by Leslie Glass
"You're absolutely right," Jason told him solemnly. "That's why I want to protect the process, Ted. As the supervisor of this case, now that the analyst is missing, I'm the person clinically responsible for the patient. All I want to do is call her and arrange for a consultation to discuss the situation."
The last thing Jason wanted to do was tell Ted he was going to investigate the patient. Jason could feel Ted sweating all over the phone. He thought it would be overkill to point out that if the patient had killed the analyst, it would do even more harm to psychoanalysis and the Institute. Ted intuited the thought.
"God, we've been trying to get publicity for analysis for years," Ted muttered. "This is a hell of a way to get it."
"My thoughts exactly."
"The last thing we want to do is endanger our good name."
"Absolutely right. Or our candidates," Jason added.
"It's so hard to get good candidates these days," Ted said sadly. "Did you talk to Maslow's analyst?"
"Yes, I did. Even in this situation Bernie remained the jerk he always was. I had to squeeze information out of him with a vise, and even then I didn't get much at all."
"I see," Ted said, clearly pleased the psychoanalytic process was safe in Bernie's hands.
"Look, I've got to run now and meet with Maslow's parents. I'll check with the patient very carefully, and keep you apprized of the situation at every step," Jason said.
"Good, good. Keep me apprized. Keep me apprized."
Jason said that he would. That was at four in the afternoon.
At six, when Jason rang the bell of Jerome and Adina Atkins's Ninetieth Street and Park Avenue apartment, he was a very unhappy man. He'd gone through hell with Miss Vialo to get Allegra's personal information only to find out that no such person lived at the number the Institute had for her. Further investigation revealed that no residence existed at the address the patient had given. Nor was any Allegra Caldera listed in the phone book or registered at the university she said she attended. Allegra had invented herself.
This confirmed Jason's fear of a failure in the Institute's screening process. They thought they were careful. Prospective analysands had to write biographies. They were interviewed three times by a senior analyst. Each case was then considered by a whole committee. Allegra's case had been reviewed by no less than ten experienced people. The young analysts were supervised every step of the way. Now it was clear that a major slipup had occurred and a young woman had fooled them all. She could be anybody, capable of anything, and Maslow could have known, even unconsciously, that he was in danger.
When Jason arrived at the Atkinses' door, he had the feeling that he was on the fault line of an earthquake. As a psychiatrist, he'd always had a healthy respect for madness. He knew that as carefully as people cultivated facades of civility, their rage and potential for aggression were barely under the surface. But he, unlike Maslow, was experienced and knew how to handle it.
As he stood at the door, his head pounding and his throat dry, he prayed that Maslow had not been lured into disaster by a troubled person who should never have been assigned to his care. The door opened before he could bring himself to ring the bell.
"You're Dr. Frank? Come in. He's waiting for you in the living room." Mrs. Atkins had short, tightly permed brown hair that was gray at the roots, soft pale skin that drooped sadly under pale blue eyes, and several double chins. Her features were gathered together in a face that had never been lovely. She looked at least seventy.
"Maslow?" For a second Jason felt a rush of elation.
"No, no, his father."
"You're Mrs. Atkins?"
"Yes." She turned away without shaking his hand.
Jason followed her on a black-and-white checkerboard marble floor through a foyer with gilded chairs and tables lined up like soldiers along smoke-mirrored walls. At the living-room door, she waved her hand and left him.
"I'd like to talk with you both," Jason said before she managed her escape.
"No need." She turned back to him, lifting her shoulders helplessly.
"On the contrary, we can't do without our mothers." Jason smiled and waited at the door.
"What's that?" From his armchair Jerome Atkins, a small, dapper, bald-headed man wearing a red bow tie and lightweight herringbone business suit, flashed them a look of supreme irritation.
Adina dropped her head as if to duck a blow and took a seat in a fragile chair as close to the door as she could get. She was a woman ready to obey whoever she deemed the highest authority.
Jason crossed the white carpet quickly. Jerome Atkins stood, held out his hand, then sat down abruptly without shaking Jason's.
"This thing is all over the news. People have called me. What do you want from me?" He had the face of a desperate man.
"Maslow's disappearance is on the news?" Jason was astounded.
"They have a pack of dogs. They're searching the park." Jerome glanced at his wife. "She's suffered enough. She doesn't need to hear this."
Adina stood up to leave.
Jason shook his head. "Please stay, I want to talk to you both."
Jerome looked away from his wife. "What happened? The police won't tell me anything."
"I don't think they know yet. Has anyone from the police talked to you about it?"
"No, no, I've called them. They're calling me back. Let me tell you, this is a terrible blow." Beads of perspiration dotted the man's forehead. "I'm sure he's dead. If he were alive, I'd know it." He said this with no emotion.
Jason was surprised by how many people associated with Maslow were ready to accept that with no evidence to support it. "Well, I don't want to jump to that conclusion. That's the reason I'm here. I want to talk to you a little about your son's life to see if there's somewhere he might have gone, some reasonable explanation for his disappearance."
"No," Jerome said sharply. "Let's not go into it. We know what happened. You don't have to sugarcoat the truth for us."
What truth? Jason shook his head. "Nothing has been established-"
Jerome Atkins cut him off angrily. "They can't even find his body-this is a disgrace." He glanced at his wife. The couple sat so far from each other in the cavernous wood-paneled Park Avenue living room, he had to turn his whole body to get a view of her.
Jason sat between them. He, too, had to shift positions to see her. As he did, he took in the rose-colored drapes on huge windows, the multitude of small pink sofas and gold chairs. Mrs. Atkins had taken a brocade pillow onto her lap and was busy twisting one of its gold tassels in her hand. Her face was pale, shut down. Jason suspected that she was in shock, a hurricane on a distant horizon.
"Are you all right? I could arrange for you to have some medicine-" he asked.
"He's not the first one," she said, shaking her head.
"First what?"
Mrs. Atkins played with the fringe. "Maslow had a twin sister."
"I didn't know that," Jason murmured.
"That's not exactly relevant to anything, is it?" Jerome said nastily, turning back to Jason. "She died over twenty years ago. No point in talking about it." He raised a hand to his forehead, realized it was wet, and pulled out a handkerchief.
"She was a beautiful child, a perfect child-blond, blue eyes-smart. Very smart. And Chloe had a wonderful nature. She never complained, no matter what. Never a word. Her name was Chloe. Isn't that a pretty name?"
"Beautiful name." Jason could hardly breathe through the layers of pain in the room.
"She died when she was eleven. Leukemia."
"Adina, it was twenty years ago," Jerome said sharply, dabbing at his forehead.
"I'm sure you know, Doctor, that over eighty percent of children who have leukemia now survive," she lectured him.
"She's probably the reason Maslow became a doctor," Jason said softly.
"Too late for us," she said bitterly.
"Were the twins close?" Jason asked.
"Of course. Maslow adored Chloe. Everyone did. She
was a magical person, her daddy's dream girl." Mrs. Atkins gave her husband a smug smile.
"He didn't come about Chloe, he came about the boy."
"Chloe was an angel. He's always been a heartache," his mother said.
Jerome Atkins covered his eyes.
"Really?" This was news to Jason.
"Yes, Chloe was an absolute angel. Always smiling, no matter how sick she was."
"I was asking about Maslow."
"What's there to say about him?" Atkins broke in angrily. "A young man with a bright future couldn't think about anything else but being a damned shrink. Doesn't that tell you all you need to know?"
Jason had heard a similar view expounded by his own father, who'd wanted him to be a heart surgeon. "Is that a bad thing in your book?" he asked, feeling the sting of rejection all over again.
"The boy probably provoked his attacker," Atkins speculated coldly.
Jason's distress escalated. "Why do you say that?"
"It wouldn't be the first time. He was interested in crazy people, wasn't he? He talked to the wrong people all the time. It can get you in trouble in this city."
"Chloe was no trouble at all. She was an angel," Adina said.
Jason repressed, the urge to muzzle her. "Did something happen to Maslow recently?"
"Oh, the kid hasn't lived with us for years. He used to get into bar fights, street fights regularly. He'd come home with a black eye or a bloody nose. What a waste!" Jerome Atkins waved his hand impatiently. "The city is to blame for this. These people shouldn't be out on the street."
"What about his friends? Maybe they can tell us more."
"What more do you need? He was a misguided young man. All he talked about was work. He didn't have friends."
"What about girlfriends?"
Atkins snorted. Clearly he didn't think much of his son in that department either. Jason turned to Mrs. Atkins. She looked like a person having an out-of-body experience, maybe on a visit to an angel in heaven.
Jason felt like shaking these two people. The mother couldn't talk about anything but her dead daughter. The father could only think of his disappointment in Maslow's decision to become a psychiatrist. In the absence of any evidence whatsoever, his father spoke of his son as if he were dead. But so had Maslow's analyst. Jason was also saddened by the fact that neither parent had called their son by his name. Speaking of him the way they had was a kind of soul murder. If this were a homicide, that alone would be a reason for the police to suspect them. But Jason wasn't a cop.
It seemed that he alone was praying that Maslow Atkins was alive and well and for some unknown reason playing hooky from his life. Jason left the apartment knowing no more about Maslow's present life than he had before his visit. But it was certainly no mystery why the young man had defied his parents to become a doctor of the mind.
Twenty-two
April was in a hurry. She had three things on her to-do list before meeting Mike. She wanted to search Maslow's office, locate his appointment book and list of patients, and listen to the messages on his answering machine. After that she needed to run over to Jason's apartment on Riverside Drive and spend half an hour reviewing everything he knew about the missing man. She also had to question Pee Wee James again now that he'd had time to sober up.
Between worrying about keeping Mike waiting and not being able to clear the case in the next ten minutes, April was feeling a lot of stress. By the time Woody double-parked on the block between Eighty-ninth and Ninetieth streets, a deep ache had traveled down her spine from the base of her head to the space between her shoulder blades and was now gathering momentum, jabbing sharply at her lower back as well. She was feeling so much muscle distress she didn't have the energy to complain about Woody's traffic violation. If he got a summons, he'd have to deal with it. Tough. Before he had a chance to kill the engine, she was already out of the car, trying to stretch her screaming muscles into a semblance of quiet.
Something was wrong with those kids. She couldn't get them out of her mind. Brandy's mugging for Woody's camera, David's being freaked out by it. Both of them stoned, knowing Zumech, and worse, being in the right place at the right time during a police investigation. There were too many matches for comfort, but they didn't seem to have any connection to Maslow. They didn't even know who he was or what was going on. She shrugged them onto the back burner of her thoughts. They were troubled losers. Kids like that made her sad about the state of the world.
Maslow's office was in an ordinary Central Park West building, one of those massive, well-kept, sixteen-story brick structures with rich canopies and doormen in matching uniforms that were inhabited mostly by wealthy, educated Caucasians unlike herself. It was just like the building where he lived and much nicer than anyplace she'd ever resided. The doorman was a good-looking Hispanic in a neat navy uniform. April nodded at him, and he didn't stop her and Woody when he saw where they were headed. She wondered if she looked as if she needed a shrink and smiled at the thought.
The first door on the right just inside the lobby had Maslow's name on it and two others listed above it. A note on the door told Maslow's patients to contact Dr. Jason Frank. Woody went first, checking the door before ringing the bell. They were both surprised when the handle turned and the door opened on a waiting room in the minimalist style-a square room with cracking beige paint, a few shabby chairs, a sofa of indeterminate color, and three coffee tables littered with well-thumbed Life magazines. Most surprising of all was the ultra-thin girl sitting on the sofa, looking forlorn and playing with her long black hair.
The girl glanced up eagerly when the door opened, saw that it was not the person she was anticipating, then looked down and inspected her watch. April copied the action. Woody did the same. All three watches read five-thirty.
"Are you waiting for Dr. Atkins?" April asked.
The girl nodded.
"Didn't you see the note on the door?"
"Yes."
"Did you call Dr. Frank?"
"No, should I?"
"Dr. Atkins isn't coming in today."
"He'll come in for me," she said.
"What makes you think so?"
"He's very late, but I'm sure he's coming. He promised." The girl frowned.
"Is he often late?"
"Late? He's never late. I'm a little worried, but I know he won't let me down. Are you two his next appointment?"
"Any particular reason for worry?" Woody jumped in without any invitation from his boss.
The girl tilted her head to one side. "Oh, you know New York. Elevators get stuck. Cranes fall over. My grandfather was hit by a bus once." She lifted a shoulder. "His whole side was black-and-blue for weeks. He died of a blood clot, though."
Woody looked as if he might pass out with delight over this account. His humor was a little off as always. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Allegra Caldera," she said easily.
April couldn't believe her ears.
"Hi, Allegra, I'm Detective Baum. This is Sergeant Woo," Woody introduced them, clearly smitten again.
"Police?" the girl said excitedly.
"Yes. We're from the police." April showed off her gold shield, guessing this was the girl they were looking for.
"Police?" Allegra said again, puzzled this time, as if the word had a funny taste. April noticed that her fingernails were badly bitten, and her sharp collarbone showed clearly through the thin fabric of her white blouse. She was a schoolgirl, pretty, starving, and not very old. Her eyes showed alarm, but she didn't seem to be afraid of them.
"Yes, we're looking for Dr. Atkins."
"He didn't do anything wrong, did he?" This appeared to be the girl's worry. She jumped off the sofa.
"No, of course not. But he's missing." April noted the flushed face and girl's puzzlement. She, at least, did not appear to be stoned.
"He is?"
"Didn't you see all the activity? This section of Central Park has been closed all afternoon. It made a mess of the whole W
est Side." This from Woody, suddenly a conversationalist.
Allegra shook her head. "No, I got off the subway at Ninety-sixth Street and walked over."
"Where were you coming from?" Woody's voice was funny. The idiot had the dazed look of someone who'd fallen down a flight of stairs. He was talking, but he wasn't all there. Pretty girls had a devastating effect on him.
Allegra saw it, too. "The Bronx. I live in Riverdale. Why are you asking me these questions?"
"We're tracing Dr. Atkins's actions yesterday to see if we can figure out where he might be."
"Well, he must be here." Allegra ran over to one of the three doors off the waiting room and knocked. "Dr. Atkins," she cried. "Dr. Atkins! Open the door!"
April gave Woody a look as he pulled out his camera. They had a situation. The girl thought Maslow was inside the office, and they hadn't searched here first. Were they both out of their minds? How could they have missed this? If Maslow was inside the office, he was probably dead. Maybe he was a suicide. Maybe he'd had a heart attack. It happened. Sweat rolled down her sides. Or he could have been murdered here. Jesus, if she'd called out the whole city on this, and the man was dead in his office, her entire career, indeed her whole life, was over. She was an idiot, an unbelievable idiot.
The girl was weeping. "Oh God, I'm really sorry."
Another click in April's mind. This was the voice on Maslow's answering machine.
"Listen, Allegra, calm down. Tell me what you know about this," she said.
"I will, I will, but please, check in there first. I'm so scared."
"Sure." Good plan. April snapped her fingers at Woody. Get a grip.
"Boss?" he said blankly.
"Take Allegra out in the hall."
"Are you going to break into his office?" she cried, blocking the door.
"No. I'm just going to open the door."
"That's breaking in. Isn't that against the law?" Allegra demanded.
"We're the law," April told her. "This is what we do. Go out in the hall."
"Oh my God, don't touch anything. He's a doctor. Everything in there is confidential."
The hair rose on April's neck. What was she seeing? What was coming out of this kid? What was going on here? "Sit down," she ordered Allegra. "And don't move."
