by Lowe, Sheila
“True. But if he was pathological, he wasn’t looking at it rationally. Narcissistic rage is about revenge, isn’t it? I haven’t seen his handwriting yet, but to me, he doesn’t seem like the depressive type who would turn it inward on himself. It has to go somewhere, so it explodes outward, onto someone else—Grusha Olinetsky and her dating club.”
“Okay, my clever detective. How does the good doctor arrange to kill all these other people?”
“He’s a medical man. I bet he could do it easily enough. Heather Lloyd had a double dose of cold medicine in her system before she hit that tree. He would have known how much to give her without arousing suspicion, and she would have been easy to control—shove her off the trail and into the tree.”
“Whoa! Your suspicious little mind has been busy, hasn’t it? Is there any evidence that the doctor went to Vermont with Heather?”
“I phoned the ski lodge, but they wouldn’t give me any information. I also talked to the detective on the case, but he couldn’t add anything, either.”
“What about the others?”
“I don’t know how he would have managed Ryan, but Ryan is dead. And Shellee—don’t you think it’s suspicious that she had an attack of anaphylactic shock just a few minutes after Dr. McAllister stopped by her table in the restaurant?”
“Playing devil’s advocate, how did he happen to have the very thing on him that would kill her?” Zebediah asked.
“Her allergies would be listed in her medical record, especially one that severe. Since he gave her a physical, he would know what she was allergic to. If he planned far enough ahead, he could have been following her and seen Marcus take her to the restaurant. He pretends to meet up with them at the restaurant by chance, he leans over to give her a kiss on the cheek, and drops peanut dust in her hair or her food.”
Zebediah chuckled. “Peanut dust?”
“Don’t laugh, it could happen. I was on a flight to Seattle a few months ago, to see my parents. After they’d handed out the peanuts, the woman in the seat in front of me complained that her child was so allergic that even the dust in the air could kill him. In fact, she said he was already wheezing. The flight attendant made an announcement and went around and picked up all the little packages.”
“Oh my god, a flight with no peanuts?”
“They substituted salted pretzels.”
“Well, that’s a big relief.”
“It’s not nice of you to make fun, Zebediah. I might have a date with a killer tonight.”IT
“You’d better hang on to your garter belt, darling. It’s going to be a bumpy ride!”
“You’re incorrigible and you’re not being very helpful.”IT
He laughed. “I’m totally penitent; can’t you tell? You should quiz the doctor on his whereabouts when those poor people died. See if he has alibis.”
“Okay, I know you’re mocking me, but you can’t deny they’re dead.”
“You’re so easy to tease,” Zebediah said with affection. “Never mind, my precious, I don’t think you’ll be in any danger over dinner.”IT
“Shellee Jones died over dinner,” Claudia persisted.
“True. Look, if you’re serious about this, don’t go with him.”
“I am going. I want to get to know him better, maybe get him to give up a handwriting sample. At least that way I can get a better idea of what kind of person he really is.”
“Does Joel know you have a date with a dashing doctor?”
“It’s business, just business, and I haven’t spoken to Joel today.” She didn’t mention that he’d e-mailed and texted her on the cell phone, asking why she wasn’t returning his calls. She hadn’t responded to either.
“The lady makes it clear she doesn’t want to have that conversation,” Zebediah said.
“You’re right, she doesn’t. Let’s get back to the issue of rage. We know that people with obsessive compulsive personality disorder are perfectionists. They’re anal-retentive. That’s part of the need to feel in control. They always have to be right. Everything is black or white, no gray area.”
“You get an A in Psych 101, Claudia darling. The primary need of the OCPD client is to avoid anxiety, and that is at the root of the extreme need for control. If they can keep everything predictable, they won’t have to feel anxious all the time. In theory, that is. In fact, that’s not the way it works.”
“Anxiety shows up in handwriting.” Claudia tapped her finger on the desk with impatience. “I’ve got to get his handwriting, Zeb.”
Chapter 17
Dr. McAllister arrived at seven on the dot. Looking distinguished in a Prussian blue cashmere suit, crisp white shirt, and solid burgundy satin tie, he took Claudia’s arm and showed her to a gleaming black Aston Martin double-parked in front of the hotel. She had to admit it was a beauty with its ground-hugging profile and smooth-flowing lines. It had probably cost more than her house.
Ian saw her into the passenger side. “A performance automobile like this deserves to get out of the city and let loose from time to time,” he said. “I thought we would drive up the Hudson to a favorite restaurant of mine. You’ll enjoy it.”
Claudia murmured her assent and sank into a suede and leather seat that might have been molded to fit her body. Relaxing into the voluptuous cockpit made her feel like a pampered movie star.
Ian closed her door and whipped a piece of chamois leather from his pocket, giving the recessed handle a quick polish before going around to the driver ’s side. Then, using the chamois to open the driver’s door, he slid inside.
Watching him, Claudia thought it seemed a little creepy. Then she reminded herself that he was obsessive-compulsive and needed his rituals to feel at ease.
She didn’t sense any danger from Ian, but she had to wonder whether the memory of the dead clients had anything to do with his high level of anxiety. The ghosts of his daughter Jessica and Shellee, Heather, and Ryan crowded her mind. Their presence was pervasive and she knew she would never completely forget them.
The twin exhausts roared as the engine came to life, rising above the sounds of post-rush hour Manhattan. Ian held the gearshift as gently as a lover’s hand. “It’s a DBS,” he said with pride, and proceeded to give Claudia a rundown of the car ’s features.
She turned to him with a smile. “The only thing I know about Aston Martins is that James Bond drives one.”
“Call me Bond, James Bond,” Ian quipped, his close-lipped smile raising one corner of his mouth.
“You don’t have an ejection seat, do you?”
He gave an oblique glance her way. “Only for those who offend me. So far, you’re doing fine.”
His tone was sardonic, but when he said that, it made Claudia feel creepy all over again. They talked for a while about the differences between life on the East Coast and the West Coast. Then she told him about Annabelle, creating an opening for him to pick up the thread of how to handle a teenage girl, and perhaps bring up the topic of his daughter.
“I have almost zero experience with kids,” Claudia said. “I used to babysit my niece when she was a tot, but that’s completely different from dealing with a teenager. I’m finding it really tough, having a fourteen-year-old girl to deal with at this stage in my life.”
Something in Ian’s profile changed, hardened. His voice hardened, too. “All you have to know is teenagers need a firm hand. Especially girls.”
“I suppose that’s true, but unfortunately, I’m not much of a disciplinarian.”IT
“Too bad. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ still applies. These days, more than ever.”
“Surely you don’t mean the literal rod?”
He kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. “Let’s not spoil our evening with unpleasant thoughts. We’re taking a spin in one of the most fabulous automobiles in the world, and we’re going to a wonderful place for dinner. What could be better?”
“I thought you might give me some advice, seeing as you have a teenage daughter yourself
.”IT
Ian stiffened visibly. His grip tightened around the steering wheel. “Why do I have the feeling that you already know something about that?”
Shit. What do I say now? She wanted information, but she had no desire to become the object of his rage. They were approaching a highway sign that directed them to the George Washington Bridge and she seized on the distraction. “Wow, look at the bridge! I’ve never been this way before. How long is the GW?”
His head jerked around in her direction and he snapped, “Nearly a mile.” Then he lapsed into a morose silence. Claudia was sure that his eyes were glittering in suspicion of her motives, though she couldn’t see them in the darkness. Underneath the warm wool of her coat, she shivered. Oh god, don’t tell me the whole evening is going to be like this.
Using the steering wheel controls, Ian switched on the audio and bumped the volume up. The uncomfortable void was immediately filled with the screaming guitars and pounding drums of AC/DC, as loud and clear as if the band had been inside the car with them. She hadn’t pegged him for a rock aficionado, but “Highway to Hell” seemed to fit this trip.
“Tell me about the restaurant,” Claudia said hastily after the song ended, before the bass could begin thumping again.
He lowered the volume and answered in a measured way that begrudged every word. “The food is extraordinary. It’s fairly small; you might say intimate.”IT
In the distance, the bridge had a festive appearance—blue lights on the cables looked like Hanukkah decorations. As they approached and joined the lines of traffic, Ian’s mood began to improve and he started talking about the bridge: It had two levels, the first opened in 1931. It was the fourth largest suspension bridge in the United States. From the upper arch flew the world’s largest free-flying U.S. flag, a symbol of freedom.
Listening to him in the role of tour guide, Claudia began to unwind and enjoy his company. He sounded so normal, she could almost convince herself that she had imagined the undertone of anger a few minutes ago. The balance of the drive passed pleasantly enough, and when he opened up the engine on the highway, it was magical, like flying.
The restaurant, a squarish building with fifteen-feet-high windows, stood on a pier at the river ’s edge. A few intrepid diners huddled around space heaters outside on the wooden deck, but most of the outdoor tables were deserted in the late-winter evening.
They slowed and Ian steered into the parking lot. A valet in black and red came out from under the awning at the restaurant’s front door and stepped off the sidewalk in anticipation of taking the car. Ian slammed on the brake and they jerked to a halt, avoiding the young man’s feet by inches.
Ian rolled the window down just wide enough to hiss through it, “You idiot! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
The valet made to open the door for him. “It’s valet parking, sir. I’ll be happy to take care of your car for you.”
“Get your hands off my car. Nobody touches this car.” Ian stepped on the gas and the DBS leapt forward. The valet’s hand flew off the door and he stumbled backward, tripping against the curb and landing on his butt on the sidewalk.
“Stop the car!” Claudia yelled. “Check and see if he’s okay.”IT
Ian glanced in the mirror, but kept driving. “He’s fine,” he muttered, raising the window. “Idiot. He must be new. The regular boys know I won’t have their filthy fingerprints mucking up my steering wheel, or their muddy boots on the carpet.”
Claudia twisted around to make sure the valet had picked himself up. The good impression Ian had made in his office was fast fading. “I’m sure they’re trained not to get customers’ cars dirty.”IT
“You’re too optimistic, my dear.”IT
He drove to the back of the lot, choosing a parking space as far from the restaurant as he could find. He backed into it and climbed out, taking out the chamois and vigorously buffing the area where the valet had put his hand. When he was satisfied, he went around to open the passenger door for Claudia.
After the warmth of the vehicle, the cold air hit her like a sheet of glass. The melancholy sound of water slapping against the dock pilings reached her and she drew her coat tighter around her. If Jovanic were here . . .
Don’t go there . . .
Aside from the atmosphere being lower key, the dining ritual was similar to the previous evening with Marcus Bernard. The maitre d’ fussed over them and conducted them to a table next to the tall windows overlooking the Hudson. The sommelier brought the wine Ian requested, and they ordered food with exotic names and ingredients.
They made polite conversation, the awkwardness of Ian’s outburst in the car still hanging like a pall between them. Claudia could tell that he knew she was disgusted with the way he had treated the valet, and she didn’t much care. The wine seemed to disappear rapidly from his glass and he soon signaled for another. Claudia’s glass was still more than half full.
“What’s it like for you, testifying as an expert in court?” he asked as they waited for the starter course.
“It’s not my favorite part of the work; it can be nerve-wracking. Mostly when I testify, it’s in forgery cases. Sometimes . . .” She stopped talking and looked pointedly at Ian, who had taken the linen napkin from his lap and was polishing his silverware. She watched him wipe the napkin over his fork, taking great care to polish each tine. He turned it around, holding the area he had just cleaned in one end of the napkin as he worked on the handle. Next, he took the spoon and blew a light fog onto the bowl, rubbing vigorously.
His actions reminded Claudia of what Marcus had told her the evening before: that Ian had been straightening Shellee Jones’ silverware just a few minutes before she succumbed to anaphylactic shock.
It took him a few seconds to react to her silence. “Do go on,” he said, starting on his butter knife. “I am listening. It’s just that, as good as a restaurant may be, you can’t trust the kitchen workers to attend to the proper cleaning of utensils. They don’t make enough money to care. One can’t be too careful.”
“Is everything all right, Doctor?” The maitre d’ had hurried over and positioned himself discreetly, screening them from other diners who might catch on to what Ian was doing.
Ian continued polishing his knife without looking at the man. “Perfectly.”
“May I bring you some new silverware, Dr. McAllister?”
Ian glanced up at the man, then resumed his labors. “Then I would have to start all over again, wouldn’t I? You should know by now that I have a particularly high standard of cleanliness.”
“Of course, Doctor.” The maitre d’ offered a big, false smile. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. Anything at all.”
Claudia felt her face get hot. She understood the obsessive-compulsive personality, but Ian’s conspicuous behavior embarrassed her.
He replaced the napkin on his lap and gave her a knowing look. “It may seem odd to you, Claudia, but as a physician, believe me, I know something about germs. May I do yours for you?”
“No, thank you. My silverware is clean.” She could hardly wait for the meal to be over so they could return to Manhattan. She said, “I’d be interested to hear what brought you to the medical profession.”IT
“Ahh, the medical profession.” The second glass of wine had begun to soften the hard planes of his features and loosen his tongue. “Medicine has a long tradition in my family. My father was a physician and so was my grandfather before him, and my great-grandfather before him. There was never any question of what I was expected to do.”
The marked absence of affection in his voice struck her. “You make it sound as if you didn’t have any choice in the matter,” said Claudia.
He showed her a humorless smile. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. What I wanted to do was paint, but that was out of the question. In our house, art was viewed as the height of frivolity. Or perhaps I should say depths. That sort of thing was not tolerated. If Father were to c
atch me being idle—idle hands being the devil’s workshop, of course—the punishment was quite severe, trust me.”
Claudia thought back to his remark in the car about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. She had no doubt that what he was telling her now was at the roots of the proverb he had parroted.
“Do you mean you were beaten?” she asked.
“Beaten? No, indeed, nothing so uncivilized.” Ian’s short laugh had a hollow ring. “A beating would have been preferable to the punishments my father could dream up.”
“I’m not sure I want to know what you mean by that.”IT
“I’ll tell you anyway. His favorites were a cold night locked in the garage or tied to my bed. No meals for a couple of days.”
Claudia’s sympathies were immediately aroused for the frightened child he must have been. Yet his story also fueled her suspicions. His was the sort of history that might provide fertile soil for a killer who carefully planned ahead. It also occurred to her that the conversation had taken an oddly personal direction considering they had just met.
She saw that he was waiting for her to respond. “I don’t know what to say, Ian. It’s horrible. Do you paint now?”
He shook his head, and as his eyes locked on hers, she recognized an expression of deep regret. “I gave up on painting long ago. The associations are too difficult.”
“I’m sure they must be very painful. Where was your mother while these things were taking place?”
“Poor Mother. She wasn’t equipped to deal with him. Mostly she was hiding out in her room, mew-ling like a baby. Even at five years old, I felt I had to protect her. All during the time I was growing up, she would tell me how much it hurt her to see the things he did to me. Unfortunately it didn’t hurt her enough to make it stop.” He drained his glass, then made a wry face over the rim. “I suppose one can’t really blame her. He was a rather terrifying force of nature.”
“Is he still alive, your father?”
Ian didn’t answer. He was looking past her into those long-ago days, when he had been small and powerless. Claudia reached across the table and touched his arm, moved by the vulnerability she saw in his face.
