Silent Treatment (30 page)

He spoke easily and even humorously of his drinking days and his virulent addiction to crack cocaine. But the intensity in his eyes left no doubt that this was serious business to him. At the height of his career, he was commanding thousand-dollar-a-day fees and was in continuous demand. His professional downfall came when he traded his gun to an undercover cop for some crack. At the time, it didn’t matter to him—nothing mattered except his next fix. But recovery had changed all that.

“I go mostly to NA,” Concepcion told Maura, when bringing up the subject seemed right. “You know, Narcotics Anonymous. But I’ll be happy to go with you to an AA meeting if you want. NA, AA, Hershey Bars Anonymous—they’re all the same as far as I’m concerned.”

“The sooner the better, I guess,” Maura said.

Jackie brought over some pretzels and another round of sodas. The two guitars had been joined by Hal Jewell, a full-time drummer who reminded Harry of Buddy Rich, and a sax player named Brisby, who was a partner in one of the most successful black law firms in the city. They were
working through a classy ballad in D that Harry had never heard before. Three quarters of an hour had gone by, and between the music and the pleasant surprise that was Walter Concepcion, he had managed to smooth off a bit of the ragged pain he was feeling.

The ballad was captivating, especially with the acoustics of the near-empty room. They listened in silence until Brisby’s last, melancholy note had faded away. Then Concepcion cleared his throat and turned to Harry.

“Dr. Corbett, I … um … there’s something I need to tell you. I do have headaches like I told you in the office—bad ones that no one’s been able to help me with. But that was only one of the reasons I came to see you.”

“Oh?”

“I hope you’re not angry about this. If you are, I guess I’d understand.”

“Go on.”

“I was going to tell you at the office, but you got that phone call and ran out before I could. Doc, I read about you in the papers. In fact, I’ve read absolutely everything I could get my hands on about what happened to you and your wife at the hospital. I’ve been fascinated by it. I even talked to a friend’s sister who’s a nurse there. She … ah … she told me about the argument you had with that surgeon, what’s his name?”

Harry momentarily debated ending the conversation right there. But over the past hour Concepcion had come across as anything but a head case. And there was nothing threatening or obsessive in his tone or expression now.

“Sidonis,” he said. “Caspar Sidonis.”

“Yeah, him. I—” He looked down at his hands. “I even know about you, Maura, assuming you’re the Maura from Mrs. Corbett’s room. Not that much, really. But enough to know that not too many people at the hospital believe you.”

“Walter, maybe you’d better get to the point,” Harry said.

“The point is, I need work. I know I don’t look it, but I’m good at what I used to do. Damn good. You claim you didn’t kill your wife. Maura claims someone else was in the
room after you. I want to help figure out who that person was. If I help, you pay me. If I don’t, you’re only out expense money.”

Harry stared across at him. He hadn’t once thought about trying to hire someone to help him out. The idea certainly had merit, he acknowledged now. But Walter Concepcion hardly seemed the ideal choice. He felt a sympathetic pang as he pictured the man in his rooming house, rummaging through his small closet for his best clothes in hopes of landing a job.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Walter, tell me something,” Maura said. “From what you’ve read, what do you think about all this?”

Concepcion rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin.

“Well, we’re not talking about a jealous husband or even an amateur here,” he said. “That’s for sure. We’re dealing with a psychopathic, sociopathic professional killer—a man without a conscience. So I guess the most important thing I could say is that I don’t believe Dr. Corbett fits that profile at all. And therefore I don’t believe he did it.”

“You’re right there,” Harry said.

“I also don’t believe you hired the man who did.”

“Right again. Walter, I just don’t know.”

Harry was drawn to a connection with Concepcion’s experience and street smarts, to say nothing of the value of having another hand on board who was committed to proving he wasn’t a murderer. But he was reluctant to strike a deal with a man about whom he knew so little. Maura saved him the trouble.

“It’s a deal,” she said.

“What?”

“Harry, you want to say yes and you know it. We’re dead in the water. We don’t have even the glimmer of an idea of what to do next. Walter can help us. I feel it in my bones.”

“I really think I can, Dr. Corbett.”

Harry took another fifteen seconds, purely for appearances.

“If you’re going to be working for me, you might as well call me Harry,” he said.

“You won’t regret this,” Concepcion said. “I promise.”

He reached over and shook Harry’s hand. His fingers were bony and gnarled, but his grip was surprisingly firm.

For the next half hour, Harry went over the case in detail. Concepcion listened intently and interrupted from time to time to clarify a point.

“This technician who took the fingerprints, has he heard anything at all?” … “Did you suspect your wife was having an affair at any time?” … “The two names you found in her address book, have you learned anything about them?” … “Do you have any idea who your wife worked for?” …

By the time Harry finished, they had been at the club for over two hours. The first few customers had started to straggle in.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked.

Concepcion twisted the small gold band he wore on the middle finger of his right hand.

“I think we’ve got to do what we can to find out who this Desiree was working for. That’s where I’m going to start.”

“Good luck,” Harry said, genuinely impressed with the logic of the idea. “What can we do in the meantime?”

“We need to get at that face Maura has locked away somewhere in her brain.”

“You mean by hypnosis?”

“It’s a thought.”

Harry rubbed at his eyes.

“Maura, I feel really stupid for not suggesting that.”

“You’ve had a few things on your mind,” she said. “Listen, Harry. I’ll try anything. Maybe we can throw in a few extra bucks and whoever hypnotizes me can convince my subconscious that Southern Comfort tastes like borscht or Diet Dr Pepper or something. Do you know anyone who might do it?”

“Actually, I do,” Harry said. “I know someone quite well. His name’s Pavel Nemec. You may have heard of him as The Hungarian.”

“The court of last resort for smokers,” Maura exclaimed. “I’ve heard there’s a waiting time of six months to see him.”

“I took care of his son once. I have his home number back at the apartment. If it’s humanly possible, he’ll see us tomorrow.”

Concepcion whistled.

“You must have done something pretty special for his kid.”

“Not really,” Harry murmured. “But Pavel thinks I did.” He turned to Concepcion. “Okay then, Walter, we’re in business.”

“Um, almost.” Concepcion looked at him warily. “I’m going to need some money for my expenses, and some more to buy information when I need to. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an accounting and receipts.”

“Just how much are we talking about here?”

“For expenses, maybe five hundred.”

“And for the other, the information?”

“I dunno. Maybe a thousand.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars!” Harry exclaimed. “I thought you said no results, no pay.”

“I told you, Harry, I’m a professional. I know what it takes to get information. How much do you think that guy got paid to kill your wife?”

“Okay, okay. Point made. Stop by my office tomorrow morning and I’ll have the cash for you.”

“Great. You won’t regret this.”

“You said that fifteen hundred dollars ago.”

Concepcion stood and shook hands with each of them.

“Maura, we’ll hit a meeting tomorrow or the next day. I promise.”

“Great. I’m ready for it.”

He turned to go, and then turned back.

“Oh, Harry?”

“What now?”

“If you’ve got it, I could really use a small advance on that expense money.”

Harry handed over a twenty, then another.

“Why do I feel like I just swam into a whirlpool?” he said.

Concepcion just grinned in his engaging way and headed off.

“Have I been had?” Harry asked.

Maura shook her head.

“Hardly. You’ve been leading too sheltered a life,” she said. “Everybody’s got to eat. I trust him. Besides, he’s already come up with two good ideas we didn’t.”

“I would have thought of the hypnotist,” Harry grumbled.

Impatient for The Roundtable to convene, Kevin Loomis lay facedown on the king-size bed in his room at the Garfield Suites. It had been a week since he learned that Evelyn DellaRosa had been murdered. Any number of times over those days, he had considered trying to track down Sir Gawaine to see if the man agreed she was Desiree. But if he was discovered by anyone in the group probing into the identity of a fellow knight, it would probably be over for him. For the moment, his plan was to keep his mouth shut on the matter and hope that Gawaine brought it up.

The young beauty who called herself Kelly knelt astride Kevin’s buttocks, kneading the tension from the muscles in his lower back. Her silk Oriental dress—red this night and adorned with gold lame—lay over the chair, alongside her black lace panties. Kevin watched her reflection in the mirror across the room, her high, firm breasts, her small, dark nipples, the perfect curves of her hips and ass.
Kelly. Another meaningless name
, he thought. Like Lancelot and Merlin
and Desiree and the rest—shadow names of no substance, created only to cloak secrets. Names that vanished in the light of day.

“Is Kelly your real name?” he asked.

He saw her smile in the mirror and felt foolish knowing he was hardly the first to ask that question.

“If you wish it to be, it is,” she replied softly, patiently.

Kevin closed his eyes and found himself feeling vaguely queasy. Massaging him was this most gorgeous woman, ready, if he should wish it, to take him inside her in the most intimate ways imaginable, yet forbidden to share even her first name with him. Was
she
a reporter? Or perhaps a student in nuclear physics at Columbia? Or was she just an up-and-coming whore? Kelly, Tristram, Desiree, Galahad, Gawaine.
Shadow names
.

What would Nancy say if she knew?
he wondered. Would she believe he was part of it all? Did he even believe it, himself?

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, rolling over.

Kelly bent down and kissed his cock, which immediately started to harden.

“You want me to come with you?”

“No,” he said, too sharply.
I want you to tell me what in the hell I’m doing here
. “Just get dressed and order something for dinner.… I don’t care what it is as long as it’s the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“Filet medium rare,” she said. “I remember.”

As soon as Kevin entered the Stuyvesant Suite, he made eye contact with Gawaine. From the man’s dress and manner, Loomis had always believed he had a prep school and possibly even Ivy League background. Tonight, his smooth manner seemed frayed, his smile a little tense.

The seven high-backed chairs circling the table were set about four feet apart. Tristram’s brass nameplate had been placed in its customary spot between Kay and Lancelot. Gawaine moved toward his seat, which was almost opposite Kevin’s.

Kevin caught his eye, nodded a greeting, then approached.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

“Can’t complain,” Gawaine said.

“Lancelot’s sent me a Chinese girl this time. Eleven on a scale of ten, he calls her. He might be right. I think he’s trying to make up for that Desiree fiasco.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Gawaine smiled uncomfortably and pulled out his chair.

Before Kevin could test him again, the meeting was convened by Merlin.

Maybe he doesn’t know anything at all about Evelyn DellaRosa,
Kevin thought.
Maybe he hasn’t even seen any of the pictures of her.

Galahad’s financial report showed that the group’s contributions had put their operating capital back over the agreed-upon $600,000. Kevin had no idea how that baseline figure was arrived at, or, for that matter, how any of their rules had been adopted. No minutes were ever kept, no record of votes, no paperwork of any kind. But everyone seemed to know exactly where projects stood and what was expected of each of them.

Kay spoke first, reporting on one of three major new programs that would be discussed tonight. He sounded quite eager to report that the votes were now in place to pass legislation permitting companies to run genetic panels on all prospective employees. First formal psychological exams and profiles, then AIDS screening, and now, finally, genetic testing. They all knew that the total package might not do one truly positive thing for the companies involved. But it would save those companies’ health insurance carriers tens if not hundreds of millions.

“There’ll be the usual court challenges,” Kay explained. “But I think we have control of this one. I would guess it’ll be a year before it’s enacted, challenged, and upheld—maybe a bit longer if the labor unions latch onto any half-decent lawyers. But we
are
going to win,”

“The quicker the better,” Lancelot said. “As far as I’m
concerned, we ought to make genetic screening a requirement for entering
kindergarten
. Goddamn mutants are everywhere.”

There was laughter from around the table. Loomis faked his and noted that Gawaine’s smile looked perfunctory.

Kay received a round of appreciative pen taps for his work. Percivale clapped out loud.
Tens of millions in increased profits for the industry—possibly more
. Tristram thought about the figure Burt Dreiser had quoted him the morning when they met on his boat.
Nineteen million dollars
. That was what the former knight’s company had lost in one year by not being allowed to replace him on The Roundtable.
Nineteen million dollars
. Assuming Crown Health benefited similarly from his work, Tristram’s bonus would be one percent of that—$190,000 on top of his base salary.