by Anna Burke
“Body memories, thank God I don't have those,” Bernadette said as she whooshed by them again. Standing at the fridge in the kitchen, she turned around and asked. “Is that what zombies have left after they turn into zombies?”
“Sorry Bernadette, zombies and body memories are both figments of the imagination,” Betsy chuckled. “It’s a chore to get psychotherapists to rely on evidenced based practices. The numbers who do are growing, but there’s still way too much voodoo in my business.”
“Oh no, voodoo, too? What have you got mixed up in this time, Jessica?” Bernadette asked, crossing herself before she whisked another load of items out of the fridge and through the sliding doors to the patio.
“I wish I knew, Bernadette.” Jessica had a worried look on her face.
“It sounds like you figured out that what turned the tide on the recovered memory debacle was a spate of cases brought against therapists. Clients who felt led astray by their therapists sued and won malpractice claims. When insurance providers had to pay out money, the professional boards took action.”
“I saw something about that—a task force set up that issued guidelines warning about the dangers with ‘if you feel abused you were abused,’ so let’s dig until we find the repressed memory.”
“That’s not helpful to someone like Libby, who’s already having trouble sorting out which of the nightmares in her head are real. Given Libby’s long history of troubles, as you’ve described it, she seems to have a serious mental disorder. That her problems worsened in late adolescence and early adulthood, is typical for a lot of serious disorders, too. Anyway, it’s not surprising she can’t hang onto the truth for long, or that her stories about being persecutor or persecuted keep changing.”
“Carr claimed her previous mental health issues were reactions to the underlying trauma from childhood sexual abuse. He diagnosed her with PTSD.”
“As much time as she’s spent in treatment, if her father or uncle had done such a thing, she would have reported it earlier. I hate to disappoint you in your quest to become more adept at repression, Jessica, but the concept of repression hasn’t been validated. It’s a holdover from the mid-century infatuation with Freudian psychoanalysis. Psychodynamic practice got a well-deserved kick in the pants in the 60s and 70s, but made a comeback in the 80s and 90s. To borrow a concept from early psychiatry, though, I’m afraid PTSD has become the hysteria of our day, Jessica.”
“That’s among the growing list of diagnoses in my own case file, I’m sure. After the last year, it could be true. Does anyone get through life without trauma, Betsy? The rates of PTSD have skyrocketed. Not all of that has to do with returning vets, either, although rates are up for them, too.”
“This might shock you, Jessica, but PTSD is one of the easiest diagnoses to fake. That makes it a useful tool for unscrupulous malingerers to get onto permanent disability, making it tougher to serve vets or others who have a legitimate claim for help. Not to mention using PTSD to explain away heinous behavior. Most people with a mental health disorder don't hurt other people.”
“In legal circles it’s called the ‘abuse excuse.’ It’s almost pro forma for defense attorneys to play the abused-kid card when they’ve got a client nabbed for doing something monstrous.”
“Sad to say, Jessica, but some people will sell out a father or an uncle for a lot less than what Libby stood to gain if she collected on her inheritance. It might have worked, too, if her parents had just rolled over and played dead. There’s a whole subculture out there who regard ‘putting one over on the man’ as a family tradition. I can say that because I grew up in a culture like that. In my case, it was the byproduct of desperation and ignorance, but drugs and mental illness were in the mix too. None of that’s an excuse.” She stopped to stare into the glass of iced tea she was drinking.
“Well, for the late Dr. Carr, money was part of the motive. From what he said, he also found gratification in manipulating his privileged clients. That included exploiting them sexually, too, according to Libby. She says she has evidence to support her claims against her psychiatrist—if it exists and I can locate it.”
“Setting aside the validity of Libby’s claims against him, there’s no denying he was intent on killing you and Libby. He had a reason; one he shared with whoever tried to kill Libby after Carr was dead.” Betsy went blank, staring off into space; her eyes widened and her mouth gaped.
“I need to find that suitcase. That’s one way to start sorting this out,” Jessica mumbled to herself, wondering what was up with Betsy. She had a vague recollection of a similar moment when Betsy was younger. Jessica was about to say something when Betsy began to speak again, as though nothing had happened.
“Pros don’t come cheap, Jessica. That’s not surprising, is it? Libby and her missing friend moved in the same circles of wealth and power—that’s how Carr found both of them, right? So, would it surprise you to learn she's being hunted by someone else from that circle of high rollers?”
“Not in the least. I have a knack for getting tangled up with le crème de la crud. I married one of them. Okay, so I need to be working the six degrees of separation angle in Beverly Hills. Who, besides Carr, might have had an interest in shaking down the moneyed parents of poor little rich girls? One thing about being a member of the one percent is that there aren’t that many of us. Our paths cross, since we share the same habitat.”
“Then I’d say Carr’s co-conspirator may be closer than you think—you won’t even need to use all six degrees of separation to find him. Staying close to the circles in which all three—Carr, Libby Van Der Woert and Shannon Donnelly moved—along with their wealthy parents, is the place to start.” A chill ran down Jessica’s spine as she thought about previous encounters with high living lowlifes and their murderous thugs for hire.
“I presume that’s what the detective assigned to investigate Donnelly's disappearance is doing. I’m not sure what files the police have gone through at Carr’s office, but I’ll see if we can get that information or send Jerry in there to take a look. Carr’s the odd man out in that trio. He had nowhere near the kind of money Libby and Shannon's parents possess. I wonder who referred whom to the doctor for care. Maybe there are records like that in his files—if we can jump through all the hoops to get a look at them.”
“It seems like that network would have been the lifeblood of Carr’s practice. There might be a referral data base that’s separate from the case records. Records like that are easier to access than case files, even without a release from Libby or a court order.”
“Well, given her current condition, her parents can act on Libby’s behalf. They want to sort this out. Maybe they can help us get access to Libby’s records, including whatever’s on file about how she found Carr. I’ll see if we can get a look at the doctor’s contact list, at least. Thanks, Betsy these are great ideas.”
“Glad I could help a little. You never know what will turn up when you're dealing with disturbed people in trouble and at the hands of ruthless men like Carr. No one has pushed me off a mountain, but I have had to deal with some dicey situations. Balancing a client’s rights with the need to protect them or others is always tricky.” Jessica was so impressed by the thoughtful woman sitting across from her. Another wave of guilt washed over her about the dismissive way she had treated this remarkable person in the past.
“Do you want to stay for dinner, Betsy? I’m having a few friends over. We’ll talk about the investigation. That might give you more background, and a clearer picture of what’s going on than I just gave you. You’ve met Laura Stone and Tommy Fontana when we were all much younger. He was Kelly Fontana’s younger brother. You must remember his sister Kelly.”
“Kelly is the gorgeous redhead who turned up dead in the parking lot, downtown, near the casino, right?”
“Yes, that’s her.” A jolt of sadness shot through Jessica. Speaking of disturbed people who were in trouble, Jessica thought. as she fought off the rush of emotion that en
gulfed her.
“She’s hard to forget. That pixie-faced brother of hers, too. I used to see all of you carrying on out there while I helped Bernadette.”
“About all that, Betsy, I am sorry that I was such a witch back then. I was so insecure.”
“I recognized fear when I saw it. It was easy to understand why you were afraid of losing what you had. You had more to lose than anyone I had ever known before. It surprised me you saw me as someone who mattered enough to worry you. That was validating in an odd way. Bernadette explained that it was a hard time for you. I could tell your mother was in bad shape.” Jessica sucked in a little gulp of air.
“You could see that? I was so oblivious to other people’s pain, even my mother’s. You are amazing, Betsy Stark.”
“Thanks for saying that, Jessica. Maternal dysfunction was a familiar problem, too. One that reaches across the wealth divide, I should add, and recognizable when you’ve lived through it yourself. I couldn’t have put that into words back then.”
“Then I guess it won’t surprise you to know she’s having trouble again. That’s why she’s not here. The good news is that she’s working on it—she’s gone back into treatment with the folks at Transformations in Malibu.” Betsy let out a little whistle.
“That’s a great place, but they charge a pretty penny. You get that gorgeous setting, though, as part of the package.”
“Yes, it would have been good if she could have gotten into Betty Ford’s here in town, but they didn’t have a bed, and we were taking no chances that she might back out.”
“Let’s hope it helps her turn her life around.” Betsy said.
“It has to, Betsy. Alexis has to get cleaned up enough for surgery to take care of another problem in her life,” Bernadette offered, a tender tone in her voice. “I’m praying, and doing a novena for her, too.”
“You are a good woman, Bernadette. Talk about kids in need of an attitude change. I was a piece of work back then. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” Betsy directed her last comment to Jessica. “Bernadette changed my life.”
“St. Bernadette changed all our lives, Betsy.”
“Oh, stop it, you two. I’m standing right here, you know.” The two women turned their heads, in tandem, toward the tiny woman who stood with her hands on her hips and a sweet smile on her face.
“We know,” Betsy replied, and gave Jessica a little wink.
“Bernadette has her less than saintly moments, however. One thing we’ll be debriefing about over dinner is an incident that occurred yesterday. Bernadette was at the wheel, honking like a mad woman, as we hurtled down the road.”
“We had an escort, Betsy. They were honking too. It was scary at first, but also exciting.”
“See what I mean? She is not the least bit remorseful that she broke several laws, speeding, running a light as it turned red, and carrying a loaded firearm, without a permit, again...”
“A gun, no way! Bernadette, is this true?” At that moment, the doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell,” Bernadette said, as she made a move to answer the door. Before she could get far, someone hollered from the front entry.
“Yo, don’t worry Bernadette, it’s just us.” That was Brien’s voice. It was hard to know who ‘us’ included. Trampling sounds came toward them.
Peter marched in, as his name and demeanor gave him license to do. He wore a dark suede bomber jacket with his company logo on it. Brien, in an identical bomber jacket, was on Peter’s heels and carrying a case of beer. Behind them, Kim, Tommy and Jerry were also part of the parade.
“Jessica, Brien let himself in—you all should keep that door locked even with my guys out in...” Peter came to an abrupt stop. He had entered the kitchen just as Betsy stood up to leave. His eyes followed her as she rose. At first stunned, his expression changed, registering appreciation on his face. She was not a woman you ran into every day, for sure. Brien swerved to avoid a collision with Peter and continued around him to the beverage cooler with his beer. Everyone else came to a halt, too, clustered together in the kitchen.
“Peter, meet Betsy,” Jessica said. “Tommy, you know Betsy. Betsy, these other two friends are Kim and Jerry.”
“Nice to meet you,” Peter said, as he took a step forward and grasped Betsy’s outstretched hand. Her eyes made their way up to meet his—not something the statuesque Betsy had to do often when introduced to anyone, male or female, Jessica imagined. Betsy did not wince when the giant shook her hand several times, with vigor. He had the biggest, goofiest grin on his face Jessica had ever seen him wear. Betsy smiled back.
“The guy with the beer is Brien,” Jessica said, continuing with introductions.
“A beer sounds good. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer to stay for dinner, Jessica.” Betsy spoke without taking her eyes off Peter’s still-smiling face.
“Wow,” Brien said stepping forward to hand her a beer. “How tall are you?”
“Six-two,” she answered, in a matter-of-fact way.
“Can you believe that?” Brien commented. He went back to filling the beverage cooler with beer. Then his head popped up.
“How much do you weigh?” The opposite of a gasp went around the room—as everyone sucked in air. Nobody let it out, waiting to see what a woman of Betsy's stature might do in response to a question like that.
“One-eighty is my fighting weight, but if I drink too much beer, I can top out at over 200 pounds, easy. Right now I’m working out a lot, so I’m close to where I like to be, and ready to rumble. How about you? I’m guessing you’re about 5’7” and around one eighty too, right?”
“Whoa, absolutamente! You better watch it, Bernadette. She's got special powers, like you. It’s like she just read my mind.” Jessica looked at Bernadette, with a good guess at what Bernadette was thinking even before she spoke.
“If she read your mind, Brien, she wouldn’t have much to say. Maybe something like heinous this or bogus that, but nothing that makes any sense.” Bernadette was shaking her head, muttering in Spanish, something involving the word casquivano—scatterbrained.
“She’s got powers, Brien, not to twist you into a pretzel shape after asking such a rude question,” Peter admonished. Brien’s face was blank, that no entiendo sign flashing over his head. English or Spanish, he wasn’t getting it. He handed out more beers.
“Brien, for future reference, Peter’s right. It’s considered rude, so don’t ask people how much they weigh, how much money they make, or how old they are, okay?” Jessica wasn’t sure why she was attempting to teach him etiquette. Maybe she owed him one, since he had spotted the guy tailing her the day before.
“Oh, okay, Jessica. Sorry Betsy. I’m still totally in awe.” He twisted the top off a bottle of beer and took a sip. “How much weight can you bench press?”
“Geez,” Peter said. Betsy, who had been taking it all in, burst out laughing. Then she sat back down to drink her beer. Tommy and Jerry guffawed. Even Kim’s shoulders had started to shake with laughter.
“Don’t encourage him,” Bernadette said, shaking her head again. She was smiling though.
“What now? That’s not rude. People ask me that question all the time, Dude.” Before anyone could say anything else, the doorbell rang.
“That must be Laura. I’ll go let her in,” Tommy said, turning to head down the hall to the front foyer. He paused when Betsy responded to Brien’s question.
“My record’s 320, but I keep heavy workouts in the 250 range.”
“Holy crap,” Peter gasped. “For real?” Jessica did the math in her head, having heard somewhere that it was quite an achievement to bench press your body weight. One and half times your body weight was pro level or something like that. Holy crap was right. The woman was impressive on so many fronts.
“Now who’s being rude?” Brien chastised Peter. “Of course she’s for real. I told you she’s got powers.” He was nodding his head up and down, that bobble-head-doll-in-the-know thing he di
d occasionally. “It’s not good to say crap, either, is it Bernadette?” Bernadette opened her mouth to speak, but the doorbell rang again.
“That has to be Laura. Will somebody let her in, please?” Bernadette asked. “The rest of you help me get out there and start dinner.”
“Good idea, Bernadette. I’m starved,” Brien added.
20 Friday the 13th
Eric Conroy almost danced with glee. He was in a festive mood as he made his way into the board room, but tried to don the more constrained, professional demeanor that such an occasion demanded. His eyes scanned the room, lighting for a moment on each of the SOBs sitting there, including the two in the room who were female. He ticked off in his head what he knew about each of them he could use against them if he hadn't already done so. Not all of them had skeletons in their closets—yet! Still, they all had vulnerabilities that could be exploited should the occasion arise.
He applied a little bit of neuro-linguistic programming, skills acquired when it was all the rage. But mostly he relied on his skilled use of the old-fashioned hustle. He prided himself on the fact he had elevated the patois of dirt-shoveling to new heights. Despite the fancy name, NLP wasn’t new. Persuading or otherwise influencing others to do your bidding, without their being aware of it, were tried and true techniques. Used by old-school salesmen and con artists everywhere.
That would all soon be behind him with the IPO a week away. The road show, with the CEO out stumping like a presidential candidate, was moving ahead at top speed. One hundred meetings in less than a month meant plenty of opportunity for the puffed up little peacock to strut around.
Enjoy it while it lasts, Eric thought as he shook the vapid, boorish man’s hand. “I hear you’re doing a great job representing Pinnacle. Good for you,” he said with an enormous grin on his face.
