by Harlan Coben
Dr. Julie Abramson’s office was on the corner of Seventy-third Street and Central Park West. Ritzy address. One block north, overlooking the park, was the San Remo building. Dustin Hoffman and Diane Keaton lived there. Madonna had tried to move in, but the board decided she was not San Remo material. Win lived a block south, in the Dakota, where John Lennon had lived and literally died. Whenever you entered the Dakota’s courtyard you crossed over the spot where Lennon had been gunned down. Myron had walked it a hundred times since the shooting, but he still felt the need to be silent when he did.
There was an ornate, wrought-iron gate on Dr. Abramson’s door. Protective or decorative? Myron couldn’t decide, but he saw some irony in a psychiatric office being guarded by a “wrought” iron gate.
Okay, not much irony but a little.
Myron pressed a doorbell. He heard the buzzer and let himself in. He was wearing his best pair of sunglasses for the occasion, even though it was cloudy outside. Mr. Movie Star.
The receptionist, a neatly attired man wearing fashionable spectacles, folded his hands and said, “Good morning,” in a supposedly soothing voice that grated like a tortured cat’s screech.
“I’m here to see Dr. Abramson. I have a nine o’clock appointment.”
“I see.” He perked up now, studying Myron’s face, trying to guess who the big movie star was. Myron adjusted his sunglasses but kept them on. The receptionist wanted to ask for a name, but discretion got the better of him. Afraid of insulting the big-time celebrity.
“Could you fill out this form while you’re waiting?”
Myron tried to look annoyed by the inconvenience.
“It’s just a formality,” the receptionist said. “I’m sure you understand how these things are.”
Myron sighed. “Very well then.”
After it was filled out the receptionist asked for it back.
“I’d rather give it directly to Dr. Abramson,” Myron said.
“Sir, I assure you—”
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.” Mr. Difficult. Just like a real movie star. “I will give it to Dr. Abramson personally.”
The receptionist sulked in silence. Several minutes later the intercom buzzed. The receptionist picked up the phone, listened for a second, hung up. “Right this way please.”
Dr. Abramson was tiny—four-ten, tops, and seventy pounds soaking wet. Everything about her looked shrunken, scrunched up. Except for her eyes. They peered out of the diminutive face like two big, radiant, warm beacons that missed nothing.
She placed her child-size hand in his. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. “Please have a seat,” she said.
Myron did. Dr. Abramson sat across from him. Her feet barely reached the ground. “May I have your sheet?” she asked.
“Of course.” Myron handed it to her. She glanced down for a brief second.
“You’re Bruce Willis?”
Myron gave her a cocky side smirk. Very Die Hard. “Didn’t recognize me with the sunglasses, huh?”
“You look nothing like Bruce Willis.”
“I would have put Harrison Ford, but he’s too old.”
“Still would have been a better choice.” Then studying him a bit more she added, “Liam Neeson would have been better still.” Dr. Abramson did not seem particularly upset by Myron’s stunt. Then again, she was a trained psychiatrist and thus used to dealing with abnormal minds. “Why don’t you tell me your real name.”
“Myron Bolitar.”
The little face broke open in a smile nearly as radiant as the eyes. “I thought I recognized you. You’re the basketball star.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘star’ exactly.” Blush, blush.
“Please, Mr. Bolitar, don’t be so modest. First team all-American three years in a row. Two NCAA championships. One College Player of the Year. Eighth pick overall in the draft.”
“You’re a fan?”
“And so observant.” She leaned back. Like a small child in a big rocking chair. “As I recall, you made the cover of Sports Illustrated twice. Unusual for a college player. You were also a good student, an academic all-American, popular with the press, and considered quite handsome. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” Myron said. “Except maybe for that ‘considered’ part.”
She laughed. It was a nice laugh. Her whole body seemed to join in. “Now why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Please call me Myron.”
“Fine. And you can call me Dr. Abramson. Now what seems to be the problem?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I see.” She looked skeptical, but Myron sensed that the good doctor was having a little fun at his expense. “So you have a ‘friend’ with a problem. Tell me all about it.”
“My friend,” he said, “is Valerie Simpson.”
That got her attention. “What?”
“I want to talk to you about Valerie Simpson.”
The open face slammed shut. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
“No.”
“I thought I read you were a sports agent.”
“I am. Valerie Simpson was about to become a client.”
“I see.”
“When was the last time you saw Valerie?” Myron asked.
Dr. Abramson shook her head. “I can neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.”
“You don’t have to confirm or deny it. I know she was.”
“I repeat: I can neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.” She studied him for a moment. “Perhaps you can tell me what your interest is in this.”
“Like I said before, I was going to represent her.”
“That doesn’t explain your visiting me incognito.”
“I’m investigating her murder.”
“Investigating?”
Myron nodded.
“Who hired you?”
“No one.”
“Then why are you investigating?”
“I have my reasons.”
She nodded. “What are those reasons, Myron? I’d like to hear about them.”
Psychiatrists. “You want me to also tell you about the time I walked in on Mommy and Daddy?”
“If you want.”
“I don’t want. What I want is to know what caused Valerie’s breakdown.”
Her response was rote. “I can neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.”
“Doctor-patient privilege?”
“That’s right.”
“But Valerie is dead.”
“That doesn’t alter my obligation in the slightest.”
“She’s been murdered. Gunned down in cold blood.”
“I understand that. Dramatics will not alter my obligation either.”
“But you may know something helpful.”
“Helpful in what way?”
“In finding the killer.”
She folded the tiny hands in her lap. Like a little girl in church. “And that’s what you’re attempting to do? Find this woman’s killer?”
“Yes.”
“What about the police? I understood from news reports that they have a suspect.”
“I don’t trust authority types,” Myron said.
“Oh?”
“It’s one of the reasons I want to help.”
Dr. Abramson fixed him with the big eyes. “I don’t think so, Myron.”
“No?”
“You look more like the rescue-complex sort to me. The kind of man who likes to play hero all the time, who sees himself as a knight in shining armor. What do you think?”
“I think we should save my analysis for later.”
She shrugged her little shoulders. “Just giving my opinion. No extra charge.”
“Fine.” Extra charge? “I’m not so sure the police have the right man.”
“Why not?”
“I was hoping you could help me with that. Valerie must have talked
about Roger Quincy’s stalking her. Did she think he was dangerous?”
“For the final time, I will neither confirm nor deny—”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking about Roger Quincy. You don’t have a relationship with him, do you?”
“I also don’t know him.”
“Then how about one of those quick opinions. Like you did with me.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no way I can convince you to talk to me?”
“About a possible patient? No.”
“Suppose I got parental consent.”
“You won’t.”
Myron waited, watched. She was better at this than him. Her face gave away nothing, but the words couldn’t be taken back. “How do you know that?” he asked.
She remained silent. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Myron wondered if the faux pas had been on purpose.
“They called you already, didn’t they?” Myron said.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss any communications between myself and—”
“The family called. They hushed you up.”
“I will neither confirm—”
“The body is barely cold and they’re already covering their tracks,” Myron went on. “You don’t see anything wrong with that?”
Dr. Abramson cleared her throat. “I do not know what you’re talking about, but I will say this: it is not unreasonable in situations such as the one you’ve described to me for parents to want to protect their daughter’s memory.”
“Protect her memory”—Myron rose, put on his best lawyer-in-summation glower—“or her murderer?” Mr. High Drama.
“Now you’re being silly,” she said. “You surely don’t suspect the young woman’s family.”
Myron sat back down. He gave his best anything’s-possible head tilt. “Helen Van Slyke’s daughter is killed. Within hours the grieving mother calls you to make sure you keep your mouth shut. You don’t find that a tad odd?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that I have ever heard the name Helen Van Slyke.”
“I see,” Myron said. “So you think this should all be shoved aside. Bottled up. Let the image rule over the reality. Somehow I don’t think that sits well with you, Doc.”
She said nothing.
“Your patient is dead,” Myron continued. “Don’t you think your obligation should be to her, not her mother?”
Dr. Abramson’s hands tightened into small balls for a moment, then relaxed. She took a deep breath, held it, let out it slowly. “Let us pretend—and just pretend—that I was the psychiatrist for this young woman. Wouldn’t I have an obligation not to betray what she told me in the strictest of confidences? If the patient chose not to reveal any of this while alive, wouldn’t I have an obligation to uphold that right for her in death?”
Myron stared at her. Dr. Abramson stared back. Unyielding. “Nice speech,” he said. “But maybe Valerie wanted to reveal something. And maybe someone killed her to deny her that right.”
The bright eyes blinked several times. “I think you should leave now,” she said.
She pressed a button on her intercom. The receptionist appeared at the door. He crossed his arms and tried to look intimidating. The attempt was hardly a rousing success.
Myron rose. He knew he had planted a seed. He would have to give it time to germinate. “Will you at least think about it?” he added.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
The receptionist stepped aside, allowing Myron room to pass.
19
Of the three witnesses to the murder of Alexander Cross—all college chums of the deceased—only one lived in the New York area. Gregory Caufield, Jr., was now a young associate at daddy’s law firm of Stillen, Caufield, and Weston, a high-powered, high-profile firm with offices in several states and foreign countries.
Myron dialed, asked for Gregory Caufield, Jr., and was put on hold. A woman came on the line several seconds later and said, “I’ll put you straight through to Mr. Caufield.”
A click. One ring. Then an enthusiastic voice said, “Well, hi!”
Well, hi?
“Is this Gregory Caufield?”
“Sure is. What can I do for you today?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I’d like to make an appointment to see you.”
“Sure. When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“How about half an hour from now? Will that be okay?”
“That’ll be fine, thank you.”
“Super, Myron. Looking forward to it.”
Click. Super?
Fifteen minutes later Myron was on his way. He walked up Park Avenue past the mosque steps where Myron and Win liked to lunch on summer days. Prime woman-watching perch. New York has the most beautiful women in the world, bar none. They wear business attire and sneakers and sunglasses. They walk with cool purpose, with no time to waste. Amazingly, none of the beautiful women checked Myron out. Probably just being discreet. Probably ogling him like crazy from behind those sunglasses.
Myron cut west to Madison Avenue. He passed a couple of electronics stores with the same GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs they’d had up for at least a year. The sign was always the same—white sign, black letters. A blind man held out a cup. Didn’t even give out pencils anymore. His seeing-eye dog looked dead. Two cops were laughing on the corner. They were eating croissants. Not doughnuts. Another cliché blown to hell.
There was a security guard by the elevator in the lobby.
“Yes?”
“Myron Bolitar to see Gregory Caufield.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-second floor.” Didn’t call up. Didn’t check his list. Hmm.
When the elevator opened, a pleasant-faced woman was standing there. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bolitar. If you’d please follow me.”
Down a long corridor with an office-pink carpet, white walls, McKnight framed posters. No typewriters clicked, but Myron heard the whir of a laser printer. Someone was dialing a number on a speakerphone. A fax machine screeched its call to another fax machine. When they turned the corner, a second, equally pleasant-faced, woman approached. Plastic smiles all around.
“Hello, Mr. Bolitar,” the second woman said. “Nice to see you today.”
“Nice to see you too.” Every line a lady-slayer.
The first woman handed him over to the second. Tag-team style. “Mr. Caufield is waiting for you in conference room C,” the second woman said, her voice low, as if conference room C were a clandestine chamber in the bowels of the Pentagon.
She led him to a door very much like any other except it had a big bronze C on it. In a matter of seconds, Myron managed to deduce that the room was conference room C. The Adventures of Sherlock Bolitar. A man opened the door from the inside. He was young with a thick head of Stephanopoulos-like hair. He pumped Myron’s hand enthusiastically. “Hi, Myron.”
“Hi, Gregory.” Like they actually knew each other.
“Please come in. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Myron stepped fully into the room. Big walnut table with dark leather chairs, the expensive kind, the kind with those little gold buttons on them. Oil portraits of stern-faced men on the walls. The room was empty, except for one man down the other end of the table. Though they had never met, Myron recognized the man immediately. He should have been surprised, but he wasn’t.
Senator Bradley Cross.
Gregory did not bother with introductions. In fact he didn’t bother staying. He slipped out the door, closing it behind him. The senator stood. His were a far cry from the classic patrician good looks one usually associates with political families. They say people look like their pets; in that case Senator Bradley Cross owned a basset hound. His features were long and malleable. His finely tailored suit did nothing to disguise his exaggerated pear build; on a woman, his hips would be called child-bearing. His hair was wispy gray strands that seemed to be
suffering from static cling. He wore thick glasses and an off-center smile. Still, it was an endearing smile—indeed, an endearing, trustworthy face. The kind of face you’d vote for.
Senator Cross slowly put out his hand. “I’m sorry for the dramatics,” he said, “but I thought we should meet.”
They shook hands.
“Please have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you,” Myron said.
They sat facing each other. Myron waited. The senator seemed unsure how to begin. He coughed into his fists several times. Each cough made his jowls flap a bit.
“Do you know why I wanted to see you?” he asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“I understand you’ve been asking a lot of questions about my son. More specifically, about his murder.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around. Here and there. I am not without my sources.” He tilted his head the way a basset hound does when he hears a strange sound. “I’d like to know why.”
“Valerie Simpson was going to be a client of mine,” Myron said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m looking into her murder.”
“And you believe there might be a connection between Valerie’s murder and Alexander’s?”
Myron shrugged.
“My son was killed by a random street thug six years ago near Philadelphia. Valerie was killed almost gangland style at the U.S. Open in New York. What possible connection could there be?”
“Maybe none.”
Cross leaned back, fiddled his thumbs. “I want to be up-front with you, Myron. I’ve looked into your background a bit. I know about your past work. Not the details, of course, but your reputation. I’m not trying to apply any influence here. It’s not my style. I’ve never been comfortable at playing the tough guy.” He smiled again. His eyes were wet now and there was a discernible quake in his voice. “I’m talking to you now not as a United States senator but as a grieving father. A grieving father who just wants to let his son rest in peace. I’m asking you to please stop what you’re doing.”
The pain in the man’s voice was raw. Myron had not expected this. “I’m not sure I can, Senator.”
The senator rubbed his entire face vigorously, using both hands. “You see two young people …” he began tiredly. “You see two young people with the whole world in front of them. Practically engaged to one another. And what happens to them? They’re murdered in two separate incidents six years apart. The cruel coincidence is too much to fathom. You wonder about that, don’t you, Myron?”
