Standing in the doorway behind her, BurtDreiser gave Kevin a wink and a thumbs up. His expression left no doubt that hehad played a role in expediting the sale.
'I'm pretty good at finding ways to solveproblems,' he had said that day on his boat.
'The closing's scheduled for Wednesday,'Brenda gushed on. 'Mrs. Loomis says you can call her at the office if you want.She'll be there until five. She also said to tell you that the house is reallyno big deal, and you don't have to go through with it, but that next to the dayyou two got married, this is the happiest day of her life.'
Chapter17
Maura Hughes's apartment was on the UpperWest Side, half a block from Morningside Park. Harry walked there from theoffice, hoping that Maura had been able to honor her promise to stay sober.Practicing in a fairly indigent area, he had encountered the disease ofalcoholism in its most virulent, lethal form, as well as in its many otherguises. It would be no exaggeration to say that he had seen even more tragedycaused by the bottle than he had seen in eighteen months in Nam. And it washardly reassuring to have his future bound to a woman who had almost lost herlife to drinking. Even sober, her credibility was thin. If she started drinkingagain, it was nonexistent.
With Maura's claims of a mystery doctorand no physical evidence connecting Harry to the Aramine injection, Dickinsonhad been denied an arrest warrant. But Mel Wetstone supported the detective'sassertion that based on the impressive circumstantial evidence, a grand jurywould produce an indictment. The attorney seemed aroused by the prospect ofdefending Harry in what might well become a trial of Von Bulow proportions.Sex, adultery, insurance money, a beautiful reporter's secret life,prostitution, arcane poisons, physicians. Ringmaster of a media circus at anhourly rate of $350. Harry tried to recall if he had ever consideredattending law school.
He passed a florist, debated picking up anassortment, then quickly rejected the notion. Flowers were too reminiscent ofthe hospital and too open to misinterpretation. Not that Maura Hughes hadseemed the least bit interested in him as anything other than a source ofSouthern Comfort. But he had, over the years, endured unpleasant experienceswith patients of both sexes who had misread the meaning of his commitment. Inone case it was a concerned after-hours telephone call to a woman whoseinfatuation with him he had completely missed. Another was an extendedlate-night conversation at a young man's hospital bedside.
Harry finally settled on a box ofchocolate-covered mints. If Maura was typical of someone newly sober, herdesire for alcohol had been sublimated at least in part by a craving forsweets. The homes improved measurably as he approached Maura's block. Theapartment buildings had doormen, and a number of the brownstones were wellmaintained. It was nearing seven-thirty, but the evening was warm, cloudless,and quite light. Harry paused by a playground where a group of kids — black andwhite — were playing pickup basketball on a scarred blacktop court. They weremostly in their early teens and had no concept of teamwork, but their skillsmade them a joy to watch. He breathed in the energy of the city and felt someof the tension begin to ease from what had been an absolutely horrible day. Theonly bright spots were Doug Atwater's successful efforts to keep him, at leastfor the time being, on the active staff at the hospital, and the almostcontinuous calls and gestures of support from his patients.
Although he had no idea what to expectfrom Maura Hughes, he realized that he was looking forward to her company. He hadplayed bass with the guys at C.C.'s once since Evie's death, but most of hisevenings had been spent alone.
Her house was a neat four-story brownstonewith six broad cement stairs rising from the sidewalk to an ornate mahoganydoor. There was a floor at street level, with no outside entryway and windowsprotected by heavy wrought-iron grates. Harry suspected this basement apartmentwas Maura's. He was surprised to find that of the three bells, the topmost onewas hers. He identified himself through an intercom, and she buzzed him in.
'Head of the stairs,' she said.
Her voice sounded sharp and animated — ahopeful sign. Harry mounted the stairs feeling some relief. As much as heneeded company, having to babysit an actively drinking alcoholic was not the wayhe wanted to spend his free time. Maura was standing in the doorway to herapartment. His image of her from the hospital was of someone quite short.Actually, she was tall, five-nine or — ten, with a regal bearing and a willowybody that looked perfect in sneakers, worn jeans, and an oversized cottonshirt. She wore a white turban and no jewelry other than a pair of largehanging earrings — colorful chips of enamel delicately wired to one another sothat they changed like a kaleidoscope with every movement of her head. Shelooked somewhat drawn and ill at ease. Her hand, thin and smooth, was cool.Except for the headdress, there was no way Harry could connect the lithe,unaffectedly elegant woman with the restless, wild-eyed patient he had known.
He handed her the mints. She thanked himwith a thin smile that had more sadness than mirth.
'Come in. Come in, please,' she said.
'Those earrings are really beautiful.'
'Thanks. I made them.'
Harry followed her into an expansiveliving room — a bright and airy square, perhaps thirty feet on a side. Thenarrow oak flooring was urethaned to a high gloss and scattered with Orientalarea rugs. The ceilings were high, with recessed, indirect lighting that had tohave been designed by a specialist in the craft. This was hardly the dingy,depressing two-room walk-up he had envisioned.
'Surprised?' Maura said, reading hisexpression.
Harry gestured to the walls, which werefilled with wonderful paintings. The canvases were generally large and mostlyoils or some kind of acrylic. But there were also watercolors and a fewcollages. Some, primarily portraits, were sad and starkly realistic. But therest were abstract — dynamic worlds of color and shape, of meticulousorganization and absolute chaos. Harry had never been a student of art, but hehad always been affected by it. What he was sensing now was a remarkablevibrancy and an intense, overwhelming anger.
'These are incredible,' he said, walkingslowly about the room.
'I don't paint like that anymore. Not thatI don't want to.'
'These are all yours?'
'Even drunks can do things,' she saidcoolly.
'Hey, I'm sorry if it sounded like that'swhat I meant. It's not. These paintings are really striking.'
'Thanks. You want something? A Coke? Somewine?'
'Coke would be great.'
Harry stopped himself at the last momentfrom commenting on the danger of keeping alcohol in the house. He followed herto the kitchen, which was small, but designed for someone who cared aboutcooking. To the left of it, he could see another huge room — a studio withseveral easels, stacks of canvases, and a large skylight. In the far corner,beneath a racked floor-to-ceiling bookcase and surrounded by ferns and variouspalms, was Maura's bed.
'Look, I–I'm sorry if I seem tense ornervous,' she said, her back to him as she filled two glasses. 'It's just thatI am. I probably should have called and canceled.'
She handed him his glass, led him backinto the living room, and motioned him to a sofa opposite her chair. On theglass-top end table to her left was the Times, open to the article aboutEvie. Harry gestured toward the paper.
'I guess if I was having a murder suspectover for a Coke, I'd be a little nervous, too,' he said.
'I hope you know that isn't it. You and Iboth know you didn't give that drug to your wife.'
'What then?'
'Dr. Corbett, just why are you here?'
'Look, please. My name's Harry. Once Ileave the office, I stop being Dr. Corbett.'