Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

  He turned toward the door, Mrs. Boone following right behind. Then, hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at me.

  “One thing you won’t find in the file. Curious thing. Toward the end of our work together, Mr. Merrick started wearing glasses like mine. Even seemed to be combing his hair as I did.”

  My eyes widened. “Yes. What did you do?”

  His gaze was incredulous. “I put a stop to it, of course. Good-night, Doctor.”

  ***

  I was still roiling with anger as I strode across the deserted parking lot outside the main building.

  Goddam it! Even three years ago—even here—Kevin had reached out for some kind of connection. For a mirror to hold his shifting, incomplete sense of himself. Only to have it stamped out by some hide-bound relic who should’ve long since just taken his gold watch and gone fishing.

  I reached my car, and gave myself a moment to cool down.

  Whenever I get self-righteous, I’m usually trying to turn my own guilt into anger. The plain fact is, the mental health profession had a number of chances over the years not to fail Kevin, and we blew every one.

  I took a breath. If I wasn’t going to blow this one, I had to stay focused.

  Was the murder of Loretta Pruett the secret Kevin had alluded to? And if he’d lived to stay in treatment, would he have ever told me about it?

  I was still thinking about it as I turned my key in the car door. Then my hand froze.

  A hundred yards to my left, a broad shadow seemed to separate from the larger darkness and move toward me.

  A car, picking up speed. That same blue-black sedan, engines roaring. No lights on, bearing down.

  He’d followed me here. Been waiting for me. And now—

  Before I could move, the sedan suddenly flashed its brights and made a U-turn in the lot, wheels spinning.

  Spewing dust and gravel, he raced back the way he’d come and headed for the exit.

  Like hell. I climbed into the Mustang and peeled out after him. Our engines sounded like staccato gunshots in the dark, desolate night.

  He sped up and barreled through the opened exit gate, fish-tailing onto Harris Avenue. By the time I got out of the lot, he’d already raced up the street and disappeared.

  Engine idling, I stared through my windshield at the end of the street, where tendrils of exhaust drifted like firecracker smoke.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  New storm clouds spread like ink blots outside the dirty precinct windows, as I made my way across the detectives’ floor. But I wasn’t here to see Polk or Lowrey. I was here to see Detective Second Grade Ed Hingis.

  He wasn’t at his desk. A uniform told me Hingis was downstairs in the target range, practicing for his upcoming placement test. So I went down there.

  Ed Hingis was tall, black, and an excellent shot. He’d just finished a round. We stood there in silence, watching the familiar silhouette target being wheeled along its guide wire into Hingis’ hands. The bullet holes were pretty evenly divided between the head and the chest.

  He led me out a side door into an alley fronting the motor pool. The night was dark, cold, and moonless.

  Hingis lit up a slim cigar. “Brass don’t mind the cigs, but they’d prefer you smoke these babies outside.”

  “So,” I said, to a cloud of acrid smoke, “tell me about that night. About Kevin Merrick.”

  “Not much you don’t know, I’d guess. Couple uniforms found him wandering around a store in his pajamas. They brought him in and I happened to catch it. Slow night.”

  “You interviewed him in the Box, right?”

  “At first, I didn’t know what we were lookin’ at. Maybe the kid was a vic, maybe a perp. Ya never know.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  Hingis sighed, and flicked ash against the side of the brick building. His cigar end flared in the darkness.

  “Look, Doc, I know you’re sorta on the job, and I guess you feel guilty about the kid. But you’re wastin’ your time. I grilled him for an hour. Says he surprises this guy goin’ through his stuff, they fight, he escapes and starts runnin’. Then he blacks out. Don’t remember nothin’ else, till the uniforms pick him up. But like I said, you know all this, right?”

  I nodded. By now, I was starting to feel like I was foraging in a barren field, looking for crumbs.

  “So then you called Angie Villanova,” I said, “and she called me. Something about Kevin’s manner worried you.”

  “Not me, Doc. The Assistant DA. I ain’t no social worker. She watched the interview from outside the Box.” He shrugged. “Didn’t seem that interested. Guess it wasn’t high-profile enough for her. If ya know what I mean.”

  The detective fell silent. I shook his hand. “Look, thanks for your time. And good luck on your test.”

  “Luck is for losers,” Hingis said. The tip of his cigar burned hot, eating oxygen.

  ***

  I stood in the doorway, arms folded.

  “Bert, I need your help.”

  I’d found Bert Garman in his office at Ten Oaks, head bent over thick account ledgers. Some opened Chinese take-out was placed strategically atop the desk.

  “You’re starting to worry me, Bert,” I said, stepping inside. “Don’t you ever leave this place?”

  “And go where? Home to an empty house? Empty bed?”

  I sat on the edge of his desk.

  “Besides,” he went on, “I doubt you’d want any help from me. Not given the way my life’s going at present.”

  “Sorry. I know.” A pause. “Marital status?”

  He managed a feeble smile. “Last I heard, Elaine was talking to lawyers—and not about her defense in Brooks Riley’s murder. She knows they’ll never even get an indictment. Not without the gun.”

  I spoke carefully. “Look, Bert. I know I was the one who steered the cops to Elaine. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I let my feelings for Nancy Mendors cloud my thinking.”

  Garman sat back in his swivel chair, hands behind his head. “No, you’re not wrong. Elaine killed Brooks.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “She told me. After getting assurances from her attorney that communications between husband and wife are privileged, she confessed to killing him. Though it wasn’t exactly a confession. More like… I don’t know, but she sure enjoyed telling me about it.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “She’s hated me for a long time, Danny. Really hated me. I mean, it’s actually sort of breathtaking.”

  We were silent for a long moment.

  “I still love her, by the way.” He grimaced. “Yes, I still love the coke-snorting, murdering bitch-on-ice. Kind of makes me a tragic figure, don’t you think?”

  I’d never pictured Bert Garman as a disillusioned romantic, but lately a lot of people were turning out to be full of surprises.

  Right now, on the other hand, he wasn’t looking too good. He’d started drinking long before ordering in dinner, maybe even from a bottle hidden in a desk drawer. He wouldn’t be the first therapist I knew who did.

  “Look, I ought to call you a cab,” I said. “You look beat, and you’re in no condition to drive.”

  He made a point of focusing his gaze. “You should have seen me an hour ago. But you’re right, I’ve got to get out of here. Besides, didn’t you say you needed my help with something?”

  “Yes. About Kevin Wingfield. But—”

  Garman fished in his jacket pocket and came up with a set of keys. He tossed them to me.

  “We’ll take my car, but you drive. How’s that?”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  A hard, stinging rain had begun pounding the city. I squinted through the sweep of clicking windshield wipers, steering Garman’s BMW through the winding streets. I was headed to a Starbucks I knew, by way of Edgewood, passing rows of venerable houses with mansard roofs, Republican lawns.

  I glanced over at Garman, whose head lolled against the neck-rest, eyes riveted on the storm.

&
nbsp; “Look, we can talk about Kevin tomorrow,” I offered.

  “No, I’m okay,” he replied. “Funny, though, ’cause I’ve been thinking a lot about Wingfield. The father, I mean. I think he was the one who killed Kevin. Had him killed, anyway.”

  “Wingfield had his own son murdered?”

  I heard the smile in Garman’s voice. “Hey, you’re not the only one who can play detective.”

  A boom of thunder almost drowned out his words. His head swiveled toward me at last.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why Wingfield?”

  “Because somehow he found out that Kevin was in therapy with you. Maybe he was afraid you’d learn about his incest with his children and cause a scandal—not to mention possible ruin. Makes a helluva motive.”

  “I don’t know. Wingfield’s probably a sociopath, but even they usually value their children. If only as extensions of themselves.”

  “I’m not saying he wanted Kevin dead. He wanted to silence you. Once you knew what he’d done to his kids, you were a threat. The cops have been right all along—you were the target. Except that because Kevin had begun to dress like you, Wingfield’s hit-man got the wrong guy. He accidentally killed Wingfield’s own son.”

  A web of lightning flashed against the clouds roiling overhead. Rain lashed against the car windows.

  But I barely noticed. I was thinking about Carl Trask, Wingfield’s Head of Security. If Garman’s theory was right, Trask might be the likely hit-man. Wingfield would have to choose someone very close to him and totally reliable.

  There was just one problem.

  “Wait a minute, Bert. If you’re right, doesn’t that mean Wingfield would need to kill anyone who’d treated Kevin—or knew Karen, for that matter. And that’s not possible. If he were really afraid of exposure, it would be simpler to kill his kids.”

  I thought some more about it. “But since that’s unlikely, he’d instead try to buy their silence. Maybe that’s what he was doing when he hired detectives to track them down and offer them a big piece of the Wingfield fortune.”

  “Unless he’d never had to worry about any of this before now.” Garman shrugged. “Maybe Kevin kept the incest to himself all these years. I remember from our peer supervision sessions, you reported that Kevin said he’d never told anyone before telling you.”

  “That’s right. But how would Wingfield know what Kevin was revealing to me in treatment?”

  “Your session notes,” Garman said. “In your office.”

  Two cars ahead of me, an SUV was fish-tailing at the flooded intersection to a chorus of bleating horns. I threw another look at Garman, then made a sudden right onto a side street and parked at the curb.

  I turned in my seat. “Let me just talk this out. Maybe Wingfield’s been keeping tabs on his kids all along. At least on Kevin. Especially since the robbery attempt. Someone following Kevin to his sessions with me twice a week. A pro who would know how to get into my office and pick the lock on the filing cabinet.”

  Garman’s voice rose. “So the guy makes photos of your treatment notes and shows them to Wingfield…”

  “Who sees that Kevin is spilling everything to me. Wingfield can’t take the chance on trusting my professional ethics when it comes to confidentiality. He had to worry that, sooner or later, Kevin would tell me his real name. Moreover, Wingfield knows I’d have a duty to warn about any current contact he might be having with minors. Abusers know all the rules. So he sends a goon to kill me.”

  “Only Kevin dies instead,” Garman said.

  “Which explains all those death threats against me. The knife in my office. The manikin. Wingfield wants me to know that the killer’s still out there, waiting to try again.”

  Garman looked puzzled. “What manikin?”

  I smiled. “Oh, yeah. The cops kept the second threat under wraps. Probably the only thing so far that hasn’t been leaked.”

  Garman tugged at his lower lip. “Well, what do you think? Should we tell all this to the cops?”

  “It’s your theory, Bert.” I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. “I don’t know, though. Something about it feels wrong…”

  My cell phone rang. I snatched it out of my pocket. It was Casey. She was breathless.

  “Danny, I thought you’d want to know as soon as I did. We found Wingfield. Or at least, we know where he is. One of his execs at the Burgoyne admitted that he’d helped arrange Wingfield’s departure.”

  I sat up straighter, at the same time turning the key in the ignition.

  “Where is he?” I said into the phone.

  “Pittsburgh International. There’s a small, private outfit on the satellite strip called SkyLark Aviation. Very exclusive. Runs jets for corporate clients, VIP’s. Turns out, SkyLark’s owned by Wingfield BioTech.”

  I laughed. “Of course it is.”

  Garman tapped my shoulder. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  I ignored him. “You sending in the troops to pick him up?” I said to her.

  “I was afraid you’d ask. Sinclair’s on a conference call with three federal agencies figuring out how to approach Wingfield. With no credible evidence…”

  “And meanwhile, Wingfield flies off to Pago Pago—”

  Her tone sharpened. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. My guess is, we’re going to at least have his plane held. Maybe use the weather as an excuse…”

  Again, I felt the gnawing sense that something was wrong. And that if Wingfield was allowed to escape, it’d never be put right…

  “Okay,” I said into the phone. “I hope when the vote comes down, it’s in favor of sending a platoon of cops to the airport. Because I’d hate to crash the party alone.”

  “Danny, no—!”

  I clicked off and turned to Bert Garman.

  “Okay, Bert, get out of the car.”

  “What? This is my goddam car!”

  “I promise you’ll get it back. Now scram.”

  “No. If you’re going after him, I’m going with you.”

  “Like hell. Get the fuck out of the car.”

  “No, Danny. Wingfield’s screwed with my life, too. When the shit hits the fan, he’s going to lose everything. The Feds’ll freeze his assets. His purchase of Ten Oaks will be tied up with accountants for years. And I—”

  His jaw tightened. As though to stop the words.

  “And you were going to be so rich,” I said quietly.

  He drew a long breath. “You have no idea…”

  I rubbed my eyes. I didn’t have time for this. Not when every minute counted.

  “Look, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do when we get there. But I do know you’re keeping your ass in the car. Try to come with me, I’ll lay you out. I mean it.”

  He spread his hands. “Hey, man, you’re the only hero type in this car. I just want to see the bastard hauled away in cuffs.”

  I pulled out onto the street.

  With the rain rattling the windows, visibility a joke, and two lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic between me and the nearest on-ramp, I was concentrating so hard on driving that I guess I didn’t notice it.

  The blue-black sedan with no front plates.

  Following.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Skylark Aviation was a beetle-shaped, four-story structure, nestled behind security gates at the far edge of the airport. The top floor, aglow with lights blurred by the driving rain, was a circular bulb of bowed glass and curved struts, affording an expansive view of the runways stretching to the hills.

  I’d taken the first airport exit and then swung around the two-lane outer rim, almost skidding on the sluicing water, until I spotted SkyLark. Other than a few cars in the lot, fronted by chain link and a well-lit guard kiosk, there weren’t any signs of activity.

  “That guard’s gonna stop us,” Garman said nervously.

  “I know.”

  I glanced over at the small hangar attached to the west side of the building. Through its mural-siz
ed windows, I could make out the shapes of three large corporate jets with the SkyLark logo emblazoned on their tails.

  I was still debating what I was going to say to the guard when I opened my window and pulled to a stop at the kiosk. The lights on within revealed a trio of monitor screens, ledger book and phone. But no guard.

  “What the hell?” Garman peered past me into the guard box. “Think we can just go in?”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” came a harsh voice just beyond and behind my window.

  Before I could react, my door was jerked open by a smiling, narrow-eyed Carl Trask. Holding a machine pistol in his free hand.

  “C’mon out.” He stepped back, unmindful of the rain dousing his uncovered head. His gun-—maybe an Uzi, I didn’t know—was pointed at my chest. “You first, Doc, then your friend.”

  I got out of the car, hands away from my body. Garman scrambled out behind me. Trembling, he had to grip the door frame to steady himself.

  Ignoring him, Trask stared at me. “Okay, let’s get out of the rain. Mr. Wingfield wants to have a little talk with you. After that, he said you an’ me could have the next dance. I’m really lookin’ forward to it.”

  He leaned in, face inches from mine. Then he rammed the point of his gun in my ribs. Pain exploded in my gut, and I doubled over, gasping. It took everything I had to stay on my feet.

  “Oh, Christ.” Garman sagged against the car, voice cracking.

  Trask laughed and silenced Garman with a look. I straightened up, gulping air. Trask nodded at the building, and Garman and I walked stiffly ahead of him toward the entrance.

  ***

  Miles Wingfield stood at one of the bowed windows, looking out at the lights.

  He didn’t bother to turn as Garman and I were brought at gun-point into the spacious lounge. Typical Fortune 500 mileu: crystal fixtures, shining wet-bar, polished Japanese wood cabinets. Money likes to see money.

  The only other person in the carpeted room was a steward of some kind, a slender man in his fifties in a crisp black suit. His breast-pocket handkerchief formed a neat triangle of white. He was pouring Dom Perignon into a fluted glass and studiously avoiding looking at the Uzi glued to my back.