We'll Meet Again

37

Dr. Peter Black invariably started his day with a quick check of the international stock market on one of the cable financial channels. He then ate a spartan breakfast-during which he insisted upon complete silence-and later listened to classical music on the car radio as he drove to work.

Sometimes when he reached the hospital grounds he would take a brisk stroll before settling down at his desk.

On Monday morning the sun was out. Overnight the temperature had risen almost twenty degrees, and Black decided a ten-minute walk this morning would clear his head.

It had been a troubled weekend. The visit to Molly Lasch on Saturday evening had been another failure, Cal Whitehall’s stupid, ill-conceived notion of the way to win the woman’s cooperation.

Peter Black frowned as he noticed a gum wrapper lying at the edge of the parking lot and made a mental note to have his secretary call the maintenance department and warn them about their sloppiness.

Molly’s stubborn insistence on pursuing this idea of her innocence in Gary ’s death infuriated him. “I didn’t do it. The killer went thataway”-Who did she think she was kidding? He knew what she was doing, though. He thought of it as Molly-strategy: Tell a lie loud enough, emphatically enough, often enough, and eventually some people will believe you.

It will be all right, he reassured himself. The mergers will go through. After all, they had the inside track to absorb the other HMOs, and the process already was underway. This is where we miss Gary, Black thought. I just don’t have the patience for the endless socializing and glad-handing needed to keep key company executives on board with us. Cal can use business leverage to keep some of them in line, he told himself, but Cal ’s kind of aggressive power plays don’t work with everyone. If we’re not careful, some might switch to other health plans.

Frowning now, his hands in his pockets, Peter Black continued his walk around the new wing of the hospital, thinking back to his early days there, and remembering with grim admiration how Gary Lasch used to seem to thrive on all the socializing. He could turn on the charm and, when necessary, his solicitous demeanor, that look of concern that he had perfected.

Gary knew what he was doing when he married Molly too, Black reflected. Molly was the perfect Martha Stewart-type hostess, with her looks and money and family connections. Important people were actually flattered to be invited to her dinner parties.

Everything had been going so smoothly, just like clockwork, Peter Black thought, until Gary was fool enough to get involved with that Annamarie Scalli. Of all the sexy-looking young women in the world, he had to go and pick a nurse who also happened to be smart.

Too smart.

He had reached the entrance to the colonial style brick building that housed the offices of Remington Health Management Organization. He debated briefly about continuing his walk, but then decided to go in. The day was ahead of him, and he would have to deal with it sooner or later.

At ten o’clock he received a call from a nearly hysterical Jenna. “Peter, have you heard the news? A woman who was murdered last night in the parking lot of a diner in Rowayton has been identified as Annamarie Scalli, and the police are questioning Molly. On the radio they just about came out and called her a suspect.”

“Annamarie Scalli is dead?! Molly is a suspect?!” Peter Black proceeded to ask rapid-fire questions, pressing Jenna for details.

“Molly apparently met with Annamarie at the diner,” Jenna told him. “You’ll remember she said on Saturday that she wanted to see her. The waitress said Annamarie left the diner first, but that Molly followed her out less than a minute later. When the diner closed a little later still, apparently somebody noticed that a car had been in the lot for some time, and they checked it out because they’ve been having trouble with teenagers parking there and drinking. But what they found was Annamarie, stabbed to death.”

After Peter Black replaced the receiver, he leaned back, a contemplative look on his face. A moment later he smiled and heaved a great sigh, as though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Reaching into one of the desk’s side drawers, he extracted a flask. Pouring himself a shot of whiskey, he lifted the small cup in a toast. “Thank you, Molly,” he said aloud, then drank.