“As a cook?” Hawk said.
“Absolutely.”
“Susan,” Hawk said. “You ain’t got no reputation as a cook.”
“I will,” she said, “after you wrap your chops around this meal.”
“That good,” I said.
“That good,” Susan said. “Maybe better.”
And incredibly, it was.
49
Hawk and I were in Providence in the offices of Absolute Security, talking to Artie Fonseca.
“Security logs?” Fonseca said.
“You saying you didn’t keep any?”
“Well, sure,” he said, “we kept them. But they are for our internal use only. I couldn’t release them to you without explicit instructions from Mrs. Bradshaw.”
“How many of your people got killed,” I said, “when the wedding thing went down?”
“Four,” Fonseca said. “You know that.”
“And what did you say to me about that?”
“Sure, I know. I said anything I could do to help . . . but the cops already got the whole wedding list. What good will the daily logs do you, going back five years?”
“I want to see if there’s a shrink that was treating Adelaide.”
“The daughter? Why?”
“If there is one,” I said, “I’d like to talk to him.”
“Man,” Fonseca said. “I can’t . . .”
I looked at Hawk.
“Four of his people,” I said to Hawk. “Killed without a chance. Didn’t even get the holsters unsnapped.”
“Man don’t seem to care,” Hawk said.
“There’s a confidentiality clause in the contract,” Fonseca said. “I violate it, we lose the account. I gotta think of the guys working for me now. They’d be out of work.”
“No,” I said. “You violate it, and they find out, you might lose the account.”
“And you won’t tell them.”
“No.”
“How about him?” Fonseca said, nodding at Hawk.
“Hawk? He doesn’t tell anybody anything,” I said. “Even when he should.”
Hawk smiled happily.
“Jesus, Spenser,” Fonseca said. “You got me in a bind.”
“Simple business,” I said. “Either you let somebody gun down four of your people like vermin and walk away from it, or you do what you can to even it up.”
Fonseca stood and walked across the room. He got a bottle of water out of a small refrigerator.
“You guys want any water?” he said.
Hawk and I shook our heads. Fonseca walked back to his desk and sat down. He unscrewed the top on the bottle of water and drank some.
“Gotta stay hydrated,” he said.
I waited. Hawk waited. Fonseca looked at the water bottle. Then he looked out his window at the Providence River. Then he looked back at me.
“Okay,” he said, “we got the logs computerized. You can read them off the screen. You know how to use a computer?”
“Sort of,” I said.
Fonseca sat down, clacked around with his computer for a moment, and then nodded at the screen.
“You know how to scroll through?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
Fonseca stood and gestured to his chair.
“Be my guest,” he said.
50
Wearing jeans and a fluffy jacket, Susan came into my office in the middle of the afternoon. With her came the barely discernible scent of her perfume, and the apparent force of her self.
“No patients?” I said.
“Teaching day,” Susan said, “every Wednesday.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Classes over?”
“They are.”
“You want to sit on my lap?” I said.
“No,” Susan said. “I looked into your Dr. Rosselli.”
“And?”
Susan took off her fluffy jacket and settled in to one of my client chairs.
“He’s not a psychiatrist,” Susan said. “His training is in urology. But he does emotional counseling and therapy.”
“Dr. Feelgood?” I said.
“That seems the consensus,” Susan said. “Dispenses and administers psychopharmacologic products to an elite list of wealthy clients.”
“And I’ll bet he makes house calls,” I said.
“He does.”
“Is he doing anything illegal?” I said.
“Not on the surface. My colleagues are contemptuous of him, but any licensed physician can counsel and prescribe.”
“But he can’t call himself a psychiatrist?”
“Not without a psychiatric residency,” Susan said.
“How about psychopharmacology,” I said. “Is it effective?”
“Often,” Susan said. “Depends on the patient and the disorder.”
“But,” I said.
“Not all disorders are manageable by drugs, and if they are used anyway, they can at the very least impede a cure by masking the symptoms.”
“How about a kid who’s been sexually molested?” I said.
“It is debatable,” Susan said.
“Would you use drugs in such a case?”
“I’m a psychologist,” Susan said. “Not a psychiatrist. So I can’t prescribe. When it’s indicated, I have a psychiatrist prescribe for me.”
“Would it seem indicated in the case of Adelaide Van Meer?”
She shifted a little in the chair and crossed her legs. Her jeans fit her as if they’d been personally designed for her by Levi Strauss himself.
“I am not being cautious,” she said. “It’s you and me. But I honestly can’t say. I’ve never talked with Adelaide Van Meer. I saw her briefly and unfortunately at the wedding. My only information is third-hand, originating with a shrink who is guessing.”
I nodded.
“He could be helping, he could be hurting,” I said.
“Yes,” Susan said. “But all of us in the, ah, healing business run that risk.”
“He seems to have gone regularly to the island,” I said, “ever since her attempted suicide.”
“He’s obviously doing something out there,” Susan said. “It would do you no harm to find out what.”
“I will,” I said. “Now do you want to sit on my lap.”
Susan smiled.
“Maybe later,” she said.
51
Emil Rosselli, M.D., had some very nice office space in a professional building on Route 9 in Chestnut Hill. There was a soft smell of flowers, the sound of quiet music. There was expensive carpeting, and a receptionist with excellent thighs. She and I were both pleased about her thighs, I think. And she allowed me to look at them for a while as I waited for the doctor.
After an appropriate wait, I was taken into the office. It was all white, with indirect lighting and a lot of plants. He was tall and handsome, and looked like the father many people might wish they had . . . wavy gray hair brushed straight back, even white teeth, calm eyes. Just the man to help you with your problem. His dark blue suit contrasted strikingly with his office.
He gestured me to a chair and sat back quietly with his hands folded on his desk. The desktop was clear except for a futuristic phone.
“I’m Dr. Rosselli,” he said.
I put my card on the desk where he could see it.
“That would have been my guess,” I said. “My name is Spenser. I’m a detective.”
He nodded gravely.
“You’re treating Adelaide Van Meer,” I said.
Rosselli didn’t say anything. He simply raised his eyebrows.
“You go regularly every two weeks to Tashtego Island and have done so since shortly after she attempted suicide five years ago.”
Rosselli pursed his lips.
“I’m curious about her condition,” I said.
He put them both together, pursing his lips and arching his eyebrows. Artful. I waited. He waited. I had a lot of experience at waiting. Apparently, so did he. It was turning into a wait-off w
hen he probably figured that time is money and decided to cut it off.
“I am a physician,” he said. “If I were treating this person and she did have a condition, patient confidentiality would prevent me from speaking of it.”
I waited a little more, just to prove that I could, and then I said, “Not only are these questions of interest to me, they are of pressing interest to the Boston Police, the Massachusetts State Police, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Rosselli smiled faintly.
“You can discuss it quietly with me,” I said, “and suffer no ill effects, or I can get representatives from all three of the aforementioned agencies in here to tear your life apart.”
He stared at me for a moment. Then he said, “Perhaps I should call my attorney.”
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. He leaned forward and put his hand on the phone. I pursed my lips. After a time he leaned back from the phone.
“What specifically would you like to know?” he said.
“What are you treating her for?”
“Neurasthenia,” he said.
“Do people still suffer from that?” I said.
He made a slight dismissive motion of his head. Next question.
“How are you treating her?”
“Counseling and medication,” he said.
“What are the medications?”
“Nothing you would be likely to understand,” Rosselli said.
“Doubtless you’re right,” I said. “Give me a list.”
“Why?”
“So I may show it to someone who will understand it.”
Rosselli shook his head.
“I’m sorry, that is really just too intrusive.”
“Which cops would you like to give it to?” I said. “City, state, or federal?”
He sat in silence for another time. I thought about arching my brows and pursing my lips, but decided it was overacting. Then he leaned to his phone and pressed a button.
“Betsy,” he said. “Please bring me the protocol for Adelaide Van Meer.”
We waited, and in a minute or so, Ms. Thighs glided in with a printout page and handed it to Rosselli. He shook his head and nodded at me. She widened her eyes and gave me the printout. It seemed to be legit. I folded it and put it in my inside pocket. Ms. Thighs glided out.
“Would, ah, neurasthenia be causative in her suicide attempt?” I said.
“She denies that there ever was a suicide attempt,” Rosselli said. “But certainly neurasthenia can lead one to attempt it.”
“Was she ever sexually molested?” I said.
Rosselli seemed almost to recoil, as if I had suddenly shown him something repulsive.
“Molested?” he said.
I nodded enthusiastically.
“Of course not,” he said.
“How can you be so sure?” I said.
“I would certainly have learned of it in the five years I’ve been treating her,” he said.
I nodded.
“Do you know what causes her to be neurasthenic?” I said.
“Exhaustion of the nervous system,” he said. “It’s probably more characterological than anything else.”
“And it manifests itself how?” I said.
“Fatigue, depression, general discomfort with no objective cause or lesions.”
I said, “Thank you, Dr. Rosselli,” and stood up.
He stood and walked me to the door.
“I trust there will be no need for the police,” he said.
“No, of course not, no need at all,” I said.
He opened the door for me, and I walked out, past Ms. Thighs.
52
I had worked a few years back on a school shooting in Dowling, out in the middle of the state. During the time Susan was away, and I needed a shrink to talk with my client, and she had suggested a guy named Dix who used to be a cop. It had worked out well, which was why Susan and I went to see him about Dr. Rosselli.
He had a clean-shaven head and big square hands, and he looked as if he could still put a stranglehold on someone if he had to. He stood when we came into his office.
“Susan,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”
He looked at me.
“Whaddya got?”
I handed him the list of meds that I’d gotten from Rosselli. He looked at it without comment.
Susan said, “I’ve gone through this stuff, and I have an opinion, but I’m not sufficiently expert in psychopharmacology.”
“What are they being used for?” Dix said.
Susan smiled.
“To treat neurasthenia,” she said.
“Neurasthenia?” Dix said.
“That’s what the man told me,” I said.
“For crissake,” Dix said. “That’s like saying it’s being used to treat the vapors.”
“I’ve explained that to him,” Susan said.
“Who is this doctor,” Dix said. “Is he a shrink?”
“His M.D. is urology,” Susan said. “He bills himself as a therapeutic counselor.”
“Rosselli,” Dix said.
“You know him?” I said.
“Emil Rosselli,” Dix said. “That’s who it is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “What do you think of him?”
“Dope dealer to the rich and famous,” Dix said. “He’s a fucking disgrace.”
“Don’t get too technical on me,” I said.
“I simply strive for accuracy,” Dix said.
He scanned the list.
“There’s some vitamins here,” he said, “which probably do no harm, and the rest are psychotropic drugs.”
“Like sedatives?” I said.
“Some,” he said. “There’s an assortment to get you up, calm you down, get a balance between. All of them have legitimate uses, but they are not normally used in this amount or these combinations.”
“Pills?” I said.
“Some pills, some injectables, some that come in either form,” Dix said. “I can’t tell from the list how often the patient received this stuff.”
“He went there every two weeks,” I said.
“Doesn’t tell me if he gave her the same thing every time,” Dix said.
“The more he went, I suppose, the more money he made.”
“Most Feelgoods use injections,” Dix said. “Patient can take pills himself, but the doc can jack up the price if the patient thinks he always has to get a shot.”
“Maybe he also did counseling,” I said.
“I hope not,” Dix said.
“What would be the effect of these drugs on the recipient?” I said.
“It can vary,” Dix said. “But certainly it would dull her response to the phenomenological world.”
“How about on a young woman who had been sexually molested and attempted suicide.”
“Palliative at best,” Dix said.
“Harmful?” I said.
“The actual drugs? Can’t say without more information. But if she is suffering severe post-molestation psychopathology, it’s like putting a Band-Aid over gangrene.”
“The pathology will continue to fester,” I said.
“A bit dramatic maybe,” Dix said, “but yes. She will continue to need help.”
“But not from Emil Rosselli,” I said.
“First do no harm,” Dix said.
“I think Rosselli is governed by a different code,” I said.
Dix smiled.
“Show me the money,” he said.
53
In the late afternoon, Hawk and I sat with Valerie Lessard in a big wooden booth in the taproom at the Nassau Inn in Princeton. The room looked like it was supposed to, with dark wood and murals. Valerie had some white wine; Hawk and I drank beer.
“The thing about poor Maurice,” Valerie said, “is he was gay.”
“Was he out?” I said.
“Not around my parents,” Valerie said.
“They didn’t know?”
Vale
rie, as she talked, was obliquely studying Hawk.
“He didn’t want them to,” Valerie said.
“Would they disapprove?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Valerie said. “Plus, hell, they knew. Anyone who spent time with my brother would know.”
“They talk with you about it?”
Still appraising Hawk, Valerie nodded her head.
“Sure,” she said. “Not, did I think he was gay? More, did I know his friends? Did he have any girlfriends? Was he happy?”
“You and your brother get along?”
“Yeah,” Valerie said. “I liked him. He was really sweet. We could talk. More like having a sister than a brother, I guess. Except we didn’t have to compete for dates.”
“Did he date?”
“No.”
“Men or women?”
“No. I don’t know for sure if he ever had sex with anyone,” she said.
“Did he tell you he was gay?”
“Not in so many words,” Valerie said. “But we both knew that we both knew, if you know what I’m saying.”
“I do,” I said. “How did he end up with Adelaide Van Meer?”
“School. He was a junior when she was a freshman. They got to be friends. Not boyfriend, girlfriend. Just friends. Except for me, she might have been his first close friend. Two lost souls, I guess . . .”
Valerie stopped for a moment and looked at the tabletop. Her eyes were teary, but she didn’t cry.
“Poor Maurice,” she said finally.
“Adelaide was lost, too?” I said.
“Yeah. She was sort of withdrawn and, like, fearful, and mad, all at the same time. Conflicted, maybe,” Valerie said. “I’m not sure if she was straight.” Valerie smiled and sort of shrugged. “I’m a psych major.”
“No shame in it,” I said.
She nodded and finished her wine and looked toward the bar.
Hawk stood and said, “Chardonnay?”
She smiled at him and nodded. He went to the bar.
“So how did it develop from friendship to marriage?” I said.
She shrugged.
“I guess they started going to, you know, parties together, and people started to treat them like a couple. And one day he brought her home for the weekend. I don’t remember the occasion. Maybe one of those big rowing events on the Schuylkill.”
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