Silent Treatment

by Michael Palmer

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Chuck Gerhardt stood by the doorway, smiling understandingly.

  Harry’s weak, bewildered smile was totally genuine.

  “No. Thanks, though. Thanks for everything.”

  Gerhardt set three ten-dollar bills on the desk.

  “I owed this to Evie,” he said. “Now I guess I owe it to you.”

  “Nonsense. Please keep it. If she thought enough of you to lend it, I’m sure she’d be happy to have it end at that.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a loan. She had a friend in the Village who works on unusual jewelry. This chain came undone and the medallion fell on the marble in the foyer downstairs. It broke into several pieces. I got it in Germany on a very special holiday with a very special friend. I thought it was a total loss, but Evie’s jeweler saved the day.”

  The Village. Evie never shopped farther downtown than Saks Fifth Avenue. Even C.C.’s seemed Bohemian to her. The first time Harry had heard of any connection between her and Greenwich Village was when Julia had told him about the secret office. Now this.

  “Chuck, do you by any chance know who this jeweler is?”

  “Well, Evie never really told me, but his card was taped inside the box that the medallion came back in. I’m almost certain I kept it. Come on down to my office.”

  Harry followed Gerhardt to a large studio that was cluttered with the tools and products of his trade. The layout designer rummaged through his desk for a time, then triumphantly surfaced with a business card. Paladin Thorvald, Fine Jewels, Antiques and Collectibles. Harry copied the information down.

  “Now you can feel perfectly comfortable about keeping the money, Chuck,” he said, patting the man on the back. “You’ve earned it.”

  Harry stopped by a money machine for some cash, and then took a cab down to the Village. The jewelry and antiques shop of Paladin Thorvald was just off Bleecker Street, a couple of blocks from the Bowery. It was nearly one in the morning, but here as in many areas of Manhattan there were still a fair number of people about—some, of course, the ubiquitous shadow people, waiting for their portion of the night to begin.

  Harry had no clear plan other than to show Evie’s picture to anyone who would look. If he had no luck, he would go home for a few hours of sleep, and then begin again first thing in the morning. Speed mattered. Whoever had searched the apartment and Evie’s office was resourceful and desperate enough to commit murder. And to make matters much worse, Albert Dickinson was out there just waiting for a positive coroner’s report before pouncing on his only suspect, one H. Corbett.

  Thorvald’s was a small shop on the first floor of a dingy, yellow brick building. There were iron bars in front of the single plate glass window, and a small sign announcing that business hours were nine A.M. to seven P.M. Harry peered inside. A single shaded bulb illuminated a collection that seemed largely to have crossed the line separating antiques from junk. Hardly Evie’s kind of stuff. There was no chance she would have gone out of her way to visit this particular shop, Harry felt certain of that. Her office had to be someplace nearby.

  He tried her photo three times on customers leaving a nearby convenience store, and then on the clerk. The clerk, Pakistani or Indian, recognized Evie as a frequent customer, but had no idea where she lived. He only worked the shift from eleven on. Harry couldn’t imagine his wife walking these streets alone at night. At least before today he couldn’t. As he made his way from one block to the next, he sensed the shadow people getting a bead on him and moving closer. He was either a john or a mark—possibly both. Before long someone was going to make a move on him. He glanced at his watch. It was stupid to have come down here at such an hour. Now, checking over his shoulder several times each block, he looped back toward Thorvald’s. Two passersby had never seen Evie, and two more hurried away when he approached. He decided to catch a cab and head on home. As he passed the antique store, he looked in again through the bars. A large, bearded man in a loose shirt or caftan was moving about at the rear of the shop.

  Harry rapped on the window. The man glanced up, then pointed to his watch and waved him off. Harry knocked again. This time he held up Evie’s photo and two twenties. The man hesitated, then shuffled over. In his ornately embroidered caftan, with a full beard, thick ponytail, and single, heavy, gold earring, he looked like a cross between Eric the Red and Ivan the Terrible. But his face, while it might have frightened a young child, was kind and reassuring. He peered through the window at the photo. Harry could see the recognition in his expression and quickly pointed to his wedding ring, the photo, himself, and finally to the bills. Paladin Thorvald hesitated, then shrugged, deactivated some sort of alarm system, and opened the door.

  “You’re Desiree’s husband?” he asked after Harry had introduced himself. “I never had any idea she was married, let alone to a doctor.”

  Harry flashed on the many hours he and Evie had spent choosing her engagement diamond, and then their wedding bands. The news that she was wandering about the Village late at night using the name Desiree and wearing no ring would recently have surprised him much more than it did now.

  “I assure you, Mr. Thorvald. I am her husband. At least I was until a few days ago. Could I please come in and talk to you for a minute?”

  Although Thorvald did step back a few paces to allow him in, Harry could tell that the man had misgivings. He decided that there was no reason to hold back anything except that Evie’s death was being investigated as a possible homicide. He handed over the two twenties.

  “Here, keep these no matter what,” he said.

  Thorvald did not have to hear that offer twice. He shoved the bills into the deep pocket of his caftan and listened impassively to Harry’s story.

  “So, exactly what is it you want to know?” he asked when Harry finished. He still sounded wary.

  “If you can tell me where she lived, that would be wonderful.”

  “Lots of different kinds of people live in the Village for lots of different reasons. One of ’em’s a respect for privacy we have around here that doesn’t exist in a lot of places. Live and let live, if you know what I mean. If Desiree was your wife, and if she didn’t tell you about her place here, she must have had her reasons.”

  Harry did not have to try very hard to produce the urgency in his voice.

  “Mr. Thorvald, please. Evie’s dead. She was thirty-eight years old and she’s dead. We had a home, friends, plans for the future. I need to know who Desiree was. Regardless of what she called herself, she was my wife. I’m certain I have the keys to her place. Please. Just point me to the right building and I’m put of here. I won’t ask any more of you. Just that.”

  Thorvald stroked his beard and stared down at his sandaled feet.

  “Two doors down,” he said finally. “Newly painted red enamel door. Second floor, I think she once said. I’m not sure. I’ve never been in the building myself.”

  “Thanks. I know you didn’t really want to tell me,” Harry said. “I won’t bother you again.”

  Paladin Thorvald studied Harry’s face.

  “I’m sorry your wife’s dead,” he said.

  Two small panes of glass were set high in the red enamel door. Harry stood on his tiptoes and peered inside. The front entryway was deserted. He glanced about to ensure that the shadow people were still at bay, and then withdrew the rabbit’s foot and keys. Within him the sliver of a notion remained that somehow he had started from a misconception and built a secret life for Evie around it. That last bit of hope vanished as the first of her keys turned in the lock.

  He slipped inside and closed the red door behind him. The small, poorly lit foyer, while not fetid, would certainly have benefited from a cleaning. There was a small, scarred table for magazines, two rows of mailboxes servicing about twenty-five units, and two columns of buzzers. Harry scanned the names on the boxes, each a first initial/last name done on a black plastic strip with a labeler. A few names were added with taped-on pieces of paper. N
one of the initials were D., and none of the names were familiar. But apartment 2F had no name at all. The mailbox key on Evie’s ring fit that lock. The box was empty. Suddenly, there was a soft scraping against the outside door behind him. Harry whirled. His pulse, already on alert, was jackhammering. No one was peering through the window, but almost certainly someone had been.

  Harry briefly considered checking the street, but thought better of it. Whoever had been outside the door was probably no one he wanted to deal with. All that mattered was getting up to apartment 2F.

  The first floor consisted of a dim, stucco-walled corridor lined by several apartment doors. An uncarpeted staircase was off to one side, narrow enough to make Harry wonder how people on the floors above could get a couch or refrigerator into their places. There was, as far as he could tell, no elevator. Still unnerved by the notion that someone had been watching him, he ascended the staircase quietly and cautiously.

  Apartment 2F was at the rear of the building. Harry approached, trying to picture Evie walking down the same hall. Standing by the door, he listened. There was only silence. He knocked softly. Then knocked again. Nothing. Finally, his pulse once more making itself known, Harry inserted the second key into the lock, turned it, and stepped inside the world of the woman who called herself Desiree.

  CHAPTER 13

  The apartment was totally dark. Harry used the glow from the corridor lights to locate a lamp, turned it on and quickly closed the hallway door behind him.

  The small, sparsely furnished living room was a stark contrast to their immaculate, impeccably decorated co-op uptown. It was clearly a busy writer’s retreat. Cardboard folders and small stacks of manuscript pages were set out on the threadbare carpet. Each was labeled, the titles suggesting to Harry that more than one project was going on. There was an electric typewriter on a folding table, and next to it a discount-house computer desk with a PC and laser printer. Off to one side, on the floor, were a TV, a VCR and seven or eight videos, a half-filled wine rack, a cassette player and two dozen tapes. There was also a telephone. Harry listened to the dial tone for a moment and then set the receiver back down. There was no number on it. It seemed likely that some people had access to the line. But that group clearly did not include Evie’s best friend, Julia.

  Harry checked the front closet, which was empty, and then the kitchen. There was a supply of diet soda, a Braun coffee maker, and a microwave. The cupboards were stocked with snack foods and canned goods, and the freezer had a supply of frozen dinners and half a dozen different flavors of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, Evie’s favorite.

  Next to the kitchen was a small bathroom with a shower stall, but no tub. The shampoo was Evie’s brand, and the mixed scent of powders and soaps reminded him of her. There was a mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink. Harry watched himself reach for it. He looked like hell—tired, drawn, and in need of a shave. He wondered if Gene Hackman ever looked this bad. Inside the cabinet were a number of unmarked bottles of pills. Harry recognized Valium, Seconol, and some type of amphetamine. He suspected the others contained various sorts of painkillers. The prescription labels had been torn off all of them. There was also a small bottle of white powder. Harry took some on a moistened finger and rubbed it over a spot on his gums. The immediate numbness it produced meant it almost certainly was cocaine. Evie had never shown even the slightest interest in drugs, and Harry could not remember her accepting so much as a hit of marijuana if it was offered to her at a party.

  Desiree’s drug use had to have been recreational, or at most intermittent. Double identity or not, if she was strung out on drugs, Harry would have noticed.

  He opened the single drawer in the vanity and stared down in utter dismay at its contents. There was nothing in the small drawer but condoms—perhaps fifteen different styles and brands in boxes and individual packets—some common and store-bought, some from exotic specialty houses. Harry picked up one of the packets. It was labeled Thai Tickler on one side, and had a lewd drawing printed on the other beneath the promise Guaranteed Pleasure for Him and Her. Harry threw it back angrily and slammed the drawer shut. Part of him wanted to leave—simply to get out of there and forget the whole goddamn thing. He had already learned more about his wife and her alter ego than he ever would have wanted to know. And he dreaded having to face the revelations awaiting him in the pages and computer files in the living room. But he knew he couldn’t back off. He had been dropped into the middle of a nightmare and the only way out for him was through it.

  There was barely space in the single bedroom for a narrow dresser and a neatly made queen-size bed. Double, louvered closets filled all of one wall. Harry checked beneath the bed and then pulled apart one set of the closet doors. The evening dresses—fourteen of them—were elegant, sexy, and far from inexpensive. On the floor beneath them were a number of pairs of dress shoes, all from the upscale shops Evie frequented. Behind the other set of doors was a collection of nightgowns, peignoirs, teddies, and other extremely provocative bedroom apparel. The hardly subtle collection was not very appealing to Harry. He was much more aroused by the feel of Evie’s body beneath a flannel nightshirt, or even a plain cotton T. Perhaps his taste was the reason she rarely wore the few lacy garments she had at home. Or perhaps Evie’s ways were simply different from Desiree’s. Bewildered and more saddened now than angry, Harry returned to the living room and the writings that had very likely cost Evie her life.

  He picked up a thin folder labeled simply Introduction, and opened to the first of several pages.

  Between the Sheets

  The Power and Extraordinary Influence of the Sexual Underground in America

  Men call me beautiful. Women, too, for that matter. For as long as I have been aware of that reaction, I have been able to use it to my advantage. I am intelligent, well-educated, and interested in many things. But what I am most interested in is sex. Sex and power. Throughout the pages of this book you will learn how I—and the many, many women with whom I have worked and whom I have interviewed—use their looks and sex appeal to attract and control others, both men and women. You will learn of business decisions that earned or lost millions, which were made for no other reason than to please one of us. You will learn of major political appointees who were fired and others who were hired simply because one of us demanded it. Sometimes there is money paid to us to exert our influence—vast sums of money. Sometimes we exercise our control over judges, politicians, businessmen and the like simply to prove that we can.

  Are we worth it? Read this book, and then decide for yourself.…

  Harry set the folder down and opened another marked Correspondence. It contained letters from senior editors at several of the big-name publishing houses expressing great interest in the sample chapters of Between the Sheets, by Desiree. The correspondence was sent to the post office box of an agent in Manhattan named Norman Quimby. Harry had never heard Evie mention the man and wondered if he existed at all. A number of the other letters were from the producers of syndicated television tabloid shows. Those letters were written to Evie in care of a different post office box. They suggested that if she could deliver Desiree and all the material she claimed to have on tape and film, there could be serious discussion of a long-term, on-camera deal. The producers also promised to investigate how to implement a number of high-tech safeguards Evie had insisted upon to protect Desiree’s identity and enhance the mystique surrounding her. One producer wrote:

  I think it’s a marvelous idea to make Desiree’s identity the best-kept secret since Pearl Harbor. By the time the series airs, the book will be out, and the hype we’ll generate should create a phenomenon—Madame X, Sydney Barrows, Christine Keeler, and Heidi Fleiss all rolled into one, with a dash of Marilyn and the Kennedys thrown in for good measure. I can’t give you hard figures yet, but let me just say here and now that if you can deliver what you claim you can, we will be able to do business.

  Harry picked up one of the videos. It was labeled simply #1. He scanned t
he folders on the floor. One was marked Vids. Inside were six narratives, each two or more pages long, and each titled by a single number. He kept the one headed #1 and set the rest down. Then he slipped the video into the VCR.

  This tape features a woman who calls herself Briana, he read.

  She is thirty-one and a former homecoming queen at a large Southern university. By day she is a physical therapist at a clinic just outside of Washington, D.C. At night she works for an escort service. The fee for her services is $2000 a night. She has only a few clients, and she works only when she wants to. The split with her agency is fifty-fifty. Recently, she became pregnant by her boyfriend and decided to retire from the escort service. The video—something of a retirement present from Briana to herself—was made by a camera hidden behind a mirror in her apartment. The owner of her escort service knew nothing about it. Briana was operating on her own. But she had already contracted her services out to a powerful tobacco lobby. Her pay for influencing the vote of the senator shown with her in this video was $50,000. And for the video itself, another $50,000. Her face and voice, as well as the senator’s, have been electronically obscured.…

  Harry watched in morbid fascination as a woman with large, youthful breasts and the perfect, muscled body of a teenager allowed herself to be undressed by a man whose body was not nearly so well maintained. Calling him “Senator,” she teased, rubbed, dared, cajoled, and finally loved him into the promise to drop his support of another stiff tax on tobacco products. The woman was incredibly sexy, alluring, and skilled—so much so that the senator did not last more than two minutes once their actual lovemaking commenced.