“It’s NOT Gary!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll prove it. Look out the window.”
“Will you please just leave me alone?”
“Just do as I say. Keep your computer online. Go to the window overlooking the garden and look outside.”
Instinct told her to log off. She was tired of being manipulated. But the way this was escalating, she might someday need proof that Gary was harassing her.
“Okay. I’m going.” Slowly, she rose and walked to a reading area by the wall of windows that overlooked the garden. It was a small, urban-style green space surrounded on all sides by buildings in the hospital compound. Trees, birds, and flowers turned it into a little oasis. Two teenagers were throwing a Frisbee on the lawn. A cancer patient with an IV pole was taking a slow walk alongside her parents toward the sculptured otters that reclined in the center fountain. Peyton saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Her anger rose as she realized he was playing games. Quickly she retraced her steps through the reading area, past the bookshelves. She stopped just a few feet away from her carrel and nearly gasped. Her computer was gone—and all her work with it.
On impulse, she ran to the main entrance and peered down the hall toward the cafeteria but saw nothing. She ran back inside and checked the library’s rear exit, which led to the alley. She saw only parked cars and Dumpsters. A block away, traffic was moving steadily on Longwood Avenue, an easy escape route.
Her heart sank at the realization: She’d been distracted and scammed. It was the common thief’s oldest game. But she knew this was no common thief.
“Gary, you son of a bitch.”
Peyton reported her computer as “missing” to the hospital, on the off chance that a janitor or someone else might find it lying around. She didn’t bother with a formal police report. The cops rarely did anything to recover stolen items of insured personal property, and she preferred to keep her troubles with Gary under wraps anyway, at least until she confronted him and confirmed he was the thief.
Gary lived within walking distance of the med school library. In ten minutes she reached his apartment and knocked firmly on the door. She heard footsteps approaching. He was home, but that didn’t rule him out as the culprit. He could have raced home with her computer, switched on the television, and jumped in the easy chair.
“Peyton?” he said. “What a surprise.”
She glared. “Where’s my computer?”
“What?”
“Somebody just played a little game with me at the library and stole my computer.”
“Are you accusing me?”
“You knew I was working on this study. You knew I’ve been going to the library every Sunday for the past month.”
“So did a lot of other people.”
“Nobody else is petty enough to engage in sabotage.”
“Gee, you say the nicest things.”
“This is getting way out of hand,” she said. “Just give me back my computer, and we’ll forget this ever happened. But if you keep standing there like a jerk pretending you don’t know anything about it, I’ll report it stolen. I’ll tell the police and I’ll tell the hospital who I think took it.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, right.”
“Don’t test me.”
“I didn’t take your stupid computer. But if you want to accuse me, fine. Dig your own grave. In six months you’ve dropped from being the superstar resident to the resident troublemaker. You shot the clinic nurse in the butt and got the hospital sued. Andy Johnson ended up killing himself over you, and rumors are still flying about whether you two were sexually involved. And now you want to drag the hospital into a spat between you and a nurse who very recently carried you dead drunk back to his apartment.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little. Too bad about your computer. But I think you put it best ten years ago, the first time you dumped me: Goodbye and good luck.” He closed the door in her face.
On one level, Peyton was angry enough to beat down the door. But mostly she was shocked by the depth of Gary’s resentment toward her. His past gestures toward friendship obviously belied deeper, unresolved emotions. Her efforts to remain his friend had apparently been interpreted as nothing more than teasing by a “manipulative bitch” who just wanted to keep him around in case, someday, she decided to climb into bed with him. It hurt and confused her, and it underscored the fact that she had much bigger problems than a stolen computer. Gary was right in one respect. She was down to her last strike—with the hospital and her husband.
Quietly she walked away, fearful that the man she’d once considered her best friend at the hospital was now determined to see that she got everything he thought she deserved.
And he seemed to have her exactly where he wanted her.
30
ON MONDAY EVENING, KEVIN LEFT THE OFFICE AT SIX-THIRTY, A LITTLE earlier than usual. Peyton had strong-armed him into attending a cocktail party at Harvard with her. He normally hated those events, the lone lawyer amid a roomful of Ivy League doctors. He knew he’d end up standing around munching baby corn on the cob hors d’oeuvres as Peyton networked as usual. For this, he’d turned down a friend’s offer of seats behind home plate for tonight’s Red Sox game.
The things we do for love.
He had yet to say anything to Peyton about the story Steve Beasley had told him on Sunday. He didn’t want to think Steve was a liar, but he didn’t think Peyton was a cheater, either. That left a dilemma: How could he put Peyton on the spot about something that was little more than a rumor without opening the door to questions about his own past indiscretion? He saw no point in bringing it up, at least not until he knew more.
He took the elevator to the fourth floor of the parking garage and walked toward his car. Footsteps echoed off walls, floors, and ceilings of unfinished concrete. With the press of a button on his key chain, the alarm chirped and led him to his vehicle near the end of a long line of cars. He removed his pinstriped jacket and placed it in the backseat with his briefcase. Just as he opened the driver’s door, something on the windshield caught his eye. It was a single white sheet of standard-size paper, blank on the side facing up. He slid it from under the wiper and checked the other side.
It was a typed page from his manuscript, presumably from one of the copies he’d left at Booklovers’—the dedication page. “To Peyton” was what Kevin had written. That message was crossed out with broad, angry strokes of red ink. Beneath it was a handwritten note.
“She’s spoken for, asshole.”
The paper began to shake in his hand. On impulse, he crunched it into a tight ball and hurled it across the garage. Ira fights dirty, he reminded himself.
But he was less than convinced.
The reception was held at the Fogg Art Museum, a worthy affair to mark the generous decision of a wealthy Harvard Medical School alumnus to drop a proverbial bundle in honor of his deceased older brother. While not on the university’s famed Tercentenary Quadrangle, the museum’s atrium-style courtyard was an attractive setting for everything from wedding receptions to fund-raisers. The guest of honor had wanted the party in Cambridge, even though the medical school was in Brookline, well away from the main campus. It was a fitting tribute, as the museum was near Memorial Church, where his brother’s name was forever etched in marble beside those of other Harvard men killed while serving their country since World War I.
Kevin arrived late. The courtyard was filled with about a hundred and fifty well-dressed friends and alumni, most of them from the medical school. The donor, a distinguished gray-haired gentleman, was speaking from a lectern to an attentive gathering. Kevin spotted Peyton across the room. He snaked his way through the crowd, reaching her side just as the speaker reached the tail end of his speech.
“In closing, I refer you to our school motto engraved on the Harvard crest. Veritas, it reads. Latin for ‘truth’. For me, that word sums up my brother. He was true
to himself. True to his family. True to his friends. And true to the beliefs he died defending on the battlefield. He stood for the truth. Let us all stand for the truth.”
After what seemed like a dozen utterances of the word “truth,” Kevin took a side glance at Peyton. She looked back nervously without making eye contact.
“I’m proud to make this grant to the medical school in the name of Douglas Hester, the truest man I ever knew. But the real truth is, I’m thirsty. So in Doug’s honor, the bar is officially open. Please join me.”
A proper level of applause filled the courtyard, followed by the murmur of emerging conversation. Kevin and Peyton still hadn’t looked at one another.
“Nice speech,” he said.
“Yes. Very nice.”
Kevin had resolved to say something to her about the note on his car, but he was losing his nerve. All this talk about “truth” had him feeling hypocritical. Mere mention of the note would trigger talk about what Steve Beasley had told him, about the rose he had found outside their front door last winter and never mentioned to Peyton, about the heckler at Booklovers’ that he’d kept to himself, and on and on. So many secrets, all of which circled back to his own deception, the series of lies and ongoing cover-up that now seemed even worse than his single act of stupidity on that cold night in Providence.
Maybe it was time for the truth. “Peyton—”
“There’s Dr. Sheffield,” she said. “Do you mind if I mingle?”
It took the breath out of him, or at least the wind out of his sails. “You go right ahead. I’ll get us drinks.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll get myself one.” I could use it, he thought. He watched as she disappeared into a crowd that was gradually breaking into small, conversant groups.
“You look bored.”
He recognized the voice from behind. He turned and tried not to panic. “Sandra?”
“Are you going to say hello, or just stand there and gawk?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Same as you. My date’s right over there.” She pointed with a nod toward a handsome but older man who somehow made Sandra seem older, too. He was engaged in conversation in a group near Peyton.
“Well, it was good to see you again, Sandra,” he said, trying to break away.
“I was sorry to hear about you and Peyton.”
He stopped cold. “Hear what?”
“It is rather ironic, don’t you think?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You write a story about a successful woman who gets tangled up in a kidnapping after cheating on her husband. Then Peyton ends up cheating on you.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Steve Beasley told me. Right after he read your manuscript. He also told me that one of the more incidental characters is a tramp who tries to sleep her way up to partnership in a Boston law firm. There’s a nasty rumor floating around the firm that you based that character on me.”
That one hurt on several levels, not the least of which being that it wasn’t true. “None of the characters is based on anyone.”
“Good answer.”
“Please listen to me. I’m sorry about the way things went with us, but it’s important for me to know that you believe me on this. The entire time I was writing this book, I thought of you as a friend. A good friend. Even if I had intended to put you into the story, it would never have been like that.”
“Thanks for being so concerned about my feelings,” she said coolly. “But if Ira has anything to say about your writing career, you’ve got much bigger things to worry about.”
“What have you heard?”
“Just that he’s determined to show you that nobody takes on Marston and Wheeler and wins.”
Kevin did a quick shoulder check to see if anyone else from his firm happened to be at this event. “Sandra, if you know anything specific, I would really appreciate it if—”
“I’m sorry about you and Peyton,” she said, nipping that one in the bud. “That’s all I wanted to say to you. Goodbye, Kevin.” She turned and walked away.
Kevin retreated to the hors d’oeuvres table. He staked out a spot nearest the exit, sampling the smoked salmon on little square toasts as his eyes darted across the courtyard in search of Peyton.
Of all the people to show up—Sandra. Peyton still didn’t know a thing about her. He regretted it, for sure. But it had happened at a time when his marriage was faltering so badly that Peyton hadn’t even told him she was pregnant. Who could say which was the greater deception? There could be no betrayal unless both people were being true to each other. Or so he had nearly convinced himself. This much he was sure of: It certainly would have been a betrayal of the highest order if he had strayed during happier times, when things had been going strong between him and Peyton, say as recently as two weeks ago—precisely when his friend Steve claimed to have overheard Peyton’s lover on the telephone.
He was popping clumps of salmon as if they were peanuts, his mix of emotions suddenly so stirred up that he wasn’t even aware of how overstuffed his mouth was. He kept an eye on Peyton, then finally got her attention. After dozens of events like this one, they had that nonverbal-communication-from-across-the-room routine down pat. He signaled and started toward the exit. She followed.
He headed down a lonely marble corridor and found himself at a set of locked doors at the entrance to a lecture room. He would have preferred to go inside the hall, but it seemed private enough at the end of the long corridor.
Peyton caught up to him and said, “We can’t leave yet. We just got here.”
“I’m sorry. I have something to say that just can’t wait.”
“What’s the matter?”
This wasn’t the ideal place to tell her, but they were alone—and it was time. “Three times in the last two days I’ve been told that my wife is seeing another man. That’s the matter.”
She froze, speechless. Kevin continued. “Supposedly it happened when I was in Los Angeles.”
All color seemed to drain from her face. His pace quickened, as he sensed he was on to something. “Steve Beasley said you called him at the Waldorf looking for me. He overheard a man in the background. I’ve been trying to convince myself that it can’t be true, that maybe Ira Kaufman was putting Steve up to playing a dirty trick on me. Is that all it is? Or am I fooling myself?”
“Kevin—” She started to say something, then stopped. “Do we have to talk about this here?”
“Don’t tell me it’s true.”
“I just want a chance to explain. In private.”
“I can’t believe this.” He turned away, then glanced back and asked sharply, “Was it somebody I know?”
“I didn’t sleep with anyone. I…I had too much to drink and got sick. I ended up spending the night at Gary’s apartment. I wasn’t unfaithful to you, I swear.”
“Oh, spare me. The guy said he saw you naked! Steve heard him!”
“Kevin—”
He walked away before his anger could make him say something stupid. Peyton hurried to keep up. “Don’t make me chase you.”
“No one asked you to come along.”
With that, she stopped. Kevin continued down the empty hall, turned the corner, and nearly slammed into another woman. He was about to excuse himself, until he realized who it was. Sandra. It was either one heck of a coincidence, or she had strategically positioned herself just around the corner at the entrance to the ladies’ room. Neither one said a word, but from the look on her face he knew that she had managed to hear it all.
“Kevin, nothing happened!” Peyton was still out of sight, trailing behind him.
He shot Sandra a look and headed briskly for the exit, wondering which of the two might follow him out.
31
PEYTON WAS HOME BY TEN O’CLOCK. SHE HADN’T CHASED AFTER Kevin, but she hadn’t expected him to leave her stranded at the cocktail party either. She waited long
after most guests had already left, hoping he would return. No such luck.
A taxi dropped her at the curb outside her apartment. She climbed the front steps and unlocked the door. Before going inside, she took a long look up Magnolia Street, then down, as far as the old glowing street lamps would allow her to see. Their car wasn’t there. Kevin hadn’t come home.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Today’s mail was at her feet in the foyer. She gathered it up and went to the bedroom, where she dropped it on the bed with her purse. She checked the answering machine, but he hadn’t called. She tried his office and his cell. No answer.
Wherever he was, he clearly didn’t want to talk to her.
She let her bathwater run as she removed her makeup and got undressed, then eased herself into the tub. A long soak would do her good.
The phone rang just as she’d gotten comfortable. She was tempted to let it go, but maybe it was Kevin. She jumped out and wrapped herself in a towel, then ran to the phone and answered it.
The dial tone hummed in her ear. She hesitated just a moment, then dialed *69, the call return service that automatically dialed back the last number that had called. For all Peyton knew, she was calling back some obnoxious telemarketer. After nine unanswered rings, she resigned herself to the fact that she would never know if it had been Kevin. She hung up and went back to the bathroom.
She had one foot in the tub when the phone rang again. Startled, she slipped and went down on one knee on the hard tile floor. She gathered herself up, pulled on her robe, and hobbled back to the phone.
“Hello,” she said, but again she was too late. There was only a dial tone. Immediately she dialed *69. After three rings, she got an answer.
“Yeah.” It was the gruff voice of a man.
“Who’s this?”
“Lenny. Who’s asking?”
“Did you call me a minute ago from this number?”
“No.”
“Did somebody just call me from your phone?”
“Only if they got your number off the bathroom wall. This is the pay phone at Sylvester’s.”
Lying with Strangers Page 16
