The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle
Page 120
“I may not be a traditional medical practitioner, but I still respect the privacy of my clients. Anything you want to know about a specific patient, you must ask them.”
D.D. decided to go fishing. “If I dialed Denise and Patrick Harrington right now, told them we were with you, and asked them to grant you permission, would you honor that?”
“I would need to call them myself,” Lightfoot said after a moment. “To ensure it was the same Harringtons. But yes, if they say it’s okay to speak with you, I’ll honor that.”
“Call them,” D.D. said softly.
Lightfoot got up, crossed to an antique Chinese chest on the other side of the room, picked up a cordless phone, punched in numbers. D.D. glanced at Alex, who was stroking Tibbie’s ears.
“He doesn’t know,” Alex murmured.
“Or is a good actor.”
“He’s very charming.”
“I’m sure it works for him.”
“Does it work for you?” Alex asked.
D.D. wouldn’t dignify that with a response. Lightfoot returned, holding out the phone apologetically. “Doesn’t appear they’re home,” he informed them.
“They’re not,” D.D. agreed.
“You knew that?”
“Yep.”
Lightfoot wasn’t smiling anymore. “Sergeant, I believe I have had enough of this conversation. What is it you want to know?”
D.D. went with the obvious. “Why you helped Ozzie Harrington kill his family.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“Inner angel, my ass,” D.D. muttered twenty minutes later. They’d made it to the car, were pulling out of Lightfoot’s driveway. It was after noon. Her blood pressure was too high, her blood sugar too low. She threw the car into gear and went grinding out into the summer traffic, heading for Rockport.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked. He had the window down, hand cupped over the top of the window frame for better leverage as she took the first corner a fraction too fast.
“Fudge shop,” she replied, accelerating steadily as she passed the first gawking driver, then the next. If people wanted to gaze at the ocean, they should park their cars and walk, for God’s sake.
“Works for me,” Alex said.
It took her ten minutes to find the place she remembered vaguely from five years back, when she’d had a date in Rockport. Then she had to circle the crowded block half a dozen times before finding a parking spot almost exactly the same size as her car. Alex arched a brow. She considered it a matter of pride that she slid into the parking space parallel to the curb on the first try.
“Inner angel, my ass,” she gritted out again as she popped open her door, then stalked toward the fudge shop/deli. Inside, she ordered a grilled cheese, a Snapple iced tea, and four pounds of fudge. “For the unit,” she said primly when Alex shook his head at the growing pile. “Everyone’s working hard.”
He ordered half a pound of white chocolate and praline fudge for himself, but no sandwich. Apparently, he only ate lunch once a day. Lightweight.
They commandeered the last available table, which was just large enough for two people to sit with their heads nearly touching. Alex unwrapped his fudge, eating it slowly and with a great deal of appreciation. That mollified D.D. The moment her shoulders came down and half her sandwich disappeared, however, he started.
“Shaman boy got to you.”
“Please. This from the man who French-kissed the dog goodbye.”
“She started it,” Alex said, but touched his mouth self-consciously. “Besides, Tibbie isn’t a potential murder suspect.”
“According to Lightfoot, neither is he.”
“And according to you?”
“Hate this fucking case,” D.D. growled, giving up on the grilled cheese, and opening the fudge instead. Chocolate with a thick ribbon of peanut butter. Better. “Woo-woo, my ass.”
“Not into celestial planes?”
D.D. gave him a look. They’d shocked Lightfoot into discussing at least some details of the Harrington family. According to him, he’d started work with Ozzie nearly a year ago. After his initial visits with the family, he worked one-on-one with Ozzie to teach the boy basic meditation exercises, including how to focus on the light inside of himself, while constructing a shield against negative energies.
Lightfoot went on to explain, however, that his most effective work was done at night, in his own home, where he put himself into a meditative trance, and then, with the permission of Ozzie’s parents, visited the entire family on the “interplanes,” where he could work directly with their spirits. During the first of these trips, Lightfoot discovered that Ozzie was a product of rape. The boy carried much of his rage from his own inception, so Lightfoot arranged for spirit Ozzie to meet with his spirit rapist dad, in order for the “healing process to begin.” Ozzie also carried the wound of his mother’s death. Therefore, Lightfoot arranged for spirit Ozzie to meet his spirit mother, so he could hear directly from her that she’d never wanted to leave him and loved him very much.
Within four weeks, the nighttime work led to daytime progress, with Ozzie appearing calmer. Within two months, the boy had mastered the art of deep breathing, picturing seven angels giving him seven hugs. Within three months, he could produce his own protection barrier and his parents began weaning him off his medication, working with the consent of Ozzie’s doctor, Lightfoot had assured them.
“Powerful, powerful soul,” Lightfoot had said with apparent awe. “It is a beautiful thing to watch such a soul find itself again.”
D.D. had brought up the subject of Ozzie murdering neighborhood squirrels.
“A learning opportunity,” Lightfoot had informed her. “No one heals overnight. For every step forward, there are steps backwards.”
She decided the man loved his one-liners. And she decided that overwhelmed, stressed-out mothers must devour his words hook, line, and sinker. A televangelist for the alternative-medicine set.
“I think Lightfoot believes in what he does,” D.D. told Alex. “And … I think his kind of charisma combined with his kind of looks is a pretty dangerous combo. Strong man. Weak parents. My bullshit meter hit an all-time high.”
Alex cut off another piece of fudge. “Why?”
“Are you kidding me? Interplanes, spiritual healings, angel hugs. These kids have violent impulses. They bludgeon fathers, shoot mothers, stab siblings. I think they might need more than deep-breathing exercises.”
“What’s the more?” Alex asked with a shrug. “Remember nurse Danielle from the psych ward? Modern medicine doesn’t know what to do with these kids either. Not enough available medicines, too many side effects. I don’t know. I’ve never meditated a day in my life, but if I had a kid going crazy and the docs told me they were out of options … Sure, I’d give Lightfoot a call. Meditating isn’t gonna hurt a child. Nor is vegetable broth or organic fruits or nighttime visits to the interplanes. You can’t blame the parents for trying.”
“Exactly the danger,” D.D. said flatly.
Alex regarded her steadily. “You don’t buy any of it? What about his spiel on negative and positive personalities? I gotta say, my Aunt Jeanine could drive the president of the Optimist Club to suicide. That woman’s the walking, talking personification of a downer. I can believe she’s sending negative energy out into the universe.”
“Big leap from naturally happy or sad people to nighttime surfing of the spiritual superhighway.”
“I think cops know woo-woo,” Alex continued. “At least the good ones.”
“Instinct is instinct, not woo-woo,” D.D. said.
“Ah no. A lot of people would argue instinct is exactly woo-woo.”
“And they would be wrong. Instinct is evolutionary in nature. Darwinism one-oh-one. Those who can pick out the bad guys first live longer. And eventually produce generations of fine policing talent.”
Alex leaned forward, wiped a spot of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth with his fingertip. �
��Shaman boy got to you,” he repeated.
“Oh, shut up,” D.D. snapped. But shaman boy had gotten to her. Because if getting in touch with one’s inner love child was the secret to happiness, then she was well and truly screwed.
“Let’s pretend to be cops,” she declared three minutes later. “We have, oh”—she glanced at her watch, “about four hours before the evening news broadcasts that a second family was murdered last night, making it two households in forty-eight hours. If we’re lucky, given the differences in geography and socioeconomics, the reporters will assume it’s a tragic coincidence, and run sidebars on getting better social services for stressed families during these tough economic times. If we’re not lucky, some talking head will link the crimes, declare a serial killer loose in the greater Boston area, and there will be a run on handguns, possibly leading to a spike in accidental shootings of small children. Would you care to place your bet?”
“I think that’s negative energy,” Alex told her.
“What can I tell you? I’m playing to my strengths.”
Alex opened his mouth, looked like he might refute that, but then closed it again. The moment came and went. D.D. wished she understood the interlude better, but she didn’t.
“Opportunity,” Alex said tersely, and wrapped up his remaining fudge. “Lightfoot worked with the Harrington family over the past year and was obviously trusted by them. If he knocked on the front door during dinner, they would’ve let him in.”
“But his work with them was mostly done. Ozzie had ‘made great strides,’ the whole family was ‘making better choices,’ succeeding in their ‘learning opportunities,’ and … what was that last thing?”
“ ‘Listening to their inner truths.’ ”
“Exactly. Nothing says ‘happy family’ like listening to your inner truths.” D.D. paused, pushed away half a grilled cheese but didn’t touch the fudge. “We should download Lightfoot’s photo from the Internet and take it to the neighbors. See if they agree he hadn’t been around in a while. After all, can’t forget AndrewLightfoot.com.”
“Can’t forget,” Alex agreed. “So he has opportunity. What about motivation?”
“Hell if I know. Pick your poison. Had an affair with the wife …”
“Can’t picture him and Denise.”
“Had an affair with the daughter.”
“Interesting.”
“Parents found out. Seducing underaged girls definitely not good PR for an enlightened being. Lightfoot has to do something about it and, knowing Ozzie’s history, goes with family annihilation.”
“Except he didn’t frame Ozzie. He framed Patrick.”
“All right. Lightfoot’s obviously a master manipulator.…”
“ ‘Obviously’?”
D.D. ignored him. “So he went to work on Patrick. Here’s a father who’s financially stressed and emotionally strained. Troubled kid is a lot of work. House is a lot of work. Now he finds out his ‘good daughter’ is dirty dancing with the local healer. Patrick confronts Andrew. Andrew twists it all around and convinces Patrick that all the ‘negative energies’ are winning, and Patrick should give up the fight.”
“Drives the man into killing his entire family?”
“Why not? We close the case, Lifetime makes the movie, I finally get sex.” D.D. stopped. Probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.
“Does the sex part involve Lightfoot or me?” Alex asked.
“In that scenario, Lightfoot’s gone to prison, so it doesn’t involve him.”
“Perfect. Let’s make the arrest.”
“Only after you solve the next problem: the Laraquette-Solis crime scene.”
Alex nodded, serious again. “Lightfoot claimed not to know them, and I gotta say, I don’t see them as the shaman type.”
“Though they do know their herbs.” D.D. shrugged, trying out different scenarios in her mind, not making much progress. She started to pack up her fudge. “Grilled cheese?” she asked Alex, gesturing to the remaining half a sandwich. He considered the matter, then helped himself to a few bites. The gesture struck D.D. as intimate. Look at them, sitting forearm to forearm at this tiny little table in this cute little fudge shop in this gorgeous little town, sharing a sandwich.
She felt discomfited again. Torn between the life she had and the life she wished she had. Or, more accurately, torn between the person she was and the person she wished she could be.
“All set?” Alex asked after finishing the grilled cheese. D.D. nodded, and he graciously carried her tray to the trash. She replaced her fudge in the plastic bag, adding Alex’s box on top. They waved goodbye to the proprietor, then stepped out onto the sun-drenched street, having to pick their way through the throng of summer tourists.
“Next stop?” Alex asked, angling automatically toward the ocean. At the end of the street, they could just make out a slice of blue water. It was tempting to walk toward it.
“Don’t know,” D.D. said, staring at the distant water, listening to the gulls.
“Dig deeper into Lightfoot?”
“Probably.” But her heart really wasn’t in it.
“It might just be two coincidental crimes,” Alex said, as if sensing her apathy.
“I don’t know that the crimes are linked,” she admitted. “I feel it, but I don’t know it.”
Beside her, Alex blinked. It took her another second to get it.
“Crap, I sound just like him!”
“Cops know woo-woo.”
“That’s it, I want to go home and shower.”
“Works for me,” he said.
She shook her head and headed for the car. “We’re going to HQ.”
“No shower?”
“Nope. I’m getting out a whiteboard, we’re poring through the reports, and we’re gonna overanalyze every single detail of this case until we goddamn well know something. Screw woo-woo. You know what makes the world a better place? Good, old-fashioned hard work.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
DANIELLE
“So how are things at the PECB?” Dr. Frank asked.
He sat in a dark green wingback chair flecked with tiny gold stars. I sat across from him, not on the proverbial couch, but in a second star-dusted deep-green wingback. Between us was a cherry table with a tape recorder and two china cups: tea for him, coffee for me. We could be a set piece at a theater: prominent shrink interviewing prominent patient.
I picked up the fine rose-patterned china cup and took a sip before answering. Work was Dr. Frank’s standard warm-up question. I only saw him a couple of times a year, so each occasion called for some sort of icebreaker, and he’d long ago realized I’d rather talk about other children’s problems than my own.
“I have a new charge,” I said now, setting down the coffee. It was decaf, really terrible. I didn’t know why I still accepted a cup, after all these years. You’d think I’d know better.
“Yes?” he said encouragingly, his gaze eternally patient.
“Her name’s Lucy. She’s a primal child. Fascinating, really. She soothes herself by taking on the persona of a house cat. Plays with her food, grooms herself, naps in sunbeams. As a cat, she’s fairly workable. Lose the persona, however, she’s aggressive, violent, wild.…” I lifted my hair to reveal a giant scratch alongside my neck, as well as an assortment of dark purple bruises. “That was from an encounter last night.”
Dr. Frank didn’t say anything. Talking is my half of the relationship.
“We’d assumed she was completely nonverbal,” I continued. “But last night she spoke to me. Also, I’ve caught her listening a few times when the staff was speaking. The look in her eyes … I think there’s a lot going on in her head we don’t know about yet. In fact, I think she might be much more capable than we’ve assumed.”
“You said she’s your charge?”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve been on the unit a lot these days, and if I’m on duty, I generally work with the nonverbals. My specialty.”
Now Dr. Frank was eyeing me steadily. I knew what he was building toward, but I made him work for it. After all, asking was his half of the relationship.
“When did you get off work?” he questioned now.
“I got home around three in the morning.”
He glanced at his watch. It was ten a.m. Ten a.m. on a beautiful Saturday morning. I should be hanging out in the parks along the Charles River, not sitting here.
“What time did you get up this morning?”
“What?”
“What time did you rise?”
My knee was starting to bounce. I forced it to stop. “Don’t know. Didn’t pay attention.”
“Breakfast?”
“Sure.”
“What did you eat?”
“I don’t know. Bagel. What does it matter?”
He eyed me, going in for the kill. “You tell me, Danielle. Why does it matter?”
Both of my knees were jiggling now. Traitors. “Fine,” I huffed out. “So I’m not sleeping much. No surprise there, right? And okay, I skipped breakfast, and oh yeah, now that you mention it, dinner last night.” Not that it’ll stop me from pounding a few drinks later on. No surprise there either.
I glared at him, daring him to tell me I don’t have the right to self-destruct.
“Dreams?” he asked steadily.
“Same fucking ones.”
“Do you get out of your parents’ house?”
“Nope. Nothing new there either.”
“Have you tried any sleep aids?”
“If you can believe such a thing, they make me crankier.”
“All right.” He picked up his own china cup, took a delicate sip of tea, then gently returned the cup to its saucer. “So you have how many days to go?”
I continued to glare at him. He knew the anniversary date as well as I did, the asshole.