HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  “I . . . Can we sit down?”

  “Of course, here, this way.”

  He leads me to the living room, where I sit on the edge of the coffee table to keep the furniture dry. He takes the chair between two couches. There are pigs embroidered on the throw pillows. I give myself a little shake and focus on him.

  “Mr. Bleeker, I was your nephew’s therapist once — very briefly.”

  Bleeker’s mouth opens a little. A soft breath escapes him. For a moment, he just stares, unresponsive. “Oh . . . Dr. Lindman, you said?”

  I nod. I’m fairly certain we never spoke before this, but he surely must’ve learned my name back then.

  His brow creases with concern. “What brings you all the way here? Is Thomas all right?”

  I place the towel in my lap. “Have you heard from him recently?”

  “No. Not for a long time.”

  “He just . . . left?”

  “Well, you could say that. Thomas and Alice — my wife — they had a hard time getting along. He sort of . . . He left just after he turned eighteen.”

  “I’m sorry to hear there was trouble. And then — did you correspond with him at all?”

  Bleeker looks down at his enfolded hands. “No. Which was very hard. I wanted to reach out to him, but Alice got sick. We thought it was early onset dementia, but it was Alzheimer’s. It devastated us. Even her sister — Laura. They were very close. Both of them liked to collect things.” He studies the pigs a moment, finally concluding, “It was a terrible time, but at least it went quickly at the end.”

  I tell Bleeker again how sorry I am. The gloom in this house is starting to feel like a living thing. I have the need to hurry along; I’m poking around where I don’t belong. I want to ask about Laura — I want to ask a lot of things, but I settle on what seems most prescient. “You call him Thomas,” I say. “Did you ever hear that he changed his name?”

  “Changed his name?”

  “Yes. First and last.”

  “We changed his name. I adopted him and he was Thomas Bleeker . . .” Arnold Bleeker gets a worried look, a suspicion in his squint. “What’s this? Has something happened? I’ve tried for a couple of years to find him, but Laura didn’t know, and the Thomas Bleekers I can locate on the computer always turn out to be someone else.”

  I raise my hands in peace. “I’m sorry, the last thing I want to do is alarm you. I have no reason to believe anything bad happened to your nephew. I’m here because a young man recently showed up in my life and he reminds me of him. Very much. But he said he was someone else. Michael Rand.”

  That’s it. That’s what I rehearsed for an hour. Best, I decided, to stay simple. And as close to the truth as possible.

  Bleeker’s scowl deepens. “He said he was who?”

  “He called himself Michael Rand.” My next move is quick. “Mr. Bleeker, do you have any photo albums I could look through? Anything recent — before Tom left?”

  But Bleeker makes no reply. Instead he just stares at me, one of his eyes twitchy. “What are you doing here?”

  The question throws me for a moment. “I’m trying to confirm if the man I know as Michael Rand is your adopted son, Thomas, or if this is all just a big coincidence. If I’m staking way too much on the way I remember someone looking. I know it’s inappropriate, and I’m sorry. This situation just arose this morning and I’m . . . I’m just trying to sort things out so I can move on.” I smile, hoping for empathy.

  Bleeker stays eye-locked on me. His Adam’s apple bobs with a dry swallow. Then he points. “You’re the one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I told you that I’m . . .”

  Bleeker stands, still pointing a crooked finger at me. His whole demeanor has changed; he’s now rigid and hostile. “You need to go.”

  I stand too, slowly, cautiously, so as not to alarm him further. “Mr. Bleeker, I’m very sorry if I’ve upset you . . . As I told you, I was the psychologist who worked with Tom after his father’s death. Is that what you mean? I’m ‘the one?’”

  Bleeker’s mouth quivers with emotion. He can barely get out the words. “It took me a minute, but I recognize you. And I remember what happened.” Bleeker suddenly straightens his spine and puffs his bony chest. “You need to get out right now. What is the reason for this? You want to check on me, see what I might remember? Just get out.”

  “Sir — I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you. I don’t know what I’ve said or done that . . . If I could just leave my card, it has my number on it . . .”

  “Out!”

  His voice is like a crack of thunder in the humid house. I quickly leave the card, drop the towel on the nearest chair, and get moving. I reach the door and grab the handle, turn back for one more try. “I really think there’s been a mist—”

  “Get out of my house!” Bleeker bellows. “Get out or I’m calling the police!”

  You don’t have to tell me twice. Or three times. I’m out the door, and I leave it swinging in the breeze. I take the wet steps carefully, trying not to slip, and I’m about to cross the lawn to my car when I’m captured by bright lights.

  I stop abruptly and put my hand in the air.

  “Hey!” It’s a younger man’s voice. I can hear an engine. Someone has just pulled into the driveway, but I can’t see past the blinding lights. A door slams. There’s a flash of a silhouette and footfalls approaching fast.

  My heart leaps into my throat and I rush for my car.

  But I don’t make it. The man grabs me, and I scream.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  POLICE REPORT

  INVESTIGATORS R. MOONEY and S. STARZYK

  WITNESS INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT (PARTIAL): THOMAS BRADLEY BISHOP

  APRIL 29

  Mooney: And then what did you see? You snuck out of your room to—

  Tom: I heard bad fighting.

  Mooney: Right. Yes. Did you go to the kitchen? Is that where the fighting sounds were coming from?

  [Silence.]

  Planski: Go ahead, honey.

  Tom: It was coming from different places.

  Mooney: The fighting?

  [Silence.]

  Mooney: You can’t nod, okay, Tommy? We need you to say “yes.”

  Tom: Yes.

  Mooney: Do you mean you think there were multiple people? Tom? Do you think more than one person was fighting with your dad?

  [Silence.]

  Mooney: Did you see them? Tom, it’s very important . . . Did you see who was fighting with your dad?

  [Silence.]

  Mooney: For the tape, the witness has indicated in the negative. Okay, Tom . . . So then what happened? Try to tell me. You left your room when you heard the fighting. Right? Where did you go first?

  Tom: I don’t remember.

  Mooney: You don’t rem—

  Tom: The stairs.

  Mooney: You went to the stairs?

  Tom: The top of the stairs. I can look down from the top of the stairs.

  Mooney: You’re talking about the stairs that come down from your bedroom, right? They go into the kitchen?

  Tom: They have all the clocks. All the clocks are on the stairs.

  Mooney: Right . . . hanging on the wall going down the stairs. Your dad liked clocks?

  Tom: My mom does.

  Mooney: Oh, your mom. Okay. So from the stairs, you can see the clocks. And also, a little bit, the open doorway into the kitchen. Isn’t that right?

  Tom: Uh-huh.

  Mooney: Did you see anything? Did you go the rest of the—

  Tom: I went the rest of the way down. I was quiet.

  Mooney: Yeah, you were kind of sneaking?

  Tom: Yeah.

  Mooney: And then what happened? I know we’ve done this a couple of times already. And now it’s been a while. But it’s very important — it’s so important, Tom — that we know what happened to your daddy. He would want you to—

  Pla
nski: Investigator Mooney, if you could please stick to the line of questioning.

  Mooney: I just need you to tell me what you remember, as best as you can. Okay?

  [Silence.]

  Tom: I sat on the stairs. It sounded like people were fighting all over. And I looked into the kitchen but didn’t see anyone. Then I came all the way down the stairs. Everything got quiet. But I . . . And then I . . .

  [Indistinguishable noises.]

  Planski: It’s okay, Tom. Here, I have some Kleenex somewhere . . . All right, I think we’re going to have to—

  Mooney: What, Tom? And then you what?

  Tom: I don’t know. My mom . . .

  Mooney: What about your mom?

  Planski: I’m going to ask that we end this interview. Tom is clearly upset.

  Mooney: Okay, okay. I know. You’re right. But he’s . . . It’s right there. Tom? Did you see who hurt your father?

  Tom: He was on the ground. Like he was sleeping. But there was blood everywhere.

  Planski: Detective Mooney? I’m asking—

  Mooney: And your mother?

  Tom: Holding him. Like he was a baby.

  Mooney: Oh, Christ. Tom, I’m sorry, Tom. Don’t you have any more of those tissues?

  Planski: Okay. Okay, that’s it. Officer Mooney? That’s it.

  Mooney: I’m sorry — okay. Tom . . . it’s okay, Tom . . .

  * * *

  ACCOMPANYING MEMO TO DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE

  INVESTIGATOR R. MOONEY

  APRIL 29

  It is the opinion of this investigator that either the witness, Thomas Bishop, is afraid to express what he saw in the final moments of his father’s life or, having seen something particularly upsetting, he’s blocked it out. It is my strong recommendation, in light of this, that we hire an outside counselor or therapist to evaluate Tom. Perhaps work with him to unearth any repressed memories. As our only witness to the murder of David Bishop, Tom is critical to the prosecution.

  Signed,

  Rebecca Mooney

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When the man grabs me, I go for my pepper spray — but of course I don’t have it. I haven’t carried it since my days attending college in the city, decades ago. Instead, I wrench free of his grip and keep going for my car.

  The rain has slowed but the front lawn is soaked, my quick feet squishing the wet grass. To my right, past the end of the road, the ocean pounds. Harder than before, it seems, with fury.

  I reach the car and I dig for my keys in the pocket of my shorts. It’s only as I unlock and open the car door that I risk looking back.

  The man is standing in the drizzle. He’s not much older than my Sean, maybe thirty. A young woman grips his arm, as if holding him back. The details of their faces are hard to make out — but I think I’ve seen her before.

  Candace.

  Old man Bleeker stands just outside the front entrance. I hear his voice but can’t make out the words over the angry surf. Whatever he says, it gets the attention of the two on the lawn, and they start toward him. The man looks over his shoulder at me as they go.

  Part of me — the rational part, you might say, the part who was raised by parents big on manners and etiquette and which-fork-goes-with-which-dish — wants to walk back across the lawn and make amends. But clearly I’ve upset Arnold Bleeker. I’ve upset him to the point of him kicking me out. So maybe now is not the time.

  And here I am, in Sayville, on Long Island, when my family is in Upstate New York. I’m supposed to have left them to assist police in understanding the suicide of a young woman who happened to be one of my patients.

  It’s over. Time to go.

  I get into the Range Rover, start the engine, and pull a U-turn in the road. I glance at the house as I roar past in the other direction. The three of them are all still standing there; their heads turn in unison as they watch me leave. At the last second, Candace gives me a one-finger salute.

  * * *

  With a little time and distance — ten minutes and fifteen miles — I’m thinking more clearly. Arnold Bleeker seems to have confused my inquiries about Tom with something else, perhaps some kind of conspiracy playing in his head. Given the difficult subject matter — having your sister-in-law sent to prison for murdering her husband, then raising her son, which led to conflict with your now-departed wife — anyone could understand that. Bleeker needs someone to blame.

  The other thing that comes to me: Candace does the laundry.

  I hadn’t remembered about the Bleekers having a daughter, but that was likely her. Maybe the man was her husband, and he was just being protective. I could see how it looks: It’s dark and rainy, and I’m some stranger running from the house while their frail father stands in the doorway, visibly upset.

  Still — the way the man grabbed me . . .

  I rub my arm and give it a quick glance. I might even have a bruise there. How am I going to explain that to Paul?

  After another minute of sulking, I pick up my phone from the passenger seat and plug it in. The Range Rover has a hands-free system, and in seconds, I’m listening to a phone ring through the speakers.

  After the fifth ring: “Hello? Emmy?”

  “Hi, Frank,” I say. “Didn’t think you were going to pick up, so I was planning out my message.”

  “If you want, you can call back and I won’t answer.”

  His humor is dry, reminding me of Arnold Bleeker — Have I won something?

  I chuckle; it sounds a little more manic than I’d like. “I think I can improvise,” I say. “How are you doing?”

  “Ah, can’t complain. Busy. You?”

  “Yeah, busy. We’re on vacation, though. Taking our week up at the lake house.”

  “Oh, good for you . . . You sound like you’re driving, though.”

  “You are quite the investigator.” It’s an attempt at a joke that winds up sounding sarcastic. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m just . . . I’m not up there, actually. I had to come back down to the office.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I had a patient die from suicide.”

  “Ah, man.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. And I needed to speak to White Plains Police about it.”

  “Yeah, right. Sure.”

  “But listen — everything’s good with you? How are the wife and kids?”

  This joke lands better; Frank has never been married.

  “Just the way I like ’em,” he says.

  “Ah, someday, Frank. Someday. You’ll meet the right one.”

  He laughs. “I’m almost sixty.”

  “Sixty is the new twenty.”

  “Jesus,” he says, “isn’t that a sobering thought?”

  It’s enough small talk. I’m feeling a little more comfortable. My hands on the wheel, ten and two, I drive the Long Island Expressway, the road shining wet, post-downpour. Traffic is surprisingly light for eight p.m. on a Friday, headed toward the city. Like everyone is somewhere else.

  “Hey, so, I’m wondering if you can check on a phone number for me. A weird call I got. Are you . . . Think you can swing that?”

  “I’ll give it a shot. What’s the number?”

  I give him the digits, and he says, “Okay. I’ll let you know. That it?”

  I’ve known Frank Mills for over thirty years, and he’s known me. He knows that’s not it.

  We met when he was a rookie New York cop and I was a graduate student in the city. For the last several years, he’s been on his own as a private investigator. He says he does it for the money, but I know how good a New York cop’s pension is and how little money Frank, a perennial bachelor with cheap tastes, needs to live. Frank does it because it’s in his blood. Without the occasional gig for a divorce lawyer, or running down cheating husbands, or the odd job to see if a workman’s comp claimant was waterskiing in the Bahamas instead of hobbling around on crutches, Frank would go stir crazy.

  “No,” I say. “That’s not it.”

  He listen
s to my story — it doesn’t take long, maybe just a minute, to tell — and then says, “Yeah. Wow. That’s a pickle.”

  Only Frank would say that’s a pickle. He’s born-and-bred New York, with an old-school heart.

  “It’s driving me crazy,” I say.

  “I mean . . . You could always ask him.”

  “Gee, ya think?”

  “Well, I’m not saying it would be easy. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Anyway, the real question is, does it matter? Does Joni seem happy?”

  “It’s Joni. She’s seemed happy with every guy she’s brought home.”

  “Yeah, but she hasn’t been engaged to any of them.”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” I suddenly feel like having a cigarette. It’s been over ten years, but I can taste it. Maybe it’s talking to Frank. His gravelly voice. I think I can hear him puffing on his own — it’s in the pauses, the exhalations.

  “So you think the phone call is related?”

  “It could be. Yeah, for sure.”

  “Listen,” he says, “I’ll check into it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Frank, you’re a good friend.”

  “I’ll give you my ‘good friend’ rate.” He laughs, because he’s not going to charge me anything.

  “It’ll just be quick,” I say, suddenly needing to reassure him. Or maybe myself.

  “One thing I’ve learned in this business? Everything takes longer than expected.”

  “I hear you. Of course, that’s life in general, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, true.”

  The conversation is winding down. Then Frank says, “You know, I remember that whole thing. That was a heck of a case. Mooney worked that one, right? Rebecca Mooney? And maybe Steve Starzyk. They seemed to have it in for the wife. There was all this other stuff — neighbor saw an unfamiliar car, the back gate was broken from the outside, and then the rear entrance jimmied open. Said it took a lot of strength.”

  “I guess that was all staged. By her.”

  Frank is quiet. “What was her name . . . Lori?”

  “Laura.”

  “Laura, right. So it was her? She beat him up with a bat?”

  “Hammer.”

  “Oh, right. And so . . . and so that’s it, huh? Oh, man — the kid saw it?”