“Did you bring something to carry the money in?” she asked, “or would you like one of our bags?”
“I have a briefcase.”
He held it up for her to see. Her expression made it clear that she knew he was not one of the do-this-all-the-time people.
“I’ll need to get an authorization from Mr. Kinchley,” she said.
She left her post and headed out from behind the cages to the desks where the junior officers sat. Harry followed her with his eyes and saw her approach a nattily dressed man in his late thirties with a sailor’s tan and a chiseled jaw.
Come on, Harry thought. Just give me the goddamn money. If the bank withdrawal fell through, he had decided to call his brother Phil, who lived in Short Hills, about forty-five minutes from Fort Lee. But if he had to go that route, everything would become immeasurably more complicated.
He risked a glance out the front window. Maura was parked directly across the street. She was wearing dark glasses and a white, floppy-brimmed hat, which was bobbing animatedly—probably to something on the radio. The sight of her that way brought Harry a smile in spite of the tenseness of his situation.
Their relationship was being forged in the intense heat of the events that had drawn them together. But in just a short time, they had become friends in a way he and Evie never had. And that friendship, in turn, had given their lovemaking an openness and mutual caring that had never existed in his marriage.
Now, reluctantly, he was testing that friendship. Despite the mysterious caller’s quite credible story, and his use of Perchek’s initials, neither Harry nor Maura was at all comfortable with what he was being asked to do. Still, as the caller had said, they could think of no reason Perchek would want to lure him into a trap. It couldn’t be for the money. Surely, twenty-five thousand dollars was nothing more than petty cash to the man.
It seemed as if there was nothing he could do but follow the instructions to the letter and hope for the best. But when Maura noticed the phone Evie had installed in the BMW, she had the germ of an idea. And soon after that, they had a plan. There were three elements essential to their strategy, and Maura possessed them all: another car, a cellular phone, and the courage and willingness to put herself in harm’s way. They had stopped by a newsstand and bought a detailed street map of the area surrounding Fort Lee. On it, the landfill was nothing more than a blank spot near the river, two blocks square, surrounded by suburban streets. As soon as possible, Maura would pick up her car and her phone. She would then drive someplace near the landfill and, without being seen, find her way to a spot where she could hide and watch the field. At eight-twenty, after he had left the garage, she would call him. She would check in once again after he had reached the New Jersey side. If there was no sign of a trap, he could proceed to the landfill with more confidence. If problems did develop, she would have the phone to call for help. They had a gun, the one Harry had taken from the killer in Central Park. After arguing for Harry to keep it, she finally agreed that it made more sense for her to have it.
“Sir, I’m sorry for the delay.”
Harry spun around to the teller’s cage and then realized that the young woman was standing next to him.
“Oh, yes. No problem.”
He held his breath and clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. It was already nearing rush hour. If the bank came through, Maura would still have a tough enough time getting across the George Washington Bridge, finding a place to leave her car, and then locating a back way into the landfill. If they had to deal with Phil, whether or not he came through with the money, it would be nearly impossible for her to get there in time.
“If you’ll come with me, sir, Mr. Kinchley will have your money.”
“That would be fine,” he said, smiling calmly, his pulse hammering in his ears.
* * *
Kevin Loomis sat alone in his basement office, photographs of his family and his life with Nancy spread out on his desk beneath a checklist he had drawn up. Every item on the list had been taken care of now. The insurance policies were absolutely airtight as long as there was no suspicion that his death was a suicide. Suicide would cost him—would cost Nancy—two million of the three and a half million he had in force, to say nothing of five hundred thousand dollars in double indemnity accidental-death benefits. But he had worked out every movement, every moment, in the most exhaustive detail. There’ would be no suspicion of suicide.
He had put careful thought into the guest list he had drawn up for the barbecue dinner party they were giving the following night. The guests, fourteen in all, included the most respected, successful, influential, and community-conscious people they knew. Their pastor and his wife, Nancy’s boss and his wife, the lawyer who was head of the local Little League association, the president of the Rotary Club. Nancy thought it a bit strange that Kevin had chosen to invite only two of their more fun-loving, beer-drinking friends, but she accepted Kevin’s explanation that he wanted to thank some people before the move to Port Chester.
In fact, he wanted guests who would most effectively and eloquently vouch for his cheerfulness and his hospitality right up until the moment of the accident, as well as to the fact that he had “had a few.” Two of them would accompany him down to the basement. The two he planned to pick were men at whose homes he had done minor repair work in the past, a store manager and the pastor. They would be on the stairs, their flashlight beams fixed on the water gushing from the detached washing machine hose. They would attest to Kevin having the skills necessary to take care of the emergency and would report on his movements through the inches-deep water on the concrete floor. The moment Kevin’s hand came down on the shorted wire of the dryer would remain forever fixed in their minds. But what the hell. They were friends who would do anything for Nancy. And he was paying a far greater price.
The children were accounted for as well. Nicky and Julie were going to spend the night with friends. Brian would be with Nancy’s parents. It was strange to think that tomorrow afternoon, when he sent them off, he would be looking at each of them for the last time. They would have a tough time of it, but not nearly as tough as if their family became destitute and their father went to prison.
Perhaps there really is an afterlife, he thought now. Perhaps I’ll be able to look in on them every single day.
He stacked the photos up and reviewed each one for a final time. Then he wrapped them with a rubber band and set them in a drawer. The lists he tore up and threw in a plastic bag full of trash, which he would put in the barrels in the garage. Finally, he went once more to the washer and dryer to check on his handiwork. The twine that ran from the loosened hose out the basement window was in place. One pull and the hose would come free. Cutting the twine off and discarding it would be his next to last act on earth. The last would be innocently setting his hand on the back of the dryer.
Kevin knew that Harry Corbett suspected what he was planning to do. There was nothing subtle about the Vietnam story he had told that night in the car. And in fact, he had thought a great deal about what Corbett was trying to tell him, that his situation wasn’t hopeless. That was all well and good for Corbett to say. He didn’t have three kids to provide for.
Kevin had spoken with him several times since then and had been careful to sound upbeat and positive. He did not believe Corbett intended to act on his concerns. What was there for him to do, anyway? A little more than twenty-four hours and it would all be over.
Kevin inspected the setup he had created around the washing machine and dryer. The police would come over and file some sort of report. But there was no way anyone could prove this wasn’t an accident. Absolutely none.
He sighed the relief of a man who had just completed a job and done it well. Tonight he would have a wonderful dinner with his family. And later on, he would make love to Nancy as he had never made love before.
CHAPTER 36
The late summer heat wave that had been blamed for brownouts, accidents, and deaths throug
hout the city had finally broken. The early evening temperature was in the mid-sixties, with a decent breeze and the threat of rain. Harry dropped Maura at her car at exactly six and then returned to the parking-space condominium to await his eight-fifteen departure. The BMW’s dashboard clock had been out of commission for years, and neither he nor Evie had ever bothered to get it fixed, so he was using his Casio to keep track of time. He was nearing the garage when Maura called to check in, test her cellular phone, and report that traffic from her apartment to the bridge was only moderate. Her next call would be the one at eight-twenty that they had prearranged.
“This is it, Harry,” she said. “You’ll see. By ten o’clock tonight we’ll be ready to go to the police. They’ll have to believe us this time. Just hang in there.”
“You hang in there. And please be careful.”
Harry parked in his spot and walked out of the garage. A police cruiser was moving slowly along, half a block away, perhaps looking for him, perhaps not. Thanks to Ray Santana, there was now absolutely no place where he could safely go. He returned to the BMW, flipped on the radio again, and waited.
WINS, the all-news station, was still broadcasting updates every ten minutes or so on the bizarre developments surrounding the gunman at Manhattan Medical Center. The real Max Garabedian had been taken into police custody, questioned, and released. He had returned to his 103rd Street apartment and was refusing to speak to the press until advised to do so by his attorney. In a prepared statement, read by his lawyer, Garabedian denied knowing anything of the man admitted to Manhattan Medical Center under his name. He denied having any relationship with Harry other than patient/physician, but called Harry “an intelligent, dedicated doctor,” and expressed his determination to hold off on any judgment until the truth came out.
Harry gave passing thought to trying to call Garabedian from his car phone. But this was no time for him to be doing anything at all except sitting and waiting until eight-fifteen.
There was more. Ray Santana had not been caught. Authorities were at a loss to explain how a gunman in pajamas with no shoes or socks could have made it out of the hospital with security police and dozens of NYPD officers ringing the place. The broadcaster, clearly losing a battle with self-restraint, opined that this was New York, after all. Maybe the oddly clad fugitive had simply stepped onto the streets of Manhattan and blended in.
At seven o’clock, MMC public-relations director Barbara Hinkle held a news conference, excerpted on WINS. The hospital, she said, was grateful no one had been hurt in the unfortunate incident. Hospital officials would have nothing further to say until a preliminary investigation into the near-calamity was completed. She did add that hospital authorities as yet had had no luck in reaching Dr. Harry Corbett, the physician who admitted the gunman to Grey 218.
“I am sure you all know,” she said, “that Dr. Corbett has been under a great strain lately as the result of the tragic death of his wife. I have been told he has been under a physician’s care for his grief reaction, as well as for some post-traumatic stress issues related to his heroic service in Vietnam.…”
Post-traumatic stress!
“Hospital Barbie speaks with forked tongue,” Harry said aloud.
Clearly, MMC’s spin doctors had already met and decided on their strategy for dealing with the collective disasters brought down on their house by Dr. Harry Corbett—post-traumatic stress. Harry wondered what name they would come up with if anyone ever demanded to know who his shrink was.
“… We at the hospital are speculating that Dr. Corbett borrowed the name of Max Garabedian in order to hospitalize someone he cared about who was very ill but without health insurance,” Hinkle went on, “possibly a fellow Vietnam veteran. The plan backfired when his patient went haywire.”
“Nice,” Harry said. “Not bad.”
And not that far off, either, he thought.
The rest of Hinkle’s press conference added nothing of substance except that nursing officials were looking into the identities and backgrounds of the special-duty nurses brought into the hospital by the gunman.
For forty minutes, nothing new was broadcast. Then, with just half an hour to go before Harry was to leave, one of the many mysteries connected with the case was reported solved. An electrician doing work on the heating system of the hospital had been found by a maintenance man, bound and gagged in the subbasement. He had been robbed at gunpoint by a man answering the fugitive’s description. His clothes and shoes were taken, along with twenty-five dollars from his wallet. The wallet was then returned to him. Police were checking it for fingerprints, as well as the hospital room where the gunman was a patient for three days.
“He was nervous and scared, I think,” the electrician said. “But he was decent enough to me. He gave me back my wallet because he said he knows what a hassle it is getting a new driver’s license. He didn’t hurt me. But I think maybe he would have if I didn’t do as he asked.…”
Harry checked the time. Eight-ten. Outside the garage, dusk was gradually yielding to night. The lights of the city were on. He started the BMW and slowly, ever so slowly, rolled down the ramp to the exit. Finally, at exactly eight-fifteen, he shut off the radio and pulled out onto the street. The game was afoot.
Harry drove past one block, then another. He didn’t feel all that nervous, but his hands were white on the wheel. He glanced at his watch. It was twenty past. Where was she? Where was the call? He checked the time again. Okay, he decided, maybe it’s only eight-eighteen. Moments later, the phone buzzed. He snatched up the receiver.
“Yes,” he said.
“Harry, I’m in a tree,” Maura whispered with breathless excitement. “I’m up in a fucking tree in the woods next to a dump. Do you believe it? If I had known there was a man around like you who could get me to climb trees at garbage dumps at night in New Jersey with a gun in my fanny pack, I never would have bothered drinking.”
“Well, I’m no place that exotic,” Harry said, whispering although there was no need to. “Ninety-sixth, heading for the parkway. Is anyone there yet?”
“Not a soul. I found a great place to leave the car and a perfect place to hide.”
“And you’re sure no one saw you?”
“Positive. Are you being followed?”
“I can’t tell yet.”
“It doesn’t make any difference whether they do or not. Listen, Harry, I think I see a car coming up the road. I’ll call you again at ten of nine unless he’s standing too close to this tree.”
“You’re doing great, Maura. Are you warm enough? I think it’s going to rain soon.”
“Hey, I’m fine. I told you. Tonight’s the night.”
With one eye on the road ahead and one on the rear-view mirror, Harry swung onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. Several cars behind, he caught sight of a dark sedan, which he felt fairly certain had been with him from the beginning. Maura was right, though. It really didn’t matter whether the caller had someone tailing him or not. He was going to follow instructions to the letter. Maura was their ace in the hole.
By the time he had crossed the George Washington Bridge, a misty rain had begun to fall. Harry found windshield wipers annoying and had always postponed turning them on until he absolutely had to. This time he switched them on at the first droplets. If things came unraveled tonight, it wasn’t going to be because he did something pigheaded or stupid.
Once on the New Jersey side of the river, he consulted the directions. After two miles he swung off the main road into a densely built, working-class neighborhood. The streets were tree-lined, and the small yards of the clapboard houses were strewn with balls, Big Wheels, and the other trappings of new families. The sedan followed several blocks behind, its lights off. Harry felt certain he could see two people silhouetted inside. He easily located the corner where he had been instructed to stop and wait for one minute. He was pulling away when the phone buzzed. Maura was several minutes early. And Harry knew as he was reaching for the receiver that ther
e was trouble.
“Yes?”
“Harry, stop right now!” she said in a panic-driven whisper. “This place is crawling with police. A dozen of them. Maybe more. Their cruisers are out of sight, and you wouldn’t know a thing was wrong. But they’re here.”
His blood suddenly ice, Harry glanced in the mirror. The sedan was still there, about two or three blocks back. He shifted into gear and began slowly rolling down the street.
“Go on,” he said.
“Harry, your friend Dickinson’s here. At one point he was about ten feet from this tree. Now he’s strolling around checking that everyone’s in place.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. He’s working with some lieutenant who seems to be from the local police. He’s very excited about being here to nail you. From what I could hear, someone called and tipped off the police that you had demanded a meeting at this place, that you have a body with you, and will pay twenty-five thousand dollars for this guy to get it a thousand miles from here and bury it where it will never be dug up. The man said you were crazy. That you killed people for fun. He wanted nothing to do with you, except to have you in jail where you couldn’t hurt him. You’ve got to get out of here, Harry.”
His mind whirling, Harry began slowly to accelerate.
“Just stay out of sight until it’s safe to go home,” he said. “Then go to my apartment. I’ll be in touch.”
He heard her telling him to be careful as he set the receiver down. Then he glanced at the directions he had written down. In one more block, he would go left or straight instead of turning right as instructed. It would take the men in the sedan several seconds to realize he was diverging from the plan. Three or four seconds at the most. That was all he had. His best bet was to try and get back to the highway. He sped up to around forty.
Bury a body? How could Perchek ever expect such an outlandish story to get Harry into trouble?… Unless …
Silent Treatment Page 35
