Silent Treatment

by Michael Palmer

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Walter, tell me something,” Maura said. “From what you’ve read, what do you think about all this?”

  Concepcion rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin.

  “Well, we’re not talking about a jealous husband or even an amateur here,” he said. “That’s for sure. We’re dealing with a psychopathic, sociopathic professional killer—a man without a conscience. So I guess the most important thing I could say is that I don’t believe Dr. Corbett fits that profile at all. And therefore I don’t believe he did it.”

  “You’re right there,” Harry said.

  “I also don’t believe you hired the man who did.”

  “Right again. Walter, I just don’t know.”

  Harry was drawn to a connection with Concepcion’s experience and street smarts, to say nothing of the value of having another hand on board who was committed to proving he wasn’t a murderer. But he was reluctant to strike a deal with a man about whom he knew so little. Maura saved him the trouble.

  “It’s a deal,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Harry, you want to say yes and you know it. We’re dead in the water. We don’t have even the glimmer of an idea of what to do next. Walter can help us. I feel it in my bones.”

  “I really think I can, Dr. Corbett.”

  Harry took another fifteen seconds, purely for appearances.

  “If you’re going to be working for me, you might as well call me Harry,” he said.

  “You won’t regret this,” Concepcion said. “I promise.”

  He reached over and shook Harry’s hand. His fingers were bony and gnarled, but his grip was surprisingly firm.

  For the next half hour, Harry went over the case in detail. Concepcion listened intently and interrupted from time to time to clarify a point.

  “This technician who took the fingerprints, has he heard anything at all?” … “Did you suspect your wife was having an affair at any time?” … “The two names you found in her address book, have you learned anything about them?” … “Do you have any idea who your wife worked for?” …

  By the time Harry finished, they had been at the club for over two hours. The first few customers had started to straggle in.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

  Concepcion twisted the small gold band he wore on the middle finger of his right hand.

  “I think we’ve got to do what we can to find out who this Desiree was working for. That’s where I’m going to start.”

  “Good luck,” Harry said, genuinely impressed with the logic of the idea. “What can we do in the meantime?”

  “We need to get at that face Maura has locked away somewhere in her brain.”

  “You mean by hypnosis?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  Harry rubbed at his eyes.

  “Maura, I feel really stupid for not suggesting that.”

  “You’ve had a few things on your mind,” she said. “Listen, Harry. I’ll try anything. Maybe we can throw in a few extra bucks and whoever hypnotizes me can convince my subconscious that Southern Comfort tastes like borscht or Diet Dr Pepper or something. Do you know anyone who might do it?”

  “Actually, I do,” Harry said. “I know someone quite well. His name’s Pavel Nemec. You may have heard of him as The Hungarian.”

  “The court of last resort for smokers,” Maura exclaimed. “I’ve heard there’s a waiting time of six months to see him.”

  “I took care of his son once. I have his home number back at the apartment. If it’s humanly possible, he’ll see us tomorrow.”

  Concepcion whistled.

  “You must have done something pretty special for his kid.”

  “Not really,” Harry murmured. “But Pavel thinks I did.” He turned to Concepcion. “Okay then, Walter, we’re in business.”

  “Um, almost.” Concepcion looked at him warily. “I’m going to need some money for my expenses, and some more to buy information when I need to. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an accounting and receipts.”

  “Just how much are we talking about here?”

  “For expenses, maybe five hundred.”

  “And for the other, the information?”

  “I dunno. Maybe a thousand.”

  “Fifteen hundred dollars!” Harry exclaimed. “I thought you said no results, no pay.”

  “I told you, Harry, I’m a professional. I know what it takes to get information. How much do you think that guy got paid to kill your wife?”

  “Okay, okay. Point made. Stop by my office tomorrow morning and I’ll have the cash for you.”

  “Great. You won’t regret this.”

  “You said that fifteen hundred dollars ago.”

  Concepcion stood and shook hands with each of them.

  “Maura, we’ll hit a meeting tomorrow or the next day. I promise.”

  “Great. I’m ready for it.”

  He turned to go, and then turned back.

  “Oh, Harry?”

  “What now?”

  “If you’ve got it, I could really use a small advance on that expense money.”

  Harry handed over a twenty, then another.

  “Why do I feel like I just swam into a whirlpool?” he said.

  Concepcion just grinned in his engaging way and headed off.

  “Have I been had?” Harry asked.

  Maura shook her head.

  “Hardly. You’ve been leading too sheltered a life,” she said. “Everybody’s got to eat. I trust him. Besides, he’s already come up with two good ideas we didn’t.”

  “I would have thought of the hypnotist,” Harry grumbled.

  CHAPTER 23

  Impatient for The Roundtable to convene, Kevin Loomis lay facedown on the king-size bed in his room at the Garfield Suites. It had been a week since he learned that Evelyn DellaRosa had been murdered. Any number of times over those days, he had considered trying to track down Sir Gawaine to see if the man agreed she was Desiree. But if he was discovered by anyone in the group probing into the identity of a fellow knight, it would probably be over for him. For the moment, his plan was to keep his mouth shut on the matter and hope that Gawaine brought it up.

  The young beauty who called herself Kelly knelt astride Kevin’s buttocks, kneading the tension from the muscles in his lower back. Her silk Oriental dress—red this night and adorned with gold lame—lay over the chair, alongside her black lace panties. Kevin watched her reflection in the mirror across the room, her high, firm breasts, her small, dark nipples, the perfect curves of her hips and ass. Kelly. Another meaningless name, he thought. Like Lancelot and Merlin and Desiree and the rest—shadow names of no substance, created only to cloak secrets. Names that vanished in the light of day.

  “Is Kelly your real name?” he asked.

  He saw her smile in the mirror and felt foolish knowing he was hardly the first to ask that question.

  “If you wish it to be, it is,” she replied softly, patiently.

  Kevin closed his eyes and found himself feeling vaguely queasy. Massaging him was this most gorgeous woman, ready, if he should wish it, to take him inside her in the most intimate ways imaginable, yet forbidden to share even her first name with him. Was she a reporter? Or perhaps a student in nuclear physics at Columbia? Or was she just an up-and-coming whore? Kelly, Tristram, Desiree, Galahad, Gawaine. Shadow names.

  What would Nancy say if she knew? he wondered. Would she believe he was part of it all? Did he even believe it, himself?

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, rolling over.

  Kelly bent down and kissed his cock, which immediately started to harden.

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “No,” he said, too sharply. I want you to tell me what in the hell I’m doing here. “Just get dressed and order something for dinner.… I don’t care what it is as long as it’s the most expensive thing on the menu.”

  “Filet medium rare,” she said. �
��I remember.”

  As soon as Kevin entered the Stuyvesant Suite, he made eye contact with Gawaine. From the man’s dress and manner, Loomis had always believed he had a prep school and possibly even Ivy League background. Tonight, his smooth manner seemed frayed, his smile a little tense.

  The seven high-backed chairs circling the table were set about four feet apart. Tristram’s brass nameplate had been placed in its customary spot between Kay and Lancelot. Gawaine moved toward his seat, which was almost opposite Kevin’s.

  Kevin caught his eye, nodded a greeting, then approached.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Can’t complain,” Gawaine said.

  “Lancelot’s sent me a Chinese girl this time. Eleven on a scale of ten, he calls her. He might be right. I think he’s trying to make up for that Desiree fiasco.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  Gawaine smiled uncomfortably and pulled out his chair.

  Before Kevin could test him again, the meeting was convened by Merlin.

  Maybe he doesn’t know anything at all about Evelyn DellaRosa, Kevin thought. Maybe he hasn’t even seen any of the pictures of her.

  Galahad’s financial report showed that the group’s contributions had put their operating capital back over the agreed-upon $600,000. Kevin had no idea how that baseline figure was arrived at, or, for that matter, how any of their rules had been adopted. No minutes were ever kept, no record of votes, no paperwork of any kind. But everyone seemed to know exactly where projects stood and what was expected of each of them.

  Kay spoke first, reporting on one of three major new programs that would be discussed tonight. He sounded quite eager to report that the votes were now in place to pass legislation permitting companies to run genetic panels on all prospective employees. First formal psychological exams and profiles, then AIDS screening, and now, finally, genetic testing. They all knew that the total package might not do one truly positive thing for the companies involved. But it would save those companies’ health insurance carriers tens if not hundreds of millions.

  “There’ll be the usual court challenges,” Kay explained. “But I think we have control of this one. I would guess it’ll be a year before it’s enacted, challenged, and upheld—maybe a bit longer if the labor unions latch onto any half-decent lawyers. But we are going to win,”

  “The quicker the better,” Lancelot said. “As far as I’m concerned, we ought to make genetic screening a requirement for entering kindergarten. Goddamn mutants are everywhere.”

  There was laughter from around the table. Loomis faked his and noted that Gawaine’s smile looked perfunctory.

  Kay received a round of appreciative pen taps for his work. Percivale clapped out loud. Tens of millions in increased profits for the industry—possibly more. Tristram thought about the figure Burt Dreiser had quoted him the morning when they met on his boat. Nineteen million dollars. That was what the former knight’s company had lost in one year by not being allowed to replace him on The Roundtable. Nineteen million dollars. Assuming Crown Health benefited similarly from his work, Tristram’s bonus would be one percent of that—$190,000 on top of his base salary.

  If nobody else mentioned Desiree, he decided, he was not going to be the one to break the ice.

  Gawaine was called upon next to give the group an update on their newest endeavor—legislation that would enable the health insurers to decide what treatment was appropriate and not appropriate for patients with terminal illnesses. Kevin continued to watch him closely, noting how he shuffled papers and fidgeted with a pencil as he spoke. Sir Buttondown was uncharacteristically nervous. No doubt about it.

  “Please note,” Gawaine said, “that I refer to patients with terminal illnesses rather than terminally ill patients. Once we are allowed to define what illnesses can be considered terminal, we plan to turn our attention to determining when the treatment for those conditions is no longer cost effective. We need the right to cut off coverage for those patients who are taking up costly hospital beds and specialist care when there is ultimately no hope for them. Of course, the sooner in that process we can step in, the better. The legislative climate is excellent right now. Tristram has brought the commissioner back into the fold, so he won’t be a problem. We’ve been nibbling at this thing for years, convincing the legislators and the public that since we’re footing the bills, we should make the treatment decisions. Now it appears that we are ready to take a much bigger bite. Lancelot, do you want to go on to your part?”

  Lancelot set his half-smoked cigar aside and cleared his throat. He never actually lit up a cigar during a Roundtable session, but he was rarely without his prop. He gave Gawaine a puckish grin and an A-okay sign. Tristram noted that Gawaine barely responded.

  “The neat part of this program,” Lancelot explained, “is a network of facilities we are calling palliative centers—PCs. These are the places where patients we determine to be terminally ill can be sent for inexpensive, bare-bones care. The ultimate hospice—something on the continuum after a hospital and a nursing home, but much less expensive to run than either. No treatments, no IVs, no therapy of any kind. Pain medication only, administered around the clock in a totally humane way. And the best part is that we are moving ahead with designing these PCs and even setting up the corporations that will eventually run them. In some cases, we’re actually purchasing the facilities that will one day house them.”

  There was half an hour of discussion on the palliative centers, and then Merlin took over.

  “This has been a hell of a meeting,” he cheered. “A hell of a meeting. Well, I’m pleased to say that the news from my front is good, too. We’ve implemented the employment modification program on a limited basis, and tonight I’m prepared to present the results and projected numbers on the first ten cases. The policyholder in each of these cases has been terminated from employment. Some have found new employment with companies doing business with insurers other than Roundtable members. Others continue as allowed by law to pay their premiums themselves for eighteen months. Still others now qualify for Medicaid. But in most of these cases, we’re already out of the loop as their insurers. Off the hook, so to speak.”

  Loomis could not remember anything called the employment modification program. Apparently, Merlin was using The Roundtable’s money and influence to arrange the firing of costly policyholders. If so, it was the first time that specific individuals had been, targeted by the group. He scanned his copy of the printout Merlin had passed around. At the top was the heading “Qualifications”:—the factors used by the computer to select cases. Below that were ten names, and beside each of them was an insurance carrier, a diagnosis, and a dollar amount. The smallest amount was $200,000, the largest $1.7 million. The fourth of the ten names was a Crown Health and Casualty subscriber.

  Kevin stared at the name, struggling to keep his expression bland. Beth DeSenza was a production line worker at a large garment factory just outside the city. Her son, Ryan, had suffered a freak cardiac arrest and subsequent brain damage after being hit in the chest with a baseball. Thanks to her company’s comprehensive insurance coverage, Ryan was a patient in the most highly regarded—and most expensive—brain injury rehabilitation hospital in the area. Kevin had engineered the coverage agreement with her union. Beth was the only policyholder in all his years with Crown who had taken the trouble to find out his name and to write and thank him for his role in providing care for her child. She included a picture of Ryan before the accident, bat poised, smiling self-consciously from beneath a baseball cap that seemed two sizes too big.

  Thank you, Mr. Loomis, she wrote. Thank you and Crown for making Ryan’s treatment possible.

  Nancy had taken the note and had it matted and framed. Now, Beth’s coverage for her son, at least at the level provided by Crown, was over. The individual-policy premium was extremely expensive—almost certainly too expensive for her to continue the coverage even for the period allowed by state law. Tristram felt ill. />
  “… From early indications,” Merlin was saying, “provided the program is not overutilized, once we get up to speed our companies can realize a comfortable ongoing savings of three to six million dollars a month. Not exactly a bonanza, but hardly chicken feed.”

  There were appreciative pen taps from around the table.

  “I was just wondering why the companies holding the policies weren’t consulted about these individuals before they were terminated.”

  There was a deathly silence in the room.

  “Tristram, I don’t believe I understand what you mean,” Merlin said finally.

  His tone and expression were nonjudgmental, yet Kevin felt his pulse pounding in his ears. Everything seemed to be happening in freeze-frame. The six faces fixed on him were like those in a wax museum—imbued with expression, but not with life.

  Then suddenly, his gaze was drawn to movement. Gawaine, sitting across from him, was shaking his head ever so slightly. His eyes, locked on Kevin’s, blazed. Loomis watched his lips move and heard the unspoken word as if it had been shouted into his ear.

  No!

  With the others focused on him, Loomis felt certain he was the only one who had picked up on the warning.

  “I … um … I’m sorry,” he said. “What I meant to ask was why you hadn’t checked with each of us for more names.”

  “Ah, I see,” Merlin responded. “Thank you for clarifying that. I did misunderstand.”

  “Perhaps I can answer your question, Tristram,” Kay said, “since I designed the program to select the clients. The decisions, purely business, are made by computer to keep them as rational and dispassionate as possible. As you can see from the list of factors considered, a great deal of data is evaluated before a selection is made. Each time, thousands upon thousands of policyholders are screened. This process would be virtually impossible for any of us to do on a regular basis, and certainly not with the accuracy of a computer.”

  The knights’ attention had shifted to Kay, except for Gawaine, whose gaze remained fixed on Kevin. His face was tight and waxen. The unspoken warning continued flashing from his eyes.