The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [70]
A curt, gravelly voice at the Northside Tavern informed David that Mr. Rosetti was not available. The cheer immediately vanished.
“This is Dr. Shelton, Dr. David Shelton.” David emphasized the title in the manner he reserved only for making dinner and hotel reservations or for working his way past the switchboard operator at an unfamiliar hospital. “I’m a close friend of Mr. Rosetti’s. Could you tell me when he’ll be back or where I can reach him?”
The voice called someone without bothering to cover the mouthpiece. “Hey, some doctor’s on the phone. Says he’s a friend of Mr. Rosetti’s. Can I tell ’im where he’s gone?”
In a few moments it spoke to David. “Ah, sir, Mr. Rosetti and his wife’ve gone to their house on the North Shore. They’ll be back late tonight.”
David heard the voice ask, “Any message?” but he was already hanging up. In less than a minute the silence and inaction were intolerable. Purely out of desperation, he called Wallace Huttner. When the ringing began, he fought the urge to hang up by pressing the receiver tightly against his ear. The ear was throbbing by the time Huttner came on.
“Yes, Dr. Shelton, what is it?” The distance in the man’s voice could have been measured in light-years.
“Dr. Huttner, I’m very concerned and upset about what happened last night and with some things I’ve learned today,” David managed. “I … I wondered if I might talk to you about them for a few minutes?”
Huttner said, “Well, actually I’m quite far behind in the office and—”
“Please!” David cut in. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, but, please, just hear me out.” He paused for a moment, then sighed relief when Huttner made no further objection. Struggling to keep his words slow and his tone more composed, he said, “Dr. Huttner, I know that you helped Mr. Thomas and his lawyer get a copy of Charlotte’s chart. Somehow you must believe that I had nothing to do with her murder. I may have given you and some of the others the impression that I favor mercy killing, but I don’t. I … I need your help—someone’s help—to convince Peter Thomas and the lieutenant of that. I …” At that instant David realized how ill conceived his call had been. He really had no clear idea of what he wanted to say or ask. Huttner sensed the same thing.
“Dr. Shelton,” he said with cool condescension, “please understand. In no way have I judged your guilt or innocence. I assisted Peter this morning as a favor to a distraught old friend. Nothing more.”
Old friend? David nearly laughed out loud. A few days ago Peter Thomas had made it clear they barely knew one another. Now they were old friends. He clenched the receiver more tightly and forced himself to listen as Huttner continued. “The lieutenant was by to see me earlier today, and it seems as if he’s conducting a most thorough inquiry into the whole matter. Let us just wait and see what direction his investigation takes. If, as you say, you had nothing to do with Charlotte’s death, I’m sure the lieutenant will be able to prove it. Now if you’ve no further questions …”
David hung up without responding.
When he awoke still dressed at five thirty the next morning, the muscles in his jaw were aching.
David amused himself for nearly an hour by counting the seconds between a flash of lightning in the alley and the subsequent clap of thunder. Three calculations in a row agreed exactly—the electrical discharge was a mile and a half away. Measured against the disappointments of the past two days, his mathematical triumph was like winning an Olympic medal. Fifteen minutes reading a mindless paperback. Two with the weights. Another few with the book. They were, he realized, the random, anxious movements of someone with no place to go. The same sort of restlessness that had characterized his first few weeks of hospitalization in the Briggs Institute.
He stared at the phone and considered trying Lauren again. He had tried earlier in the day