HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

Bronxville. One of the richest cities in one of the richest counties in the United States. So why did she do it? Money, of course. That was the principal speculation. Even left-of-center and right-of-center media outlets could agree: this was a murderous, gold-digging woman. When her husband didn’t give her a large enough allowance, buy her enough things, she staged a break-in and killed him for the insurance.

  There was little dissent. Just a reporter here or there who pointed out that Laura Bishop actually worked — she was an artist’s manager and had some high-profile clients, whose work was displayed at the MOMA, at the Tate Modern, and so on.

  Ah, there’s no money in that, people argued.

  But if Laura’s finances were ever parsed — and I’m sure they were — I never saw the data.

  Besides, in the end, Laura Bishop took a deal. She pled guilty to a lesser charge — murder in the second degree, meaning it was spur-of-the-moment crime and not premeditated. She was given twenty-five years in prison. When she got out, she’d be in her sixties. Her prime years would be behind her, never to return.

  She didn’t fight it. Laura Bishop stood up in court and, claiming she was of sound mind and that she understood what she was doing, she entered her guilty plea. Case closed.

  That day, when I sat in the back of the courtroom, returns to me fully now. Tom wasn’t there, thank God. He was off with his aunt somewhere. But his uncle came to court, the name I’ve just remembered: Arnold Bleeker. A tall and narrow man; Laura’s brother-in-law. I recall that we met eyes, Bleeker and I, just once. It was after Laura, standing in her orange DOC jumpsuit, had admitted her guilt. He looked at me through the slow-moving sea of people leaving the courtroom. It seemed like he knew me, like he knew I’d been the one to get the truth from his nephew. But of course he couldn’t; everything that happened with me and Tom was held in confidence.

  Unless Tom had said something? How much did an eight-year-old understand? He’d moaned and cried and confessed his secret to me. Shortly after, the police had taken a statement from him. I knew that such a statement would be critical, and it had turned out to be the cornerstone of the prosecutor’s case against Laura Bishop — but such a young boy wouldn’t know that. Plus, many days had passed between his aching confession to me and the hearing in which Laura pled guilty. When he was finally told that his mother was going to prison, even more time had elapsed.

  What would a young boy know about the criminal justice system? He might’ve recognized that he’d had a role to play, but no more than that.

  Did they buy it?

  I’m still standing in Joni’s bedroom, holding Michael’s phone, staring at this text.

  Enough, I think. I replace the phone under a ripple of bed covering and turn to leave the room. My heart jumps and my breath catches in my throat.

  Paul is standing there. He’s sweaty and smells like cut grass. He frowns at me. “What’re you doing?”

  “Nothing.” I push past him and into the hallway, then start down the stairs.

  “I was calling for you,” he says.

  I stop halfway down the staircase. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I came in the house, couldn’t find you.”

  I wait.

  Paul cocks his head. “Find anything?”

  “No,” I say quickly. And it’s mostly true. I didn’t find anything concrete, just memories that have got me wanting to locate Arnold Bleeker and his wife. What was her first name?

  Alice.

  Paul says, “Okay, well, is there a plan? Lunch? Dinner? Should we go out tonight, celebrate?”

  In my distractedness, I haven’t given any thought to how we’re going to officially respond to our daughter’s wedding engagement. Even if I’m scrounging around in the background, trying to get some answers, it’s best to keep up appearances. Especially if what I turn up ends up being nothing.

  Paul remains at the top of the stairs. He’s removed his shoes, and the white socks are stained green around the ankles. “How about the Interlaken for dinner?” He’s suggesting our favorite restaurant. “Unless you’re thinking of going out for lunch instead. Which is, I guess, the point I’m making . . .”

  “Let me think about dinner.” I turn and continue down the stairs. Before I leave Paul’s earshot I say, “But there’s cold cuts in the fridge for lunch, if you’re too hungry to wait: bread, pickles. Make yourself a sandwich. I’ll be right back. I have to run out.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cell service is typically terrible by the lake, so I’ve jumped into the Range Rover and taken off down the bumpy, unimproved road. I’d glanced at the dock, only to see the towels but still no sign of the kids.

  The dirt road lets out on a narrow, paved road. I drive slowly. The road bisects a long thicket of bushes — there’s some nice wild raspberries in there. This road meets with a third, which leads into town. I don’t have to go very far before I can pick up a signal, and so I pull over to the shoulder and make my call.

  Mena has been my assistant for years. She’s one in a million. Paul once remarked that I’m so fond of Mena because she’s never seemed to have any ambitions beyond helping me. “It’s true,” I admitted, “I’m fascinated with people who seem to have their ego under such control.”

  But Mena’s phone goes to voicemail.

  “Hi,” I say, “it’s me. I hope you’re doing well, and I wonder if you could grab something for me from the back room. A file on Tom Bishop; I’m not sure if you remember. I just, um . . . Everything’s fine, it’s just a little something that came up and—”

  There’s a strange beep in my ear. Now that my phone is back in service, it’s registering a voicemail. And I know the number.

  Still talking to Mena’s mailbox, I finish: “Oh, I see I’ve actually got a voicemail from you. Weird. Let me check that and I’ll . . . oh, hell.”

  I stop talking and wait for the automated voice to ask me if I’m satisfied with my message. When prompted, I choose to cancel it. Good grief, I sounded tongue-tied.

  Did they buy it?

  I’m nervous, that’s what. No shame in that. It’s been a weird morning. Unexpected. I’m on the horns of a dilemma — or I can see them approaching. If I can confirm Michael Rand is who I think he is, what can I even tell my daughter? Nothing specific, obviously. Just the basics. But I’m not relishing the prospect of that, either. All I’d be able to give is some vague reason for why I think Michael is wrong for her. For why I’m insistent he is. Not a chance in hell it would work.

  I pull the message from Mena and listen.

  “Hi, Mrs. Lindman.”

  She’s always called me that. After eleven years she’s called me that. That’s not what bothers me — it’s the tone of her voice. And while she’s talking, there’s more beeps — I’ve got multiple voicemails.

  Mena says, “I have some bad news. I thought you’d want to know right away. I tried your landline at the lake house, but no one answered. So okay . . . here goes: Maggie Lewis is dead. She completed a suicide last night. Her landlord found her this morning.”

  My hand floats to my lips and covers my mouth. Oh no . . .

  “Everybody knows you’re away on vacation,” Mena says. “It was a policeman who called the office — Sergeant Rhames — and he said your name was in her phone, he knew you were her therapist, and just wanted to follow up with you. He said that you can call him anytime, and he left his personal cell number.”

  After she relays the number and says again how sorry she is, I write it down.

  Poor Maggie Lewis. It’s always terrible when a patient succumbs to diseases of despair. We do our utmost to get them the help they need, to make a plan for their health, to work with their physicians and psychiatrists — but we can’t control everything. Maggie was very sick.

  I just didn’t see this coming.

  After sitting there a minute to process the news, I remember the other missed calls. One that precedes Mena’s message is also a Westchester area code. It looks like Bronxville Police. Either
Rhames called from the office or it was a duty officer seeking contact. I know Sergeant Rhames — we’ve had a few occasions to speak. But before I give him a call, I analyze a third number.

  This one’s an unknown caller. It’s last in the sequence, but since my phone was out of service, it didn’t log the time.

  The message appears to last fourteen seconds. Just long enough for someone to leave their name and a brief reason for calling. But when I click on it and put the phone to my ear, I register only silence. I plug my free ear and strain to hear. Nothing, just white noise.

  Maybe . . . maybe the faintest whisper of a voice in the background.

  But I can’t make it out.

  The message ends.

  The Range Rover windows are rolled up, but the air is on. I dial down the vents and kill the engine.

  Now it’s perfectly quiet. The road I’m on is isolated. After waiting for one lone pickup truck to pass, I replay the message. Finger in ear, hunching forward, straining.

  Silence, a kind of background hiss.

  And then the voice. As if coming from a distance. Or muffled.

  Through a door, perhaps:

  “I want my mommy back . . .”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Dr. Lindman,” says Sergeant Rhames. “Thanks for returning my call.”

  “Of course.”

  “I understand you’re away.”

  “Yes. We’re upstate. My husband and I — we take this trip annually.”

  “That’s fine. Listen, this will only take a moment. Just a few questions.”

  “This is such a tragedy,” I say. “I’m so sorry to hear about it.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. She was a beautiful young woman. Lots ahead of her. Now, you were her therapist, is that correct?”

  “Her clinical psychologist.”

  “You’re not her, ah, psychiatrist?”

  “No. I have a doctorate, but I’m not a medical doctor. I don’t prescribe her any medication. What I do is called ‘the talking cure.’” It’s more explanation than he needs, but I’m feeling anxious.

  “Right. Okay. But she had one of those, isn’t that right? A psychiatrist?”

  “Yes. Well . . . it’s complicated.” I take him through a quick, highly discreet version of the story — Maggie Lewis didn’t like being medicated and frequently switched psychiatrists.

  What I don’t say is that the last one prescribed her the same SSRI — or antidepressant drug — as the previous one, precipitating some of her more recent frustrations, which she had expressed to me. Since I wasn’t involved with the drug part of it, Maggie had felt more allied with me. Not that I have anything against medication nor ever tried to steer her away from it. My job had been to help Maggie get what she needs to be as healthy as she could be. That’s always my job.

  “I understand,” Sergeant Rhames says, a little bit of that cop-tone creeping into his voice. As if things like switching psychiatrists are beyond his blue collar, do-the-crime-do-the-time paygrade. “Well, Dr. Lindman, as far as we’re concerned, this looks like suicide.”

  “Can I ask . . . how did she . . . ?”

  “The victim hung herself. Medical examiner has already indicated that her injuries are consistent with that. It wasn’t staged. But we’re following up, just to get the fullest picture we can. You said you were her therapist for how long?”

  “A little under two years.” It’s getting hot in the car, so I turn the engine back on and crank the air.

  Rhames is silent, and I get the sense he’s hearing the background noises on my end.

  I want my mommy back . . .

  Did that voice sound like Tom Bishop? Like a recording of something he said during a police interview? Am I going crazy?

  A patient has died. Stop this nonsense.

  My own internal admonition bears striking similarity to the cadence of my father’s voice.

  “Not quite two years,” Rhames repeats about my time with Maggie. “And during that time . . . ?”

  “Ms. Lewis presented no suicidal ideation. That I can tell you. We discussed it, but only in an objective way. The concept of it.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’d have to look at my notes. Maybe two months ago.”

  “What was the nature of that conversation? I mean, how did it come up?”

  “Sergeant Rhames . . . I can’t divulge any specific conversations I had with Maggie Lewis. Not even in the event of her death. What I can tell you is that she had no plan, to my knowledge, to do this. I assessed her as not at risk to harming herself or others.”

  Rhames gives a thoughtful grunt. “Yeah, these things are . . . Well, listen, Dr. Lindman, I understand the confidentiality. But the victim didn’t leave a note. She didn’t tell anyone she was going to do this. I, ah . . .”

  I suddenly put the car in drive, keeping my foot on the brake. “Sergeant, I’ll tell you what — I’m going to come down there and speak to you in person. I’ll have something for you, something that protects Maggie’s privacy, but can maybe give you — and her loved ones — some of the insight they’re looking for.”

  He sounds relieved. “That would be much appreciated.” He adds, “Sorry to spoil your vacation.”

  I hang up and turn around on the road, thinking, It was already going downhill.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rhames is covering his butt, plain and simple. Sometimes a homicide can be manipulated to look like a suicide, even a hanging. Maggie had a child, for one thing — what if that child was threatened? It’s an incredible longshot and a scenario I’m sure in my gut isn’t so. But for a thorough guy like Rhames to get the word from the decedent’s therapist that she was depressed and batted around the suicide idea from time to time? It could help him close out a case.

  Paul questions me and Joni seems to pout, but Michael is genuinely concerned. “That’s a terrible situation. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” I look at the three of them, my husband in his grass-stained white socks, my daughter and her fiancé still in their bathing suits, wrapped in beach towels. “We’ll celebrate when I get back, all right? I’m so sorry.”

  Paul looks at his watch. “When do you think that will be?”

  “Well, it’s what — two o’clock now? By the time I drive down there, go to the station, give my statement and all of that, it will be too late to drive back. I’ll get up and come back early in the morning.”

  I already thought about this. I could come back tonight, and under different conditions, I probably would. But Rhames’s conscience and close-out rate isn’t the only reason I’m going. The tragic situation provides me an opportunity — to look through my notes on Tom Bishop and make a couple more calls. Maybe even talk to the Bleekers.

  Paul glances at the kids. “I guess we’ll have to survive without you for a little while.” He comes forward and gives me a hug, busses my cheek. “Love you, honey.”

  Joni is next, throwing her arms around my neck. She’s like a cold fish, goosebumps on her skin. For a moment, she hangs some of her weight on me, and I’m transported back to her early childhood. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “We should be celebrating tonight. But we will as soon as I get back.”

  Joni lets go and Michael gives me a pursed-lip smile. I move closer and pat his arm. “Lucky for you, my daughter can cook.”

  “Michael is actually great in the kitchen,” Joni says. “He’ll probably be the one cooking tonight.” She stares at him with pure adoration.

  Michael is an enigma. There’s no discerning deceit in his sea glass–colored eyes. But something about their sheen, the way his skin frames them beneath the heavy eyebrows, it’s like they’re designed to be provocative.

  I just can’t register his intent, and I’m usually pretty good at reading people.

  How much is he aware of? How much is intentional? Does he know what I’m planning to do right now?

  Give it a rest. He can’t read your mind.

/>   “All right, here I go.”

  I’ve changed clothes and packed a small bag. My phone in hand, bag in the other, I walk to the Range Rover. Once inside it, I’m backing out and waving as I do. The three of them have come to the doorway to see me off.

  When I turn around and begin trundling down the dirt driveway, I’m almost relieved to be away from them.

  Why? Because I feel guilty. Because I was raised to believe that even a small untruth — whether by omission or a little white lie — dirties the soul. At least, an unclear conscience can be a troubling thing.

  That doesn’t mean anyone should expect themselves to be perfect. Part of the trick is to forgive ourselves the transgressions, especially when they’re truly meant to serve a greater good. The problem is, for some people, such transgressions are not always for a nobler cause. They’re a means to avoid something or hide something.

  And sometimes — oftentimes, really — the transgressions that get buried stay buried. And lost. That’s what therapy — the talking cure — is about. Waking up those memories, digging through the past to ferret out the unclean moments.

  Not to get too grandiose about it, but it’s a lot like religious confession. The patient is the sinner, seeking forgiveness.

  Only, if you don’t know your sins or you’re in denial of them, it’s hard for the cleansing to work. Impossible, really.

  So therapy frequently begins with that examination of one’s past. It’s how it began with me, anyway. Like many therapists, I started out as a patient, wrestling with my own troubled soul. My father, before his untimely death, had grown up an only child. By his teens, he was drinking and smoking and falling in with the wrong crowd. His father had died young too, in the war, to leave my father and his mother in a crowded apartment complex in Yonkers. Roy started drinking in his teens and was a problem drinker by twenty, though he managed to get a decent job and marry my mother, Eloise — a much more sheltered person, but also an only child.

  Eloise never learned how to stand up for herself. Roy’s descent into drinking and health problems took its toll on her and on me. By the time I was ready to start dating, I’d already decided men were scary and unpredictable, and I wasn’t safe around them.