by Rita Herron
Claire’s heart pounded, but she refused to show her fear or he would win. “Did you hurt her again, Joel?”
His eerie laughter wafted around her. “Hell, Doc, she damn near died from pleasure.”
ON THE WAY to meet Lassiter, Mark phoned Devlin. “Just checking in to see if you’ve got anything new.”
Devlin cleared his throat. “No. We tried to track down where the killer bought the roses, but it’s impossible. Street vendors sell them by the dozens.”
“Any of our suspects have a flower garden? Work for a florist or a gardening service?”
“We’re looking into that now.”
“Good. What about the cell phones?”
“They’re sold in blocks to convenience stores and retailers. We’ve traced both to local stores, but neither of the clerks remember who purchased them. We can check credit cards, but cash is harder. Any luck on that end?” Devlin asked.
“Nothing specific. I’m just beginning to question the staff here. Ian Hall professed to be cooperating although he was holding a press conference when I arrived. He wanted to make sure he received public accolades for his assistance in the investigation.”
“He won’t be so cooperative if we confiscate restricted files on personnel.”
“True. How about the other family members and acquaintances of the victims?”
“Dianne Lyon’s boyfriend checks out although there’s a strange guy in her apartment complex we’re looking at. He has a record for assault.”
Mark exhaled. Would they be lucky to find the guy so soon? For Claire’s sake, he hoped so. He didn’t want her in jeopardy.
Of course, when the case ended, he’d have no reason to stick around….
“The second victim’s husband lawyered up,” Devlin said. “We don’t have enough evidence to hold him. We’re running a nationwide check on recently released prisoners and mental patients, especially ones with violent tendencies or criminal records. Maybe something will turn up there.”
“I’ll keep digging on this end,” Mark said. Devlin agreed to stay in touch and Mark hung up just as he reached Lassiter’s office.
A redhead sat at the receptionist’s desk entering data into a computer. “Excuse me, I’d like to see Dr. Lassiter.”
She pivoted and glanced up at him over tiny square glasses. “He’s not here at the moment. Can I make you an appointment?”
“Just tell me where to find him.”
“May I have your name, sir, and what this is in reference to?”
Mark flashed his ID. “FBI, ma’am, official business.”
Her eyes widened, a flustered look crossing her face. “Oh, goodness. Well, let’s see, he just rushed off to Dr. Kos’s office for a minute. She had a problem with one of her patients.”
Mark thanked her and hurried down the hall, praying Claire wasn’t in trouble.
CLAIRE FELT FOOLISH for phoning Kurt Lassiter, and immediately wished she hadn’t. In fact, her first instinct had been to call Mark, but she’d choked it back, knowing he would ask questions that she couldn’t answer if she wished to maintain her professional integrity.
Or maybe she’d been afraid she’d leap into his arms and succumb to temptation and kiss him.
She’d probably read way too much into Joel Sanger’s comments anyway. If a psychologist searched for something devious in a patient’s rantings, ninety percent of the time he would find it, even if it were simple mad rantings. Besides, her patients had to trust that they could divulge those innermost thoughts without judgment or retribution.
“I’m sorry, Kurt,” she said. “I overreacted.”
“Claire, if you’re worried about a patient, you were right to call me. In fact, you can call me anytime, day or night.”
“I know, and thanks.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms to warm herself. “I suppose those awful phone calls to my show and those women’s murders are making me jumpy.”
“They should have you spooked,” Kurt said. “If you want me to take over as Sanger’s doctor, I will. Just say the word.”
“No, I want to continue.”
“But if he’s dangerous or involved in these recent murders—”
“I’ll let you know if I discover anything specific that points to him as the killer.”
Kurt moved up behind her, and she tensed. Twice, he’d asked her out, and she’d turned him down. She didn’t fully understand her own reasons.
He had been nothing but a gentleman. A friend and a professional she admired.
Yet he wanted more.
But since her accident, she’d shut herself off from personal relationships, especially with men, hiding away behind her visual impairment and pain as if she’d closed the curtain on her life. Besides, something about Kurt…bothered her.
He hesitated behind her, and she sensed his desire, then his hands fell over hers, and he squeezed her fingers. His hands were softer than Mark’s, not as callused or as strong. But they were gentle. “Claire, I’ll do whatever I can for you, here at the office, or…wherever.”
Claire closed her eyes, gave into the moment and leaned against him, willing herself to feel something for him, to be able to accept his comfort. Unfortunately, the only face that filtered through the darkness was Mark’s. The only arms she wanted around her were his, too.
“Claire?”
Mark’s dark voice boomed behind her. She pulled away from Kurt, feeling as if she’d somehow betrayed Mark. But that was ridiculous.
Mark didn’t still care for her, did he?
Chapter Six
Seeing another man touch Claire sparked Mark’s jealousy, but he reminded himself that their relationship had ended a year ago. Still, emotions moved inside him—a deep sense of loss mingled with a hunger to have her back again.
His instincts kicking in, Mark sized up the man beside Claire. He was around five-eleven, lean with sandy blondish hair, and intelligent eyes. Not as confident or arrogant-looking as Ferguson, but he supposed women might find him attractive. Still, something about the beadiness of his eyes triggered Mark’s suspicions.
Was Claire really interested in him?
Do your job. If you get emotionally involved, you might not be able to protect her.
“I’m looking for Dr. Lassiter,” Mark said.
Claire pulled herself away, and the man gave him a damning look as if he had interrupted an important moment.
“This is Dr. Lassiter,” Claire said. “Kurt, this is Lieutenant, I mean Agent Steele. He’s with the FBI.”
Kurt? Claire had said she wasn’t involved with anyone, but she’d used this man’s first name, implying their relationship was on friendly terms. Obviously not as personal as Lassiter wanted though….
“Ahh, you must be working on the serial killer case.” Lassiter strode forward and extended his hand.
“Yes, I am.” Mark shook his hand, finding the other man’s grip lacking. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Lassiter had his sights set on Claire.
Would he kill to get her attention? Or would he threaten her to make her pay for refusing his overtures?
Mark dropped his hand and faced Claire. “Did something happen, Claire?”
Claire moved back to her desk. A safety net, Mark realized. The desk provided a barrier between her and both men, put them all back on professional ground. He didn’t like being delegated to the same category as Lassiter.
“We were just discussing a case,” Claire said.
A case? Right. “You were worried about a patient being dangerous?” He cut his gaze toward Lassiter, then back to Claire, gauging their reactions. “Do you think this patient has something to do with the phone calls you received at the show and the women’s murders?”
“I can’t divulge patient information and you know it, Mark.”
Of course, she could discuss it with Lassiter. “But we agreed—”
“You told me if I thought a patient should be treated as a suspect to let you know.” She thumbed a strand
of hair back into place. She’d twisted her curls into some kind of knot at the base of her neck, which looked conservative yet sexy as hell and revealed the creamy skin of her throat. And those little spirally wisps that dangled around her cheeks made him itch to reach out and touch them.
Mark dragged his mind from her throat and the tempting thought of kissing it. “And?”
“And I will, but I can’t do that unless I have more reason. Even if I thought a patient might be dangerous, it doesn’t mean he’s the killer you’re looking for.”
She had a point, but he didn’t like it. “Maybe not, but if you find someone you suspect, Claire, I expect your cooperation.”
She jutted up her chin. “Yes, well, if that’s all, I have another patient to see.”
“Fine,” Mark said. “I need to ask Dr. Lassiter some questions.” He turned to the doctor. “Why don’t we go to your office.”
Lassiter gave him a wary look, but gestured toward the door. Just before he exited himself, Lassiter suggested to Claire that they have dinner.
Mark frowned and vowed to make certain Claire had other plans.
CLAIRE HAD NO IDEA why she’d let the sound of Mark’s voice draw her away from Kurt.
Or did she?
You still have feelings for him.
No, she couldn’t. But it wasn’t fair to lead Kurt on, either.
Maybe in time she could see Kurt as more than a friend, but now…now there was too much turmoil in her life. Now, she had to focus on finding this killer before he hurt anyone else.
What if one of her patients turned out to be the killer?
All the more reason to resume work and forget the edge that had tinged Mark’s voice when he’d walked in. His brusqueness probably had nothing to do with finding her nearly in Kurt’s arms. He was simply up-tight about the case.
After all, he hadn’t even called to check on her when she hadn’t arrived at the airport or later when she’d returned the ring. He’d walked away and never looked back.
Maybe his proposal had been a desperate attempt to conne with someone before he shipped out and he’d regretted it later; she’d heard of similar instances with other service men.
Latching onto that rationale, she turned back to work.
She made a few notes in Joel Sanger’s file, then prepared for her next patient, Richard Wheaton, the man she suspected was suffering from DID, dissociative identity disorder, a condition once referred to as multiple personality disorder. Although she’d read case studies on victims with the disorder, Wheaton was the first case she’d witnessed personally.
So far, during her sessions with Wheaton, she’d glimpsed two alternate personalities—a young child and a bitter, troubled adolescent. Neither resembled the withdrawn young man she’d first encountered.
“Hello, Richard.”
“Claire.” His low-pitched mumble was so quiet that she could barely hear him.
She wished she could observe his body gestures, too, it might give her insight into his other personalities. With his permission, she videotaped her sessions, and Dr. Ferguson had reviewed them with her, describing Wheaton’s physical gestures. He’d also agreed with her speculations.
Wheaton hadn’t responded well to male doctors so they both agreed it imperative she remain as his primary therapist, at least in the beginning stages.
“How are you today?” Claire asked.
He held back near the doorway, tentative as usual when he first arrived. “All right,” he said in that barely audible voice.
“Come in and sit down, Richard. I’m glad you’re here.”
He didn’t reply, but shuffled in, taking short jerky steps, then settled into a seat. She pictured him perched on the edge of the sofa as Ferguson had described, running his hands self-consciously through his short wavy brown hair. According to Ferguson, Richard seemed awkward, his nose and ears too large for his elongated face, his appearance having made him the butt of ridicule by his peers as a child.
Those tauntings had been the beginning of his problems, or at least the ones she’d detected. She suspected childhood trauma, maybe abuse had caused more severe damage.
“Richard, today I thought we’d explore your childhood and family. Tell me about your parents.”
She heard his feet click on the floor and realized he’d started rocking himself back and forth. He always resorted to the comforting behavior when she broached the subject of his family. “Your father died when you were five?”
“Yes,” he said in a small, screechy voice.
“Do you know what caused his death?”
“An accident,” he whispered.
“What kind of accident?”
“He…he got hit by a car.”
Claire nodded in encouragement. “The accident happened on the street where you lived?”
His feet clicked up and down. She sensed the tension in the air, heard his breathing become more labored. “In…front of my house.”
“And you saw the accident?”
“Y…es.” He careened, a low-pitched childlike sound. “St—stop it, Mommy. Stop it. Don’t hit Daddy.”
The careening intensified. His voice became juvenile, like that of a five-year-old.
“Richard, where is your mommy?”
A muffled sob escaped him, and he dragged in ragged gulps of air. “In…the car.”
She was certain he had never revealed that information to anyone, not even the police. “Is your mother driving the car?”
His feet rocked back and forth wildly as he began to cry. “Yes. Mommy, stop it. You’re hurting Daddy.”
Claire rose and moved toward him, then sat down beside him to calm him. “Take a deep breath, now, and tell me what you see.”
He sniffled. “Daddy…” he cried, “Daddy on the driveway, all bloody. Don’t die, Daddy. Regina needs you.”
“Who’s Regina?”
“My sister.”
Claire paused. “Where’s your mother now, Richie?”
“Mommy…she’s coming at me. She…she’s mad, she jumped out of the car, she’s screaming, she’s going to get me. No!”
He suddenly flung his arm up and knocked Claire to the floor. The back of her head hit the coffee table. She clutched the edge for support, her jaw stinging.
He bolted off the couch and strode to the window in thunderous steps, his voice loud and booming. “Hush, stop crying now. I took care of her. She can’t hurt us anymore.”
Claire rubbed the back of her head and stood, slightly dizzy and more cautious now. This voice wasn’t the whinelike cry Richard had spoken in earlier. It was a deep, threatening masculine voice filled with rage.
“How did you take care of her?” Claire asked softly.
“That bitch,” he bellowed. “I made sure she’s gone and she’s never coming back!”
According to the police report, Richard’s father had been killed when he was five. His mother had died when he was thirteen. Supposedly Richard had witnessed both his parents’ deaths.
There hadn’t been any mention of a little girl.
The report hadn’t suggested that he was responsible for killing his mother. But was he?
And had there been a sister or was she another one of Richard’s personalities? And if the sister had been real, what had happened to her?
Fear seeped through Claire.
Richard’s abuse and trauma explained his personality disorder. But he also fit the profile of the Midnight Murderer.
M’S CONVERSATION with Lassiter didn’t go much better than the one with Ferguson. He refused to give up information on Claire’s cases or his relationship with Claire. And when Mark questioned him about CIRP and the possibility of illegal or unethical experiments, he’d grown almost hostile, defending the center’s reputation and his co-workers’ ethics.
Mark had finally threatened to haul him in for questioning, reminding him that his refusal to answer questions made him look guilty. Finally he gleaned a tidbit of information—Lassiter had been engage
d three years ago, but the woman had supposedly cheated on him, and he’d canceled the wedding.
He sensed bitterness, but was it enough for Lassiter to turn against all women?
Mark would push Claire to see how much she knew about the man, then check out Lassiter’s past. Maybe an interview with the ex-fiancée would offer more on his character, determine if Lassiter had ever been violent.
He checked his watch and hurried down the corridor toward Claire’s office. He intended to take her to dinner before her radio show. But first he stopped to question the nurses in the psychiatric department. He introduced himself and explained his reasons for being there. Eileen Putter was the head nurse, in her late fifties with graying hair and an obvious propensity for food. Wynona seemed the opposite, a thirty-something, no-nonsense rail-thin woman with a permanent frown.
“What can you tell me about the doctors on staff?” Mark asked.
“What do you mean?” Wynona said.
“Has anyone acted suspicious lately? Could one of them have a grudge against Dr. Kos or women in general?”
“Are you kidding?” Eileen said with a laugh. “Most of the doctors think they’re God’s greatest gift on earth. Especially Dr. Ferguson.”
Which might make it hard for him to accept rejection.
“What about Dr. Lassiter?”
Wynona frowned. “He’s always been very professional. But I did hear that his ex-girlfriend died suspiciously.”
Mark’s pulse jumped into overtime as he removed a small notepad and began to jot down notes. “How do you mean suspicious?”
“Heard she committed suicide,” Eileen said.
“But they never found a note,” Wynona added.
“How did Lassiter react?”
“He seemed upset,” Eileen said. “I felt sorry for him at the time. First she dumped him, then she ups and kills herself.” She hesitated, her eyes going wide. “You don’t think…no, it couldn’t be.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about Dr. Lassiter,” Wynona said, as if they suddenly realized they’d forgotten loyalties. “He really is a good doctor.”
