“How’s Angel?” he asked.
“I thought you might be able to tell me.”
He smiled. The teeth were perfect and gleaming white. “Angel’s no longer a patient of mine. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No.”
He nodded. “We ended the therapy a couple of months ago.”
“You did, or did she?”
“She did, frankly. She got the idea I was somehow conspiring with her father. Under those conditions additional therapy would have been pointless. In this business you have to have the trust of the patient, otherwise it’s impossible to make any progress.”
“Who paid your bills?”
He shrugged. “Her father did.”
“Maybe she had a point, eh?”
He didn’t appear offended. “Some people are covered by medical insurance. Some aren’t, especially if therapy’s long-term. It’s not unusual to have a family pay for someone. It helps them all in the long run.”
“I assume you received the release form I sent? The one Angel signed?”
“Oh yeah, I got it. There’s a problem. That’s why I didn’t respond.”
“What’s that?”
“All I have in the way of records on Angel are diary entries and paid bills.”
“Didn’t you keep notes?”
He shrugged. “Sure. But when she discontinued therapy I got rid of them.”
“Did you store them?”
“No. I destroyed them.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
He shrugged. “That’s how I do it.” He smiled that open self-assured smile people have when they’re lying.
I’d get back to the records when he wasn’t quite so ready for the questions. “How did Angel come to be a patient of-yours?”
“There had been some trouble out on the Key. A family dispute that turned physical. She ended up at a splendid little hospital here. She promised to accept therapy on an outpatient basis and the hospital recommended me.”
“I received the hospital’s records,” I said. “They said they treated her for a personality disorder.”
“She was only in there for a few days, but that was their diagnosis.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Not entirely. Angel is a complicated young lady.”
“You do know she’s charged with her father’s death?”
He laughed. “Everyone knows unless they’ve been in a space capsule. The case has been splashed all over the papers down here and I’ve followed it on television. I’ve seen you on the tube, as a matter of fact.”
“Do you think she did it?”
The smile died. “How would I know?”
“Therapists usually have a basis for that kind of an opinion.”
He studied me for a moment, as if I had suddenly become visible and he was seeing me for the first time and didn’t like what he saw.
“Look, I’m not going to testify, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I’m not, at least not now. But what’s your problem?”
“In my business it’s not good to get on the stand and repeat what the patient told you in confidence.”
“Even if the patient asks you to do so?”
He looked away. “She wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Hey, she spent most of the sessions here telling me how much she hated her father. Did you know him?”
“No.”
“He was a piece of work.” He chuckled. “The original tight asshole, to use a slightly unprofessional phrase. The guy was a walking bundle of anger.”
“Did he hate Angel?”
“He wasn’t my patient, but I don’t think he hated her or loved her, frankly. She was his daughter and he thought of her as a possession, like his car or house. Also, this guy lived by rules, ironclad rigid rules. I see a lot of guys like that here. That kind of inflexibility makes rich men out of people like me. Anyway, if you put me on the stand, I’d have to say Angel told me she was going to kill her old man. I don’t think you want that, right?”
I nodded. “It could hurt.”
“Hurt? Hell, it could kill.”
“What was in your notes that made you decide to destroy them?”
“They were just notes to myself, that’s all. There was nothing special.”
“Did you destroy them after she was arrested?”
He eyed me warily. “Before.”
“How often did you see Angel when you were treating her?”
“Once a week, for an hour. That’s standard, unless there’s an emergency. Why?”
“I’ve been sent a number of records by her doctors and hospitals. Most of them have been edited. Yours aren’t the only notes missing.”
“So?”
“The experts I have reviewing the medical reports say it looks like someone went through and deleted much of what Angel said.”
“It’s probably just a coincidence. It happens.”
“Did anyone tell you to destroy the treatment notes?”
“That’s a rather nasty question considering how cooperative I’ve been.”
“Did they?”
“Of course not.”
“Did she ever tell you she was sexually abused by her father?”
“What she told me is confidential.”
“You have her signed release. I’m entitled to know.”
“Incest? I don’t think that was ever mentioned.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Look, Mr. Sloan, I have other things to do. When you see Angel tell her Al says hello.”
“I could depose you, make you answer questions under oath, you do know that?”
He nodded slowly. “Sure you could. Under oath, like you say. I don’t know much about legal procedure but I understand that you’d have to let the other side have a crack at me, too. Right?”
“So?”
“If you do, I’ve got to tell the truth. Angel said she would kill her father. That’s something I can’t lie about.”
“I just might take that risk.”
“It’s up to you.” He stood up. But there was no apparent anger. “Say, if you do see Angel, will you tell her something for me.”
“What?”
A sly Steve McQueen smile spread across his tan features. “Tell her I think she should get another lawyer.”
*
THERE was a new guard on the entrance gate to Sheridan Key, almost a twin of the first one, although a bit thinner and a lot less booze-ravaged. I identified myself as before and he let me pass.
The young black man who had greeted me when I first arrived took me through the Harwell house again. I could hear music coming from the pool area. This time it sounded like live music.
As if reading my mind, my guide grinned. “There’s a cocktail party out by the pool. It’s our turn tonight.”
“Turn?”
“Each night, except Sunday, there’s a cocktail party. The people who live out here on the Key take turns hosting it.”
“Is it mandatory to attend if you live down here?”
He laughed. “Oh no. But most people show up for an hour or so. It’s a way for them to stay in touch with their neighbors.”
“Sounds a little like the British colonies in Kenya or India in the old days.”
He chuckled, glancing down at his own black skin. “Not all that different when you come to think of it.” He grinned. “Sahib.”
It was very hot and even the slight breeze off the Gulf didn’t help much. I could see a flock of people standing around the pool area as we approached. Most of the women, all ages but mostly razor thin, wore frilly summer dresses. The men, gray-haired or bald, most of them portly, were decked out in slacks or walking shorts. Everybody held a glass.
A three-piece combo, guitar, base, and electric keyboard, softly played a lilting Cole Porter melody. The three middle-aged musicians were the only ones wearing coats. As they played they stared off into space as if to assure the people present t
hat whatever happened, none of it would be seen or reported.
Robin hurried over to me.
“Everyone’s dying to meet you.”
“This is quite a party. How long does it last?”
She smiled. “That depends on how much fun we have. Sometimes it breaks up before dinner. Sometimes it goes on into the wee hours of the morning. It just depends on the mood.”
“I need to talk to Angel.”
“Later, Charley. Let loose a bit. Look around you. Palm trees, the Gulf of Mexico, lovely ladies, music. You must admit, this beats Detroit.”
She did have a point.
“Let me get you a drink.”
“Not right now. Thanks.”
“Let me introduce you around.” She took my arm in the same fashion as Dr. Germain had. Perhaps it was a Florida custom.
Robin was good at it. We managed to meet everyone, more than thirty people, in less than an hour. The people at the party became for me a montage of smiling faces and insolent eyes. Apparently, I was considered a minor celebrity, thanks to national television coverage. These people, all of them very rich, seemed interested but not impressed. They could buy and sell me and they knew it. I tried to remember the names but it was impossible.
By the time we had worked our way through the people my shirt was plastered to my skin. I gratefully gulped down a large iced tea brought by one of the maids.
“Did any of these people know Harrison well?” I asked Robin.
She looked around at the group as if trying to make up her mind. “I think he may have slept with that dreadful Madge Foster over there. The blowzy redhead. Of course, damn few men here haven’t. Madge is almost a rite of passage with this crowd.”
“It doesn’t sound as if that made you wildly jealous.”
She smiled. “By the time it happened, I didn’t care one way or the other. Of course, as I told you, Harrison was in a kind of perpetual heat. He considered himself a bull, bellow and all. I thought age might finally slow him a bit but it didn’t.”
“How about the men here? Anyone a special buddy of his?”
“A friend?”
“Even rich people have them.”
She laughed. “Not Harrison. Most people here considered him a son of a bitch. Harrison had to compete at everything he did, and his main social ploy was putting others down. He was good at it, but that ability doesn’t win many close admirers.” She paused. “If anyone here could be considered a friend, it might be Willoby Johnson.”
“Which one is he? I’m afraid all the names became a jumble as you whirled me around out there.”
“Willoby, everyone calls him Willy, is the short stocky man with the colorful shirt, the bald fellow next to the tall woman. She’s his wife, his fourth wife.”
“Scrawny but beautiful.”
“If you read women’s magazines you’d recognize her. She was a top model before she married Willy.”
“There must be something wildly compelling about a beer belly and baldness.”
She nodded. “There is, when the belly is connected to a fortune worth over a hundred million.”
“True love.”
“There’s a lot of true love like that out here on the Key.”
“Like yours?” I regretted saying it as soon as it escaped my lips.
She smiled but I thought I saw pain in her eyes. “Ours was a genuine love match, at first.” She sighed. “It faded quickly, but in the beginning it was like something out of a storybook.”
“I’m sorry I said that.”
She looked away. “I have always preferred honesty, Charley, even if it hurts. Don’t worry about it.”
“I think I’ll have a talk with rich Willy.”
The combo played a familiar old tango as I walked toward the Johnsons. It was hard not to dance over. Also, caught in the mood of the soft, pulsating music, the sea, and the palms, I felt an urge to forget everything else, get a real drink, and just kick back and enjoy life. It only lasted for the distance it took to reach my bald-and-bellied target.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Sloan?” Mrs. Johnson was tall enough to play basketball for the Detroit Pistons. She looked down at me with green eyes that would have been beautiful except for the calculating quality I saw there.
“It’s a working trip for me,” I answered.
I looked down at her husband. A few more pounds and he could be the basketball. His eyes I recognized. I had seen that kind of eyes in every bar and saloon I had ever spent time in. He was already having a hard time focusing. His wife’s eyes were calculating, his were hostile.
“Mr. Johnson, I understand Harrison Harwell and you were close friends.”
“We played golf,” he growled, “until I couldn’t tolerate his cheating. It was the same at cards. He couldn’t stand to lose. He was a dishonest, mouthy bastard. I didn’t like his father, either.”
I thought he would make a touching witness.
“Oh, Harrison wasn’t so bad, Willy,” his wife said. “If you got past the bluster, he could be charming.”
“You only say that because he was trying to fuck you,” he responded indifferently, as if the subject had become boring.
“He was like that with everyone, not just me,” she replied, also indifferently.
“My experts think he may have committed suicide,” I said. “You knew him. Does that seem possible?”
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, almost at the same time.
She glanced down at her husband. I thought I saw disgust, but just for a second. Then she smiled. “Harrison had too much life in him for anything like that,” she said. “Oh, he had his faults, we all do. But he would be the last person to even think about suicide.”
“The prick was going to lose his fucking boat business,” he snapped with authority. “That would put him over the edge. Jesus, he couldn’t stand to lose at anything. That business was his whole life. Suicide makes a lot of sense to me. Full of life?” He looked up at his wife, his watery eyes narrowing. “Harrison was full of shit.”
“What are Angel’s chances?” his wife asked me, deftly changing the subject.
“Good, I hope. Of course, a jury might see things differently. We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Do you plan to plead insanity?” she asked.
“No.”
“Angel’s nuts,” her husband said. “But then, none of the Harwells were ever wired too tight.”
“Robin’s nice,” his wife said.
“She’s not a Harwell. Not by blood.”
“Will you be staying here long, Mr. Sloan?” she asked.
“A day or two. It depends.”
“We’re having a few people over tonight. Why don’t you come? We’re just three places down. You can walk it. I think I can promise you a good time, Mr. Sloan.”
“Jesus, Wanda, first that young boat boy, now this. What the hell’s wrong with you? This guy’s nothing but a lawyer, for Christ’s sake.”
She smiled. “Here on the Key my husband is considered something of a wit. Amusing, don’t you think? Can we expect you?”
“Thanks, but I have work to do. It’s been nice talking to you.”
The combo was playing a Hawaiian tune as I retraced my steps.
Milo Zeck was right. The rich, in some ways, aren’t all that different.
Robin was talking with a couple I had met but whose names I couldn’t remember.
“Where’s Angel?” I asked.
“She’s down by the shore,” she said. “She doesn’t like these parties very much.” She smiled. “Were the Johnson’s any help?”
“Like holes in a boat.”
I went to find Angel.
*
SHE was perched on a boulder near the water, one knee drawn up so that it served as a support for her chin, the other leg extended straight down, her toes buried in sand. She stared out at the gentle Gulf.
Angel was dwarfed in a huge loose shirt worn over walking shorts. She loo
ked like a little girl.
Faint music drifted down from the party near the pool.
“Hi,” I said as I came up to her.
She didn’t move an inch, her eyes fixed on the water. “Not much of a party, Charley?”
“Depends on your mood, I suppose. Robin says you aren’t thrilled by these things.”
“I’ve known those people up there most of my life. Toads have more personality. They’re all so full of alcohol and judgment, although God knows most of them have committed enough twisted sins to write a new Bible.” She paused. “Did you like them?”
I settled myself on a smaller boulder near hers.
“I didn’t spend enough time to find out. But today I did talk to the cop who arrested you down here, the time you cut your father. Tell me about that.”
“I prefer to forget things like that.”
“I wish you could, but the prosecutor is calling the cop as a witness against you, so I have to know what happened.”
“If I cut Daddy once, I would cut him twice; I suppose that’s the reasoning.”
“More or less. What happened?”
For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. She just continued to stare at the water. Then she spoke. “We had an argument, my father and I. Things escalated. He began to knock me around. He was drinking.” She looked over at me. “He was always drinking. I was afraid he was going to kill me, he was that angry. Very violent. I grabbed a knife off a table and held it in front of me, to keep him away. He was so mad he didn’t even see it. He swung at me and cut himself.”
“What was the fight about?”
She returned her gaze to the Gulf. “I don’t remember, there was always something.”
“The policeman said you were out of control.”
She sighed. “Anyone would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father went berserk when he saw he was bleeding. He told me he was going to have me put away for good. I thought he meant it. My father called the police. That cop didn’t even give me a chance to tell my side.”
“He seemed like a fair man to me.”
“Maybe he is, but that’s all anyone has to hear — she’s a former mental patient. It’s like having some hideous warning tattooed on your forehead.”
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