Silent Treatment (38 page)

“You obviously haven’t had any experience with people like my friend Stephanie. Office and home numbers for both.”

“Which one are you going to try first?”

Harry looked over at Concepcion.

“Why, the award-winning executive, of course,” Walter said. “Is it worth talking through how you’re going to approach him?”

“I think I might be better improvising,” Harry said.

He dialed the number for the Manhattan office of Interstate Health Care and asked for James Stallings. In a few moments, Stallings’s secretary came on the line.

“Mr. Stallings’s office.”

“Hi,” Harry said. “I’m trying to reach Jim Stallings. My name’s Collins, Harrison Collins. I was a classmate of Jim’s at Dartmouth. I’m with the selection committee for next year’s graduation. Jim’s name has been submitted for a distinguished alumnus award, and I need to go over some details with him.”

Harry got two thumbs up from his small audience. There was an unnaturally long pause before the secretary responded.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Collins,” she said. “Mr. Stallings isn’t able to take your call.”

“Well, when should I call back?”

Again, there was an uncomfortably long pause.

“What was this about again?”

“An award. Dartmouth is giving Mr. Stallings an award.”

“Mr. Collins, I’m afraid Mr. Stallings is ill. Quite ill. He … he’s in the intensive care unit at Memorial Hospital.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. Will he, I mean, is he going to be all right?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that without permission. I’m sorry.”

Harry reviewed the conversation for Maura and Concepcion, and then used his title and knowledge of hospital procedure to get through to a nurse in the Memorial Hospital ICU. His conversation with the woman lasted only a minute. He slowly set the receiver down.

“Stallings had a cardiac arrest on the subway this afternoon,” he said. “He’s on a ventilator, essentially brain-dead. She couldn’t tell me any more than that.”

“How old was he?” Maura asked.

Harry glanced at his notes.

“Forty-two.”

“Not exactly cardiac arrest age,” Concepcion said.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. I think you should call that other one. What’s his name?”

Harry was already dialing Crown Health and Casualty.

“Loomis,” he said. “Kevin Loomis.”

Harry modified the tale he told to Loomis’s secretary. Harrison Collins was with the Executive of the Year committee of the American Insurance Association. Loomis was to be one of three nominees for this year’s award. Harry knew the lie sounded good even as he said it. In a few seconds, Loomis was on the line.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Collins?” he said.

“Are you the only one on this line?” Harry asked.

“What?”

“Can you talk safely?”

“Of course I can. What’s this all about?”

“Mr. Loomis, my name isn’t Collins, it’s Corbett. Dr. Harry Corbett. Do you know who I am?”

“I read the papers.”

“This is about my wife, Mr. Loomis. My late wife Evelyn.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Mr. Loomis, in trying to clear myself of charges that I
murdered my wife, I’ve been investigating her life. I’ve learned that she worked for the Elegance escort service. I know she saw you and James Stallings as clients at the Camelot Hotel.”

“That’s nonsense. I’ve never been to the Camelot Hotel, I don’t know your wife, and I don’t know anyone named Stallings. Now, I’m very busy and—”

“Your name, address, and Social Security number were on a note in my wife’s possession when she died. So were Stallings’s. It seemed to me she must have got them from your driver’s licenses. Now, you can talk to me or talk to the police.”

“Dr. Corbett, I don’t like people threatening me. I don’t know you and I don’t know your wife. I’m going to hang up now. Don’t call me again.”

“Mr. Loomis, I just hung up from talking with a nurse in the Memorial Hospital ICU. James Stallings had some sort of cardiac arrest today. He’s unconscious and on a respirator, but he’s never going to wake up again. He’s brain-dead. Irreversibly brain-dead.”

The prolonged silence was a positive response.

“I don’t know Stallings, and I have nothing more to say to you.”

“My number is 870-3400 in Manhattan. Call me anytime, but make it soon. I have a feeling we need to talk.”

Kevin Loomis hung up without responding.

“He’s going to check on what I told him about Stallings,” Harry told the others. “After that I think I’ll be hearing from him.”

“One way or the other,” Maura responded warily. “For all we know, he may have been the one who hired Evie’s killer.”

Each patient was allowed two visitors in the Memorial Hospital ICU. When Kevin Loomis arrived there at two-fifteen the following afternoon, James Stallings already had his quota. He was directed to a small family room with overstuffed furniture, a selection of religious and inspirational reading material, and a television that was turned to the cartoon channel.

Visiting hours were from noon until eight, but this was Kevin’s first opportunity to get to the hospital since receiving the call from Harry Corbett. As soon as he had hung up on Corbett, Kevin had called Memorial. Patient information could tell him nothing more than that James Stallings was a patient in the ICU, and that his condition was critical. He dialed Stallings’s office at Interstate Health, hoping to learn more, but hung up as soon as the secretary asked his name. Badly shaken, he managed to make it through an hour-long meeting at work—a meeting in which Burt Dreiser sat directly across the table, smiling at him benevolently.

Burt, you know Sir Gawaine, the tall, good-looking guy who came on board The Roundtable about six or seven months before I did? You wouldn’t happen to know how he ended up in critical condition in the Memorial Hospital ICU, would you?

After the meeting, Kevin had barely had time to make it home for Julie’s dance recital. He would have preferred to have been assigned to Nicky’s Little League game, but his deal with Nancy was that they would alternate. Now, with little Brian scheduled to begin various lessons as soon as they were settled in Port Chester, the formula would have to be revamped.

By the time he caught up with Nancy, it was almost nine. The kids were finally all in their rooms. With Kevin having spent the previous night at the Garfield Suites, it had been a day and a half since he and Nancy had said more than a few words to one another. She had picked up on his uncharacteristic tenseness and asked about it. He made no attempt to disagree. Work had been unusually heavy, he said. When she asked how he had made out in his poker game, he chose the “won a few dollars” lie. Then she ran down two days’ worth of family news, and began flirting with him, stroking the inside of his leg. It had been a couple of weeks since they had made love—since before the previous Roundtable meeting, in fact. But this just wasn’t going to be the night. He begged off, citing a splitting headache, exhaustion, and a phone call he had to make to Burt. He forced himself not to look at her hurt and concern, and shuffled down to his basement office. There he called Memorial Hospital once again.
ICU, critical
.

“Excuse me.”

“Huh?”

Kevin had been staring unseeing at a Bugs Bunny classic. A woman stood in the doorway of the family room. She was tall and slender with sandy hair cut short. Her narrow face was attractive, and might have been beautiful were it not for the dark circles under her eyes.

“You’re here to see Jim Stallings?”

“I am, yes.”

The woman stepped forward and extended her hand.

“I’m Vicky Stallings. Jim’s wife.”

Kevin stood.

“Kevin Loomis. I’m with Crown Health. I … I play cards, with Jim.”

“Oh, then you saw him just the night before … before this happened. Did he seem all right?”

“Perfectly normal.”

“He was in the subway when he collapsed,” she said, talking as much to herself as to Kevin. “City Hall station. His secretary said he had some sort of appointment downtown, but she had no idea what. How did you say you knew Jim?”

“I … um … I play cards in the same game he does.”

“Oh, yes. You just said that, didn’t you. I can’t seem to keep a thought in my head. I assume he lost again,” she said, desperately distraught, but still trying for civility. “Jim never was very interested in card games, or very good at them from what Ì could tell. But he would never miss that game. I gather it was as much about business as about poker.”

Kevin felt strange hearing the lie from someone else’s wife.

“I’m really sorry about what’s happened,” he said. “I couldn’t get any information from the hospital other than that his condition was critical. Is he … I mean, does he …”

Vicky Stallings shook her head and then suddenly and rapidly unraveled. Kevin stood by awkwardly until she had regained some control. Her sobbing let up. Embarrassed, she apologized. He told her there was nothing to apologize for.

“My sister just left,” she managed. “Why don’t you go on in there alone. I’ll be by in just a bit. Jim hasn’t mentioned you, but he kept that poker game pretty much to himself. It’s very good of you to come.”

“I’m sorry this has happened,” Kevin said again.

For as long as he could remember, Kevin had had an
intense aversion to hospitals. He disliked intensive care units even more. He checked in with the nurse at the desk and was directed to cubicle 3, a glass-enclosed box with drapes partially blocking the windows. The patient in the cubicle bore scant resemblance to the urbane executive who had sat across from him through nearly five months of Roundtable meetings. Tape across his puffy face held tubes in place through his nose and mouth. Beside the bed, a large respirator hissed and whirred, its display flashing like some obscene electronic game. Stallings’s lips—what Kevin could see of them—were swollen, cracked, and bruised. His eyes were taped shut. Periodically, every muscle in his body seemed to go into spasm, with his rigid arms twisting inward until his palms faced away from his sides. Overhead, the monitor screen displayed a heart rhythm that was quite regular. Kevin knew the innocent pattern was deceiving.

Brain-dead
. That’s how Dr. Harry Corbett had put it.
Brain-dead
.

Kevin pictured Evelyn DellaRosa as shown in the newspapers and as he remembered her. Such a remarkable looking woman—so classically stunning. Was this how she ended up, too? Tubes coming out of every body orifice? Puffed and brain-dead on artificial ventilation, alive only until some doctor finally strolled in and simply pulled the plug? Was this what was in store for Kevin Loomis as well?

He moved closer to the bedside.

Was there any way Stallings’s cardiac arrest on the IRT could have been a coincidence? The man was incredibly stressed over the situation with The Roundtable. It was a hundred degrees on the subway platform and not much better in the cars. And what if he was unlucky enough to get one of the old un-air-conditioned ones? Perhaps some preexisting condition caused his heart to just crap out. On the other hand, perhaps they were being watched all the time at Battery Park. Perhaps Stallings had recognized someone from The Roundtable in the subway. Perhaps they had done something to him.

Dammit, James, what in the hell happened?
his mind screamed.
What am I supposed to do?

“Thank you for being so patient, Mr. Loomis.”

Vicky Stallings had washed her face and put on a bit of makeup.

“It’s Kevin,” he said. “This is so sad. Do his doctors have any idea what could have happened?”

“I’d be happy to talk with you, Kevin,” she whispered. “But I would prefer doing it in the family room. It’s doubtful Jim can hear, but there’s always the chance.”

“I understand.”

They returned to the small room. Wile E. Coyote was lashing himself to a huge rocket just as the Road Runner was flashing past. Kevin reached up and flicked the set off.

“You don’t have to talk about this with me if it’s too painful,” he said.

“There’s not much to say, actually. The doctors have said there’s no hope. They estimate his heart stopped for eight or nine minutes. People were doing CPR, but I guess it wasn’t enough. The rescue squad finally got him going.”

“Was he, I mean, did he have any heart problems before?”

Kevin sensed how desperately he was hoping for a positive answer.

“Kevin, Jim ran last year’s New York Marathon in three and a half hours. About six months ago, he took out a large insurance policy. They required a stress test. Jim said he did so well that the doctor who performed it eventually had to stop the test to go on to the next patient.”

A large insurance policy
. Reflexively, Kevin ran through his own coverage. As soon as he joined The Roundtable, he had beefed it up.
Two million five with an additional half a million for accidental death
.

“He always looked fit to me,” he said.

“The doctors say that maybe it was his potassium dropping due to the heat and sweating. Apparently the heart is very sensitive to potassium. It depends on what he was doing for the hour or so before …”

Vicky Stallings’s voice once more grew strained. Kevin could see that she was precariously close to coming apart again. In fact, he was rather close himself. Stallings’s death
was no coincidence, any more than Evelyn DellaRosa’s or the knight named Sir Lionel’s was a coincidence. Somehow, they had followed Stallings, or perhaps even Kevin, to Battery Park. Then somehow, they had gotten to him. Now, he was a vegetable. The unflappable Sir Gawaine. Kevin wondered if he, too, had gone out and bought a new house as soon as his appointment to The Roundtable was a fact.

Kevin wanted to scream. He made a pretense of glancing at his watch. Vicky Stallings saved him any embarrassment.

“I really appreciate your coming like this, Kevin,” she said, again reaching out to shake his hand. “And who knows? It will take a miracle, but there have been miracles before. Many of them.”

“I’ll be praying for him,” Kevin said, backing out of the room. He felt light-headed and desperately wanted a drink.