I felt uncomfortable just being in a skirt and in his cab. I knew he couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t stop my skin from crawling. Of course, there was always the possibility that he had one of those miniature lipstick cams hidden somewhere. You know, like the ones HBO uses for those seedy Taxicab Confessions. That would be pretty sick, wouldn’t it? I could just imagine this perv locked in his bedroom masturbating to illicit panty shots. That thought put me over the edge. I flashed my detective’s shield. “Step on it!” I told him. “Police business.” Well, it really wasn’t police business, but I am the police after all and if some sleazebag was videotaping my vajayjay . . . Well, the thought was too much to bear.
Be that as it may, the shield got me downtown in a hurry. I was fifteen minutes early for my appointment so I blew into Starbucks for a quick cappuccino. I looked at one of those inedible cranberry-encrusted things they call scones and then opted for the smoked turkey on pumpernickel bread.
There was this emaciated waif waiting on line behind me. She looked a little like my cousin Vito. Now, Vito’s a good-looking man, but masculine features on a woman? Anyway, you know what I mean. She appeared to be in her fifties and looked as if she hadn’t eaten since attaining puberty. I could see that she was into designer clothes and designer food. It was a tough choice, DKNY or pastrami on rye. The poor thing was probably conflicted.
I saw her staring across the counter at the whipped cream that was being plentifully ladled onto my cappuccino. Her eyes bulged. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed.
Not a smart thing to do. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s one of those I’m too obsessed with my figure to eat anything chicks. Give me a break, will ya? “You mean to tell me that one dollop of whipped cream is going to put you in stretch pants? Live a little.” There’s always bulimia. I stopped at the condiments bar for a Sweet’N Low, not to avoid calories but for other concerns, which you will soon become privy to. I heard her ordering a decaf cap with skim milk, better known as a why bother. For God’s sake, the woman was two sizes smaller than Calista Flockhart.
Now, here’s more about that appointment that I’ve been so secretive about. Don’t tell a soul, but I’ve decided to see a shrink. I’m not crazy, far from it, but something has been bothering me for a long time, something I just can’t shake. It’s been about a year now that I’ve been having a recurring nightmare. It’s real nasty stuff, the kind you wake up from all bent out of shape.
I got Leonard Isaacs’ name from my friend Candy. Candy’s a borderline cuckoo herself, and never finds anything or anyone good enough. Absolutely nothing is up to her esoteric standards. According to her, Mozart was a chicken plucker. So just the fact that she liked Isaacs spoke volumes about him. More importantly, Candy was one of the few acquaintances I had with absolutely no ties back to the job, and that was very important to me.
Isaacs was a man in his early sixties. His hair was completely white and he wore thick Buddy Holly-esque black-framed glasses, a throwback to the fifties. He was trim and wore houndstooth slacks. The matching suit jacket was folded neatly and had been placed over the back of a side chair. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Women notice these things. Yes, even me. So he was either a career bachelor, widowed, divorced, had lost or refused to wear his wedding band, or he was gay. I was betting gay. Candy is a big time fag hag.
We sat down facing each other in identical Nubuck suede armchairs, which were kind of nice. It was sort of like sitting in an oversized baseball glove. I crossed my legs and noticed that Isaacs crossed his in an identical manner. He grimaced. It looked as if he had eaten stale pastrami for lunch. “Dr. Isaacs, I—”
He stopped me immediately. “Call me Len.”
I resumed. “Before we begin, I want to be completely clear about our arrangement. I’ll pay you in cash for each session. I don’t want to receive any mail from you, or anything bearing your name, not so much as an appointment card. You are never to mention my name or my case to anyone, not Candy, or your colleagues or your drinking buddies. Are we clear?” I needed to make a real point of this. I didn’t want anyone on the force finding out that I was seeing a shrink. I didn’t so much as write down his name or address or the time of the appointment. I committed it all to memory. Committed, now there’s an interesting choice of words. In any case, I didn’t want any paper trail of our relationship. How’s that for being a psycho?
“Ms. Chalice, the relationship between a therapist and his patient is completely confidential. Our conversations are between you and me, no one else. However, I must tell you that the law requires me to inform the proper authorities if I feel that any of my patients are a threat to their own lives or to the lives of others.” His eyes widened. “I hope that makes you feel more comfortable. I’m here to listen to you and to help you if I can. You can and should tell me everything that’s on your mind. That will help me do my job more efficiently.”
“I know the law.” I knew that he was obligated to make that statement. I wasn’t worried, primarily because I wasn’t going to kill myself, and the only one I might do harm to was Isaacs if in fact he ever spilled the beans. “I’m a police officer.”
Isaacs squirmed uncomfortably. He scrunched his face and inhaled, clearing his nostrils. “Why did you choose to see me as opposed to seeing someone available to you from the police department?”
“Very simple. Any sign of emotional imbalance can destroy a cop’s career. I’m here to see you on a matter that has nothing to do with my police work. It’s tough enough being a young woman in a man’s business. Understand?” Isaacs nodded. He seemed a bit more relaxed after hearing my explanation.
He pursed his lips. “Okay then, tell me why you’re here.”
There was a lot I could tell Leonard Isaacs: that I had an obsessive personality, that my father had died from complications of Type 1 diabetes, and that my mother was sinking in the same insulin-deficient quicksand. I could tell him that I was absolutely neurotic over the prospect of being diagnosed with the disease myself, that I subscribed to a monk’s diet except for the cappuccino and whipped cream, which was the only indulgence I allowed myself, and that I was fanatic about exercise. I didn’t. These were problems that I had my arms around and though I would love to munch an occasional Oreo, I was much better off without it. I completely understood the demons that drove me and didn’t need to discuss them with anyone. If I was lucky, and I doubted I would be, one visit would do it. God forbid some jerk on the squad saw me coming here; the end would be slow and painful.
Now for the scary stuff. I got even more comfortable in the Nubuck mitt. It made me feel like I was a little girl again, safe in my daddy’s arms. “Well, Doc . . . excuse me, Len. I have this nightmare every few nights.” Isaacs seemed to be focusing. He edged closer in his chair. “It’s not terribly long. In fact it all seems to happen rather quickly.”
“Most dreams do. Go on.”
“I think I’m on a stretcher or a gurney and I’m being rushed into an emergency room. There’s a doctor on one side and a nurse on the other. They’re backpedaling and I’m being taken further and further into the ER. Somehow I’ve got the sense that I’m pregnant because from where I’m lying, my belly looks swollen. I focus on my arms and they’re burnt and bloody. When I look up again, the doctor is standing over me with a scalpel in his hands.” I paused and tugged my skirt down just for the hell of it, even though I didn’t feel the need for modesty in Isaacs’s presence. “I think I begin to moan. I want to get off that damn stretcher, but I can’t move. It’s like someone is holding me down. Then, I’m not sure if I’m asleep or awake, but I start rocking back and forth. I fight to get free, but I can’t and I keep moaning.” I stopped and looked at Isaacs. “And then I wake up, scared shitless, drenched in sweat with my heart pounding like a kettle drum.”
Isaacs squeezed his chin. He smiled politely and took off the outdated black glasses. “Stephanie, I’m going to ask you a few questions. They may sound a little silly. You’l
l probably answer no to all of them, but humor me, okay?” He closed his eyes momentarily, as if setting himself to the task. “First, have you or someone you know or have known ever been involved in a situation similar to the one you dream about?”
“No.”
“And you’ve never been burned or frightened by fire?”
“No.”
“Never rushed anyone into a hospital emergency room?”
“No.”
“Never had surgery?”
“No.”
“You see where I’m going with this?”
“Yes, and I think you’re right.”
“Come again?”
“The questions are silly.”
Isaacs smiled again, quaintly this time. “All right, this is where we start. Dreams, or nightmares are usually triggered by a subconscious fear or desire—strong ones obviously. The conscious part of the mind is unaware of what this fear or desire is. Hence, we dream. Dreams are the psyche’s way of dealing with situations, either real or imagined, that are difficult for us to deal with in our conscious lives. These, let’s call them . . . situations, represent a conflict that we have trouble dealing with in real life. Now, and this is key, there may be a vast difference between that portion of the dream that you actually experience and remember and the actual meaning of the dream, which may be largely concealed. Follow?”
“I think so.” I was letting Isaacs roll. I wanted to see how much information one hundred and fifty bucks bought from a shrink. On the street, it wouldn’t go far. So far he wasn’t helping any.
“Your dream is traumatic in nature. You see the doctor as a menacing figure. He has a scalpel or, generically speaking a knife, and he’s threatening you. You have this feeling that you need to escape, but are being held captive. You moan. You wake up frightened. We have a term for this. We call it dream terror.” Isaacs uncrossed his legs. Without his glasses he was looking exceedingly effeminate, but he was getting interesting so who cared? “Any questions so far?”
“No.” Well, actually yes, but I didn’t want to interrupt.
“Now let’s put the cards on the table.” Isaacs stood and walked over to the window. His office was on the ground floor. I could see a rhododendron blossoming through the window just past the wrought-iron security bars. “You’re a cop. Not just any cop, but a New York City homicide detective. I can just imagine the horrendous things you see every day: gunshot victims, stabbings, rape . . . mutilation. It goes on and on, doesn’t it? It may not occur to you during waking hours, but these atrocities may be the cause of your nightmares.” Isaacs sat down again and crossed his legs. “Or they may not. If we can pinpoint one incident that is causing your distress, we can deal with it. We call this a causal circumstance. If, however, your nightmare is your psyche’s reaction to your day-to-day work situation, well, then . . .”
“Well then what, become a florist?”
“Well then, yes, you may want to think about a career change.” Splendid. “Just because you’re able to deal with your work on a conscious level, it doesn’t mean you can deal with it on a subconscious level.”
Isaacs’ news made me very, very unhappy. I’d already decided to be a career cop. I liked the job as much as my old man had. There was a sense of satisfaction I got from doing righteous work that I’d never experienced before in my life. That’s the way it must have been for my father and that’s the way it is for me. How do you give up on something like that? “Well then, Len, let’s say I’m not ready to bag the police department. What do you suggest?”
“Well, Stephanie, as much as you’ll dislike hearing this, psychology is as much an art as it is a science, maybe more so. We talk and then we talk some more and then we talk some more. Hopefully, somewhere along the line, we’ll come across your underlying problem or at least find a direction in which to proceed. There are two procedures that I’ve had success with in this area. The first is hypnosis and the second is something called E.M.D.R.”
Hypnosis? Did he say hypnosis? If I see a gold watch come out of his pocket, I’m out of here. “You mean hypnosis where I follow a dazzling object and then one day someone offers me scrambled eggs and I start clucking like a chicken?”
Isaacs smiled, genuinely I think, although I’m sure he’d heard a lot of responses like mine over the years. “No more than modern physicians rely on bloodletting to lower fever. First and foremost, I’m Board-trained and certified in hypnosis, but I would like to see you cluck like a chicken.” He smiled. “Just kidding.” We both laughed. I was glad to see that Isaacs could tell a joke; obviously one he had told a hundred times before, but a joke nonetheless. “You shouldn’t be afraid of hypnosis. I’m not going to ask you to do anything bizarre, least of all something you wouldn’t do when you’re conscious. I simply get you to relax. I have you focus on my voice and then I try to direct my questions to the subconscious part of the brain. In the process, you relay the information we’re both looking for.”
“I see.” Well, maybe I’d see. I wasn’t too happy about being put under. The connotation was that I really needed help. Christ, it was just a nightmare. Couldn’t I just take Prozac like everyone else? “So what’s this E.M.D.R. thing?”
Isaacs smiled again. “E.M.D.R. stands for Eye Movement, Desensitization, and Reprocessing. It’s a technique in which I have you follow a light or hand movements. What I’ll be trying to do is simulate REM sleep. During the course of the exercise, I ask you questions and have you imagine certain situations. I know it sounds bizarre, but it’s very, very effective. It’s proven particularly successful with war vets. Trust me, nothing’s caused more dream terror than war.”
E.M.D.R. was a new one to me. I could see that this was not going to be a one-shot deal. In truth the nightmares were really getting to me. They seemed to be happening with increased frequency. I saw Isaacs glance at his watch. My time was up.
“What do you think, Stephanie? Want to give it a try?”
So there I was in my analyst’s office, face to face with a man who was ready to violate the sanctity of my most personal and private thoughts, and to think he was willing to do all this for a paltry one hundred and fifty dollars an hour. I guess I really did need my head examined.
Chapter Five
Jonathan Deveraux had made the unforgivable mistake of taking his cell phone with him to the country club and was therefore accessible to us. His partners, Randolph Stockton and Emery Holmes, were not. It was 4:00 p.m. before he was able to meet us at his office. Lido and I were sensitive to the fact that a man of Deveraux’s stature could not just up and go. He had to shower and change before leaving the club, down a quick draft ale in the clubhouse and discuss the evening’s plans with his cronies. In all fairness, it was at least an hour’s drive from New Canaan to the city, even in a Bentley.
The offices of Holmes, Stockton, and Deveraux were impressive, and I was again treated to a breathtaking view of the city. The sun was low over Manhattan’s southern tip. I wanted to kick off my shoes and have a margarita, grab the first eligible stud and . . . but that would have to wait.
The office was open and to my surprise quite hectic. Holmes, Stockton, and Deveraux was a big firm specializing in mergers and acquisitions. The firm had a huge roster of clients, chock-full of Internet and technology companies. The firm’s close physical proximity to Wall Street was in no way coincidental.
Jonathan Deveraux’s office was painted pine green. Lovely tongue-in-groove floorboards were stained a rich mahogany brown. It was a true gentleman’s office, replete with period photographs of tennis legends. I recognized Budge, Newcomb, Riggs, and several others. A bag of antique golf clubs resided in a corner of the room beneath an original oil portrait of Bobby Jones. Deveraux’s desk was at once massive and impressive. It was so incredibly well made, as if a hundred craftsmen had labored a hundred years to build it.
We were allowed to wait in Deveraux’s office. I assumed that he had phoned ahead and given instructions to that effect. Deveraux had not b
een told the reason for the emergency meeting, only that the police department needed to see him immediately. Speaking of studs, while we waited for him, I noted quite happily that Lido had taken the opportunity to shower and shave. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing his casual best. His wavy hair was so full and lustrous, it almost demanded that a woman run her fingers through it. Without the stubble, I was able to make out the cleft in his chin and two adorable little dimples. Where are those margaritas when you need them?
“This is better,” I said, referring to his appearance. “You were looking a bit ripe this morning.”
“Are you kidding? I couldn’t get out of bed. I threw on the first thing I could find.”
“No kidding.”
“We can’t all be picture-perfect.”
“Why not?”
“Hey, are you dissing me?” Actually, I was flirting, but he was close enough.
My phone vibrated. It was a cop named Atkinson. Seth Green had turned up. Unhappily, he was not getting a frost and blow from the neighborhood beautician. The weekend custodian had found Green’s body locked in a storage closet right there at the Roosevelt Island tram station, with one bullet to the heart. They were prying what looked to be a 9mm slug out of the closet wall as we spoke.
The session with Isaacs was still fresh in my head. I didn’t want to admit it, but the man was pretty good. Well, not pretty good, but really not bad. I came away feeling happy, almost chipper, and I am rarely, I repeat, rarely chipper. It’s good to have someone to talk to, even if it’s someone who costs you a bundle and convinces you that you need more therapy. Being in therapy was the last thing I wanted, but I could deal with it for a little while and would see how it went. Let’s see if Isaacs could get that pain-in-the-butt nightmare to go away.
Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) Page 3
