Deadly Interest

by Julie Hyzy

  When I turned the page, a large mouth bass made me think of Bass at work, and I flipped the magazine shut with a sigh.

  The hallway door opened with a quick click-bump that startled me; I jumped at the noise. A balding man, with a gray-streaked black beard, wearing blue jeans and a thick down coat blew in, grinning. He was about six-foot-two, at least forty pounds overweight and he smelled of smoke. Not like he’d just finished a cigarette, rather as if he’d just walked in from a bonfire.

  Like David, his voice boomed. “Alex St. James?” he asked as I stood. “I’m Dr. Hooker.”

  We shook hands and I noticed that beneath the shaggy black eyebrows twinkled eyes of bright blue. He had ruddy cheeks, and I couldn’t tell if he’d just run a marathon through snow-covered streets, or if they were that color naturally. He stripped off the jacket that made him look like the Michelin Man, and I was surprised to see that he wore a ratty yellow sweatshirt underneath.

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Hooker,” I said.

  He nodded and smiled bright teeth at me. The front two were slightly crooked, just enough to give the appearance of them coming to a point. Slight imperfection, but a nice one, it made his smile all the more winsome. “But please, call me Tom.”

  He watched me as we talked, and he’d moved to take my hand in both of his. Friendly, warm, I put immediate trust in this man, and then shook off the feeling, since we both knew we were here to find out information from one another. But I couldn’t repress it entirely. The big man with the booming voice emanated the enchantment of a well-worn Teddy Bear, warm, safe, and always willing to listen.

  From his youthful demeanor, I would have put him in his mid-forties, but since I’d met his thirty-ish nephew, he might have been older. Fifty, maybe. But no more.

  “You found my note,” he said, leading the way into the door on the far right. “Good. Now, come on in, we have lots to discuss.”

  * * * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, holding a mug of warm tea up near my face, I interrupted him. We’d discussed everything from the wicked March snowstorm to his office’s impending redecoration when he mentioned he’d just come from visiting Diana in the hospital.

  “Any change?”

  Wide smile there. “Big change. She’s talking.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Flooded with an immediate sense of relief, I was jarred when the good feelings washed back far enough for me to realize that if Diana was now awake and talking, then he didn’t really need me, my chances of getting information from him were slim to none.

  But since he didn’t seem ready to kick me out at the moment, I thought I’d stay a while and see where things led. We waded through a few more safe subjects, each of us assessing the other as we did so, when Tom started to mention that he shared the practice with his nephew.

  “I met him,” I said.

  “Good kid,” he said. “Needs a few more years under his belt and he’ll be great.”

  Lowering the mug to my lap, I realized how relaxed I felt. My ankles were crossed in front of me and my butt was slightly forward on the seat putting me into an oh-so-slight reclining position. I scooched back.

  He grinned and took a loud slurp of the tea from his own mug. He’d fixed us both some in the tiny kitchen adjacent to his office. The mystery center door.

  “That was nice of you to come all the way down from the hospital to meet me. Do you live nearby?” I asked.

  “Hyde Park,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t mind. I looked forward to talking with you. I’ve heard your name several times during my sessions with Diana, and after what happened to you both, I knew we needed to meet.”

  “She talked about me?”

  “Several times,” he repeated. “Even before today.” I started to notice the fact that his eyes squinted almost imperceptibly when he was gauging my reaction to something.

  “Care to share?”

  The corners of his mouth curled up. I could tell by the way his mustache spread, just a bit. “As a matter of fact . . .” He’d leaned back in his armchair, his body taking on a relaxed pose as well. Warming up to talk, it seemed, he leaned forward, gripping his mug, resting his elbows on the scuffed-denim knees. “I think we’re in a position to help one another.”

  “How’s that?”

  He captured me with intent blue eyes. “Detective Lulinski wants to solve his case. I know that. I respect that.” He tapped a palm against the side of his mug, like a catcher fisting his glove. “And as much as I hate the idea of a killer running loose, as much as I want this crime solved—if you and I had met yesterday, I would have claimed confidentiality when you tried to get information about Diana out of me. I mean,” he lifted a shoulder, “even if you asked whether she’s right or left-handed—I wouldn’t have told you.”

  Digesting his little speech, I canted my head. “Do I sense a ‘but’?”

  Smiling, he nodded, never breaking eye contact. “But.” He took another long drink of his tea, and I sipped mine. Starting to get cool. “Today, I told Diana that you and I were scheduled to meet. She’s open to sharing information.”

  The best news I’d heard all day. “Excellent,” I said, placing my mug on a nearby table. Time to get down to it. “Then tell me about Laurence Grady.”

  Dr. Tom Hooker was a man who reacted with small movements. A job requirement, I supposed. One black eyebrow twitched as though it had been about to fly upward but caught before it could move.

  “Well, aren’t you direct?” he said with amusement.

  “Part of my job.”

  “I imagine it is.”

  We sat for a few beats as the second-hand on the clock over the doorway took silent steps past two and three.

  “First,” he said. “Tell me about the night you were attacked.”

  I hesitated. Not because I was reluctant to relive the experience, but more because I didn’t have much recollection of Diana’s state of mind during the encounter. And except for her refusal to get her ass out of the house when we had the chance, I didn’t have much to add about her participation. How was that going to sound to a shrink? Placing blame. All her fault.

  Then again, I rationalized that he was the expert and we were here today in the spirit of ‘one hand washes the other.’ And so I began with my aunt’s request to take Diana home and finished with the arrival of the paramedics. Through it all, he nodded. He took no notes.

  “I’m wondering if Laurence Grady might have been the man who attacked us,” I said, finally.

  He nodded, his face solemn, open—encouraging further explanation.

  “According to Detective Lulinski this Grady fellow and Diana have a history together.”

  The doctor nodded. “Go on.”

  “And,” I strove to put weight into my words, “Grady is out on parole. He could’ve been the person who murdered Mrs. Vicks. He could be coming back for Diana.”

  I waited, but the good doctor effectively waited me out.

  “That’s why I want to know about him. What Diana can tell us that might shed some light on the situation. There might be more here going on than she realizes.”

  “I don’t think Grady is your man.”

  “Why not?”

  He pursed his lips then—thoughtful fashion, but remembering the magazine from the lobby, I thought he looked like a fish pressing up against a glass bowl. Not a pretty sight. He sucked in a breath through his puckers. “I’m not at liberty to say at the moment.”

  My “Oh?” came out in a skeptical tone—which was exactly how I meant it. “How convenient.”

  “Diana gave me authorization to tell you anything you want to know—as long as it relates to the murder.”

  I felt my brow furrow. “Who makes the distinction?”

  “I do.”

  I shook my head, concealing my growing frustration. “What if something’s germane and you don’t know it?”

  He spread his hands before him. “It’s a risk you’ll have to accept. I’ll be in contact with Diana,
myself. Regularly. I’ll monitor all of this. She’s suffered a trauma, and I’m not telling you anything new, I believe, when I say that she’s a fragile soul.”

  Fragile soul. Exactly how I’d describe her. “I certainly don’t want to jeopardize her recovery,” I began.

  “Good,” he said. “And everything you’ve told me about the night you two were attacked is immensely helpful. I’m very glad we’ve connected.”

  “Doctor,” I said, to finish the thought I’d begun, “Diana may be the key to all this. Even though you might not think that her friend Grady is involved, I hope you’ll not withhold potentially important information.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Diana is giving you more than most patients would. I think you need to be cognizant of what she’s risking by doing so.”

  I took a deep breath at his gentle admonishment before responding. No sense in alienating him. Not yet at least. But I’d still gotten very little bang for my buck. “Of course,” I said. “And if I have specific questions—more than you’re willing to answer—I can always just talk with her directly.” I wasn’t exactly asking his permission, but I wanted him to know I’d be working every angle open to me.

  “I’d prefer you don’t.”

  He’d prefer. My knee-jerk reaction was to tell him that I didn’t care a whit what his preferences were, but I found, to my surprise, that I actually did care. The man engendered trust. I knew I could trust him and I wanted him to trust me. It scared me. But I had a job to do.

  “Sorry, no promises,” I said, smiling to take the warning out of my words.

  He grinned as we stood, and he took my right hand again in both of his. “It was wonderful meeting you, Alex. We will be in touch. I have time Friday afternoon if you want to come by. We can discuss this further.”

  I’d gotten precious little information from him, but he’d gotten plenty from me. I wondered how much he charged per hour. Whatever it was, this guy’s clients were getting off cheap.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I didn’t get to Detective Lulinski’s station till the following morning.

  “You met with Hooker?” he asked by way of greeting when he came down to get me from the reception area. He waved for me to follow him.

  “Yesterday. Two o’clock. As ordered.”

  He turned at my verbal jab, and I thought I caught a smile on the laconic detective’s face. “And?” he asked.

  I double-stepped to catch up with him by the elevator. “Don’t you want to walk up? It’s just one flight.”

  He was saved from reply as the elevator dinged its arrival and the doors slid open and he made the universal arm movement of “after you.”

  “Truth is,” I began as we made our way to interview room, surprisingly vacant, “I got nothing out of him except for the fact that he doesn’t believe it was Laurence Grady who attacked us.”

  “Let him stick to his shrink business, and let me take care of the police work,” Lulinski said as he rolled weary eyes. “Everybody’s a detective.” He sat at his desk and gestured for me to take the chair I’d occupied last time. “So?” he said, leaning backward, lacing his fingers behind his head. “What else?”

  I hesitated. “Not much.”

  One eyebrow rose. “Uh-huh.” His mouth twisted to the side as if cradling an imaginary cigarette. “You don’t sound very convincing.”

  I waved away importance and took a deep breath. “Barton Vicks came to see me.”

  Lulinski sat up. “When?”

  “Yesterday, at work.” I launched into a quick narrative and included the fact that Bart had apparently known my comings and goings, as evidenced by his comment on my breakfast meeting. Lulinski’s face remained impassive, but I watched his eyes flick as key points registered.

  “What happened when they took him away?”

  I started to laugh as I remembered Bass’s sudden spurt of courage as they dragged Big Bart out the doors. My diminutive boss had trotted after them, face red, finger-shaking, issuing warnings against bothering his employees ever again. He’d built up such a head of steam that when the security staff stopped to readjust their unwilling captive, Bass’s momentum had nearly made him stumble against the big man’s ample gut.

  The detective’s stern expression stopped my amused reverie and we both looked up when the room’s back door opened and an older-gent janitor walked in, dragging his wheeled cart of cleaning supplies behind him. He nodded to us, and set to his work, emptying trash cans and mopping around the chairs and desks with a heavy rag mop.

  “So,” I continued, “my boss, Bass, decided to file a complaint against Barton. Beside a restraining order, keeping him away from the station and all its employees, he had Barton arrested for criminal trespass and disorderly conduct.”

  Both eyebrows shot up this time. Lulinski reached for the phone. “Hang on, I’ll find out what happened from there.”

  He held the phone snugged between ear and shoulder as he flipped through a file of pages, searching for something. Answering with one-word affirmations, he sent me a look of boredom and mouthed something I didn’t catch. A half-minute later he nodded, said, “Sure,” and told me he was on hold.

  “By the way,” I said, “any information from the autopsy or from forensics that you can share with me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope, you have no information, or nope, you can’t share?”

  He grinned. “While we wait,” he said, pulling a single sheet of paper from the stack, “let me have you look at a few pictures. See if any of these guys look familiar. Maybe we’ll find out who it was that accosted your sister yesterday.”

  As he slid the laser-printed sheet my direction, I had my doubts that any face on it would ring a bell. After all, it’d been dark, and my glimpse had been fleeting, at best. Plus the fellow had worn a knit cap which meant I couldn’t depend on style of hair to help me. I blew out a breath and glanced downward. My hand flew up. I pointed. “That’s him!” I said, surprising myself. “Oh my God, that’s really him.” I never would have guessed it. Five black and white, none-too-flattering mugshots graced the top third of the white sheet of paper. All five men were white, dark-haired, and had a frightening expression of malevolence leaching from their eyes. But only one was familiar.

  My jaw had dropped when I saw his picture and I shut it, amazed at the recognition. No mistake. I couldn’t say for sure how I knew, I just knew it was the man. The shape of his nose, perhaps—it was long with a ball-shaped tip and it looked as though it might have been broken once. His slightly wide-set eyes, maybe. I didn’t know specifically what feature of his made me certain, but I knew it was the same man the moment his angry gaze stared up at me.

  The person on the other end of Lulinski’s line came back to talk. Grabbing a pen and paper, he started to jot down information, but then relaxed his hand as he fell back into the rhythm of grunting affirmation. The detective was nothing if not terse. After a brief conversation with the arresting district, he dropped the receiver back in place and leaned forward on his elbows as he turned my direction. “Barton Vicks is back out. Got released this morning on an I-bond.” Lulinski fixed me with a stare. “If he spent a night locked up, he’s going to be one angry son-of-a-bitch today. I’d keep as far away from the asshole as possible. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “Is he your primary suspect?”

  “I can tell you we’re looking at him.” Lulinski shook his head. “Guy’s gotta be hard up for cash. He could’ve bonded out last night with a hundred bucks, but I guess he didn’t have it on him.”

  I shrugged. “I wouldn’t have either.”

  “You don’t carry at least a hundred dollars on you at all times?”

  “Not even close. Twenty. Maybe.”

  He shook a finger at me. “You should. What happens if you get arrested? If you didn’t carry enough cash, you’d have to spend the night in lock-up just like your friend Big Bart did yesterday.”

  “I don’t plan on getting ar
rested anytime soon,” I said.

  “Nobody ever does.”

  I was spared further admonishment by Lulinski circling the mugshot I’d indicated.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  “Laurence Grady?”

  Lulinski didn’t even have to answer. For a slim man, he sure could make himself look imposing. I suppressed a shudder. Grady had been talking to Lucy. The scumbag had been talking to my sister.

  Lulinski said, “I’m going to follow up from this end—check with his parole officer—see what I can dig up. You have my cell phone number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You see him again, you call me. Right away.”

  “I will,” I said.

  He smiled then, as if to reassure me, but the forced look served only to remind me of the very real danger that surrounded us all: Mrs. Vicks’ murder, my own encounter, and now definitive proof that Laurence Grady had been talking with Lucy. As though a drain suddenly pulled all life from me, my mind shut out all sound, all feeling, all sight for an extended moment.

  Detective Lulinski leaned forward. “Are you okay? You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  “No.” I tried a reassuring smile of my own. “I’m fine.”

  He placed a restraining hand on mine, like he thought I might bolt that minute, and he turned to speak to the only other person in the room. The janitor’s head popped up, as did mine, when Lulinski addressed him in Polish.

  As the man scurried back out the way he came, Lulinski turned to me. “Stan’s going to get you a glass of water,” he said.

  “I know, I heard you ask him,” I said. “You speak Polish?”

  “Do you?”

  Stan came from behind me this time, and handed me a paper cup of cold water, his calloused fingers grazing mine as he did so, a concerned look on his face. Feeling myself again, I thanked him in Polish and was gratified to see my use of his native tongue brought a smile to his face. He cautioned me to take it easy and then set back to work, picking up the mop from the floor where he’d dropped it in his haste to get moving.