Silent Treatment (7 page)

He picked up the phone and dialed her number at
Manhattan Woman
magazine.

“Evelyn DellaRosa, please,” he said, setting her likeness back in its spot. “It’s her husband.”

Evie had been the consumer editor for the struggling monthly for five years. Harry knew it was an unpleasant comedown for her from the network television reporting job she had once held. But he admired her tenacity and her commitment to making it back into the spotlight. In fact, he knew something good was going on in her professional life. She wouldn’t tell him what, but for her even to mention that she was working on a story with big potential was unusual.

It was three minutes before she came on the line.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Harry,” she said. “I had this technician ready to blow the whistle on the dog lab in the basement of a building owned by InSkin Cosmetics, and the bastard just wimped out.”

“Are you all right?”

“If you mean do I spend one minute out of every hour not thinking about this damn balloon in my head, the answer is, I’m fine.”

“They had that meeting at the hospital.”

“Meeting?”

“The Sidonis committee report.”

“Oh … oh, yes.… How did it go?”

“Let’s just say I should have taken that job with Hollins/McCue.”

“Dawn breaks on Marblehead.”

“Please, Evie. I admitted it. What more can I say?”

He knew there was, in fact, nothing he could say that wouldn’t make matters worse. His decision a little over a year ago to turn down the offer had nearly been the final nail in the coffin of their marriage. In fact, considering that he could count on one hand the number of times they had made love since then, the fallout was probably continuing.

“I got a call from Dr. Dunleavy’s office a little while ago,” she said.

“And?”

“A bed on the neurosurgical floor and operating room time have become available. He wants me to come in tomorrow afternoon and be operated on Thursday morning.”

“The sooner the better.”

“As long as it’s not
your
head, right?”

“Evie, come on.”

“Listen, I know I had promised to come hear you play at the club tonight, but I don’t want to now.”

“That’s fine. It’s no big deal. I don’t have to play.”

He took care to keep any hurt from his voice. Throughout their dating and the early years of their marriage she had loved his music, loved hearing him play. Now, he couldn’t recall the last time. He had been looking forward to this small step back toward the life they had once shared. But he did understand.

“Harry, I need to talk to you,” Evie said suddenly. “Can you come home early enough for us to go out to dinner?”

“Of course. What gives?”

“I’ll … I’ll talk to you tonight, okay?”

“Should I be worried?”

“Harry, please. Tonight?”

“All right. Evie, I love you.”

There was a pause.

“I know you do, Harry,” she said.

Kevin Loomis, first vice president of the Crown Health and Casualty Insurance Company, slipped a folder of notes into his briefcase, straightened his desk, and checked his calendar for the following day. He was a meticulous worker and never left for the evening without tying up as many loose ends as possible. He buzzed his secretary and turned on a mental stopwatch. In six seconds she was in his office.

“Yes, Mr. Loomis?”

Brenda was fabulous—smart, organized, loyal, and an absolute knockout. She was a legacy to him from Burt Dreiser, now the president and CEO of the company. Kevin suspected she and Dreiser had something going outside the office. But it really didn’t matter. Dreiser had bumped him up to the corner office over a number of others who had more seniority and, in some cases, more qualifications than he did. And as far as Kevin was concerned, if Dreiser was sleeping with Brenda Wallace, more power to him.

“Do we have anything else we need to take care of?” he asked. “I’m just getting set to leave for the day.”

“Second and fourth Tuesdays. I know,” she said, a smile in her eyes. “I wish you well.”

The poker game. For years, Dreiser, who was a legendary workaholic, had uncharacteristically left the office at four o’clock on the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month. Some sort of explanation seemed called for. Brenda was far too efficient and observant not to wonder. The poker game fit the bill perfectly. Now, Kevin had taken over not only Dreiser’s former title, office, and secretary, but, as far as Brenda Wallace was concerned, his seat at the high-stakes card game as well. Second and fourth Tuesdays. Four o’clock. In fact, Dreiser had made a point of corroborating the poker story to Kevin’s wife, Nancy. The necessary rite of passage up the corporate ladder comfortably explained her husband’s twice-monthly overnights in the city. The avowed secrecy surrounding the game’s location explained the need for her to communicate with him by beeper only.

“I’ve won maybe once in the four months I’ve been playing,” Kevin told Brenda dryly. “I think that might be why Burt invited me into the game in the first place. He could tell I was a greenhorn. Listen, seeing as how Oak Hills has decided to renew with us, I think we ought to do something for them. You have the names of the members of the school board and the head of the union. Send them each some champagne. Better still, make it chocolates. Godiva. About a hundred dollars worth for each should do fine. Put something nice on the cards.”

“Right away, Mr. Loomis.”

She left after favoring him with a smile that would have melted block ice. His successes were hers, and the Oak Hills school system renewal was a triumph. The system was huge, one of the largest on Long Island. And by and large its teachers were young and healthy.
Young and healthy—
the golden words in any group medical coverage. It was a feather in Kevin Loomis’s cap, to be sure. But the victory really belonged to The Roundtable. The Oak Hills system had been apportioned by the society to Crown. Any competition
for the contract would come from nonmembers. And of course, dealing with nonmember competitors was what The Roundtable was all about.

The Oak Hills coup was meaningful on another level as well. Kevin’s first four months as Burt’s replacement on The Roundtable had been marked by controversy. A troubling situation had developed that had resulted in the group’s moving their meetings from the Camelot Hotel to the Garfield Suites, and the situation had involved Kevin. But in truth, nothing that had happened was his fault. Hopefully, the others saw it that way, too. He had no idea what would happen if they didn’t.

He picked up his briefcase and overnight bag and took some time to survey the panorama of the city, the river, and the countryside beyond. Kevin Loomis, Jr., had risen from gofer to first vice president, from a gerbil-village corkboard cubicle to a corner office. His parents, had they lived, would have been proud—damn proud—of the way he had turned out. He swallowed against the fullness in his throat that memories of them always seemed to bring. Then he headed out toward the elevator bank. His transformation to Sir Tristram, Knight of The Roundtable, had begun.

The Garfield Suites was on Fulton, a block and a half from the World Trade Center. The cab ride downtown from the Crown Building took twenty minutes. Kevin rode quietly, staring out at the passing city, but seeing little. The remarkable changes in his life could not have come about much more abruptly had he won the lottery. To be sure, he was good—very good—at what he did, which for years had been to sell insurance. He had been a member of the industry’s Million Dollar Roundtable for sales five years running, a branch manager, and then a successful department head at the home office. For a relatively young man from the far wrong side of Newark, those were accomplishments enough. But suddenly, Burt Dreiser had started inviting him out to lunch, and soon after that, to dinner.

What do you think of …? What would you do if…? Supposing you were asked to …?
First came the questions, phrased and rephrased, over and over again.
Then, with Kevin’s responses apparently acceptable, came the secrets. The sales force’s well-publicized roundtable had a counterpart, Burt explained, at the high executive level. But unlike the Million Dollar Roundtable, which was an industry honor to be extolled in ads, on letterheads, and on business cards, membership in
this Roundtable was not only very exclusive, but very secret
.

By the time Kevin had agreed to become Sir Tristram, replacing Burt Dreiser as Crown’s representative, he realized that he already knew too much to refuse and remain employed. His rewards for accepting the appointment were the promotion, a generous raise, and an annual bonus of one hundred thousand dollars or one percent of what The Roundtable saved or made that year for Crown, whichever was higher. The deal was, Dreiser assured him, on a par with that accorded the other knights.

Following the recent scare, a number of steps had been instituted by the knights to protect their small organization and its members. Adhering to one of them, Kevin paid off the cabby at Gold and Beekman and made a two-block detour to the Garfield Suites, cutting through a store, and doubling back once as well. Certain he was not being followed, he entered the hotel lobby. His reservation, under the name George Trist, was already paid for. Anyone trying to backtrack from that name to the source of payment would find only a dummy business account with a set of directors who had long ago died. Sir Galahad, in charge of security, did his job well. He was paranoid about details. And after the undercover reporter had been discovered, he had become, if possible, even more obsessive.

Across the lobby, Kevin saw Sir Percivale waiting for the elevator. Percivale was with Comprehensive Neighborhood Health Care, the largest managed care operation in the state. Kevin knew that much about the man, but no more. Not his name, not his title at CNHC. Burt told him not to worry about such things—it had been three years before
he
knew the names of all six of the other knights. Their eyes met for just a moment, then Percivale was gone.
Kevin glanced at his watch. In three hours they would be meeting, along with the others, on the nineteenth floor.

He crossed to the registration desk. The secrecy, the code names, the nature of their projects … Kevin thoroughly enjoyed the intrigue and mystery that surrounded their small society. And gradually, he was learning to cope with the less appealing aspects of it as well—some of the methods employed to achieve their goals and, of course, the constant risk of discovery.

Number 2314 was a two-room suite with a decent view of the World Trade Center. Kevin stopped in the living room and twisted open a Heineken from the ample supply in the refrigerator. Then he stripped off his tie and laid his suit coat over the back of a chair. He had just kicked off his shoes when he tensed. He was not alone. Someone was in the bedroom. He was absolutely certain. He took a step toward the hallway door. There were house phones by the elevator. He could call Galahad or hotel security.

“Hello?” a feminine voice called out. “Anybody out there?”

Kevin crossed to the bedroom doorway. The woman, in her early twenties if that, stood by the edge of the king-size bed. She had obviously been sleeping, and now was brushing out her waist-length, jet-black hair. She wore a bit too much makeup for Kevin’s taste, but in every other regard she was perfect. Her Asian features, her slender body, her high, full breasts, her legs. Perfect. Her emerald dress was wet-suit tight, slit up the right side to her hip.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

She set the brush down, smoothed the front of her dress, and moistened her lips before she spoke.

“My name is Kelly.”

“Who sent you here?”

“I … I don’t understand.”

Kevin glared at her. After what happened with the reporter, surely this was either a joke or some sort of test.

“Where did you come from? That’s a simple enough question. How did you get in here? That’s another simple question.”

Fear sparked in the woman’s dark eyes.

“A man met me outside the door and let me in. Each of us was given a room number to wait at. I … I’m here to please you in any way that you want.”

“Just sit down there and stay there,” Kevin said, motioning to the bed. “No!” he snapped as she reached behind her back for her zipper. “Just sit.”

He stalked to the living room, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

According to Burt Dreiser, the women had been part of second and fourth Tuesdays for most of The Roundtable’s six-year existence. Lancelot, who had been there from the beginning, was responsible for them. And until two months ago, there had never been a problem. Those knights who wanted sex had it. Those who wanted nothing more than a massage or a lovely companion for dinner got that. The escort service Lancelot employed was one of the most upscale and discreet in the city. But somehow, they had been penetrated—not by a cop, but by a reporter.

Kevin snatched up the phone.

“Mr. Lance’s room, please.”

Lancelot, Pat Harper of Northeast Life and Casualty, was the only member of The Roundtable whom Kevin had met before joining. In stature and appearance, Harper was anything but a Lancelot, with an expansive gut, ruddy complexion, fat cigar, and high-pitched laugh that were far closer to Dickens than to Camelot. Kevin had once played in the same foursome with him during an industry-sponsored charity golf tournament and had been beaten by a dozen strokes. Harper had a wife and three or four grown kids. Beyond that fact, Kevin knew nothing of the man except, of course, that he liked young, beautiful women.

“Lancelot, this is Tristram,” Kevin said. “I thought we decided no more women.”

“Ah, Kelly … What do you think of her? A ten and a half, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, except she’s not supposed to be here.”

“Oh, lighten up, my friend. Life is too short. We decided no more women from the
old
escort service. Kelly
and the others are from a
new
one. Don’t worry, every one of them has been checked out. There won’t be any more screwups.”

The name the reporter had used was Desiree. She had spent two Tuesdays with Sir Gawaine and two with Kevin. The owner of the escort service had learned of Desiree’s duplicity from one of the other women, whom the reporter had tried to interview and who was certain that the impostor had recorded her sessions with her two clients. At Galahad’s insistence, the escort company was terminated immediately, and Roundtable meetings were moved.