Blinded

by Stephen White

  Twelve-thirty.

  I looked at the sky.

  Winter.

  At nine o’clock that morning, the day had been as splendid as any November day in memory. And now it was snowing like a son of a bitch.

  We were getting blasted.

  Carmen Reynoso was parked on the shoulder right where the pavement ended and the dirt lane started winding along the hillside toward my house. She was sitting in the front seat of a rented GM coupe reading an Avis road map. I knew the odds were good that the dirt lane that came to a blunt end in front of my home wasn’t marked on the map she was reading.

  At first I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was Reynoso behind the wheel, so I pulled alongside to get a better look. Once convinced, I lowered my passenger-side window.

  “Detective Reynoso?”

  “Dr. Gregory? You’ve been expecting me?”

  I shrugged.

  “Interesting weather you have around here. We don’t get a whole lot of this in Laguna Beach.”

  What would the tourist board want me to say? “Well, I hope you enjoy the change. The storm will make the ski resorts very happy. They always love a good dump before Thanksgiving.” The meteorological reality was that Front Range upslope snowstorms often left the big ski resorts on the west side of the Continental Divide basking in bright sunshine.

  “Can we talk? I’m sure you know about what.” Her words said invitation. Her eyes said something else.

  I knew I could refuse. But what was the point? I wanted Reynoso to know what I knew. What I didn’t want to do was fence with her about the things I didn’t have permission to tell her, although that is precisely what I anticipated we would spend our time doing.

  “Sure,” I said. “Do you have a place in mind?” I didn’t want to have the meeting at my house.

  “We could have done it yesterday at your patient’s house. You know, after the search. But I heard you only stayed for the first act.”

  Was that humor? I wasn’t sure. A snowflake the size of a moth blew in the open window and landed on the tip of my nose. It melted instantly, and I wiped it away.

  “Give me a few minutes with this”-she lifted the road map-“and I think I could get us back in the direction of the Boulder Police Department. That’s-where? Thirty-third Street? Off, what-Arapahoe? Am I right? I’m sure they’d give us a room we could use. Everyone’s been so nice.”

  I’d seen the interview rooms in the Public Safety Building on Thirty-third Street. Not my idea of a great place to spend a Saturday afternoon, blizzard or no blizzard.

  I said, “You want to get some coffee somewhere?” I was thinking of leading her east into Louisville and finding some chain place like Village Inn. I didn’t know as many people in Louisville as I did in Boulder.

  She fixed her eyes on my face. A deep cleft had formed above the bridge of her nose, as though she were smelling something foul or facing directly into a bright sun. After a pause long enough that I would notice that she had delayed, she suggested, “What about your house? It’s close by here, right?” She lifted the map again. “I bet I can find it.”

  The pace of the snow suddenly accelerated. The lazy snowflakes that had been falling were replaced by millions of smaller, quicker reinforcements. A few superfrozen scouts started sticking to the windshield.

  I was dressed in cotton cords and a light sweatshirt. Home had its allure.

  “Yeah, it is,” I said. “Follow me.”

  I led Detective Reynoso down the lane and then into our house.

  Lauren had scribbled a few words on the bottom of the note that I had left for her about heading out earlier in the day with Sam. She and Grace were home from yoga and gone again to a birthday party in Lafayette for one of Grace’s friends. I use the word “friend” loosely. One-year-olds don’t actually have buds; they have other one-year-olds that their parents make them hang out with.

  I closed my eyes and cursed silently. Taking Grace to the birthday party had been my job: I was supposed to get Grace some lunch and then take her to her friend’s party and bring her back home.

  Two outings in a row taxed Lauren’s multiple sclerosis-depleted energy reserves, which meant we would all pay a price later in the day, probably increased fatigue, for my oversight.

  Damn.

  During my interlude of silent self-flagellation, Reynoso stood patiently in the entryway. I finally remembered my manners. “Can I take your coat?”

  “Sure. Nice place.”

  “Thanks.”

  She tried some small talk on me. “Do you know that Baseline Road is the fortieth parallel? I read that on the Boulder website.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. You mean exactly? No minutes, no seconds?”

  “Exactly. That’s what it says. The road is exactly forty north.”

  “Well,” I said as I led her into the living room and adjusted the thermostat to bring us some heat. To the west the usual glorious panorama of the Rocky Mountains was nothing but a screen of swirling white dots. “It’s usually a nice view. In fact, on most days you get a pretty good look at the fortieth parallel.”

  “Your wife’s a prosecutor,” she replied, unamused.

  Reynoso had moved on; we were apparently finished chatting longitude and latitude. But I didn’t especially want to talk about my family, so I didn’t respond.

  She noticed that I didn’t respond.

  “I’ll take that coffee,” she said. “Actually tea, if you have it.”

  I didn’t trust Reynoso alone in my house. What did I think she was going to do? Nothing specific, but at that moment I didn’t even like the idea of her reading the titles that were lined up in my bookcase. “Of course. Come to the kitchen with me while I make it.” I didn’t say,“If you’re curious, you can check out the cookbooks.”But I thought it.

  I made her a small pot of tea-Tension Tamer from Celestial Seasonings seemed an apropos choice. She sat on a stool and watched me. I could tell that she was enjoying our meeting more than I was.

  When the tea was ready-she asked for milk, no sugar-I carried a mug back into the living room for her. She took a seat on the sofa, held the tea below her face-for the warmth, I decided, rather than the aroma-and took a tiny sip. After a moment she closed her eyes briefly and said, “Thank you.”

  I was settling firmly into the familiar security of therapist mode. I didn’t say, “You’re welcome.”

  Reynoso, I guessed, was a few years older than I. Her features were carved, and the ridge beneath her eyebrows was prominent and brooding. But what was most stunning about her appearance was the quality of her skin. Her complexion looked as soft and smooth as my almost-toddler daughter’s.

  “The other day on the phone? After your call? I wasn’t cordial with you, Dr. Gregory. I’d like to begin by apologizing to you for that. The whole thing came out of the blue. I wasn’t gracious.”

  “Accepted.” My antennae were tuned for cynicism, and I immediately wondered whether she was disarming me or placating me or both with her apology. “You thought I was a crank, I bet.”

  “We get some crazy calls sometimes. You have a child?”

  “A daughter.” I still didn’t want to talk about my family.

  “This doesn’t have to be difficult,” she said.

  “Although it’s not a pleasant subject, I don’t expect it has to be difficult, either, Detective Reynoso. I’m happy to tell you anything that I have permission to share with you.”

  “Ah,” she said, and returned her attention to her mug. “That’s the rub, though, isn’t it?”

  “The rub?”

  “You deciding what you have the right to tell me. That’s the complication for us, right?”

  “Your profession has rules. My profession has rules. I’m sure that we can respect each other’s positions.”

  Actually I wasn’t at all certain that we could respect each other’s positions, but it seemed like a cordial thing to say, and it was apparent that we were both trying hard to be cordial. />
  The posted odds in Vegas were a hundred to one against things remaining cordial between us, however.

  Reynoso said, “My profession’s rules are geared toward discovering the truth. That’s all.”

  I didn’t want to joust with her. But I was willing to, if that’s what she wanted. I said, “Mine aren’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You don’t have a goal of helping your… patients learn the truth about their lives?”

  I figured it was a trick question. “Psychologically? Yes. Factually? No.”

  “I was in therapy once.”

  What would the American Psychological Association want me to say? “I hope you found it helpful.”

  “Very.”

  “Great.”

  “I don’t have much leverage with you,” she said with her eyes averted and her hand reaching for her purse.

  I thought,Good. The fact was, I didn’t think she had any leverage with me. But in the interest of extending the cordiality as far as possible, I said, “You don’t need any leverage, Detective. I’m happy to do whatever I’m able to do to help you solve this crime.”

  She took a notepad and slender pen from her shoulder bag along with a small tape recorder and a purse-size bottle of Tylenol. She set the recorder on the coffee table between us, threw a couple of pain relievers into her mouth, and washed them down with a gulp of tea. After flicking the recorder on, she pointed at the red light for my benefit, stated the date and time, and then touched the pause button. “Where are we right now? The address?”

  I told her my address, adding, “You feeling okay?”

  She touched her temple. “I’ve had a headache since I got here.”

  “It could be altitude sickness. Happens a lot. Drinking more water might help.”

  “Altitude sickness?”

  I nodded.

  “You have headaches all the time?” she asked.

  “No, you get over it.”

  “Good.” She returned her attention to the recorder, removed her finger from the pause button, repeated the address, explained the purpose of the interview, stated her name and mine, and asked me if I was participating voluntarily.

  I had to think about my answer. Finally, I said I was.

  “When did you first meet Gibbs and Sterling Storey?”

  I considered that question carefully, too. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to answer that one.”

  It was obvious that Detective Reynoso hadn’t expected my response. She’d thought she was lobbing a softball my way.

  She said, “What?”

  “The circumstances of my meeting the Storeys-if, indeed, I have met the Storeys-might be part of a therapeutic relationship, and any details about a therapeutic relationship, even simply whether or not there is a therapeutic relationship, and if there is, when it may have begun, are things that I’m not permitted to reveal under Colorado law.”

  “What?”

  The second “What?” was born of incredulousness. “Dr. Gregory, I know you know her. You’ve already told me you’re treating her. Come on. Don’t be difficult just for the sake of being difficult.”

  “You didn’t ask me whether I know Gibbs Storey, Detective. If that is the question, the answer is yes, I know Gibbs Storey. If you would like me to tell you when I first learned the information that brought you to Colorado, I can tell you that, too. It was last Monday. What you asked me was when I met Gibbs and Sterling Storey. That is a question that I’m not at liberty to answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can only answer questions that are covered by an affirmative release of information. I have a limited release from Gibbs Storey. I do not have a release of any kind from Sterling Storey.”

  She sighed. “Have you ever met Sterling Storey?”

  “Next question.”

  “Am I correct in assuming that if the answer was no, you would be free to tell me so?”

  I didn’t respond. I wasn’t having very much fun.

  “I’ll assume that, then.”

  “Assume what you wish. Whether someone is in therapy, and thus whether I know them professionally, is privileged information. I can’t discuss it without a release. We’ll get a lot farther a lot faster if you just limit yourself to questions that I’m free to answer.”

  My frustration was showing. I’d expected that Detective Reynoso would know the rules as well as I did. If she did, she wasn’t letting on, and her attempt to frustrate me was intentional.

  And it was working.

  She said, “And you are free to answer questions that…”

  I swallowed a sigh. “I’m free to answer questions that relate to Gibbs Storey’s accusation that her husband, Sterling, is responsible for murdering a woman named Louise Lake in Laguna Beach, California, back in nineteen…” I’d forgotten the year. “Whatever. That’s it.”

  “Ninety-seven. What is Gibbs Storey’s current diagnosis, Doctor?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Detective. I’m sorry, but it’s not covered by the release.”

  “The release is that specific?”

  “Yes, Ms. Storey has been quite specific about what she would like me to tell you and what she would prefer to remain privileged.”

  Carmen Reynoso sat back on the sofa, crossed her long legs, and smiled such a big engaging smile that I reflexively smiled in return.

  “Twenty questions with you just isn’t any fun,” she said. “How about this? Why don’t you tell me what you can tell me?”

  So I did.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I knew only what Gibbs wanted me to know.

  Louise Lake was a British flight attendant who had shared two homes with two other flight attendants. One of the homes was an almost-derelict, two-bedroom, to-die-for maid’s quarters attached to a ramshackle, early-twentieth-century shingled palace high on the rocky cliff above Crescent Bay in Laguna Beach in the southern L.A. metro area. The woman who owned the property and rented out the apartment was an elderly Australian who spent most of the year in Sydney.

  The other home shared by the trio of flight attendants was a tiny one-bedroom flat in the fashionably tony Hyde Park section of London. Louise and another woman, named Helena, owned the London flat together. Their third roommate, Paulie, paid them a healthy rent for the privilege of crashing occasionally at one place or the other and, when circumstances dictated, didn’t complain about sleeping on the sofa in the front room of the London flat.

  All three close friends typically flew the busy Heathrow-LAX run for British Airways.

  Sterling had met Louise in business class while he was on the long trip back from doing the coverage on the British Open in the summer of 1997. She told him that she was looking forward at the time to an almost full fortnight of holiday at her Laguna Beach hideaway. Sterling revealed to her that they were practically neighbors-that he and his wife were only weeks away from completing renovations on a cottage in Corona Del Mar, just a few miles up PCH from Crescent Bay.

  Louise was seeing a guy in L.A. at the time. His name was Scott and he was the personal assistant to a young director who was a favorite of Steven Spielberg and David Geffen. Louise was a little embarrassed by the way Scott flashed his cell phone and beeper and BlackBerry like a Boy Scout displaying his merit badges. She admitted to Sterling that she thought Scott was fun and pretty but was really just a “glorified freeway butler.”

  At the conclusion of the flight Sterling invited Louise and Scott to dinner. She accepted.

  The meal was at a little French place that the Storeys loved on Balboa Island, and it went well. Scott turned out to be precisely as full of himself as Louise had suggested he was, and with precisely as little cause. Over the next few months as Gibbs, Louise, and Sterling became good friends, Scott was soon out of the picture. He disappeared to Europe with his boss, who was spending the late summer wooing a French actress in Brussels and scouting locations for “a period thing” he was about to start shooting in Budap
est and Prague.

  “The nature of the friendship, please. That’s important,” Carmen Reynoso prodded. “If you can, of course.”

  Louise was a working woman whose primary home was in Britain. When not in London she was usually traversing the North Atlantic doing her job, which left her mostly unavailable to accompany Gibbs on her frequent forays to her favorite haunts of Fashion Island or South Coast Plaza. Louise’s unavailability didn’t seem to matter; Gibbs adored Louise and almost immediately counted her among her closest friends. Gibbs especially loved Louise’s cosmopolitan manners and her London accent. Although she didn’t say so exactly, it was apparent that Gibbs thought Louise was a better accessory in the South Bay social scene than either Kate Spade or Manolo Blahnik.

  “ Louise Lake was a beautiful woman. Where did that fit in?” With the question, I noted that the cleft had reappeared between Reynoso’s eyebrows. She wanted to know about Sterling and Louise, the couple. The thought apparently caused her to frown.

  Gibbs didn’t suspect that anything was going on between Sterling and Louise until a Halloween costume party that Gibbs had long planned to celebrate the completion of the renovation of the Corona Del Mar cottage. Louise wasn’t even planning to attend the party; she had sent her regrets weeks before because she was scheduled to work the overnight from LAX to Heathrow on the thirty-first. Some combination of factors-Gibbs thought it was a mechanical problem and a crew overtime issue, but who ever knew with the airlines?-conspired to keep Louise in L.A. for another night.

  She arrived at the Storeys’ party in Corona after midnight, still dressed in her BA uniform. The party was already in its death throes, and the few guests still remaining on the patio were so inebriated that a couple of them even complimented Louise on the originality of her costume.

  Gibbs was decked out as Grace Kelly. By self-report, she’d looked the part. Sterling came as Joe DiMaggio, and Gibbs remained troubled about his late change of heart about costumes. She had been counting on Prince Rainier or James Bond, her early suggestions. If she’d known he was going to be wearing pinstripe flannels as Joltin’ Joe, she would have tried to talk him out of it.