The Concealers

I thank my editor, Barbara Brannon, for her input, edits, and critiques, and I thank my friend, author Brooks Preik, for her sharp eye in line editing and content.

Thanks to my agent, Richard Barber, Richard Barber & Associates, and to my marketing team, Peter Berinstein, Wild Onion, and Michael Sloser.

I acknowledge my indebtedness to those consultants who generously provided invaluable information in specific areas:

Douglas Love, for his considerable knowledge of and experience in the field of investigative journalism and his contribution in editing;

Bill Corwin, president of the Clarke Schools for Hearing and Speech, Dr. Catherine Bartlett, Dr. Ted Mason, ENT, and Emily Bambacus, audiologist, for contributing their time and professional expertise in the field of hearing and speech;

Joe DeCicco, author of the Michael Romano series, former New York Police Department detective and current private investigator, for helping me understand the intricacies of the NYPD and private detective world;

My friends Rod Graybill and Ron Skudlarek and Craig Parsons for their input as to skeet and trap shooting and the Newark Rod and Gun Club.

With deep gratitude, I express my appreciation to the following for their contributions:

To Emma Mahn, for her patience, research skills, and uncommon devotion and assistance in making this book possible;

To Jeanne Devlin, for her friendship, brilliant design talent, and knowledge of the publishing industry;

To Pat Rasch, for her industry, energy, and solid formatting skills combined with a keen eye for design;

To my friend Patricia Roseman, an outstanding photographer;

To Debra Datesman-Tripp for walking into the hornet's nest with patience, skill, and humor;

To my long-standing friend, Paul T. Miller, thanks for your generosity and valuable input;

To what has become my reader group, to whom I am indebted for their countless hours of reading manuscripts and their valuable input: Ann Kalkines, Diana Holdridge, Andy Miller, Steve and Marty Braff, Carol Pulizzi, Harley Sacks, Betty Mahn, and Christopher Navarro;

To George Kalkines, with whom I have, for more than fifty-six years, talked, listened, laughed, and shared life, appreciating his friendship, generosity, intellect, and wisdom.

I express my deep appreciation to the members of associations and Book Clubs with whom I have conversed in person and via Skype throughout the country and to those who have taken the time to write to me about
The Collectibles.
Your input has been generously given, instructive, and of immense value.

 

—John Jones, Catalogue of Ethical Dilemmas

 

—Mark Twain, Pudd'nhead Wilson

Beth studied the bloody, battered figure under the cotton blanket. Both of the young man's legs were mangled and the back of his head was bleeding profusely. She tried to catch everything the paramedic was saying, over the commotion and clatter: “. . . tractor-trailer jackknifed . . . overturned—driver nonresponsive at the scene—head trauma indicated.” The ER team worked quickly, and in less than half an hour the man's vital signs were stable. The resident began a full-body assessment under the attending physician's scrutiny; the patient was on his way to surgery—and, to Beth's wonderment, likely to survive.

Finally on duty in a big-city emergency room, Beth Kelly was ecstatic. She felt like she was reliving the documentary
A Day in the Life of an Emergency Room Nurse
. Undeterred by the past two days of exhaustive orientation and training in preparation for her six-week nursing residency program at Roosevelt Hospital, she was a working nurse at last, in a busy New York City hospital to boot. Her recent graduation from The State University of New York at Plattsburgh behind her, she could now look forward, if with anxiety and even fear, to the excitement of the real thing.

In her first four hours on duty she'd already witnessed more life-threatening cases than she'd seen in all her previous training. Besides the truck accident victim, there'd been the fifty-seven-year-old obese white male in cardiac arrest; a four-year-old black girl with a blocked airway ultimately determined to be the result of an allergic reaction; a thirty-eight-year-old Latino who'd severed his left arm using a table saw; and an elderly lady, exact age unknown, stabbed in the neck by a deranged passerby.

The initial challenge, of course, was to get the diagnosis right. Some situations were transparent; others required comprehensive blood and other tests. Many required radiology. During triage that afternoon, one twenty-three-year-old white male (wrist band Wilson, 3/13/65) seemed to have even the doctors stumped. He had been presented with stable signs but acute abdominal pain. The resident suspected appendicitis, only to be overruled by the ER physician's tentative diagnosis of diverticulitis. After radiology, Wilson was sent upstairs for further observation and treatment.

Beth, who had assisted Wilson in the ER, was directed by the charge nurse to assist the nursing station on his floor once they'd finished with the accident victim. “We need you here, but go to Station Eleven. Bigwigs are always doing this.”

Beth found her patient in a large, well-furnished, private room in the hospital's VIP section, surrounded by so many flowers she was afraid he had died. To her great relief, Wilson was awake, alert, and free of pain—but something clearly had him in a sour mood. She smiled and was about to introduce herself, but was interrupted mid-sentence when a silver-haired matron in a chic Nancy Reagan-style red suit burst into the room, followed immediately by a clean-cut, young, tired-looking doctor dressed in scrubs.

“Diverticulitis? At his age?” the woman said.

“We can't rule it out—symptoms are indicative. The CAT scan did eliminate appendicitis.”

“At least you didn't send him right into an unnecessary surgery!” The woman gave the doctor a withering look and at last turned to acknowledge the patient. “Are you feeling any better, dear?”

“I'd be fine if this nice nurse would just bring me a cold beer,” said Wilson, winking at Beth.

“No food and drink until we are certain of your diagnosis,” the doctor said.

“Which I do hope will be forthcoming soon,” the woman said, “especially in light of the generous donations we've made to this hospital over the years. I'm going to speak with the chief of internal medicine.”

Wilson looked over at Beth with a frustrated sigh. “My mother,” he explained.

Unsure whether it would be proper to commiserate, Beth reached for the young man's wrist and began taking his pulse. “She has your best interest at heart,” she said.

Beth checked Wilson's chart. “I didn't like hearing that GI specialist talk about a ‘colostomy,' ” Wilson said. “That's where they cut a hole in your intestine and attach a sack right here, right?” pointing to his right-side midsection. “Let's talk about something more agreeable, like where you're from and how long you've been working here.”

Beth deflected all his questions with a snap of the chart and urged him to rest. She knew his type—the flirting was just bluster to mask the fear he wouldn't show. Nice guy, really.

Two days later, after his attending physician determined Wilson had suffered a mild case of food poisoning and his mother was satisfied he was on the mend, Beth returned to check her patient's blood pressure and temperature and help him prepare for discharge. He'd been easy to look after, watching baseball games on TV, taking Jell-O meals and doctors' rounds in stride, never complaining when she had to wake him at odd hours for medications.

“Hey, could we talk for a few minutes?” he asked her when they were alone in the room.

“We've been talking for the past three days,” Beth said.

“I know,” Wilson said. “What I want to know is whether you'll let me take you to dinner tonight, you know, to thank you.”

“Are you hitting on me, Mr. Wilson?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “It's your deep blue eyes.”

“It's not the eyes. It's the medicine,” Beth said, patting him gently on the shoulder. “You'll get over it. Besides, I have a boyfriend.”

“Really? What's he doing?”

“He's in the Air Force—based in Plattsburgh, where I went to school.”

“Are you serious about him?”

“It's a long story. He's a pilot and . . . that's what he's really into. I have to attend to some other patients now,” Beth said. “I'll be back to check on you when your discharge paperwork is ready.”

When she returned an hour later, he continued the campaign. “All I want is to take you to dinner—say thanks. I'm sure your boyfriend wouldn't object to that.”

“I can't. Besides, I won't be done here until eleven.”

“Okay, I'll be waiting for you in front of the hospital, Tenth Avenue and Fifty-Eighth Street,” Wilson said.

Beth laughed. “I hope you're feeling better. It was nice to meet you. Take care of yourself.”

Exhausted at the end of her twelve-hour shift, Beth struggled down the stairs to the street, anxious to get to her apartment and rest. She raised her arm to hail a cab, but instead was greeted by a long black limousine. A driver in suit and tie came around and opened the door for her. Beth hesitated, then looked in at the bright face of her patient, raised her arms in surrender, and stepped in.

She closed her eyes, immediately absorbing the scent of leather and wood in what seemed to her more like a luxury den than a motor vehicle, eased back in the seat, and extended her tired legs and feet fully before her. She had no idea where the limo was taking her—but she was too tired to care.

Beth imagined a hot bath and sleep. She wondered where Larry was right now, what he was doing, whether he was even alive. She could only surmise that her unreturned phone calls meant that his group of the 380th was gone—somewhere. No good-bye, no word, as usual. And then he'd come back full of descriptions of his adventures. Whatever he was doing, she was sure that he was reveling in it and not thinking of her.

The next thing she remembered was Wilson's hand on her arm, gently shaking her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Wherever you like. Hungry?”

“I don't know . . . but first, how are
you
feeling?” Beth asked.

“Great. Worked out at the NYAC, took some steam. Got the hospital out of me. Still hungry though.”

Wilson pushed a button to lower the privacy window separating them from the driver. “The Flame Restaurant, Jimmy,” he requested, as though accustomed to giving orders. “Fifty-Eighth and Ninth.”

The restaurant was not crowded. Wilson picked a table in the back and ordered a hamburger, fries, and a milk shake fountain delight. Beth followed suit, now realizing how hungry she was. She found Wilson, who she thought would be stuffy and arrogant, to be earnest, forthcoming, and funny.

She answered his questions about growing up in a small upstate town, attending nursing school at Plattsburgh, being selected for the residency program, and experiencing the big city for the first time. He told her about his sailing during summers at Martha's Vineyard, his love of fast cars and golf, and his intent to be a successful chief executive officer of a big company someday.

The limo was waiting for them when they finished their meal, after midnight.

“Where to?” Wilson asked.

“I'm at the West Side Residence—that's where the Roosevelt put us up, 340 West Eighty-Fifth.”

Wilson gave the address to Jimmy, said something to him about later at The Limelight, and the limo moved on.

“What's The Limelight?” Beth asked. “Is that a private club?”

“Yeah, a place to hang out, dance, drink . . . should be rockin' about now.”

When they pulled up in front of the West Side Residence, Wilson again told Beth how much he appreciated everything she had done for him, how much he had enjoyed the evening. “I owe you for getting me back up to speed.”

“So . . . are you going to The Limelight tonight?”

“That could happen.”

“Can you give me about ten minutes?”

“Absolutely,” Wilson said.

Beth rushed to her room, took a quick shower, and chose a spritz of cologne and the right outfit. She dashed back downstairs and greeted Wilson with a kiss on the cheek, unable to hide her excitement. “I know you think I'm just a rube, but I've never been to a real New York club before!”

He hit the down button. “The Limelight, Jimmy.”

About ten minutes later, Beth was surprised to see the limo pull up in front of a large stone church. She began to wonder again what she was doing, whether her forwardness had been a big mistake. There was a barricade on the street side and a black wrought-iron fence on the church side, with young people jammed in between, forming a long line. In front of the big doors to the church were two large men dressed in black, surveying the crowd and choosing the anointed that would be allowed in.

“You have to be kidding me,” Beth said.

Jimmy opened the door and one of the club's guards came over.

“Good to see ya again, Mr. Wilson.”

They were ushered up the two stairs, through what looked like a vestibule, and into a gigantic room with a revolving mirror ball on the three-story-high ceiling. Colored lights were moving everywhere, in sync with the loud, pulsating music. The dance floor was packed with young people laughing, dancing, and singing, soon joined by Wilson and Beth. Beth was in a different world, far from the seriousness and surgical precision demanded of her at the hospital, liberated by the brash sounds and sights, and freed by Wilson's lack of command and control—so different from being with Larry.

After an hour or more—she'd lost track after the second Bloody Mary—Beth asked to go home. “I love all of this, but I have to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“You got it,” Wilson said, and led her strategically through the crowd, out the door to the limo.

Wilson directed Jimmy back to the West Side residence. Almost subconsciously as she recalled the excitement of the evening, Beth moved her body languorously across Wilson's. What had come over her? She reached for the switch to the window. “Jimmy, please take the long way home.”

Sitting crossways to Wilson, Beth took his face in her hands and murmured, “This has been wonderful.” She turned her head toward the gentleman who'd been her patient only a few hours earlier and locked his gaze in hers. She could smell his well-groomed hair, breathe in the earthy scent of peanuts and beer on his breath, and feel the smoothness of his skin. He was taller than Larry though not as muscular. She found his trim good looks and urbane manner intoxicating.

“By the way,” she said, “in all this time, I forgot to ask your first name.”

Suddenly she found herself doing something she could hardly have imagined that very morning: she kissed him deeply—and he responded in kind. Somewhere in there she heard him say, “Preston. It's Preston.”

Beth's head was still filled with the piercing, pulsating music as she felt Wilson unzip the back of her dress, and she yielded to the freedom from its release. She felt the cool leather on her skin and the heat rising from his body. She knew this was having sex, not making love, but right now she didn't care. She felt appreciated, and it felt good. She would deal with the rest of it in the morning.