When the Storm Breaks

by Heather Lowell

  Claire waited impatiently while he went through her entire case file. If one of her assistants had come to a meeting so ill prepared, she would have scorched the person for wasting her time. When Dr. Morton leaned back again with a thunderous squeak and studied her as if a spaceship had just dropped her off, she wondered what was up with him. Her eyes strayed once again to the hallway. Sean was still there, still watching.

  “If you can’t remember what the killer looks like, how did you decide which clients to choose in the dating service catalogue?” Dr. Morton asked.

  “We’re hoping that subconsciously I picked out men who resemble him in some way, or that I may even have selected the killer himself.”

  “Subconsciously. I see.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Did your doctor ever mention the term hysterical amnesia to you?”

  “No. He used the term traumatic. He said that many victims of head injuries have no memory of the time leading up to the trauma.”

  “Yes, but we often see this in other types of injuries as well. There’s some debate on whether there are physical or psychological factors involved. However, I’m of the opinion that since amnesia is found in patients with vastly different injuries, the roots of the condition are probably psychological. It’s certainly not surprising that the brain would want to edit portions of a shocking event,” he said, looking at her in an understanding way.

  “Interesting. But I’m of the opinion I took a blow to the head that interrupted a few synaptic functions. I’ve been through horrible events before and never had any trouble remembering things in painful detail.”

  “Have you ever witnessed a murder before?” The question was accompanied by an eyebrow lift.

  “Of course not. I didn’t get knocked on the head, either. In spite of the trauma, I’m doing everything I can to help the police. I’ve been working with Sean and Aidan for over two weeks on this, to the exclusion of everything else in my life.” She glanced out the window. He was still there. “I want to remember that night. I’ve tried thinking about it until my head feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve tried to remember my dreams. But there’s nothing there.”

  “You keep looking out the window. Why?”

  “Sean is pacing out there, waiting for us to finish. He said he’d be eager to look over the notes from our discussion.” She looked pointedly at the blank yellow notebook in front of the doctor.

  “You seem to be on friendly terms with Detective Richter.”

  Claire stopped fidgeting and focused on the doctor. She’d have to tread very carefully here. “He and Aidan have been very kind to me. They have an excellent bedside manner with victims.”

  She thought about how Sean had been in the hospital before tension had developed between them, and told herself that she wasn’t really lying.

  The doctor flipped through a couple more pages in the file. “I see you’ve been working very closely with Detective Richter. He’s detailed multiple meetings, interviews, and strategy sessions with you.”

  “Yes,” Claire said, even though it wasn’t a question. “He and Aidan have—”

  “It would be easy, in a situation like this, for someone to become emotionally attached,” Dr. Morton continued, ignoring her words. “Especially someone who is vulnerable and needs help.”

  “I suppose someone who only looked on the surface might see things that way,” Claire said neutrally.

  “But you don’t?”

  “No. I see people working together to stop a killer. It’s no different from one of my office projects, except the stakes are much higher.”

  “It’s perfectly understandable that you would develop feelings for Detective Richter. His job places him in the role of protector, and in this case he’s protecting you. That can lead to powerful emotional bonding, especially for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “You’ve been through a traumatic event and are probably feeling a little fragile. Plus…” Dr. Morton pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “Go on. I assure you I won’t break into pieces.”

  “You seem to have a need to be rescued. Call it a ‘White Knight’ fantasy.”

  She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “It all fits quite neatly. Detective Richter—who you’ve repeatedly looked at through the window since I arrived—is responsible for guarding you. Your participation in the investigation reinforces the role of protector, because he watches over you every day during the operation. Furthermore, you need him to solve the case so that you can be freed from the role of victim, or in other words, rescued. It’s pretty classic.”

  “So is bullshit,” Claire said, trying to shock him.

  “Look at what you did the night of the murder. You joined a dating service. Essentially, what that says to me is you’re looking for a man to solve your problems. Even the name of the dating service, Camelot, underscores the White Knight fantasy. Why do you think you chose that company over the many others out there? You were attracted to the symbolism.”

  “The name had nothing to do with it. My friend recently took over the management there. My company had a contract with Camelot last year, so I knew the previous owner. It was only logical that I would go back to them.”

  “I’m sure you can rationalize it that way. But subtle clues like this only underscore my initial opinion.”

  She thought carefully before responding. Losing her temper would not improve her position with the doctor. “But you’re not here to give an opinion about me. You’re here to develop a profile of the killer.”

  “Which you’re unwilling to assist me in doing,” Dr. Morton replied. “Yet you’re still working quite happily with the team of investigators, including Detective Richter.”

  “I’m sure you have an opinion about that, as well.”

  He nodded. “I do. As long as you keep working with the investigation, you get to be rescued. It’s no wonder you haven’t had any success ‘recovering’ your memory. Once you do, your role as damsel in distress will be over.”

  “Fascinating opinion, but I’m afraid it only underscores the fact that you don’t understand me, or this investigation, at all.”

  The doctor looked her over. “Defensive posture, dismissive language, flushed cheeks. I’d say I scored a direct hit.”

  Claire had had enough, but she would be professional if it killed her. An emotional outburst at this point would only make Dr. Morton more smug. She stood up and straightened her skirt. Pretending he was a difficult, important client, she smiled warmly and held out her hand.

  “Well, then I think we’re done,” she said. “Thank you so much for your time today, Dr. Morton. I’m sure you’re a very busy man, and I appreciate being able to get some of your insights.”

  He stared at her switch from defensive victim to polished diplomat. “I don’t think we’re finished here.”

  “It’s gracious of you to offer more time, but I’m afraid I have another appointment. If there’s anything further you need from me, my number is in the case file.”

  Claire rounded the table, opened the door, and closed it softly behind her. Leaning back against it, she saw that Aidan had joined Sean in the hallway. They both turned inquiring looks in her direction.

  “How did it go?” Sean asked.

  “You’d have better luck consulting chicken entrails than relying on Dr. Psychobabble in there.” She brushed past the detectives and walked quickly down the hall.

  “Claire?” Sean called after her. “What happened?”

  “Ask the shrink. If he’s still capable, I’m sure he’s panting to talk to you. He’ll throw in an analysis of your relationship with your mother at no extra charge.”

  Claire went through the doorway without looking back.

  Aidan glanced over at Sean. “What the hell…?”

  Sean headed into the conference room to find out.

  Chapter 43

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesda
y morning

  Aidan and Sean left the conference room and Dr. Morton behind, feeling like they’d been to a bad movie. The two detectives gave each other sideways glances, not knowing whether to laugh or bang their heads on the wall.

  “What a putz,” Aidan muttered.

  “On his best day, he’d have to stretch to be a putz.” Sean headed toward their desks. “I don’t think we can use anything he told us.”

  “How did he describe Claire again?”

  “I’m not sure. My mind had kind of numbed by then.” Sean skimmed the single page of quickly scribbled notes Dr. Morton had pressed on them during the brief meeting. “Here it is. ‘Ms. Lambert is an emotionally fragile witness whose potential contribution to the case is questionable given her tenuous mental state.’”

  “Shit,” Aidan said in disgust.

  “And don’t forget about the part where she wants to be the center of attention in an ongoing police psychodrama,” Sean said. “He can’t decide whether her amnesia is hysterical or feigned.”

  “If he can’t see Claire, who’s sitting right in front of him, how can he give us a useable psych profile on the killer?”

  “He can’t. I’m going to stick this crap under the ‘related documents’ tab at the end of the file.” Sean went over to his desk and sat down with a tired sigh. “Christ, I’m surprised she didn’t go for his throat.”

  “Nah, she’s too refined.” Aidan tossed back the last of a cup of coffee that had been poured hours ago, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  “Bullshit. If she’d thought it would suit her needs, she’d have ripped Morton’s throat out in a heartbeat,” Sean said, for once having a deeper insight into someone than his cousin. “She must have had some other reason for walking out of there and leaving him intact.”

  “Well it sure wasn’t his brains. Anyone who can look at you and Claire and babble about White Knights and Damsels in Distress deserves to have his jugular ripped out.”

  Sean moved uncomfortably. He didn’t like thinking that Claire’s attraction to him was less than it seemed. “Since Dr. Morton’s a washout, I’m going to talk to Keeley in Vice. Her brother works for the FBI out of Quantico and has had some specialized training in criminal profiling. He even teaches a course. Maybe he can do an informal assessment, just to give us a jump start in weeding through our list of suspects,” Sean said, standing.

  “Good idea. Just don’t let the brass hear anything about it. And cousin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Morton was wrong about everything else—why would he be right about what makes Claire hum like a race car whenever you’re around?”

  Sean kept walking because anything he could say would only dig himself into a deeper hole.

  Chapter 44

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday afternoon

  “Why would three otherwise sane women pay outrageous prices to sit in a steam room in Washington, D.C. in July?” Claire asked, sweating.

  Olivia wiped her face on a towel.

  “It gives us the illusion of being in control of the climate,” Afton said.

  “Illusion,” Claire muttered. “Great. Just what I need, another shrink.”

  Dr. Morton’s analysis still burned. The thought that her actions and emotions might be interpreted in such an unflattering way was humiliating. She’d thought she was being cooperative, working with the police in order to catch a man who had made a very real threat against her life. Could it be that she had other reasons? Like the chance to be close to Sean?

  Or worse, was she really waiting to be rescued?

  “What did the police shrink say?” Olivia asked. “You’ve been in a terrible mood since you saw him.”

  Claire wiped her face. “The Cliffs Notes version is that I’m a fragile personality. I have hysterical amnesia—if I have amnesia at all—but I continue to participate in the investigation because it feeds my need to be rescued. You see, I’m suffering from White Knight syndrome, meaning that I’m waiting for a man to rescue me from all that’s wrong with my life.”

  “What? That is complete crap.” Olivia’s voice echoed loudly in the steamy room.

  “He said that joining a dating service underlines my desire to be rescued.”

  “How on earth does joining Camelot indicate a psychological weakness?” Afton demanded.

  “According to him, I’m searching for a man to fix my life.” Claire hesitated. “I can’t honestly say he’s entirely wrong. I was unhappy and lonely, and looked to Camelot to help solve that.”

  “Joining a dating service doesn’t mean you’re waiting for someone to rescue you,” Afton said, hands on towel-wrapped hips. “It shows that you’re willing to go out there after something you want, something that’s missing in your life. It’s proactive behavior, not save-me passive,” Afton said.

  “Isn’t that the same as wanting a man to solve my problems?”

  “No! It means you’re looking for a man to share everything that’s right in your life,” Afton said. “You’re a smart, funny, successful, and beautiful woman who has a lot to offer a man.”

  Olivia looked at Claire’s unhappy face. “You don’t really buy into that passive and needy bull, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. Look at me—I’m a wreck. I’m living in a fucking fishbowl and being analyzed by strangers. I’m being driven slowly insane by one man I can’t date, and going out every night with a different reject from the gene pool.”

  “Forget the stupid shrink,” Olivia said. “Focus on what’s ahead of you.”

  “More dates? Kill me now.”

  “You can handle it. Repeat after me,” Olivia said. “‘I am a modern, independent woman who can survive another evening of socializing with a perfect stranger.’”

  Claire laughed and dutifully repeated the words. But even as she did, she wondered if she could survive another evening of socializing under the watchful eyes of a man who felt like anything but a stranger.

  Even worse than that was the gut-deep feeling that a deadly stranger was never farther away from her than the darkness at the edge of light.

  Chapter 45

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday evening

  Claire sipped her mineral water and decided that even modern, independent women shouldn’t have to deal with the obnoxious, self-absorbed ad sales executive sitting across the table from her. Randy Klein, a beefy former college hockey player, liked martinis with pickled onions. He liked them a lot and he liked a lot of them. She looked with barely veiled disgust at the wrinkled onions bobbing on a toothpick in Randy’s glass. He was finishing his third drink, and the appetizers had just arrived.

  She’d already decided that mineral water would be her drink du jour. While she tried to decide if Randy’s smile reminded her of anything more lethal than a used-car salesman, she kept up her end of the conversation. It wasn’t hard. Randy was in love with Randy, which made her an unnecessary third wheel.

  With each martini he’d grown more aggressive and loud, and she’d grown more quiet. He didn’t notice. He picked the toothpick out of his glass, winked at her, and suggestively sucked a pickled onion into his mouth. To make sure she didn’t miss the point, he stared at her breasts.

  Obviously he thought he was going to get lucky tonight.

  She focused on his mouth, looking for anything that reminded her of the night of the murder. He’s the right size.

  The thought startled her. Working to hold that thought, she tried to remember more. All she came up with was the fact that her date’s mouth wasn’t right. Sighing, she decided that while Randy Klein made her uncomfortable, he didn’t make her fear for her life. He just had a remarkably coarse way of looking at her.

  Claire caught a motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see Olivia getting up from the table she shared with Sean. When she headed toward the ladies’ room, Claire excused herself and hurried to catch up.

  After making sure the small bathroom was empty,
Claire asked, “Did they just give in and deputize you?”

  “No. I had my own table, but as soon as Sean came in and saw me, he pulled up a chair. I guess they figure I’m good cover or something.”

  “Well, you can relax. The only thing at risk tonight is my virtue, if there is such a thing in the twenty-first century. Have you seen this guy’s moves?”

  “Yeah, I can feel the slime all the way over at my table. Sean doesn’t like the way Randy is acting.”

  “That makes two of us. I hate martinis, and I hate pickled onions. I can smell them every time he laughs.” Claire made a face in the mirror.

  “What do you want me to tell Sean?” Olivia asked.

  “Save your breath. He’s listening to every word we say, aren’t you, Detective?” Claire asked the microphone clipped to her bra.

  “I forgot about that,” Olivia said. “They won’t give me an earpiece.”

  “You don’t need one and everyone else can relax. I’ve studied this guy’s smile. While it’s as sleazy as he is, it doesn’t look anything like the killer’s. Randy’s not our suspect, so I’ll be ready to go by the time the waiter brings coffee.”

  “Why not just end things now, at the restaurant?”

  “Because I’m hungry and I haven’t eaten.” She grimaced. “Although if I get a few more whiffs of pickled onions, I’m going to lose my appetite.”

  “I don’t like it,” Olivia said. “He’s twice your size.”

  “Chère, he’ll be skunk drunk by the time we leave. I’ve handled much worse, and so have you.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  Neither did Claire, but she was damned if she would run to the cops for help with a situation all single women routinely handled. She sure as hell wasn’t some whining damsel looking for excuses to be rescued.

  By the time they finished dinner, Randy had downed seven martinis, pickled onions and all. Thank God for taxis, Claire thought. His speech was fine, but his reflexes weren’t.