Silent Treatment (47 page)

“We need your help,” the policeman said. “How long are you going to be on duty?”

“Noon,” Rocky said. “I work midnight until noon. Armand Rojas, the other doorman and I decid—”

“Good. Good, Rocky. Now listen up. There’s a woman up in Harry Corbett’s apartment. Her name’s Maura Hughes.”

“So?”

“If she goes by cab to meet up with him, we want to be driving her.” He guided Rocky to the street and pointed at a cab parked half a block away. “When you want a cab for her, just point at that one. We’ll do the rest.”

“O-Okay,” Rocky said, intimidated by the man’s size and brusqueness.

The giant fished out a bill from his wallet and handed it over. It was a fifty.

“Do this right, Rocky, and not a word to anyone, and there’ll be another one of these in it for you.”

Rocky took the bill and watched until the policeman had disappeared from sight. Then he headed back to the tool kit. He would do what the man asked because he was frightened of what would happen if he didn’t, and because he wanted the other fifty. The guy who had gone upstairs an hour before with an envelope for Maura had only given him a twenty. He polished off another vodka. He liked Harry Corbett, and was sorry he was in such trouble. But hell, it wasn’t Rocky Martino’s fault.

He returned to the lobby. It was almost five in the morning. He had new money in his pocket and a glow in
his gut as warm as sunrise. Outside, half a block away, the cab stood waiting. He licked his lips and thought about the sudden windfall, soon to be increased by another fifty bucks. No one could criticize him for cooperating with the police. No one at all.

Four o’clock … five … five-thirty … The phone in Harry’s apartment continued ringing almost incessantly. The bizarre events surrounding the gunman at Manhattan Medical Center, followed by the execution-style slaying of Caspar Sidonis, had thrust him into the center of the media spotlight. Maura sat alone in the den, watching the story evolve on local and national TV as she used the answering machine to screen calls. The Simpson and Tonya Harding cases had dominated the airwaves more, but not by that much. Stations were breaking for updates every five or ten minutes, and one was rehashing the events continuously. Footage of Sidonis’s life and many accomplishments was beginning to appear.

Maura was emotionally and physically exhausted. But she was far too keyed up and worried about Harry to sleep. Tucked between the pillows of the sofa was the note that a man named White had delivered just a few hours before.

White would say nothing to her except that Harry was unharmed and safe. An hour later, Albert Dickinson had come up to see her. Guns drawn, he and another policeman had searched the apartment. Despite the other officer, Dickinson was as abrasive and disrespectful as he had been in the hospital. He had no patience for hearing any stories from her about Harry Corbett’s innocence, Anton Perchek, or anyone else. All he wanted to know was where he could find his man.

“Miss Hughes, do you know the penalties in this state for aiding and abetting a fugitive wanted for murder?” he asked. “If you know where Corbett is, and you don’t tell us, I promise that you will spend most of the rest of your life in prison.”

“I can’t imagine a prison that could be any more unpleasant than this conversation,” Maura said, smiling sweetly.

“Being a wiseass must be genetic. I’m pleased to tell you we just gave that detective’s job away to someone who was more of a team player and less of a wiseass than your Yalie brother.”

“Lieutenant, if you’re going to smoke, you’ll have to do it outside.”

Maura pointed to the sixth-story window rather than the door. For a frozen moment, she thought Dickinson was going to strike her. Finally, with a
fuck you
, he stormed out. She triple-locked the door behind him, actually managing a smile at the new definition of “police lock,”

Now, she sat back and watched reruns of the interviews with MMC officials, nurses, police, the electrician victimized
by the gunman, and Max Garabedian. The only new news was the old news that the bogus Garabedian had been neither apprehended nor identified, but that fingerprints lifted from the hospital room were being analyzed.

Go Ray
, she silently cheered.

She was pleased that at no time during the difficult, stressful night had she felt the urge to drink. But she also knew that she needed to sleep. She set the alarm for 8:30, turned off the ringer on all the phones in the apartment, and positioned the answering machine not far from her head. If Harry did call with a change of plans, she at least wanted a chance to hear his message. Finally, she picked up one of the phones.

“You guys get some rest,” she said. Then she slammed the receiver back down.

At eight
A.M
., a message from the producer of
Inside Edition
worked its way into her consciousness. He was promising Harry enough money to hire a first-class defense team in exchange for an exclusive on his story. She showered, made some coffee, and glanced out the window. Cloudy, but no rain. C.C.’s Cellar wasn’t all that far from the co-op, but she wanted to allow an hour to get there. She would take a cab across town and down to somewhere near the UN. Then she would cut back by foot to a subway station. Then another cab and perhaps a trip through a store with multiple exits. And finally, a third cab to within a block or two of the club. It seemed to her that in a place as crowded as Manhattan, with subways and so many stores to duck into, it shouldn’t be that hard to ensure that she wasn’t being followed.

She dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a plaid button-down shirt, and then selected a deep cloth bag from a collection of them in Evie’s closet. She dropped in her wallet, the dark wig she had worn in the hospital, and a white shirt in case she needed to change her look. Then, just in case, she threw in a shirt, jeans, and sneakers for Harry. It was doubtful he was going to be returning to the apartment in any hurry. The revolver she kept strapped in front of her in her leather fanny pack. The security of having it at hand felt
greater than the fear of being arrested for carrying an unlicensed handgun.

She took the stairs down six flights, startling Rocky Martino when she came through the stairway door behind him. He bolted to his feet and stepped back, but not before Maura caught a strong whiff of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands slightly tremulous, but he made a laudable stab at decorum.

“Miss Hughes, you gave me a bit of a fright,” he said, moistening his lips with his tongue. “What can I do for you?”

Maura wondered how many times she had done as ineffectual a job at covering up her intoxication as Rocky was doing, all the while thinking, as he probably was, that she was pulling it off.

“Could you please get me a cab?” she said, fumbling through the bag for her wallet.

“Yes, ma’am,” Martino said. “No problem. Any word from Dr. Corbett?”

“No, Rocky. Nothing.”

“Well, my fingers are crossed that he’s okay.”

He stepped back from the desk. With exaggerated, broad-based steps, he shuffled outside and waved up the street. Moments later, a cab pulled up. Maura handed Rocky a one, hesitated, and then gave him a five as well.

“Take a break and have breakfast on me, Rocky,” she said.

He jammed the bills in his pants.

“Oh, I will, ma’am. I will.”

Something about his smile made Maura feel uneasy. She hurried past him into the cab.

“The UN,” she ordered,’ immediately looking behind them as they pulled away. “I’ll tell you how I want you to go. Don’t worry if it’s not the most direct way. I’ll pay.”

The cabby nodded.

If there was someone following them, they were damn good. Within a block, Maura was convinced that the street behind them was clear. It was possible that someone was driving in front of them with a radio, but she would take
care of that soon enough. They passed a newsstand. She could see Harry’s photo on every front page. Hey,
read all about it! Doctor Death Strikes Again!
There was nothing the least bit witty or romantic or adventurous about any of this anymore. For a time last night, perched in that tree by the landfill, thinking everything was about to work out for them, she had felt like Grace Kelly in
To Catch a Thief
or Audrey Hepburn in
Charade
. This morning she felt deflated, exhausted, and frightened. She tried to imagine how Harry had felt when he lifted up the trunk of his car.

They were on Broadway now, heading south. She counted off three more blocks.

“Turn right here,” she ordered. The cab continued going straight. She rapped on the Plexiglas shield. “Hey, I said, turn right here.”

The cab made a sharp left, heading for the park. Halfway down the block, it began to slow. Maura stopped pounding on the Plexiglas. Desperately, she tried to figure out what was happening. She thought about the gun in the pack strapped around her waist, but she sensed that what she needed was just to get the hell out of this cab. She reached for the door just as the electronic locks snapped open. The cab was still rolling. Suddenly, her door was snatched open. A man jumped in almost on top of her. He was a giant, perhaps six-six, and broad across the shoulders. He shoved her aside with one hand as if she were a doll. Her head struck the window, just behind her healed incision. Without a word of instruction, the driver accelerated, cutting back west, toward the Hudson.

Maura recognized the behemoth immediately. He was Perchek’s thug—the survivor from the park. Snarling, she leapt at him, pounding at his face with her right hand as she tried to unzip the fanny pack with her left. Her first blow, with her fist, caught him on the bone just above his eye. He cried out, pawing at it with one hand, lashing out at her with the other. She ducked under his blow and felt her hand inside the pack close on the grip of the revolver. In one motion, she pulled it out, jammed the muzzle into his ribs, and fired.

Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. The one chance she might have had was gone. The killer snatched the gun away and slapped her viciously across the face. Her lip split and tore against her teeth. Her head snapped back against the window. Then she pitched face-forward almost onto his lap.

“Safety, safety,” he teased, his voice surprisingly high-pitched. “We mustn’t try to shoot our little gun until we release the safety.”

He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her upright. She spit at him, spattering his shirt and face with blood. He wiped off his cheek with the back of his hand, slowly, furiously. And then he hit her again, as forcefully as the first time. Now, she was limp. He pushed her down to her knees and roughly pressed her face onto the seat.

“We’re looking for your pal Corbett,” he said.

“I don’t know,” Maura managed. Her face was throbbing and his grip on her neck was hurting as well. But she was determined not to give him the pleasure of making her cry. “I don’t know where he is or even if he’s alive.”

The killer pulled Harry’s shirt out of her bag. He jerked her face up to show her.

“Sure you don’t,” he said.

“Even if I did know where he was, I’d never tell you.”

He pressed her face back into the seat.

“The Doctor will be pleased to hear that,” he said.

*   *   *

The most sought-after fugitive in New York carefully maneuvered the huge Winnebago Luxor through the streets of Manhattan, trying not to attract any unnecessary attention. He was sticking as much as possible to the broad, north-south avenues, terrified of turning onto a crosstown street that was narrowed with trucks or construction. Spending most of his life in the city, where his car often remained in the parking garage for weeks at a time, his driving was rusty. Backing up the BMW often presented a challenge. Backing the motor home out of a narrow city
street lined on both sides with cars would be potential disaster. His picture was all over the place. A fender bender, a cop, an arrest. It would probably be that simple.

It was ten minutes of ten. Harry was easing his way down Columbus Avenue, trying to time it so that he turned onto Fifty-sixth at exactly ten. Once he had Maura, they could get out of the city and find a place to stop and sort things out. There were those who knew, or at least
believed
he was innocent—Maura, Tom Hughes, Mary Tobin, Kevin Loomis, Steve Josephson, Doug Atwater, Julia Ransome, Phil, Gail. Harry glanced down at the console-mounted clipboard and the pad on which he was writing down the names, and added Ray Santana to the list. He had a number of friends, work associates, and even patients who would be hard-pressed ever to believe he was capable of
any
crime, let alone murder. But the question was who among them would be willing to take chances for him.

Together, he and Maura would be able to figure out something—especially if they were somehow able to locate Ray. Santana had contributed mightily to the mess he was in, but he certainly hadn’t caused it. Now, if he could be brought together with Loomis, a breakthrough was quite possible.
If
. First Harry had to reconnect with Maura; then he had to do what he could to ensure that Kevin Loomis stayed alive; and finally, he had to find Santana—and do it all while keeping himself out of jail.
First Things First
, he thought, recalling one of the blue and gold banners he had seen on the wall of the AA meeting.
First Things First
.

He turned onto Fifty-sixth Street. Gratefully, there were no delivery trucks, road crews, or double parkers. But there was also no Maura. The front of C.C.’s was deserted, and the place looked to be locked up. Harry slowed and considered stopping to check the door. But an insistent horn from behind saved him the trouble of making a decision. He drove up Amsterdam for a few blocks, then swung over to Columbus and made another pass. Nothing. He tried calling her apartment and his, but got answering machines in both places. There was no answer at C.C.’s. Finally, he paged Phil.