"Oh?"
Lara sat there quietly for a full minute. When she spoke, she said, "Who's your doctor, Howard?"
"What?"
"Who's your doctor?"
"Seymour Bennett. He's chief of staff at Midtown Hospital."
The following morning Lara's attorney, Terry Hill, was sitting in the office of Dr. Seymour Bennett.
"My secretary told me that you wanted to see me urgently and that it has nothing to do with a medical problem."
"In a sense," Terry Hill said, "it does concern a medical problem, Dr. Bennett. I represent an investment group that wants to put up a nonprofit clinic. We want to be able to take care of those unfortunate people who can't afford regular medical care."
"That's a splendid idea," Dr. Bennett said. "What can I do to help you?"
Terry Hill told him.
The following day Dr. Bennett was having tea in the home of Eleanor Royce.
"They've asked me to approach you on behalf of this group, Mrs. Royce. They want to build a beautiful clinic, and they want to name it after your late husband. They visualize it as sort of a shrine to him."
Mrs. Royce's face lit up. "They do?"
They discussed the group's plans for an hour, and the end of that time Mrs. Royce said, "George would have loved this. You tell them that they have a deal."
Construction began six months later. When it was completed, it was gigantic. The entire square block was filled with huge apartment buildings, an enormous shopping mall, and a theater complex. In a remote corner of the property was a small one-story brick building. A simple sign over the door read: GEORGE ROYCE MEDICAL CLINIC.
Chapter Eighteen
On Christmas Day Lara stayed home. She had been invited to a dozen parties, but Paul Martin was going to drop by. "I have to be with Nina and the kids today," he had explained, "but I want to come by and see you."
She wondered what Philip Adler was doing on this Christmas Day.
It was a Currier & Ives postcard kind of day. New York was blanketed in a beautiful white snowfall, wrapped in silence. When Paul Martin arrived, he had a shopping bag full of gifts for Lara.
"I had to stop at the office to pick these up," he said. So his wife wouldn't know.
"You give me so much, Paul. You don't have to bring anything."
"I wanted to. Open them up now."
Lara was touched by his eagerness to see her reaction.
The gifts were thoughtful and expensive. A necklace from Cartier's, scarves from Hermes, books from Rizzoli, an antique carriage clock, and a small white envelope. Lara opened it. It read: "Cameron Reno Hotel & Casino" in large block letters. She looked up at him, in surprise. "I have the hotel?"
He nodded confidently. "You will have. The bidding starts next week. You're going to have fun with it," Paul Martin predicted.
"I don't know anything about running a casino."
"Don't worry. I'll put some professionals in to manage it for you. The hotel, you can handle yourself."
"I don't know how to thank you. You do so much for me."
He took her hands in his. "There isn't anything in the world that I wouldn't do for you. Remember that."
"I will," she said solemnly.
He was looking at his watch. "I have to get back home. I wish..."He hesitated.
"Yes?"
"Never mind. Merry Christmas, Lara."
"Merry Christmas, Paul."
She went to the window and looked out. The sky had become a delicate curtain of dancing snowflakes. Restless, Lara walked to the radio and turned it on. An announcer was saying, "...and now, for its holiday program, the Boston Symphony Orchestra presents Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. Five in E flat, with Philip Adler, soloist."
Lara listened with her eyes, seeing him at the piano, handsome and elegant. When the music ended, she thought, I've got to see him again.
Bill Whitman was one of the best construction supervisors in the business. He had risen through the ranks and was in great demand. He worked steadily and earned good money, but he was dissatisfied. For years he had watched builders reaping enormous fortunes while he got nothing but a salary. In a way, he thought, they're making their money off of me. The owner gets the cake; I get the crumbs. But the day Lara Cameron had gone before the community board, everything changed. She had lied to get the board's approval, and that lie could destroy her. If I went to the board and told them the truth, she'd be out of business.
But Bill Whitman had no intention of doing that. He had a better plan. He intended to use what had happened as lever-age. The boss lady was going to give him anything he asked for. He could sense from their first meeting at which he had asked for a promotion and raise that she was going to give in. She had no choice. I'll start small, Bill Whitman thought happily, and then I'll begin squeezing.
Two days after Christmas, work began again on the Eastside Plaza project. Whitman looked around at the huge site and thought, This one's going to be a real moneymaker. Only this time, I'm going to cash in on it, too.
The site was crowded with heavy equipment. Cranes were digging into the earth and lifting tons of it into waiting trucks. A crane wielding a giant saw-toothed scoop bucket seemed to be stuck. The huge arm hung suspended high in midair. Whitman strode toward the cab, under the huge metal bucket.
"Hey, Jesse," he called. "What's the matter up there?"
The man in the cab mumbled something that Whitman could not hear.
Whitman moved closer. "What?"
Everything happened in a split second. A chain slipped, and the huge metal bucket came crashing down on Whitman, smashing him to the ground. Men came running toward the body, but there was nothing to be done.