by Ana Barrons
She shook her head. “No. There’s no way in hell my sister would have agreed to go out to some swampy island at night with some nobody. She hated the woods, especially at night. I don’t think she would have gone out there if someone had told her there was a million dollars waiting for her.”
“Who would she have gone out there with?” Robert asked. “Who or what could have gotten Blair out to Roosevelt Island?”
She took a deep breath and tried to think. “It would’ve had to be someone pretty damn special. Maybe someone she couldn’t see any other way. I keep trying to figure out who that could be.”
Robert stood and began to pace, sipping occasionally from his mug. “Okay, so we’re assuming this is a guy with some money and some status. So, back to Sadler. Lotta things people can use to blackmail someone.”
“Evidence of some illegal activity?” Joe said. “For Sadler, that wouldn’t be a stretch, considering that he’s trying to sell me evidence from a murder case.”
“Or photos of an illicit affair,” Catherine suggested. “Is he married?”
“Divorced,” Joe said. “Like a lot of homicide detectives. But I suppose it could be photos of him with a guy, or a minor. Or both.”
“Drugs?” Catherine suggested. “Perversions?”
“It could be almost anything,” Joe said. “But the question then becomes, who would know about it?”
“Maybe another cop suspected Sadler of being dirty—maybe someone from Internal Affairs—and they got a hold of his psych records and found something juicy, and instead of confronting him or firing him they decided to use it against him. Or someone could have hired the other cop—” She stopped. Joe and Robert were staring at her. Patiently. Damn it, she’d been babbling. “Too many cop shows, right?”
Joe stroked a hand down her arm. “Not necessarily.”
“How likely is it your sister would have been involved with a cop?” Robert asked.
“The chief of police, maybe,” Joe said. “If Ackerman wasn’t butt-ugly, fat and barely articulate.”
Catherine shook her head, deflated. She was trying too hard to connect the dots. “Blair hated cops.”
“Yeah, well, Sadler hates shrinks,” Joe said. “So we’ve probably run the psych-records theory dry.”
They sat in silence for what seemed like an hour. Joe fiddled with his spoon and tapped his foot. Robert stroked his nearly white beard as he gazed out over the water, gray beneath a hazy sky. Joe would look a lot like Robert at sixty.
Abruptly, Robert’s hand stopped. “How do you know Sadler hates shrinks?” he asked Joe.
“Oh,” Joe said, as though he’d lost the train of the conversation. “Remember I told you when I asked him why he wanted to sell me the ‘big’ piece of information, he said he needed the money?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I made some smart-ass comment about him having a bad case of consumer lust or something.”
“Why do I not find that surprising?” Catherine said.
Joe shot her a wry grin. “He said he was paying for his ex-wife’s and his son’s shrinks. He was really pissed off about it.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, he got all psycho about it. Furious. I got the feeling he’d round up all the shrinks and shoot them if he could.”
“God,” Catherine said. “How much could he possibly owe them?”
“Three hundred and fifty dollars an hour, he said. So that’s seven hundred a week if they each go once, that’s over twenty-eight hundred a month. On a cop’s salary? No way.” He rubbed a hand over his whiskered cheeks. “Anyway, that could’ve been the first thing to pop into his head, but I don’t know. He was really wound up. He actually gave his trash can a swift kick when he was talking about it. His anger seemed out of proportion, let me put it that way.”
Catherine waited for Robert to respond. He was gazing at Joe, but his mind was somewhere else. No one spoke.
After a while Joe announced he was popping inside to shower. Catherine fixed herself more tea and refilled Robert’s coffee, and they sat in companionable silence. When Joe reappeared, dressed and cleanly shaven, he had a new cup of coffee in his hand. He sat beside Catherine and took her hand. “You two solve the crime yet?”
Robert rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward them. He spoke slowly, as though he were still thinking it through. “A lot of police departments, and the FBI, refer their people to certain designated psychiatrists and psychologists if they’re uncomfortable dealing with the in-house shrinks, which a lot of them are.”
“Understandably,” Catherine said.
“Some of the shrinks deal with the whole family, like when an agent or officer is injured or killed in the line of duty, but most work pretty much with the adults on the force and their spouses.” He paused. “When you were about twelve years old,” he said to Joe, “I heard you crying one night for your mother after you thought I’d gone to sleep.”
Joe’s body tensed, the hand that held Catherine’s squeezing so hard she had to force herself not to wince in pain. Instead, she squeezed back.
“I know we haven’t ever talked about her,” Robert said quietly. “That’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. That’s water under the bridge.”
Robert shook his head. “It was wrong of me. Anyway, I asked a trusted friend whether the bureau offered mental health services to children, and he said there was only one person in the area who worked specifically with kids whose parents were in law enforcement.”
“And that was?”
“Dr. Rodney Campbell. Ned’s father.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Joe’s mind went blank, as though it could not accept this new and shocking bit of information. For nearly a minute, the only sound was the high-pitched chirping of a million cicadas and Jasmine’s occasional yip.
“I knew Doc Campbell was a shrink,” he said. “But I had no idea he worked with law enforcement. The family lived in Georgetown and both parents drove Mercedes. If he was under contract with the Bureau—”
“That was only about half of Campbell’s practice,” Robert said. “And the wife was from some wealthy blue-blood family.” He looked at Catherine. “You okay, honey?”
Joe was shocked at how pale Catherine’s face had become. He laid both hands on her shoulders and kneaded. “Catherine?” he asked gently.
She didn’t meet his gaze, focusing instead on Robert. “So, you’re saying that maybe Sadler’s son went to Dr. Campbell, and that Ned somehow found out?”
“Rodney Campbell died several years ago,” Robert said.
“Five. Betsy told me. He died five years ago.”
“His office was in his house, at least back when Joe was a kid. And since Ned lives there now, he may still have possession of his father’s patient records.”
“Last I knew,” Joe said, “Doc Campbell’s office was still in the house. I went to his funeral, and Ned had everyone back to the house afterward. I remember his mother talking about how hard it would be to walk into that office. She ended up moving to Florida to be near her sister.” Catherine’s face still lacked expression. She seemed almost shell-shocked. “It fits. He’s got the power, certainly, and there’s a reasonable chance he has the means—if Sadler’s son actually went to Doc Campbell, and if he told him something that Sadler doesn’t want the world to know.”
Robert nodded. “A lot of ifs. But let’s go with that for a minute. Ned would have met Blair’s criteria, am I right?”
Catherine stared at him.
“He’s single, likes to spend time with attractive women.”
“And he went after Catherine right from the get-go,” Joe said. “I told you he was squiring her around Betsy Eberhart’s—”
“As any red-
blooded male would,” Robert interrupted. “She’s a beautiful woman. His interest in her doesn’t necessarily mean anything. You’ve known Ned since travel soccer in the sixth grade. And all through college. Do you believe he’s capable of murder?”
Joe slumped in his chair and rested one foot on his other knee. “As sneaky, selfish and mean-spirited as I have known him to be, I admit it’s hard for me to see him as a killer.” He glanced at Catherine. “Hard, but not impossible. And under the right circumstances, couldn’t any of us commit murder?”
Joe and Robert were quiet, waiting to see if Catherine had anything to add. The silence apparently got her attention, because she moved her gaze from one to another, her expression grim but alert. “He never leaves messages for me when I’m not home,” she said slowly. “The phone has caller ID, so I’d know.”
“His number’s probably blocked,” Robert said.
She shook her head. “No blocked calls have appeared. He always seems to know when I’m in.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve had this feeling, since I got here. Like someone’s following me. Watching me.”
“Why haven’t you said anything?” Joe asked, annoyed. “My God, if I’d known that I would have insisted that you stay with me.”
“Exactly.”
Joe stared at her.
“And he never asked me how I came to be at Betsy’s house in the first place. I’ve always found that kind of odd.”
“How often do you see Ned?” Robert asked. Joe shot him a look but his father ignored him.
She hesitated. “We’ve had dinner three times, I guess. No, four.”
Joe’s whole body clenched. “You’ve been in town for less than a month.”
“It does sound like a lot,” she agreed. “But it’s funny. Until I counted it up in my mind, I would’ve guessed I’d only seen him a couple of times. I barely give him a thought when I don’t see him.” The little smile she gave Joe caused his muscles to relax somewhat. “To be honest, I barely give him a thought when I am with him.”
“Has he come through with information about Blair’s case?” Robert asked.
She gazed out at the water for a moment. “In a manner of speaking, but it’s never anything substantial.”
“What has he told you so far?”
“Well, he confirmed that there are some security issues around this handyman, given his nationality and, well, some of his activities, but nothing he could share. That’s why his name hasn’t been revealed.”
“Bullshit,” Joe said.
“And he said I should be more open-minded about how this handyman could have gotten to Blair.” She swallowed hard and Joe squeezed her hand. “You know, he could have killed her and transported her—”
“Oh for—” Joe ran his hand through his hair. “No one in his right mind would have brought her there.”
“Did you mention the White House connection, Catherine?” Robert asked.
She nodded. “He pretty much pooh-poohed that idea, not surprisingly. We’ve talked a lot about the various elected officials she spent time with, and he basically said yes, anything was possible, but while powerful men did stupid things all the time, including having sex with other women, they really didn’t go around murdering them. That they had too much to lose.”
Joe shook his head, disgusted.
“So basically he’s not been much help at all,” Robert said.
“Not really, no.”
“If this is too personal,” Robert said, “you can tell me to mind my own business, but Ned’s a busy guy. The fact that he’s taking that much time off to spend with you tells me he’s getting something pretty important out of being with you.” He glanced at Joe. “Like I said, you can—”
Catherine held up a hand. “I’m not sleeping with him, Robert. Although I’ve gotten the distinct impression that he wants to.”
“You think?” Joe said sarcastically. His stomach was in a knot imagining Ned touching her. Kissing her. Making love to her.
“Christ, Joe,” Robert said. “Settle down. You look like you’re ready to explode.” To Catherine, he said, “Is there any reason why Ned might believe you will sleep with him?”
“Only an overactive imagination. The closest I’ve let him come is a kiss good night, and a chaste one at that.” She turned to Joe and squeezed his hand. “I have zero interest in Ned physically.”
“The point I’m trying to make,” Robert said, “is that for a man like Ned to give up all that work time to eat meals with you, he either craves your friendship or figures it’ll get him in your bed or he’s keeping an eye on you. Gaining your trust. Of course, this is all speculation.”
“But it fits.”
“Now we have to prove it,” Joe said. “Which means—”
“We have to get into his father’s office,” she said. “I wasn’t going to see him again, but maybe I could—”
“No,” Joe and Robert said in unison.
Chapter Thirty
“It’s lovely, Ned.” Catherine ran her hand over the polished oak banister at the foot of the staircase that ran from the main floor living room to the second-floor balcony of the elegant townhouse.
Ned had phoned that afternoon from the White House. The president, the vice president and their wives had gone to Camp David for a couple of days to discuss Sam Mitchell’s campaign, and Ned decided to take a breather. He’d invited Catherine to spend the two days with him at a friend’s beachfront home in Rehoboth, Delaware, which she had refused as diplomatically as possible. Instead, she had agreed to dinner at his place.
Joe and Robert had expressly forbidden her from seeing Ned at all, considering the role they suspected he’d played in undermining the investigation into Blair’s disappearance and murder—or worse. Catherine had pretended to go along with them, but she had other ideas. Damn it, didn’t they realize how desperate she was to find the truth?
“Any chance of getting a tour?” she asked.
Ned smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask. I don’t like to assume people are interested.”
“I love all the oak. And the furnishings are gorgeous. Did all of this belong to your parents?”
“Most of it, at least on this floor. I’ve redone a couple of bedrooms upstairs.” He sipped the dry California Chardonnay, which, he’d mentioned, the vice president had sent him a few weeks ago. “Let’s save those for last.”
Catherine forced a smile. She had to appear interested, but not too interested. He led her through the living room into the dining room and across a double corridor to a small sitting room and library, where she admired various artifacts from his trips around the country and abroad, pressing for details, which he cheerfully provided. She endured his friendly touches, the occasional arm around her shoulder, constantly on the lookout for the presence of his deceased father. The man with the secrets.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Ned said when they had returned to the living room. “I’m going to check on the duck.”
“Need help?” she asked politely, hoping he would say no. She wanted a chance to poke around.
“I’ve got it under control. Be back in a few minutes.”
A few seconds later, Catherine crossed the corridor into the sitting room that led to the side entrance and the library. A set of double oak doors stood on the far side of the library. When she had asked Ned what was behind them, he had waved it off, saying it was a room he didn’t need and was using for storage. Staring at the doors now, she was certain Dr. Campbell’s office lay behind them. It made sense. The library was located directly beside a door to the outside. Patients surely wouldn’t want to walk in the front door.
The library itself could have served as a waiting room, removed from the rest of the house by a heavy oak door at the far side of the sitting room. Ned had, fo
rtunately, left it open during the tour, which made her feel less like a trespasser. By contrast, there were no doors between the library and the corridor, or leading into the living room, dining room or kitchen. Proof positive it was not, but she’d bet the farm that the double doors led into Dr. Campbell’s inner sanctum.
Joe could have told her exactly where the office was, of course, had she dared to tell him what she had in mind.
Ned could return any second. She crossed the library and tried the twin brass doorknobs. Locked. Damn it. How could she get in there?
“There you are.”
Ned stepped into the library with his wineglass in one hand and a fresh bottle of Chardonnay in the other. His expression was unreadable. She held out her glass for a refill as he walked slowly toward her. Something about his gait and the lack of expression on his face felt menacing. She shivered.
“Cold?” he asked. His eyes didn’t leave her face.
“A little.” He poured her a generous refill, unspeaking. She touched her glass to his. “To happier dreams,” she whispered.
“Do you have bad dreams, Catherine?” She lowered her head. He moved a couple of inches closer and laid a hand on her shoulder, effectively blocking her in. Instinctively, she backed up and felt the twin doorknobs in the small of her back.
“It’s these doors,” she said. “They remind me of the dreams.”
“How so?”
“I often dream of a house. A big, ramshackle house with dozens of rooms and crawl spaces. I think it’s a fairly common dream theme, actually. You probably know all about that, being the son of a psychiatrist.”
“Psych 101 maybe. My father didn’t get into psychological discussions over the dinner table. But yes, I’ve heard that the house represents the dreamer’s mind, which explains the dark closets, old trunks—”
“And the locked doors.” It was the best excuse she could come up with for twisting the doorknobs to a room Ned hadn’t wanted to show her. His expression had reverted to normal, thank God. “For months I’ve been searching the house for Blair, but there’s a room at the end of a long corridor that I can never quite reach. I’m terrified of what’s behind it, but I’m drawn to it. There are double doors, always closed. I have to find out if they’re locked.”
