I bit back my impatience. She was my client and entitled to know what was happening. I flashed on Boots, then Eban. This case had cost both of us something. Somehow that made it easier to talk.
“Let me tell you what I found out. The murdered kid’s name was Joe Starring, a minor-league dope dealer from a small town in Jersey. From what I could gather he wasn’t a bad kid, just one with no future. He lived with a depressed mother and an alcoholic stepfather who never took to him. After Ernie, the stepfather, was laid off on his job, it went from bad to worse. The mother wanted Joe to move out for his own good, but Joe didn’t want to leave her alone with the step father. The old man used force to drive points home. Mrs. Starring never said it, but I don’t think Ernie limited his violence to Joe. The kid dealt grass and broke into drugstores for spending money. Believe it or not, Joe contributed money to the home.
“So far, fact. What comes next is speculation. The stepfather had a natural kid some time in his past. While he never came out and said as much, there was a constant theme of comparison which Joe and his mother took for flights of fantasy. But Joe discovered that Ernie wasn’t lying. He came up here in order to turn his information into money.”
Dr. James was listening intently. The story I was spinning pushed her pain into the background. “Why do you think so?”
“Because he told his mother he would return with enough bread to cut her loose from the old man.”
She looked at me skeptically. “You think he meant it because he told his mother? Aren’t you being a little naive? He probably came here to sell his drugs. I never thought of you as quite that romantic.”
I shook off her doubts and mine. Mrs. Sullivan had stopped fiddling at the stove and moved to the end of the kitchen table to listen raptly to our conversation.
“Listen, the kid was devoted to his mother, what can I tell you? I was able to confirm that he didn’t lie to her.” I had a momentary memory of Rudnow’s chin cracking against the table. “He didn’t have the kind of contacts that make hard-drug dealing a reasonable assumption. Also, New York would have been an easier do. He came up here with something else in mind.”
“Don’t forget the drugstores. He might have gotten the drugs from his robberies.”
“He kept the money, his partner kept the drugs. It also doesn’t fit with coming up here. I’m not trying to put a halo over his head, but I don’t think he lied to his mother and she said he wasn’t dealing anything harder than pot. Coming here is a long way to travel for a very small profit.”
Her professional curiosity began to show. “Do you think she would have left if Joe had returned with enough money?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. But I don’t think the kid believed that.”
“You sound like you identify with this Starring.”
“Not the mother part.” I looked toward Mrs. Sullivan and smiled, “Until we met, that is.”
I continued, “I’m telling you the kid came to score and did. He bought himself a loaded Lincoln and paid for it with cash. We’re talking at least twenty-five grand that he didn’t have when he left New Jersey. One of the people in your stolen files was his John.”
Mrs. Sullivan broke in excitedly, “So he blackmailed one of Gloria’s clients who killed him.” The tone in her voice brought smiles to both Gloria and myself. “Almost as good as TV, eh, Mrs. S.?”
“Better!” She heard herself, then began to smile. Suddenly the three of us were sitting around the table laughing. I stopped when I refocused on Gloria’s battered face. She pushed her glasses onto her hair and wiped her eyes with a napkin from the table. “You never had this kind of imagination in therapy, Matthew.”
I looked at her as she continued, “It’s impossible for me to imagine that one of my clients could commit a murder and I not have a hint of it. And I needn’t look through any records to assure you there is no hint.”
“Well I wouldn’t necessarily disagree with you.”
“But you said …”
“No, Mrs. Sullivan said. I’m not that far along in my thinking.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe that Starring’s hustle connects to one of your clients, but I don’t know how directly. For some unfathomable reason, the police covered for Starring’s burglary, then killed him.”
“No!” Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair, then sat back down. “First you say the police protected him, then you say they killed him.” She shook her head. “You are the one who watches too much television.”
I wanted to smile but I could see Gloria staring at me with anxious disbelief. “Gloria, when you first came to me about the burglaries you were suspicious of the police. We also know I was beaten up by a cop who wanted me off the case.” I needed a closer. “The same cop was there when Starring was killed.”
Gloria shook her head. “I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I want to look at the files. If we can find the John we’ll unravel the connection to the police.”
“I wish you would stop calling my clients ‘Johns.’ ”
“I’m sorry.” Everyone sat there quietly engulfed in confusion; at least I finally had company.
I rubbed my face. “I wish I could be clearer about all the convolutions, but I’ll be a lot closer after I read the files.”
“And if you don’t get any closer?”
“I’ll think of something else.” It didn’t sound like much, even to me. Gloria started to talk, then changed her mind. I quickly moved to take the spotlight off the holes and onto the cheese. “I can limit the search if you give me the records of clients who were born around 1953. And who have money.”
She did some mental arithmetic and started to chuckle, “That leaves just about everyone. Most of my clients are between thirty and forty. Their financial business is their own. There are a few insurance forms mixed in with the session notes for some of the people. Not all.”
“You have extra copies of insurance forms?”
“Some.” Her face started to sag. She hadn’t eaten any meds since I’d been there. I decided not to push her or my own credibility any further.
“Look, just let me take the box and you rest. If I need any help I’ll write the questions down and we can go over them later.”
She wasn’t happy but all she did was shrug. Mrs. Sullivan asked me if I wanted to take any of her good bread with me and I nodded gratefully. I stood and walked into the back bedroom to a large box stuffed with paper. I lifted the carton and returned to the kitchen. Gloria sat with her eyes closed. Mrs. Sullivan put her finger to her lips and shoved a bag on top of the box. I whispered my thanks and staggered home.
I slogged my way through Gloria’s carton, the excitement of the hunt matched only by my fear of discovering nothing. She had separated each patient’s file with a large piece of red construction paper, so I put them into individual piles on the table. After I covered the table I used the floor.
The last file I pulled out of the box was Fran’s. Her name scrawled in black marker hit me like a kick in the face. She hadn’t visited a gynecologist at 290, she’d been there to see Gloria. I felt like a fool. Although Simon had referred me to Dr. James, I had no recollection of Fran being mentioned. He might have; my memories of that period were hazy at best.
Standing immobilized in the middle of my kitchen, surrounded by the urgent pleadings of battered lives, I remained oblivious to the obvious connection. I suppose Starring alarms should have sounded, but I just wanted to stuff Fran’s records back into the box. I was too close to the fissure in my relationship with Simon to stomach any more of his wife’s emotional reality, no matter how compelling. Later, I realized that I had lied so frequently to Simon about Starring, it was almost impossible for me to believe it could be anything but a lie. I left her shit on the floor and went back to my original search strategy. I eliminated a few due to age and a couple because of money, but the majority of Gloria’s clients were thirtyto forty-year-old burghers.
But I didn’t think Ernie Starring would brag about a girl so I started with the boys. Dr. James’ notion of scribblings must have referred to her handwriting; the notes detailed the anguish she listened to all day, every day. By the time I eliminated the first person from suspicion, I felt grateful my own records hadn’t been among those stolen. There was enough material in a person’s session notes to learn the worst.
A couple hours later, deep into somebody’s heartache, I closed the file, lit a cigarette, and retrieved Fran’s voluminous folder from the floor. A half-formed idea tugged at me. Since the beginning I had steadfastly kept the two cases parallel. Separate but equal. Holding Fran’s folder, I saw the possibility of their intersection. As uneasy as I felt diving into Fran’s psyche, something new began to drive me. Something more than guilty voyeurism.
It took almost two hours to read and reread the file. If I obscured the line between fantasy, dreams, and reality, I had my answers. I tried to think of what to do, but there was no divine guidance. As if by rote I stood, slowly walked to where I’d hung my holster, and strapped it on. It was almost evening and I felt like I was floating, suspended in an opium cloud. I shook myself, searching for other feelings, but found nothing except the urge to keep moving.
I reached for the phone and dialed Mrs. Sullivan’s number. “Mrs. S., I have to talk with Gloria. I don’t care if she is resting. Please.” She grumbled but responded to the tenaciousness of my tone.
“Hello, Matthew?” Gloria’s voice sounded furry. She had been sleeping.
“What do you know about Alex Hirsh?”
“Alex Hirsh? You mean Fran Roth’s father? I know quite a bit, actually.” The drift in her voice was replaced by an undercurrent of tension.
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what? What does he have to do with you?”
“Please, Gloria, just tell me about him. If you were talking to Eban what would you say? I’ll explain later.”
“From what I’m given to understand he’s had a difficult life. His father, Fran’s grandfather, died when Alex was quite young and his mother was unable or unwilling to parent him. He was dragged in and out of orphanages depending on whether relatives were in a position to care for him. According to Fran, he won’t talk about his mother with anyone.”
“Then how did Fran learn about his childhood?”
“From her mother. What is this about?”
“Why did you assume Fran’s dreams weren’t a reflection of reality?”
“What are you saying?” A note of defensiveness crept into her tone.
“I’m saying that her dreams may have related to actual experiences.”
“What makes you think I disagree with that?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t like your tone. Why are you asking about this? What are you trying to suggest?”
I brushed aside her feelings and her question. “Do you think Fran’s dreams were fact or fantasy?” It was work to keep from shouting.
When she spoke she sounded overwhelmed. “I’ve gone around in circles about that. When I first heard the dreams I leaned toward the idea of actual events and circumstances. But there were no memories. None. No matter how I investigated, questioned, or confronted, there were no specific memories. That still didn’t exclude a connection to reality but, with dreamwork, I have to stay openminded. By insisting that it had to be reality I would only negate exploring other alternatives.”
“What did Fran think?”
“She was absolutely adamant against the reality of it. Almost all her feelings about her father are positive. The few exceptions are in the notes.”
“The notes don’t give me the sound of her voice. They don’t let me know if she’s running from reality or discovering something new about it.”
“The few negative instances she spoke of were ambiguous. There might have been some cruelty surfacing, or simply overaggressiveness on the part of a father who didn’t understand when to stop. You sound so high and mighty. Don’t you think I’ve been concerned about this? What should I have done? We are talking about the past, you know.”
I heard myself sound flat and dull. “I don’t think you’re irresponsible. If anyone has been irresponsible it’s me. I’ve had the luxury of investigating the present and I’ve been blind.”
I shrugged off my guilt and honed in on the specific. “What you are telling me is: you may not be sure, but Fran is certain her nightmares have nothing to do with Alex?”
“No. That’s what I would have told you last week.”
“Huh?” I felt my face curl.
“Yesterday, while I was at the office, I got a call from Fran. Although she wouldn’t discuss it, she said she had realized that her dreams were based in fact. She acted terribly withdrawn and I worked just to make contact. Apparently she had been trying to get in touch for a couple of days without success. She never left a message or called Eban. She had been so absolute in her belief that the dreams sprang from her own sexual ambivalence that what she discovered just added more pain rather than any relief.”
The dread of my suspicions was replaced by a germinating anger. “Did she say why she changed her mind?”
“She refused. It was not the time to push but to settle her down and reassure her that, real or imagined, we would work it through. I know she is a friend of yours, so talking like this is terribly complicated. I’ve broken so many professional canons with you.” She paused. “I’m worried about her, Matthew. I gave her this number and she promised to call, but she hasn’t.”
I registered the information as if it came through the wrong end of a telescope, clear but distant. “Well, it’s too late to sweat the ethics.” I tried to be light but the words hung like an overdose of carbohydrates.
“This has to do with the robbery and murder, doesn’t it?” Her voice was small and almost plaintive. “Have I bungled so badly that it cost a life?”
I answered carefully. “I don’t see either of us responsible, Gloria. We did the best we could with what we knew.” I hoped my words worked better for her than they did for me.
“Are you saying that out of kindness?”
“I’m not feeling kind.”
“I don’t understand how all this fits together.”
I was impatient to get off the phone. “You will, but I can’t explain now. I have to go.”
“You can’t leave me floating like this. Are you going to find Fran? I’ve called her a number of times today but all I get is the damn answering machine.”
I avoided her questions. “There is nothing you can do now except be there if Fran needs you. When Fran needs you. After this is over you are going to be her rock, but right now you need to recuperate.”
“You sound strange, Matthew. You’ve got something in mind. I know you well enough to sense when you’re keeping something to yourself. It scares me.”
“Don’t be scared. Just get well.” When she started to say something I pushed the button and disconnected. I held onto the receiver and dialed Simon’s home number. No one there. I hung up without leaving a message. I called his office where, after listening to that machine, I did the same.
It didn’t really bother me that I couldn’t find them. There were other people I needed to see. I unholstered the gun, flicked open the cylinder, and checked that the chambers were loaded. I was reminded of my grandmother who nosed the stove three times a night to make sure there was no leaking gas.
I had no real plan; no idea of what I wanted to say. But I knew I was going. I had spent too much time crawling around in the gutters of people’s lives, and my own, to act like a social worker unrolling red tape.
I finished the last of the cocaine, hoping to loosen my frozen anger. The image of friends’ lives lurching toward sham
bles rekindled my intensity. I gathered my stuff, shoved the gun back into the holster, and made my way to the car. The weather was unusually cold; I could see steam rise from my naked hands. When the car refused to start I felt the anger coil just under my skin. I would have walked if necessary, but it turned over on the second try. Too many lives were careening out of control to sit still now.
This night I found the driveway without pause. Even before I got to the circle I could see that, except for the solarium, the mansion was dark. The cold bleakness offered me an ominous greeting intensified by Fran’s Mercedes parked in the circle, its red shrillness smothered by the dark. I remembered the last time I was here, and instinctively looked for guards. No shadowy figures punctuated the night. Except for me. The only light was the dim glow from high above, the only sound the soft crunch of my own feet on the finely cut shells of the path through the rolling lawn.
I got to the entrance and almost rang the bell before I thought to try the door. It opened, and I stepped into the moonlit foyer. I stood dead still and waited for an alarm or servants, but all that met me was silence. I walked quietly through the ballroom until I got to the circular steps that led to the promise of light. I could hear voices but I couldn’t make out their words.
Halfway up the spiral I heard somebody scream and something shatter on the floor. Quietly I ran the rest of the way to the conservatory, then tiptoed behind one of the two white Roman pillars that braced the glass door archway.
Although rows of hanging plants obscured my view, I could see everyone reflected in the mirrored wall framed by greens and flowers.
Lena Hirsh was shrunk into the same wing chair she had been in at the party. Only now she wasn’t made up, so the thinness of her body was accentuated, her face pinched, her eyes staring at Hirsh with fear. Fran, sprawled on the floor in front of the pool table, looked bewildered but unharmed. A vase lay splintered on the rim of the table, its flowers strewn across the elegant white Chinese rug. Alex stood on the far side of a small glass and chrome desk holding a .22. He wasn’t pointing it, just looking at it.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 27
