In a potentially perilous encounter with a tough, small-town cop who had—more than two score years ago—scored absurdly low on a Purdue Pegboard Test, there are bound to be significant advantages to being a brainy clinical psychologist.
As events unfold, perhaps we shall find out what they are.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A MODERATELY TENSE ENCOUNTER
Pretending not to notice the driver’s pale face framed in the fender mirror, Scott Parris turned his head to peer through the aluminum camper cover’s rear window. There was not much to see in the dusty interior. An extra spare tire, a couple of red plastic five-gallon gas containers strapped down with yellow bungee cords. Aside from a shiny new Coleman lantern, a surplus military folding shovel, and a U.S. Army cot—not a lot of camping gear. There was no sign of a tent.
Which makes sense, I guess. Parris scratched at the bristly stubble on his chin. Why would a man with a nice camper shell on his pickup want to sleep in a tent? His wife must’ve gotten things mixed up.
Figuring he’d given Dr. Whyte sufficient time to worry, the chief of police strode up to the cab to get a look at the driver—and was surprised. It was not that Scott Parris had expected to see a mere wisp of a man who wore horn-rimmed glasses. The psychologist’s driver’s license data, which he had perused the evening before, listed Stuart Whyte as having 20/20 vision (uncorrected), weighing in at 185 pounds, and topping out at six-two. But the cop did have his preconceptions about psychologists, and he expected Betty Naranjo’s high school counselor to be of more or less run-of-the-mill physique.
Dr. Whyte was anything but. What Parris saw was a man with bulging biceps, a neck like a Broncos fullback, and a chest that bulged under his black T-shirt. He looks like he could pull up a cottonwood sapling, roots and all. As the driver stared back, the vain cop sucked in his gut. When he ain’t talking to his patients, the doc must work out with weights. Parris, who usually wore a venerable felt fedora, tipped his official GCPD billed policeman’s cap. “Good morning, sir—may I please see your operator’s license and vehicle registration.” This was the polite query required of all GCPD officers, but rank does have its privileges and Chief Parris was not obliged to include a question mark.
The driver produced the requested documents without a word.
Scott Parris inspected both, then shook his head. “Now don’t this beat all?” He smiled genially at the citizen. “I woke up before the crack of dawn and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I saddled up and decided I’d while away some time patrolling the neighborhood—protecting and serving, don’cha know. And who do I run into but the very gentleman I need to talk to. Matter of fact, I already told your missus that I’d drop by around noon.” He leaned on the F-250 door, so close that Whyte could smell the coffee on his breath. “Now what would you call that, if not a first-rate coincidence?”
“A synchronicity,” the Jungian said. Do not mess with a fellow whose IQ exceeds the atomic weight of lead.
Being one of those good ol’ boys who detest five-syllable words, Parris ignored the remark. But not the cell phone in the cup holder. He pointed his prominent chin at the instrument. “From what looks like the glow of a little red light, I’d guess that your phone is turned on.” He flashed his menacing toothy grin. “I wouldn’t want you to run the battery down.”
“I appreciate your kind concern.” Whyte reflected the sharkish smile. “As it happens, the telephone comes with a convenient charger, which—should the need arise—I plug into a twelve-volt dashboard receptacle thoughtfully provided by Ford Motor Company engineers.”
Parris’s smile faded to half strength. Smart-ass. But two could play the game. “I also wouldn’t want to run you downtown on a charge of chatting on a mobile telephone whilst operating a motor vehicle.” After an effective pause, the cop added, “It is a serious offense.”
Dr. Whyte’s face had paled a notch. Score one for GCPD’s top cop.
“Tell you what,” Parris said. “After I go check out a thing or two, I’ll come back and check out your mobile phone. If it’s on and there’s a party on the other end when I get it in my hand, I’ll have to throw the whole book at you.” He winked at the offending motorist. “If the phone’s dead, you’re off the hook.”
About a block and a half away, Lorna Whyte discreetly disconnected.
The driver watched the big cop amble up to the front of the F-250. Like a man who might be in the market for a nice-looking, low-mileage pickup, Parris made a couple of halfhearted kicks at a tire.
The chief of police returned to the cab window, accepted the cell phone in his gloved hand, and gave it a once-over. “Sorry, sir—my mistake. That phone is definitely turned off.” He returned the innocent instrument to Dr. Whyte. “The little red light ain’t on—I guess I must’ve been seeing a reflection.”
The grateful citizen slipped the instrument into a canvas pouch on his belt. “Thank you, Officer.”
“You’re welcome, Doctor.”
“So—what did you want to talk to me about?” Like I don’t know.
“One of your clients.” Like your wife ain’t already told you. Turning his expressively suspicious face away from the psychologist’s frank gaze, Parris took a look up the sleepy residential street. Almost a block away, a tall, sturdy woman in a dark blue terry-cloth robe was striding along the sidewalk. Purposefully. Like an ardent bug hater stomping inoffensive beetles. Even at this distance, the cop could hear the distinct pop-pop of her flip-flops. “Looks like one of your patients has run away from home.”
Whyte delivered his line deadpan: “No … that’s my wife.”
Scott Parris could not restrain a chuckle. I’m beginning to like this guy. Composing himself, he said, “I was making reference to a patient who went missing on Friday. A minor.”
“A teenage runaway?”
Parris breathed a sorrowful sigh. “I hope so.”
Betty Naranjo’s counselor arched his left eyebrow. “You hope she’s a runaway?”
“Sure.” The cop’s cold blue eyes glinted like ice in midwinter starlight. “I’d hate to think that a pregnant sixteen-year-old had met with foul play.”
If Whyte had a response to that, it caught in his throat.
No. The small-town cop, who had deliberately avoided mentioning the gender of the missing patient, had not missed the psychologist’s reference to a she. Which merely increased his suspicion that Dr. Whyte had been briefed by his wife. Speaking of whom …
* * *
Without glancing left or right, Lorna Whyte crossed a side street at a brisk trot. I wonder what they’re talking about.
* * *
While retaining the approaching woman’s image in his peripheral vision, Parris gazed at the psychologist’s stony face, which was beginning to show a stress crack here and there. I’d like to play a few hands of high-stakes poker with this joker. “I know you can’t provide me with any confidential information about one of your clients.” A heartbeat. “Not without a court order, and all that rigmarole.”
Dr. Whyte waited for the next big boot to drop.
It did, and with a heavy thud.
“Which is why I woke up DA Pug Bullet early this morning and asked him to get the paperwork started.” Parris grinned again and the effect was that of a great white about to put the big bite on a cornered codfish. “Judge Meekins is highly responsive to certain sensitive social issues, such as preserving the lives of our youth. That being the case, I expect we’ll have his honor’s John Henry on the dotted line before suppertime.” He used a horny thumbnail to scratch the remains of a moth carcass off the pickup’s door-mounted mirror. “But it might not be necessary to serve the warrant if you felt comfortable about answering a few general questions about … let’s say some other person who’s similar to Betty Naranjo.” Seeing not the least sign of surprise on Whyte’s face at the mention of this name, Parris lost the remnants of his grin. No doubt about it … His wife has told him. “Let’s call the young lady Jane Doe.”
“Ah, a hypothetical patient.” The defeated psychologist nodded. “And more to the point, a generic troubled youth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE PSYCHOLOGIST’S WORTHY SPOUSE
As the slapping of Mrs. Whyte’s flip-flops began to sound like a pair of beached carps flopping on Mississippi River mud, both men paused to watch the agitated woman’s approach. Parris murmured to the driver, “You want me to handle this?”
“Thank you kindly. But let me have a go at it.”
These words were barely out of Whyte’s mouth when his wife began rapping her knuckles on the passenger-side window.
Parris gawked at the woman, who was almost as well built as her husband. And not only that … She looks enough like him to be his twin sister.
Dr. Whyte pressed a button to lower the transparent barrier. “Good morning, dear.”
“Stuart—what’s happening?” She glared across the cab at the ruddy face framed in the opposite window. “Why has this police officer pulled you over?”
“We’re having a discussion about one of my clients.” Her husband smiled thinly. “A private discussion.”
“Oh … of course. I see.” The self-assured woman was clearly taken aback by this mild but unexpected rebuke. “Well then … if this involves confidential professional matters … I suppose I should withdraw.”
“Just out of earshot will be fine.” Parris offered her a genial smile. “There’s no need to go all the way back home—this’ll only take a couple a minutes.”
At a slight nod from her husband, Lorna Whyte took several brisk steps past the Ford’s shiny front bumper. She paused under the shade of a convenient mulberry tree, whose leafy branches she made a pretense of taking an interest in.
“Now,” Dr. Whyte said. “Where were we?”
“We were about to talk about a hypothetical Jane Doe.” Parris shot a furtive glance at Mrs. Whyte. “Just for the sake of discussion, let’s say she happens to be pregnant.”
“As you like.”
“I’m thinking Miss Doe might’ve told her high-school counselor the name of the unborn child’s daddy.”
“She might have.” The psychologist observed the cop with more than clinical interest, and reminded himself not to underestimate his inferiors. “But that’s not as likely as you might think. Let us assume that the hypothetical teenager was not only promiscuous—but also highly profligate in the dispensation of her sexual favors.”
The lawman nodded. “So you figure our Jane Doe has several boyfriends?”
“If you don’t object.” Whyte allowed himself an amiable smile. “It does make our discussion rather more interesting.”
“Okay, Doc—let’s go with that.”
“Thank you. If Miss Doe knew who the father was, she would be likely to keep such information to herself.”
“Rats,” Parris muttered.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Whyte sighed. “I do wish I could be more helpful.”
Yeah, I bet you do. But the stubborn cop was not ready to throw in the towel. “This make-believe patient of yours … if she told her mother she was going to see her psychologist on a Friday morning when his office was closed”—still no sign of surprise from Whyte—“then vanished like a snowball in Death Valley, what would you figure happened to her?”
“I am a clinical psychologist, not a Gypsy mind reader.” Dr. Whyte paused to take thought. “That said, I prefer to believe that our generic Jane Doe is not suicidal. Neither is she the type to be concerned about worrying her mother.” He drummed his long fingers on the steering wheel. “No, I expect that our hypothetical teenager would take a notion to run away somewhere. Perhaps to stay with a friend for a few days.”
“Or with the father of her baby?”
“In Miss Doe’s instance, I’d say … not likely.” Whyte’s gaze was pulled, magnetically it seemed, toward his wife. “But that possibility cannot be entirely discounted.”
“Thanks, Doc.” For nothing. Parris slapped his palm on the F-250 door. “I might want to talk to you again later on, but you might as well run along home now.” He scowled at the relieved motorist. “But don’t exceed the speed limit—and don’t be talking to Mrs. Whyte on that mobile phone while you’re operating a motor vehicle.”
Again, I have underestimated the fellow. “I appreciate the sage advice, Chief Parris.”
The cop didn’t have his name on his jacket. “So you know who I am?”
“Of course—you’re practically famous.” The merest hint of a smirk played with Whyte’s expressive lips. “But only in a strictly local sense.”
Parris returned the grin. I was right the first time. He’s a first-class smart-ass. But a likable smart-ass. He strode around the pickup to salute Lorna Whyte. “Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am. But now you can ride home.”
Her reply was an icy “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Parris opened the door for the lady, and supported her arm as she got a flip-flop on the steel step mounted under the cab.
When she thanked him again, the ice was beginning to melt.
“My pleasure,” said the ex-Chicago cop. The lady has a biceps like a White Sox pinch hitter. After watching Mrs. Whyte buckle in, he closed the door.
Dr. Whyte pulled the F-250 away from the curb.
Charlie Moon’s best friend watched them go. The doc’s doing about thirty-five in a twenty-five miles per hour zone. And not only that. He just ran a Stop sign without even slowing down. Parris shook his head. And the cocky bastard did it on purpose—just to show me he’s no pushover. The big, beefy cop reminded himself never to underestimate a man on account of his profession—or for that matter, a determined woman whose primary aim in life was to protect her husband.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BUSINESS IS TOO GOOD
MONDAY, 8:10 A.M.
As Scott Parris was watching Dr. and Mrs. Whyte depart in the snazzy F-250 pickup, the sole owner of the Columbine Land and Cattle Company was driving his Expedition through the Triple-W gate. No, not another central-Colorado ranch where beeves were bred, fed, and fattened for market. The WWW brand was affixed to the false front of a sprawling cinder-block structure that housed a furniture manufacturing and sales business. The prosperous enterprise, also known in Granite Creek as Wally Wordsworth’s Woodworks, was where locals with ready cash could purchase maple dining tables, chairs of all descriptions, four-posters, chests of drawers, sturdy sideboards, knickknack shelves, and miscellaneous special merchandise. The latter category included an unadvertised product that was provided on an as-needed, made-to-fit basis.
Even though the small sign in the door informed potential customers that the establishment was open from eight A.M. till six P.M., Charlie Moon found the entrance firmly locked, latched, and barred. Really. As in “Katy-bar-the-door.” The knob mechanism was key locked, the dead bolt securely latched, and when Scott Parris’s part-time deputy peered though the glass, he could clearly see a varnished oak two-by-four barring any attempt to open the door. He also spied the owner-manager, who was perched on a three-legged stool whilst simultaneously sucking on a corncob pipe and humming “Morning Has Broken.” (Wally was a notorious multitasker, and determined to enjoy his early-morning quiet time.) The Ute Indian was notoriously persistent, and determined to conduct some serious business. Moon pounded his fist on the door. “Open up!”
Eyeing the door, Wally recognized his favorite customer. Easing his plump bulk off the stool, the proprietor waddled forth to unbar, unlatch, unlock, and open the main entrance to his business. He removed the pipe stem from between stained teeth. “Good morning, Charlie—do you intend to make a purchase?”
The long, lean Ute eyed the chubby little munchkin. Even in the worthy pursuit of law, order, and justice—Moon could not tell a lie. “No.”
“Is that a promise?”
The deputy nodded.
“Then you may come in.”
Moon did, and Wally closed the door. He did not go
so far as to replace the sturdy two-by-four, but he did throw the dead bolt. Returning to his stool, he explained, “Business has been too damn good, and I aim to discourage customers.” He pointed to a month-old sign mounted prominently over the counter. “I also put that on my Web site.”
Moon read the advertisement.
WWW’S PRODUCTS ARE OVERPRICED
OUR QUALITY JUST SO-SO
AND
THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS WRONG!
He cocked his head at the proprietor. “That ought to do the trick.”
“It oughta but it ain’t so far.” Wally sucked on his pipe. “All it has accomplished is make folks want to buy more Wordsworth wooden products.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and blew a perfect ring that floated up toward a slowly turning ceiling fan, where it was brutally mangled.
Knowing what was expected of him, Charlie Moon posed the obligatory query: “So what’s so bad about business being brisk?”
For a long, thoughtful interlude, Mr. Wordsworth chewed on the tasty pipe stem. Then, the corncob bowl bobbled as he said, “I am just plain tired of working, Charlie. I can’t shut the business down because I’ve got a half-dozen salt-of-the-earth employees who have families to support. They need the work, but I’d like to slack off some and go fishing.”
“Sounds like a fine notion.” The ardent angler seated himself in a comfortable armchair from Wordsworth’s Oak Colonial Collection. This feels pretty good. Maybe I should buy it for Aunt Daisy.
Reading the satisfied expression almost word-for-word, Wally snapped at his guest, “Nothing doing. You promised not to make a purchase and every soul in Granite Creek County knows that if there’s one thing a man can still count on hereabouts, it’s Charlie Moon’s word.” He watched a tiny black wasp pass by his nose, then whine off to circle the silk shade on a maple table lamp. “So what brings you here—that business with Mrs. Naranjo’s boyfriend leaving town without paying his rent?”
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