Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “So you know the kind of problem we’re dealing with,” Biegler went on. “A VIP who’s just found out his wife’s been kidnapped, and that the last person to see her alive was you.”

  “I said I understand, but—”

  “You don’t understand squat! You’re not seeing the big picture here. Harland is a powerful man with powerful friends. And he’s not happy. Which means trouble for me, the chief, the district attorney. Hell, the fucking mayor. For anyone Harland decides to blame if something happens to his wife.”

  “Including me, I take it.”

  “Especially you. Not that I give a shit.”

  “Of course not. It’s your own hide you’re trying to save. Same with everybody above you on the political food chain.”

  Suddenly, a car horn sounded to my right. I turned and saw a sleek Cadillac limo, windows blackened, pull up right next to Polk’s sedan. Its clean lines glinting in the reflected light from the streetlamps above, the limo idled smoothly in the middle of the street.

  Polk leaned across the seat, speaking loudly into the cell in my hand. “Limo’s here, Lieutenant.”

  I gave him a puzzled look.

  “You’ve been summoned, Doc.” He grinned. “Have fun.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “Suit yourself, it’s a free country. But if you really wanna know what’s goin’ on, you oughta go for the ride.”

  Before I could reply, Biegler’s agitated voice came from the cell speaker.

  “Sergeant Polk? What’s happening? Give me Rinaldi again.”

  “I’m right here, Stu,” I said evenly into the phone.

  “Look, Rinaldi, all Harland wants to do is talk to you. Ask you about his wife.”

  “He can ask, but I can’t tell him. My session with Lisa Campbell is confidential.”

  An exasperated sigh. “Okay, whatever. That’s between you and him. But you’re supposed to care about people, right? So give the old guy a break. His wife’s been kidnapped, for God’s sake. Harland’s probably falling apart. Worried sick.”

  Like Biegler would care. Nice try, I thought. Knowing full well what was coming next.

  “Besides,” he went on, voice hardening, “you don’t want your taxes audited every year for the rest of your life, do you? Or to get a ticket every time you drive your damn car? Or have trouble getting your clinical license renewed?”

  A pointed, deliberate pause.

  “One thing’s for certain, Stu,” I said finally. “Harland sure has you scared.”

  “Okay, Rinaldi. Let me put it another way. Get in that fucking limo right now or I’ll have Sergeant Polk arrest you. Throw your ass in jail.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Obstruction. Withholding information in a major felony. Accessory after the fact. Believe me, I’ll think of something. It’s the kind of thing I’m really good at.”

  I believed him. At least about that last part.

  I sighed, tossing the cell to Polk. If this was what I had to do to find out about Lisa, then I had no choice. Besides, I thought, maybe I could be of some help. Though, at the moment, I didn’t see how.

  Gripping the door handle, I smiled at Polk.

  “Tell Biegler to relax. Message received. I’m off to see the Wizard.”

  Chapter Five

  To my surprise, I had a fellow passenger in the spacious rear of the limo. He was pouring himself a drink when I opened the door. Wild Turkey on the rocks.

  “What’s your pleasure, Dr. Rinaldi?”

  He indicated the well-stocked mahogany liquor cabinet to his right as I slid onto the plush leather couch. Though we sat next to each other, the wide space between us felt like a chasm. Which, I suspected, was the point.

  “I’m Arthur Drake.” He replaced the whiskey bottle and reached to shake hands. “Charles Harland’s personal counsel.”

  The lawyer favored me with a brief smile. I guessed he was in his sixties, though fit-looking in his Brooks Brothers suit. Nearly bald, except for the scallops of trimmed gray hair above his ears. Clear blue eyes. Manicured nails. Rolex watch. The very model of the well-bred, Ivy League-educated WASP.

  He seemed to read my thoughts.

  “And, yes, Doctor, I’m aware that I look every inch the corporate attorney that someone like Charles Harland would employ. Though actually, the other partners in my firm do all of Mr. Harland’s legal work for Harland Industries and its various subsidiaries. My role is of a more personal nature. I’ve been with Charles Harland for almost twenty years, and I like to think he views me more as a trusted advisor. A confidant.”

  “Is that why you’ve been sent to escort me?”

  “Among other reasons. Given the delicate nature of the present situation, Mr. Harland would like to keep the circle of those involved as small and contained as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

  He took a healthy sip of his drink. Then he pointed the glass at me, jiggling the ice.

  “Sure I can’t fix you something?”

  “Thanks, no.”

  Drake swallowed the rest of his drink and spoke into a speaker just over his head.

  “Okay, Trevor. Let’s go.”

  I heard the driver shift into gear, and felt the limo start to move. While Drake carefully poured himself another whiskey, I took my first real opportunity to check out my ride.

  With seating for eight, the white-paneled, softly lit cabin was the size of your average den. Including the brushed white carpet, wall speakers, recessed TV, and computer monitors. All separated from the driver up front by an opaque screen.

  A soft though insistent ringing broke the silence.

  “Excuse me, Doctor.” Drake took out his cell.

  He bent and read a text, face tightening. Then he began texting a reply. A long one.

  While he did, I glanced out my smoked window. We were driving out of Oakland, headed northeast toward Fox Chapel Borough. The gleaming, light-dotted spires of contemporary Pittsburgh rose against the black night. An urban silhouette now devoid of its storied steel mills and soot-coated buildings. The arch of sky no longer darkened by factory smoke. Its industrial past a dim memory, the Steel City in recent years had reinvented itself as a pioneer in finance, state-of-the-art medical research, and cutting-edge technology.

  Yet alongside its modern silver and glass towers, and newly gentrified shopping areas, there are still vibrant echoes of its immigrant-forged past. The ethnic neighborhoods, cobblestone streets, muscular red-bricked buildings. So though the children of former steel workers have long since traded their parents’ blue collars for white ones, Pittsburgh remains—often uneasily—forever situated between the present and the past.

  Watching the blur of lights pass by my window, their reflection mingling with my own in the shadowed glass, I was reminded that I too had a foot in both worlds. The son of an Italian-American beat cop and an Irish homemaker who died when I was three, I worked as a teenager in the old produce yards on the Strip. Traveled to amateur bouts in every small town in the tri-state area with my hard-drinking, bitter father, who coached me from the corner. Carry to this day the psychic scars from his unrelenting criticism, if not the physical ones from the beatings I both took and gave in the ring.

  But then, as had Pittsburgh itself, I underwent a transformation. College, grad school. A professional career. A passionate though difficult marriage that ended in tragedy. Living a life in the years since that I suspected my father wouldn’t even recognize, let alone understand. And of which I often wondered if he’d approve.

  I was pulled from my reverie by the sound of Arthur Drake wryly chuckling. When I turned, he was still peering intently at his cell phone. Then, sighing, he pocketed it once more.

  “There are times when being considered indispensible is more of a burden than a compliment.”

  “Was that Charles Harland?”
I asked.

  “No. Mike Payton. Mr. Harland’s head of security. A very proud, formidable man. Ex-Navy SEAL. Highly decorated. So you can imagine what this situation is doing to him.” A tense smile. “It might also interest you to know that Mike compiled a fairly extensive dossier on you, at Lisa’s request. Did she happen to mention that during your session?”

  “I’m not at liberty to mention what she mentioned.”

  “Of course not. Foolish of me.”

  He went back to swirling the remains of his drink, its rich amber hue thinned by the melting ice.

  “Poor Lisa. She’s under the impression that she and Mike Payton have a personal relationship. A close friendship. Not surprising, since he’s at the residence almost daily, conferring with Mr. Harland on various security matters. He often shares meals with them…as do I, of course. In addition, Mike accompanies the couple whenever they travel.

  “Apparently, last week Lisa asked him to do a background check on you, before calling to make an appointment. She also asked Mike to keep her request confidential. Just between the two of them. She told him she didn’t want her husband to know that she was seeking therapy.”

  “I guess Payton didn’t turn out to be much of a friend.”

  “He’s been with Mr. Harland for many years, almost as long as I. Though he’s no doubt fond of Lisa, his primary loyalty is to his employer. He came to us at once after he’d delivered his report to her. Gave us a copy.”

  “You said ‘us.’”

  “Mr. Harland and I happened to be discussing another matter when Mike came in to the study. Charles had no problem with my being privy to what Mike had to say.”

  I considered this. “That’s how come Harland knew his wife had made an appointment with me. Where and when. Mike Payton told him.”

  Another thought occurred to me, which had me instinctively touching the tender lump on my head.

  “You know, that makes Payton a viable suspect in Lisa’s kidnapping. He could’ve been the big guy waiting for us outside my office door.”

  “Mike Payton?” Drake gave a blue-blood version of a snort. “Involved in the kidnapping? Ridiculous.”

  “Maybe. But what does he look like?”

  “I won’t even dignify that with an answer. Besides, you can get a look at him yourself when we arrive at the residence.”

  Drake took another long swallow of his drink, rolled the glass between his elegant fingers.

  “Lord, this is exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from Lisa. Kidnapped, for pity’s sake. How dramatic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grew thoughtful. “I don’t know what your impression of Lisa Campbell was, Doctor. And I understand you can’t tell me anyway. But I’ve known her since she and Charles married, and I’ve always found her…well, let’s just say Lisa’s personality has always seemed very extreme. Histrionic, if I may use your profession’s jargon. Perhaps because she was once an actress.”

  He looked at me over the rim of his glass. Gaze suddenly stern, almost fierce.

  “I will say this: She has not been a comfort to Charles Harland. Not from the earliest days of their marriage. For those of us close to him, it hasn’t been an easy thing to witness.”

  I was taken aback by the raw intensity in his voice. As he himself seemed to be. He reddened, eyes averted.

  I said, “Is there some reason you’re sharing all this with me? Given that we’ve known each other for about five minutes, and you’re Harland’s longtime personal attorney, I’m surprised at your candor. About both your employer and his wife.”

  “A reasonable observation. And normally I pride myself on my discretion. But these are not ordinary circumstances. Mr. Harland loves his wife, my own misgivings to the contrary, and I suppose I want to enlist your sympathy for his situation. Your understanding. So that you don’t get the wrong impression when you meet him.”

  “And what impression would that be?”

  A pause. “How much do you know about Harland Industries?”

  “What most people do, I guess. Family business that Charles Harland inherited from his father. Manufacturing, mostly. Made a fortune during World War II and afterwards.”

  “That’s right. The company developed and built armaments, in partnership with Pittsburgh’s steel industry. Though by the time Charles took over the reins, the company had begun to diversify. A prudent move, too, given that the city’s industrial base was disappearing. Under Charles’ leadership, particularly in the past twenty years, Harland Industries has morphed into a major supplier of high-end electronics and innovative software. Enhanced by some important mergers with foreign firms. The city’s economic foundation has changed, obviously, and Mr. Harland made sure his business changed with it.

  “Quite remarkable, in my view, given his advanced years. Many businessmen his age have grown hidebound and intransient in their thinking. Dinosaurs oblivious to the changing environment. Which is why most of them are extinct.”

  “But not Charles Harland.”

  There was more than a trace of pride in his voice. “I’m pleased to say that Harland Industries has never been more profitable, nor more relevant in terms of meeting the demands of a globalized marketplace.”

  “Nice talking point. You trying to get me to invest?”

  Another cool, placid smile.

  “I’m trying to impress upon you that Charles Harland is not a rich, doddering fool who was tricked into marrying some gold-digging failed actress thirty years his junior. He has a sharp, calculating mind. He’s also a man of strong likes and dislikes. Of unbending judgment.”

  “Sounds like you are, too, Mr. Drake. At least where Lisa Campbell is concerned.”

  “As I say, my opinion of her is irrelevant. I merely want you to know that Lisa means a great deal to Mr. Harland, and that you shouldn’t misunderstand if he comes across as brusque or unfeeling. Or somewhat condescending.”

  “In other words, that just happens to be who he is, whether or not his wife’s been kidnapped.”

  He didn’t comment. Instead, he finished the rest of his drink and turned toward his window, feigned looking out at the sweep of the night stars as we rounded a tree-crowned hill.

  I sat back in my seat. By this point, I, too, wanted a stiff drink. But I also wanted to keep a clear head for whatever lay in store tonight.

  Suddenly, face still in profile, Drake spoke.

  “I am curious about something, Dr. Rinaldi. Something in Mike’s report on you. I wonder, may I ask a personal question?”

  “You can try.”

  He swiveled back to face me. “It’s about Troy David Dowd. According to Mike, he’s the reason you started working with the police. That was a good many years ago, correct?”

  I nodded carefully. Dubbed “the Handyman” by the media, Dowd was a serial killer who tortured his victims with screwdrivers, pliers, and other tools. Though he was eventually captured and convicted, he’s been sitting on Death Row ever since, his attorney managing to win appeal after appeal.

  Dowd would snatch people outside of roadside diners or highway rest stops in isolated rural areas throughout the state. Only two of his intended victims managed to escape. One of these, a single mother of three, was so devastated by her ordeal that she was sent to me for treatment. It was my work with her that led to my signing on as a consultant to Pittsburgh PD.

  “What about Dowd?” I asked Drake.

  “Like everyone else at the time, I followed that case quite closely. In fact, I know his lawyer. Well, just socially. From Bar Association events, my club, that kind of thing. Good man.”

  “I don’t know too many people who’d agree with you.”

  He gave a wry laugh. “Probably not. Anyway, I wondered if you’d ever met him. Dowd, I mean. The Handyman.”

  I shook my head. “No. No interest.”

&nb
sp; “Do you know what ever happened to that other victim who escaped? The twelve-year-old boy?”

  “Well, he’d be almost twenty by now. And his name was never released to the press. I can only hope he’s okay.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Another pause. “Though, as someone once said, ‘It’s not the despair that kills you, it’s the hope.’”

  A pained, almost grief-stricken look crossed his face. Shadowed his eyes. Then, just as abruptly, vanished.

  At the same time, a voice crackled from the speaker overhead. Trevor, the driver.

  “We’re at the gate, Mr. Drake. I’ll take us in.”

  Chapter Six

  Painted with a coat of lunar light, the grounds surrounding Charles Harland’s immense home had a well-maintained, European grandeur. Rows of perfectly trimmed hedges. Tasteful stone fountains. Oval ponds whose waters rippled in the blustery night. Nature brought to heel by armies of landscape engineers, gardeners, and groundskeepers. And, of course, money.

  I’d read somewhere that the residence itself was originally built by some wealthy land developer in the nineteenth century, and its opulence was apparent as we rolled up the circular drive to the front entrance. Evenly spaced lawn lights outlined the mansion’s gabled turrets and elegant carved cornices.

  Somehow our driver Trevor managed to slip out from behind the wheel and open the rear passenger door before I could. Tall, black, and indifferent in his chauffer’s uniform, he didn’t meet my eye as I climbed out into a cool, steady night wind.

  Arthur Drake had already gotten out on his side and, as I went around to join him, I saw another man coming toward us from the white-columned front porch. Face grim as he approached.

  He was shorter than I, with trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair. Well-muscled under his nondescript jacket and tie. A two-way radio clipped to his belt.

  Drake began the introductions.

  “Dr. Rinaldi, this is Mike Payton, our—”

  That’s as far as he got before Payton, with one smooth, easy motion, grabbed my elbow and spun me around. Slamming me gut-first against the trunk of the car.