Random Acts

by Spindler, Erica

  “Dr. Renee Blackwood,” she said. “That’s the connection.”

  “Dare? That you?”

  “Yes, it’s Dare. Wake up! This changes everything!”

  He yawned. “Then you better hit me with it again.”

  “Vanderlund and Chuck Chandler were seeing the same shrink. Dr. Renee Blackwood.”

  She heard a rustling in the background, as if he was climbing out of bed. Then the definite sound of the phone being shifted from one ear to the other. “I don’t get it.”

  “The two perps, their paths did cross.”

  “Okay, so we add that to the growing list of coincidences.”

  “That’s total bullshit, and you know it. We need to question Blackwood as soon as possible.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Dare. It’s the Friday before Mardi Gras, there’re a hundred fifty thousand extra party animals in town and any manner of crazy shit could erupt at any moment. I’m catching some sleep while I can.”

  She stopped him before he hung up. “These murders weren’t random, Angelo. They’re not unrelated.”

  “We have two perps in jail. I’m going back to bed.”

  “No! Angelo, wait—”

  “Get yourself some sleep, Dare. You need it.”

  Then he hung up.

  Micki sat, engine idling, dead air against her ear. He was right. She’d sounded like a crazy person. Show up at a prominent doctor’s home in the middle of the night? To question her about two murders that had been solved?

  Micki dropped the phone to her lap and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She should be grateful—two cases cleared, right out of the gate. Instead of manufacturing complications, she should be giving herself a pat on the back for a job well done.

  A memory sprang up, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. So clear, it took her breath away.

  “But I don’t want to go, mama. I don’t like her.”

  “Could you behave for once, Michaela? I don’t know why you insist on making things so difficult for me.”

  Shit. Micki dragged a hand through her hair. Angelo was right. She needed sleep. Things would look different in the morning.

  No, they wouldn’t.

  Hank.

  She glanced down at the phone, snatched it up and texted her friend.

  Are you up?

  He responded immediately. “Angels never sleep, just in case they’re needed.”

  They had a running joke about him being her guardian angel. If tonight was any indication, it wasn’t a joke. “Can I come over? I need to talk.”

  “Putting coffee on now.”

  Hank had been working on the Nova. She smelled the solvent on his hands; the night air clung to his denim jacket. She should scold him, but how could she? She was too grateful he was still up.

  He stuck a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. “It’s decaf. You should be sleeping.”

  She forced a smile. “Takes an insomniac to know one.”

  He snorted and sat at his battered, old oak dining table. “Heard you cleared two cases in twenty-four hours. Congratulations.”

  “News travels fast.”

  He laughed and sipped his coffee. “I have connections, you know.”

  She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “You are the one, aren’t you?”

  “The one what?”

  “Who put a good word in for me with someone high up in the force. The one who recommended me for a spot in the Eighth.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I suppose I should be pissed.”

  “Only if you were stupid, which you are not. Besides, your transfer to the Eighth isn’t what you’ve come to talk about.”

  “No, it’s not.” She paused, sipped the coffee, thoughts racing. After a moment, she lowered the cup and met his eyes. “Did you ever have a case that didn’t feel right? After you’d closed it?”

  “Sure. Lots of ‘em.”

  “Even after a dead-to-rights video and confession?”

  He looked bemused. “Maybe you’d better give me the details.”

  She did, describing the coincidences between the two murders and about having uncovered that both suspects were clients of the same psychiatrist.

  “I know I should move on,” she said, “but there’s more to this story. I know it.”

  “What’s the shrink’s name?” Hank asked.

  “Renee Blackwood. That mean anything to you?”

  His eyebrows drew together a moment, then he shook his head. “Nope.”

  “What should I do?” she asked, hearing the hopeful note in her voice. She wondered if she hoped he’d tell her to forget about it and move on—or to act on her instincts?

  “What do you think you should do?”

  She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That’s no help.”

  He leaned forward. “What’s a cop’s most valuable tool?”

  “I don’t know. Intellect? Training?”

  “Instinct, Michaela.” He searched her gaze. “Yours is telling you there’s more to this story than what dropped into your lap. You have to act on it.”

  “But—” She laced her fingers. “I’m the junior officer.”

  “So?”

  “Shouldn’t I defer to Angelo’s take on the situation?”

  “Respect, yes. Never defer. Not from what you know is right. That, you always fight for.” He held her gaze. “You’re a good cop now, Michaela. I think you could be a great one.”

  “Why?” The word came out thick.

  “Because you’ve got heart. You care about doing the right thing. Don’t lose that.”

  She reached over and squeezed his hand. “What would I do without you, Hank?”

  His expression changed, grew sad. “You’d be fine, girl. You’re made of some pretty tough stuff.”

  She put her head on his shoulder, imagining a world without him, and feeling anything but tough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  9:45 A.M.

  Dr. Renee Blackwood agreed to see them between appointments. Major Nichols had sanctioned the interview, but had warned them it was strictly to fill in the blanks. If Blackwood balked at the line of questioning, they were to back off.

  Renee Blackwood’s practice was located on Magazine Street at Jackson Avenue, uptown. The trendy area was home to coffee shops and cafes, antique stores and boutiques. And, apparently, the offices of high-priced shrinks.

  Micki climbed out of the Taurus and strode around the vehicle to meet Angelo.

  “Pretty nice digs,” he said.

  Micki moved her gaze over the cottage with its lacy Victorian trim and deep, shaded front porch. Nestled between nearly identical cottages, one that housed an antique shop, the other an upscale women’s clothing boutique, the yellow and white structure was as welcoming as a spring day.

  “You ever been to a shrink, Dare?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Always wondered what it’d be like. You know, if I’d come out less screwed up.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she muttered. “Trust me on that one.”

  He laughed. “Didn’t come from that kind of a family, anyway.”

  They started up the walk. “What kind’s that? Crazy?”

  He laughed again. “Mine was certifiable, no doubt. But what I meant was, we were a boot straps or beating kind of clan.”

  “A pull yourself up by them or get yourself an ass-whippin’ kind?”

  “That’s the one.” He changed the subject. “Love this area. Great little pizza joint just up the block. Big Easy Slices.”

  Micki only half listened. She was planning what she would say to Renee Blackwood, how she would say it. Neutral, she reminded herself. They were interviewing the woman to fill in blanks.

  Officially anyway.

  They crossed the porch and entered the cottage. It smelled of fresh flowers, and a tabletop fountain created a melodic, soothing sound track. Despite both, Micki stopped, an uncomfortable sensation coming over her—
a prickling at her wrists and back of her neck. Like an insect scurrying across her flesh.

  She made my skin crawl, the bartender had said. She wondered if this was what he meant.

  She rolled her shoulders and looked at Angelo. “Do you feel that?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” She alternately rubbed her wrists. “Like static electricity.”

  “Nope.”

  An attractive, thirty-something woman manned the receptionist desk. She had a nice smile, Micki noted as they approached her desk.

  “Good morning,” Angelo said. “I’m Detective Angelo, this is Detective Dare, NOPD. We’re here to see Dr. Blackwood.”

  “Of course,” she said, smile becoming forced. “I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.”

  Her voice shook slightly and as she reached for the phone, she nearly knocked over her bottle of water.

  Micki made a mental note of both as the receptionist informed her boss they were waiting.

  A moment later, the double doors to the right of her desk opened and a handsome woman stepped out. Forty-something, trim and elegant, smile as perfect as her blond bob.

  “Detectives,” she said crossing to them, hand out. “Welcome.”

  Micki clasped her hand. It oddly cool, and Micki had to fight the urge to jerk away. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Dr. Blackwood. I’m Detective Dare, and this is my partner, Detective Angelo.”

  Introductions and greetings complete, Blackwood motioned them into her office, closing the doors behind them. “Please, have a seat.”

  Micki would have preferred to stand but sat anyway, hoping to appear more relaxed than she was. Although, she decided, something about the woman’s piercing, brown gaze suggested she would see right through that.

  Blackwood folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “You said you wanted to ask me some questions about two of my clients?”

  “Yes. Bitty Vanderlund and Chuck Chandler. Are you aware that both Vanderlund and Chandler have been arrested and charged in separate and unrelated murders?”

  “Yes, I am.” Not a flicker in those almost liquid brown eyes.

  Micki cocked an eyebrow. “That’s it? All you have to say?”

  The shrink moved her gaze between them. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Detective. It was a shocking turn of events.”

  Something about the woman, her tone of voice, the way she held herself, grated. Micki decided she didn’t like Renee Blackwood.

  “Was it?” she asked. “Shocking?”

  Angelo cleared his throat. Blackwood’s eyebrows rose ever-so-slightly. “Of course it was. And extremely distressing. I worked with them both for several years.”

  Angelo stepped in before Micki could point out to the woman that she looked anything but distressed. “Did either of them give you any indication they were—”

  “Planning to commit murder? Of course not. I’m required by law to report viable threats to the authorities.”

  “What constitutes a viable threat?” Micki asked.

  The psychiatrist bristled. “Excuse me?”

  “It’d be your call, right? Isn’t that rather subjective for something so urgent? And considering the intimate nature of your relationship with your clients, what does it take to separate reality from fantasy?”

  The corners of Blackwood’s lips lifted slightly. “In any relationship, there’s an element of subjectivity, Detective. Did I miss something with Bitty and Chuck? I don’t know.”

  Micki bristled. “You must have. They both snapped. Their word, not mine.”

  “We all have a ‘snapping’ point, Detective.” She paused. “Even you. It’s like an emotional fault line. The right circumstances, amount of pressure, internal or external, and a break occurs.”

  The silky tone of her words shouldn’t have made her feel threatened, but it did. “You’re talking about a psychotic break.”

  “Yes.” Her lips shifted into a small, condescending smile. “We all have the capacity for violence. You’re in law enforcement. You more than most, should understand that.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Dr. Blackwood?”

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Within twenty-four hours, two of your patients snapped and killed a rival—who also happened to hold a title of queen. Don’t you think that’s a bizarre coincidence?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mickie leaned forward, gaze fixed on the other woman’s. “Here’s the deal, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “What are you getting at, Detective Dare?”

  “Nothing,” Angelo said, standing. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Blackwood.”

  Micki ignored him. “What did you and Bitty Vanderlund discuss that last morning she was here?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Did she talk about Vivianne Stanley?”

  “Once again, that’s confidential.”

  Something flickered in the therapist’s gaze, making them seem to glow from within. Micki blinked and the effect was gone.

  “What was her state of mind? Was she agitated? Angry?”

  “My next appointment is due to arrive any—”

  “Her family painted a portrait of a sweet-natured woman. One who was in fine spirits the morning of the murder.”

  “Part of what makes a psychotic break so shocking to those who know the affected individual is how contrary to their nature it can appear. Easy going, sweet-natured, happy. This is the way they’re often described. But inside, they’re volcanos of emotion. Thoughts and feelings they ignore are stuffed away, down in the deep recesses alongside all the things they’ve wanted to say over the years, but swallowed.”

  The psychiatrist’s gaze was mesmerizing. Micki couldn’t make herself look away.

  “And volcanos sometimes erupt,” she finished. “A psychotic break. The subject loses control—” she snapped her fingers “—they snap.”

  “But a volcano’s eruption isn’t unexpected,” Micki said. “There are signs.”

  “Steam and rumbles, Detective. Similar to what we all display at various times.”

  “So, you’re saying she stuffed her true feelings. That’s why she was seeing you.”

  “No,” she corrected, tone careful, “I was speaking of psychotic breaks in general terms. The underlying cause, and why family is often taken by surprise when it happens.”

  “You saw her the morning of the murder, correct?”

  “I believe we already established that.”

  “And seeing how agitated she was, you just let her walk out?”

  “I didn’t say she was agitated. But nice try, Detective.” She stood. “I’m so sorry, but I’m out of time.”

  Micki followed her to her feet. “Did you just write her a prescription and send her on her way? Out of sight, out of mind?”

  “You’re so angry, Detective. Why is that?”

  She was, Micki realized. And she wasn’t sure why. Something about the other woman and her strangely mercurial gaze that seemed to say: You’re like Bitty and Cherry. Stuffing your true feelings, your anger and hurt. Deep down. Where they grow and fester.

  Micki worked to get hold of her runaway thoughts. To control the emotion bubbling up inside.

  “Not angry, Dr. Blackwood. Just not a fan of pill-happy shrinks. Vanderlund and Chablis came to you for help. Now, both are in jail facing murder charges. I don’t know about you, but to me that seems really screwed up.”

  Angelo cleared his throat and stepped between them. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Blackwood.”

  Her lips curved up. Superior. Controlled. The kind of woman who would never, ever snap.

  “You’re very welcome, Detective Angelo. I truly wish this had ended differently.”

  She walked them to the door. Micki stepped through, then stopped and turned back. “One final thing, Dr. Blackwood. Do you practice hypnotherapy?”

  The woman looked as surprised by the question as Micki felt
at having asked it.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. This time the brown irises seemed to darken. “That’s not my area, Detective.”

  “Which doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No,” she said, “I do not.”

  Without another word, she turned and walked back into her office, shutting the door behind her.

  Micki glanced from the closed door to the receptionist. She had gone white. She realized Micki was looking at her and pasted on the same bright smile as earlier. The curving of her mouth looked odd against her pale cheeks.

  “Have a good day, Detectives!”

  As they exited the building, Micki sucked in a lungful of fresh, cold air. It cleared her head, and the tingling sensation she hadn’t been able to shake dissipated.

  “What happened in there, Dare?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, you know what I mean. You were starting to lose it.”

  Starting? He was being generous. “She rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You didn’t pick up something off about her?”

  “Not really. A little creepy, the way her voice didn’t change, no matter what she was talking about.”

  Creepy, Micki thought. That was it. She rubbed her arms, as if doing so would rub the feeling off of her. “There’s something not quite right about that woman.”

  “Like what? Plaques on the wall, smiling receptionist, family photos on her desk.”

  “I know, but—”

  “What?”

  “Her eyes. Did you notice how they seemed to change color?”

  Apparently not, by the way he was looking at her.

  Like she had lost her mind.

  She hoped to hell she hadn’t.

  “Forget about it.”

  “Good call, Dare. Vanderlund and Chablis snapped. You heard what Blackwood said. It can happen to anybody. Let it go before you start sounding like a head case.”

  Concern in his voice. Maybe even second thoughts about their partnership.

  He was right. Time to let it go, move on.

  “I must be hungry,” she said, pasting on the same over-bright smile as the receptionist’s. “How about we see if that pizza place is open yet? My treat.”

  Chapter Fourteen