of suicide.

He had put careful thought into the guest list he had drawn up for the barbecue dinner party they were giving the following night. The guests, fourteen in all, included the most respected, successful, influential, and community-conscious people they knew. Their pastor and his wife, Nancy’s boss and his wife, the lawyer who was head of the local Little League association, the president of the Rotary Club. Nancy thought it a bit strange that Kevin had chosen to invite only two of their more fun-loving, beer-drinking friends, but she accepted Kevin’s explanation that he wanted to thank some people before the move to Port Chester.

In fact, he wanted guests who would most effectively
and eloquently vouch for his cheerfulness and his hospitality right up until the moment of the accident, as well as to the fact that he had “had a few.” Two of them would accompany him down to the basement. The two he planned to pick were men at whose homes he had done minor repair work in the past, a store manager and the pastor. They would be on the stairs, their flashlight beams fixed on the water gushing from the detached washing machine hose. They would attest to Kevin having the skills necessary to take care of the emergency and would report on his movements through the inches-deep water on the concrete floor. The moment Kevin’s hand came down on the shorted wire of the dryer would remain forever fixed in their minds. But what the hell. They were friends who would do anything for Nancy. And he was paying a far greater price.

The children were accounted for as well. Nicky and Julie were going to spend the night with friends. Brian would be with Nancy’s parents. It was strange to think that tomorrow afternoon, when he sent them off, he would be looking at each of them for the last time. They would have a tough time of it, but not nearly as tough as if their family became destitute and their father went to prison.

Perhaps there really is an afterlife,
he thought now.
Perhaps I’ll be able to look in on them every single day
.

He stacked the photos up and reviewed each one for a final time. Then he wrapped them with a rubber band and set them in a drawer. The lists he tore up and threw in a plastic bag full of trash, which he would put in the barrels in the garage. Finally, he went once more to the washer and dryer to check on his handiwork. The twine that ran from the loosened hose out the basement window was in place. One pull and the hose would come free. Cutting the twine off and discarding it would be his next to last act on earth. The last would be innocently setting his hand on the back of the dryer.

Kevin knew that Harry Corbett suspected what he was planning to do. There was nothing subtle about the Vietnam story he had told that night in the car. And in fact, he
had thought a great deal about what Corbett was trying to tell him, that his situation wasn’t hopeless. That was all well and good for Corbett to say. He didn’t have three kids to provide for.

Kevin had spoken with him several times since then and had been careful to sound upbeat and positive. He did not believe Corbett intended to act on his concerns. What was there for him to do, anyway? A little more than twenty-four hours and it would all be over.

Kevin inspected the setup he had created around the washing machine and dryer. The police would come over and file some sort of report. But there was no way anyone could prove this wasn’t an accident. Absolutely none.

He sighed the relief of a man who had just completed a job and done it well. Tonight he would have a wonderful dinner with his family. And later on, he would make love to Nancy as he had never made love before.

The late summer heat wave that had been blamed for brownouts, accidents, and deaths throughout the city had finally broken. The early evening temperature was in the mid-sixties, with a decent breeze and the threat of rain. Harry dropped Maura at her car at exactly six and then returned to the parking-space condominium to await his eight-fifteen departure. The BMW’s dashboard clock had been out of commission for years, and neither he nor Evie had ever bothered to get it fixed, so he was using his Casio to keep track of time. He was nearing the garage when Maura called to check in, test her cellular phone, and report that traffic from her apartment to the bridge was only moderate. Her next call would be the one at eight-twenty that they had prearranged.

“This is it, Harry,” she said. “You’ll see. By ten o’clock tonight we’ll be ready to go to the police. They’ll have to believe us this time. Just hang in there.”

“You
hang in there. And please be careful.”

Harry parked in his spot and walked out of the garage. A police cruiser was moving slowly along, half a block away, perhaps looking for him, perhaps not. Thanks to Ray Santana, there was now absolutely no place where he could safely go. He returned to the BMW, flipped on the radio again, and waited.

WINS, the all-news station, was still broadcasting updates every ten minutes or so on the bizarre developments surrounding the gunman at Manhattan Medical Center. The real Max Garabedian had been taken into police custody, questioned, and released. He had returned to his 103rd Street apartment and was refusing to speak to the press until advised to do so by his attorney. In a prepared statement, read by his lawyer, Garabedian denied knowing anything of the man admitted to Manhattan Medical Center under his name. He denied having any relationship with Harry other than patient/physician, but called Harry “an intelligent, dedicated doctor,” and expressed his determination to hold off on any judgment until the truth came out.

Harry gave passing thought to trying to call Garabedian from his car phone. But this was no time for him to be doing anything at all except sitting and waiting until eight-fifteen.

There was more. Ray Santana had not been caught. Authorities were at a loss to explain how a gunman in pajamas with no shoes or socks could have made it out of the hospital with security police and dozens of NYPD officers ringing the place. The broadcaster, clearly losing a battle with self-restraint, opined that this was New York, after all. Maybe the oddly clad fugitive had simply stepped onto the streets of Manhattan and blended in.

At seven o’clock, MMC public-relations director Barbara Hinkle held a news conference, excerpted on WINS. The hospital, she said, was grateful no one had been hurt in the unfortunate incident. Hospital officials would have nothing further to say until a preliminary investigation into the near-calamity was completed. She did add that hospital authorities as yet had had no luck in reaching Dr. Harry
Corbett, the physician who admitted the gunman to Grey 218.