Red Rover, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  “If he’s involved, it will give me leverage.”

  “For what?”

  “A paternity test.”

  She wanted to know who the baby’s father was. Sam didn’t blame her. “Have you asked him to do the test?”

  “He refused.”

  Not good, but Sam knew Roger well. He’d refuse out of principle, not necessarily out of guilt. And Talia wouldn’t have asked, she would have ordered. Roger did not deal well with controlling people. Since his IQ exceeded one fifty-five, his assumption was correct: he was the smartest person he knew. What Roger didn’t recognize was that his information-focused personality hindered his social skills. Roger was a rude son of a bitch, in addition to being a pompous ass. During her years of psychology studies, Sam had discovered that many brilliant psychiatrists shared the same flaw, which was a weird paradox in a profession that required talking to patients.

  “I suppose he was angry you asked,” she ventured.

  “Very.” Talia turned to Reece, her tone softening just perceptibly. “Abigail trusted you to help me. This is what I’m asking, and you said you’d honour her dying wish.”

  Disquietude shadowed Reece’s eyes while he fiddled with a teaspoon. Sam suspected that he didn’t want to get involved because he feared he wasn’t objective. She didn’t blame him. But the only way Talia would find peace was with the assurance that a friend wasn’t culpable in Abigail’s suicide.

  Finally, Reece said quietly, “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Talia smiled but it was faint and tinged with sadness. “I owe you an apology. My conduct at the party was unacceptable.” She held out her hand and Reece shook it. “The letter is yours, but I’d like to keep it. It’s important to me.”

  Reece nodded and she picked up the letter, stroking the writing on the envelope. “I picked this life. Abigail didn’t. It isn’t easy for the ones you leave behind. I would have forgiven her, if she’d only told me.”

  Sam reached for her hand. “I know.”

  Talia squeezed her fingers and her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.” She stood, again tucking her chair under the table. She crossed the restaurant and they watched until she disappeared through the door.

  “I don’t like this, Sam. It feels like a witch hunt,” Reece said.

  “I know, but we don’t have an option.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know Talia,” she said. “If we don’t find out what’s going on in the Harris investigation, I suspect she’ll leak Abigail’s pregnancy and her association with the famous Dr. Peterson to the press, while implying he had a connection to another patient’s murdered husband. Abigail was a National Ballet dancer, Graham played for the Toronto Argonauts, and Roger’s three books were on the New York Times bestseller list. The press loves a juicy scandal, especially an inside exclusive. If Talia goes to a tabloid, they’ll have a field day.”

  Reece continued to stare at the empty doorway of the restaurant. “Would she taint her girlfriend’s memory that way?”

  Sam shrugged. “She’d consider retribution a fair trade. The dead can’t be hurt. The living can.”

  “Pity help Roger if it turns out he was the baby’s father.” He shuddered and slid his plate to the centre of the table.

  A sense of foreboding blanketed her. “If he’s a person of interest in a homicide investigation,” she said, “Roger has bigger problems than Talia.”

  Chapter Six

  Sam

  THE NEXT DAY Sam and Reece slept in. It had been a rough night, but she’d made progress in dealing with Abigail’s suicide. Speaking with Talia had been part of her journey toward healing, but Reece was the real catalyst. He held her while she cried, soothed her when she ranted, and continued to show his love and support.

  His love today was in the form of a delicious mushroom and pancetta frittata he prepared for brunch. She ate half the pan. Then she ate a chunk of his.

  “Time to get back to the gym.” She patted her bulging belly and moaned. “Wanna meet me there after you talk to Bryce?”

  “Sure, text me when you’re done with Roger. What time is he expecting you?”

  She checked her watch. “Ten minutes. I’ll have to grab a cab. I hate trying to find parking on his street, and he freaks out if you park on his parking pad.”

  She gave him a quick kiss and raced out to Queen Street to hail a cab.

  * * *

  ROGER DIDN’T ANSWER the doorbell, so she wandered around back and peeked over his privacy fence, which required hoisting herself up by her arms. At five-foot-three, she wasn’t tall enough to see over the top of the high fence.

  With her forearms holding her body weight, she hollered, “Unlock the gate!”

  He glanced at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “The fitness queen can’t scale a privacy fence?”

  She could and she did, dropping to the other side and marching to the deck. “We aren’t twelve, Roger.”

  The smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, he looked like hell. His pale, bumpy complexion was the texture of ricotta cheese, and a tuft of greasy hair stood up at the back of his head. He’d bitten his fingernails to the quick, and there was a bloody scab on the side of his left thumb.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. “I haven’t heard from you since Abby’s funeral.”

  He rotated his hand. “Comme ci, comme ça,” he replied. “And you?”

  “Getting there.”

  “Sam, I’m sorry about what I said at the party.”

  She was glad he’d brought it up before she had to. “You mean about ruining me if I tattled on you again?”

  He blushed. “I wasn’t myself.”

  “I know. But I thought we’d made peace over the complaint I lodged. You said you understood. In fact, you thanked me, because it was the catalyst to addressing your burnout.”

  He sighed but didn’t respond. A few moments passed before he said, “How about some coffee?” He checked his watch. “Or a drink? The sun is over the yardarm somewhere in the world.”

  She laughed. “Well, in this time zone, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning.” She sat and studied him across the top of a potted tulip plant on the centre of the teak table. “Abigail wrote to Reece.” She handed Roger a copy of the letter she’d photocopied before giving the original to Talia.

  He glanced at the handwriting. His jaw clenched and he looked away to gaze up at the sky. After a few minutes, he read the letter and then stood abruptly, almost knocking over the heavy teak chair. “I’m getting that drink.”

  She waited for him to return and raised an eyebrow when he came out with two glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. Having witnessed alcohol’s destructive properties in his practice, Roger seldom drank hard liquor.

  He poured and took a long swallow. She left her glass on the table. In the distance, she could hear a woodpecker tapping on a tree.

  Roger brushed away a tear that had rolled down his cheek. “Childhood trauma lives forever in the heart of our inner child.”

  “Did she talk to you about how desperate she’d become?”

  He ignored the question. “She abandons us,” he said, “forcing her friends to exist under the umbrella of ineffectuality. But Reece, ah, he’s special. A man whose stellar reputation one must protect at all costs. Abigail’s dying wish was to clear Reece of any assumed guilt regarding the pregnancy. It must be complicated for Reece to be so perfect,” he scoffed.

  “It was kinder to write to him,” Sam said believing the words. “He’s a more objective observer.”

  Roger laughed and rubbed a bump on his cheek that might be a bug bite. It turned crimson under his assault. “Is that what you think romped across Abigail’s sick mind in the hour before she filled the bathtub?”

  Sam lowered her eyes.

  “I’ve offended you with my anger.” He held his hands up in mock submission. “One must not speak ill of the dead. Much too high a risk of expulsion from the herd should people whiff anger,
and what a calamity that would be.” He took a swig of his whisky, sloshing it around in his cheeks before swallowing.

  “Healthy anger is an oxymoron these days,” he continued in a lecturing tone. “The antithesis of stability in this era of entitlement and self-indulgence. Perhaps your mother was on to something.” His wide smile was a caricature. “Repress socially taboo feelings. Let all the bitterness and resentment simmer until you’re on the clock tower with a sniper rifle. People’s ignorance is tiresome.”

  Sam ignored the reference to her mother’s hypocritical habits. “Anger is an important stage of grief, you know that.” Her concern was that Roger didn’t always process anger in healthy ways. She reached for his hand, but he removed it from the table and placed it on his lap.

  “Society ostracizes angry people and empathy is a lost art. It amazes me how inept humans are at recognizing the misery we cause others, while being so quick to see the trespasses against us.” He pounded his fist on the table and the tulip pot shuddered. “Goddamn her! Why didn’t she talk to me? I could have helped her.” He hurled the letter to the deck. “Instead, she takes hours to write that to a relative stranger! Why didn’t she say who the man was? Why did she leave us to suspect each other?”

  Sam understood his anger. He’d tried to help Abigail. For a psychiatrist, suicide was tantamount to a surgeon making a mistake that resulted in death.

  “This isn’t your fault, Roger.”

  The rest of his drink disappeared in a single gulp, and he leaned against the back of his chair. “Are you sure about that?”

  Deciding to get to the point of her visit, she said, “We talked with Talia yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes. I suppose she enlightened you on her theory that I am the father of Abigail’s baby.” He tapped the letter with his foot. “Especially since Abigail so kindly exonerated Reece of culpability. How gracious of her to protect him. You know Jim is out of the running.”

  “I wasn’t aware he was in the running.”

  Roger poured another three fingers of whisky. “He was, hence the reason for Lisa and Talia quarrelling at the party. He isn’t now. Jim submitted to the degradation of a DNA test.”

  Sam took a minute to choose her words. “I suppose because he wanted to give Talia peace of mind. Abigail was terrified of men. Talia’s suspicion that the father is one of their childhood friends is rational. Isn’t the test a small thing to do?”

  Cloudy eyes studied her over the rim of his glass. “If you discount how repugnant it is to ask. You won’t cajole me into taking the test, so don’t waste your time.”

  Something occurred to her that made her shift the conversation. “You don’t have patients today?” He hadn’t shaved and was wearing a stained and misbuttoned shirt, so she was fairly certain he wasn’t working.

  “Not today, or yesterday, or the day before.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He grinned and laced his fingers behind his head. “Things to do, people to see.”

  “Roger, what’s going on? Is it Abigail’s suicide or is it something else? I’d like to help.”

  He uttered an admonishing scoff. “Come on, Sam. Don’t gaze at me with your green eyes filled with compassion and expect me not to see the cunning glint that lies beneath. You are a talented liar. I give you that.” He tapped his forehead with the tip of his finger. “But I am a gifted psychiatrist and know you well. The ease with which I can read you is frightening. You know the other piece. You’ve read the papers.” His smile was tight. “And your clever mind is running on the hamster wheel connecting dots.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Up and to the left. A classic unconscious reaction that reveals a lie, and it’s one you’ve failed to control and conquer. Congratulations, it means you aren’t a sociopath.”

  “Fine,” Sam said calmly. “Graham Harris, the ex-Argonauts player. I read about his murder. I know the police are talking to you. Can you tell me what his murder has to do with you?”

  “I was in the vicinity at the time of his death.”

  Sam felt her eyes widen. “But he died at home, at a farm north of Vaughan.”

  “I had the dubious distinction of being there. Two witnesses will testify to that unlucky happenstance. Assuming the driver who nearly hit me wants his fifteen minutes of fame. Regardless, Graham’s son will most certainly tell police I was there. The bouquet of posies littered in their front garden will offer fingerprint substantiation. The florist will confirm the time of purchase. I used my credit card. An unintelligent error, had I conspired to murder. Nevertheless, the police will grasp at what’s far too obvious while congratulating each other on their astute deductive reasoning.”

  She sat back in her chair. With a heavy sigh, she reached for her glass. “You need to tell me what happened.”

  When Roger finished his story about his spontaneous visit to his friend’s house, Sam took a moment to process what she’d learned.

  “Did you enter the house?”

  “Not on that occasion.”

  Meaning he’d been in the house at one time. Unless Brenda and Graham were obsessive cleaners, forensics would find his fingerprints on the premises. There was nothing wrong with her deductive reasoning. Roger was knee-deep in shit.

  “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “Brenda’s at Mount Sinai Hospital, psychiatric ward,” he replied. “She’s catatonic. A condition police suspect is counterfeit. In partnership with her attending psychiatrist, I attempted to enlighten the detectives on the complexity of her case. Their questions immediately twisted to why I referred her to another doctor two years ago.” His laugh was ugly. “I can well imagine the Neanderthal innuendos that flowed between them when they meandered to the donut shop.”

  Since her father had been a homicide detective and she’d been a police officer, his speech offended her. She swallowed the rebuttal on the tip of her tongue and asked, “Have you heard from them since?”

  “They were here yesterday. I’m a person of interest, or so they say.” He laughed bitterly. “A polite euphemism for suspect.” He licked his lips, his eyes intense as he scrutinized her. “Talia knows, doesn’t she?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Ah, the dear officer smells blood in the water and is circling her prey. What’s her plan? Let me guess, full disclosure to the sleaziest tabloid journalist she can find. A heart-wrenching narrative of misconduct by a perverted monster and the victimization of a beautiful, mentally fragile ballerina.”

  “Probably along those lines,” Sam replied. “If you take the DNA test, Talia goes away.”

  He tore the scab off the cuticle of his thumb and reached for the bottle she’d moved to her side of the table. “I didn’t seduce Abigail. I can promise you that.”

  “Were you sleeping with Brenda Harris?” She didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “I was but she wasn’t my patient. The College may discipline me, but I won’t lose my medical licence. I might even benefit from a smear campaign.” He winked at her. “Readers love infamous authors. My books will once again grace the New York Times bestseller list. What a treat!” The raw panic on his face undermined his sarcasm. A scandal would ruin him, and they both knew it.

  “There are thousands of women in the world, Roger. Why would you become involved with someone who was receiving mental health care? A married woman no less.”

  When he did it before—cheated on her with a different patient—her pride had been hurt and his unethical conduct had infuriated her, but the actual break-up hadn’t devastated her. On a cowardly level, catching him with another woman had given her the excuse she’d needed to end the relationship. She’d always loved Roger as a friend, but she’d never been in love with him. Now that she was with Reece, Sam understood the importance of that difference.

  “I have a proposition.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “One that will protect Abigail’s saintly reputation.”

  Sam had a feeling
she knew what was coming next but remained silent, hoping she was wrong.

  “You and Reece could help me,” Roger said. “I’ll make it worth your time. Quid pro quo, as your stepfather’s fond of saying.”

  “Roger, I—”

  “Don’t decline in haste. My proposal comprises three things you covet.” He held up his index finger. “First, if you help me, I’ll take Talia’s DNA test.” He held up his middle finger. “Second, I’ll transfer my discipline to psychiatric research and never treat another patient. No need for you to worry about Dr. Peterson ever becoming romantically involved with another patient.” Up popped his ring finger. “Third, I’ll help you prepare and defend your doctoral dissertation at the oral defence examination, and I’ll write a recommendation and advocate for any internship you desire for your clinical practicum. In order for that recommendation to be worthwhile, you will need to ensure my reputation isn’t tarnished.”

  Roger’s lunch invitation to Reece a week back suddenly made sense to Sam. He hadn’t wanted a new deck. What he’d wanted was to establish a friendship so Reece would be on board to help investigate Graham Harris’s death. She thought about the dates. Roger had invited Reece over on Saturday. Based on the news reports, Graham had died on Friday afternoon. Less than twenty-four hours after the death, Roger had predicted that police would rule the accident as suspicious.

  He must have read the distrust on her face because he added, “It’s an attractive proposition. Last time you were here asking for my help with your PhD, it bewildered me how a person with your intellect could traipse around idiocy with such obliviousness. Your methodology is flawed, your research fails to support your hypothesis, and you haven’t a hope against the scrutiny of gifted minds.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that. He was right. She was in trouble with her PhD and knew it.

  He reached into a pocket of his pants and removed a cheque, which he put in front of her. “But I’ll up the ante. Your usual fee and expenses, plus this.”

  It was for ten thousand dollars.

  “I can’t take this.” She slid the cheque to his side of the table.