Silent Treatment

Chapter12

Harry ambled down Lexington toFifty-eighth and then across toward Central Park South. He loved walking thecity at any hour, but especially at night. That he was in no particular hurrywas just as well. The double bourbon was definitely slowing him down. For atime, he considered simply writing the whole night off by stopping in anotherbar or two. But he wanted to think through what Julia Ransome had told him, andhe had never been much of a thinker when he was tight.

During his eighteen months in Nam, he hadbecome something of a functional alcoholic, often drinking to excess as a meansof coping with the horrors of his job. In that regard he was not much differentfrom many of the other officers. Fortunately, he had been able to practicallystop drinking after the war; and even more fortunately, he had never given into the urge to numb his feelings with narcotics. For many of those docs andmedics who did, the war was still raging, and would be until they died.

He was crossing by the fountain in frontof the Plaza when he glanced down Fifth Avenue. The offices of ManhattanWoman magazine were on Forty-seventh Street. It was almost eleven o'clock.Unless some of the staff was preparing for production, there was no chance ofhis actually making it up to her office. But he couldn't face going home yet,and C.C.'s Cellar would be uncomfortably crowded. The group performing thereright now wasn't one of his favorites anyway — a popular progressive quartetwhose music he found pretentious. Before he had a chance to rethink theone-night bender option, he turned downtown toward the magazine office, buyinga pack of mints along the way to cover the alcohol on his breath. He chewed allof them during the ten-block walk to Forty-seventh.

The guard at the desk in the lobby of thetastefully refurbished building put aside his National Enquirer and eyedhim suspiciously. Harry explained about Evie's death and his desire to gothrough her things before they were tossed into a carton by someone and putinto storage. He took her picture from his wallet and extracted a twenty at thesame time. The guard studied the spectacular woman in the photo for a longmoment, then slipped the bill into his shirt pocket and made a call. Threeminutes later, Harry stepped out of the elevator and into thetwenty-third-floor offices of Manhattan Woman magazine.

'Dr. DellaRosa, we're all so sorry aboutEvie. I'm Chuck Gerhardt, layout.'

The man, in his early thirties withthinning, closely cut hair, had on tight black jeans and a black turtleneck.The abstract metal-and-glass sculpture suspended from his neck by a heavy chainreminded Harry of a tuba. His tepid handshake could not have cost him more thana calorie.

'Pleased to meet you,' Harry said. 'Andthanks for your condolences. I can't believe she's gone.'

Dr. DellaRosa. Harry felt rapport with Evieand those other women who chose not to trade in their surname for theirhusbands. There was no point in correcting the man, though. Harry had not beeninvited up to the office in years, and he had no intention of setting foot inthe place again after tonight. He was searching for a clue — any clue as to whatEvie's secret project was, or where her Greenwich Village hideaway was located.Of course, he thought, any other tidbits offering insight into the life of thestranger to whom he had been married for nine years would be gratefullyaccepted.

'You're lucky I was here,' Gerhardt said.'First thing next week we put the rag to bed, and I have a ton of work to do.We call it panic mode. That's why I wasn't at the funeral today. All thebosses went, but the peons who actually do the work around here got chained toour desks.'

'I'm sorry you couldn't make it. It was abeautiful service. And I apologize for disturbing you this way.'

'Hey, no problem. I just can't believeEvie's gone. She was the best, Dr. DellaRosa. She'd give you the shirt off herback.'

'I know,' Harry said. The irony of theman's metaphor was not lost on him. 'Look, I haven't been able to sit stillsince the funeral. I was just walking around the city and I decided to come in,see if I could get Evie's things.'

Chuck Gerhardt looked at him strangely.

'Dr. DellaRosa, I'm certain the man yousent did that already, yesterday. No, no, the day before. I remember because — '

'Did you see this man?' Harry felt everymuscle in his body tense.

'Only for a moment. I happened to be bythe front desk when he came. Kathy — the receptionist — took him down to Evie'soffice. What's wrong?'

'Oh, nothing,' Harry said, feigning suddenunderstanding. 'I know what happened. It was my partner at work. His gym's justa few blocks from here. He volunteered to come by for me a few days ago. Witheverything that's been going on I just forgot. Okay if I just go down thereanyhow?'

'Sure.'

'The end of that hall, right?'

'No. . um. . her office is down thatcorridor there. It has been for a couple of years.'

'Yes, yes, of course. I haven't been herefor a while.'

Evie's name was still on the blond oakdoor. Harry went inside knowing the gesture was fruitless. He was right. Theoffice had been picked clean. Nothing on or in the desk, nothing in the filecabinet, nothing on the walls. The books that had been in her small bookcasewere neatly stacked in one corner. Harry had no doubt that every single volumehad been checked for papers or hollowed-out compartments. What little doubt hehad about the break-in at the apartment vanished. The robbery there was nothingmore than a smoke screen to cover a thorough search. But for what?

Just in case, he checked the underside ofeach shelf, as well as the bottom of all three desk drawers. Nothing. Thewastebasket was empty. Harry tried to imagine how anyone could have simplywalked into the office and stripped it so thoroughly. The story presented tothe receptionist had to have been convincing and smoothly told. The man,himself, must have been iceberg cool. This was no amateur.

Were the thefts from the co-opand Evie's office connected with her death? How could they not be? On impulse, Harry settled intothe desk chair and switched on Evie's computer. The hard disk prompt came on.Harry responded to it and waited. But nothing else happened. There were nofiles. Not one. Not a piece of correspondence or an article or even a wordprocessing program. The data in the computer had been extracted like coins froma piggy bank.

'Anything I can do to help?'

Chuck Gerhardt stood by the doorway,smiling understandingly.

Harry's weak, bewildered smile was totallygenuine.

'No. Thanks, though. Thanks foreverything.'

Gerhardt set three ten-dollar bills on thedesk.

'I owed this to Evie,' he said. 'Now Iguess I owe it to you.'

'Nonsense. Please keep it. If she thoughtenough 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 inthe Village who works on unusual jewelry. This chain came undone and themedallion fell on the marble in the foyer downstairs. It broke into severalpieces. I got it in Germany on a very special holiday with a very specialfriend. I thought it was a total loss, but Evie's jeweler saved the day.'

The Village. Evie never shopped fartherdowntown than Saks Fifth Avenue. Even C.C.'s seemed Bohemian to her. The firsttime Harry had heard of any connection between her and Greenwich Village waswhen Julia had told him about the secret office. Now this.

'Chuck, do you by any chance know who thisjeweler is?'

'Well, Evie never really told me, but hiscard was taped inside the box that the medallion came back in. I'm almostcertain I kept it. Come on down to my office.'

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

'Now you can feel perfectly comfortableabout keeping the money, Chuck,' he said, patting the man on the back. 'You'veearned it.'

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

Harry had no clear plan other than to showEvie's picture to anyone who would look. If he had no luck, he would go homefor 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 wasresourceful and desperate enough to commit murder. And to make matters muchworse, Albert Dickinson was out there just waiting for a positive coroner'sreport before pouncing on his only suspect, one H. Corbett.

Thorvald's was a small shop on the firstfloor of a dingy, yellow brick building. There were iron bars in front of thesingle plate glass window, and a small sign announcing that business hours werenine A.M. to seven P.M. Harry peered inside. A single shaded bulb illuminated acollection that seemed largely to have crossed the line separating antiquesfrom junk. Hardly Evie's kind of stuff. There was no chance she would have goneout of her way to visit this particular shop, Harry felt certain of that. Heroffice had to be someplace nearby.

He tried her photo three times oncustomers leaving a nearby convenience store, and then on the clerk. The clerk,Pakistani or Indian, recognized Evie as a frequent customer, but had no ideawhere she lived. He only worked the shift from eleven on. Harry couldn'timagine his wife walking these streets alone at night. At least before today hecouldn't. As he made his way from one block to the next, he sensed the shadowpeople 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 glancedat 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 towardThorvald's. Two passersby had never seen Evie, and two more hurried away whenhe approached. He decided to catch a cab and head on home. As he passed theantique store, he looked in again through the bars. A large, bearded man in aloose shirt or caftan was moving about at the rear of the shop.

Harry rapped on the window. The manglanced 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, thenshuffled over. In his ornately embroidered caftan, with a full beard, thickponytail, and single, heavy, gold earring, he looked like a cross between Ericthe Red and Ivan the Terrible. But his face, while it might have frightened ayoung child, was kind and reassuring. He peered through the window at thephoto. Harry could see the recognition in his expression and quickly pointed tohis wedding ring, the photo, himself, and finally to the bills. PaladinThorvald hesitated, then shrugged, deactivated some sort of alarm system, andopened the door.

'You're Desiree's husband?' he asked afterHarry had introduced himself. 'I never had any idea she was married, let aloneto a doctor.'

Harry flashed on the many hours he andEvie 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 nameDesiree and wearing no ring would recently have surprised him much more than itdid now.

'I assure you, Mr. Thorvald. I am herhusband. At least I was until a few days ago. Could I please come in and talkto you for a minute?'

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

'Here, keep these no matter what,' hesaid.

Thorvald did not have to hear that offertwice. He shoved the bills into the deep pocket of his caftan and listenedimpassively 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, thatwould be wonderful.'

'Lots of different kinds of people live inthe Village for lots of different reasons. One of 'em's a respect for privacywe 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 youabout her place here, she must have had her reasons.

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

'Mr. Thorvald, please. Evie's dead. Shewas thirty-eight years old and she's dead. We had a home, friends, plans forthe future. I need to know who Desiree was. Regardless of what she calledherself, 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 out of here. I won't ask any moreof you. Just that.'

Thorvald stroked his beard and stared downat his sandaled feet.

'Two doors down,' he said finally. 'Newlypainted 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 totell 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 inthe red enamel door. Harry stood on his tiptoes and peered inside. The frontentryway was deserted. He glanced about to ensure that the shadow people werestill at bay, and then withdrew the rabbit's-foot and keys. Within him thesliver of a notion remained that somehow he had started from a misconceptionand built a secret life for Evie around it. That last bit of hope vanished asthe first of her keys turned in the lock.

He slipped inside and closed the red doorbehind him. The small, poorly lit foyer, while not fetid, would certainly havebenefited from a cleaning. There was a small, scarred table for magazines, tworows of mailboxes servicing about twenty-five units, and two columns ofbuzzers. Harry scanned the names on the boxes, each a first initial/last namedone on a black plastic strip with a labeler. A few names were added withtaped-on pieces of paper. None of the initials were D., and none of the nameswere familiar. But apartment 2F had no name at all. The mailbox key on Evie'sring fit that lock. The box was empty. Suddenly, there was a soft scrapingagainst the outside door behind him. Harry whirled. His pulse, already onalert, was jackhammering. No one was peering through the window, but almostcertainly someone had been.

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

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

Apartment 2F was at the rear of thebuilding. 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 theworld of the woman who called herself Desiree.