“Thanks, Dad.” I leaned over and kissed him, leaving a big SWAK mark on his cheek.
“So, your mother says you’re not sleeping,” he added, clearly uncomfortable. My dad isn’t good with personal conversations. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. “Is there, uh, something you want to talk about?”
Well, let’s see… Someone tried to kill me, I slept with Bobby, cracked up Paul’s car, I’m in love with an outlaw and I almost killed a man… but “almost” doesn’t count…
“Nah. I’m good. Hey, are there any more bagels left?”
I arrived at Peter Applebaum’s at 11:00 a.m. He greeted me with a smile tinged with curiosity. Of all the tough spots I’d found myself in over the course of the week, this was one of the hardest. I was about to tell a man whose world had collapsed the day his wife died that someone had done it on purpose. Only what if it turned out not to be true? Was it fair to subject him to horrifically painful memories before I was one hundred percent sure of my facts?
I followed Peter’s wheel chair into the living room and took a seat on the couch. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me again,” I told him. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “Although I am wondering what I can do for you. I wasn’t terribly helpful the last time you were here.”
“Actually, you were more helpful than you thought.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well, you steered me to Dr. Levi and ironically, it was the information she couldn’t provide that helped me put it all together. Peter, what I’m about to tell you may be difficult to accept, and to be honest I’m not even sure I’m on the right track. But—”
“Listen,” Peter interrupted, “I did a little investigating of my own after you came to see me last week. From what I’ve read, your track record is pretty impressive, so why don’t you just tell me what this is all about?”
I took a deep breath and began. I started with the night his wife’s office had been burglarized and worked my way through to the day of my car accident and how it appeared that someone had tampered with my brakes. He sat rigid in his chair, absorbing the information, stopping me from time to time for clarification.
“So you believe Girard had my wife killed because he was afraid his sister had told her about the molestation.”
I nodded. “Girard was an up and coming doctor. This kind of information would have ruined his career before he even got started and quite possibly landed him in prison. When Harmon went on trial, Laura’s past was bound to come out. So I figure he arranged to have the files stolen and then got rid of anyone Laura may have confided in. Four years later Tamra begins a new investigation, so he gets rid of her too.”
When I was finished Peter sat there with the tortured look of someone who had been though hell and hadn’t quite made it back to the other side. He was shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks. “All this time I’ve blamed myself for Traci’s death,” he said.
“Peter, I’m so sorry. I knew this would be hard for you.”
I waited a minute (it was probably more like thirty seconds, I have no self control) and then I continued. “Listen, I’ve made a lot of headway in connecting Girard to this crime, but I need something concrete to show that he had a motive for killing Tamra and your wife. If I can prove he’d been molesting his sister that should be enough to convince the cops to look into him.”
“I’m sorry. I still don’t see how I can help you.”
“The last time I was here you told me you haven’t been up to Traci’s office since she died. Has anyone cleaned out that space for you?”
Peter shook his head. “Except for Dr. Levi taking the files, it’s just the way Traci left it. I know it’s silly,” he shrugged. “I’ve just never been able to bring myself to do it.”
“I’d like to check out the office. The people who broke in may have taken Laura’s file, but there’s a chance that they overlooked something. Possibly Traci took notes that hadn’t made their way into the file yet. Do you mind if I have a look around?”
Peter wheeled himself over to the other side of the living room and opened up a cabinet. He took out a key and handed it to me. “I want you to nail this bastard.”
Except for the layer of dust coating every surface and the dead plants perched on the window sill, Dr. Applebaum’s office appeared perfectly preserved. A big mahogany desk dominated the room, the top of which was cluttered with framed photos of Peter and Traci and a beautiful Labrador Retriever, an I heart Philadelphia mug and various other knick knacks. A mahogany file cabinet stood against the wall, tucked in behind the desk.
Alongside the opposite wall sat a beige corduroy couch and a matching comfy chair. It made for a cozy, comfortable place to spill one’s deepest darkest secrets. I just prayed the ghosts of some of those secrets were still hanging around.
I started with the file cabinet. Predictably, it was empty. Dr. Levi must have taken the rest of the contents. I began opening up desk drawers, perusing every scrap of paper, but I couldn’t find a single connection to Laura. In the bottom right hand desk drawer I found a four year old Hershey bar and a small notepad. I opened the Hershey bar. I mean it’s not like anyone was going to miss it.
The notepad was filled with hurriedly scribbled, random thoughts regarding various patients. I read the first one. “A.K. appeared more withdrawn than usual today. Re-evaluate meds.” I quickly flipped through the rest of the book. Dr. Levi said Dr. Applebaum only had five patients, not counting Laura. If there was something in the notepad pertaining to her it wouldn’t be hard to find.
Towards the back of the pad I found an entry dated May 2nd. “L. still not talking, but journaling very effective. A real breakthrough today.”
When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was Harriet the Spy. It was about this girl who went around spying on people in the neighborhood and taking notes that she kept in a journal. Her parents thought she was crazy so they took her journal away and sent her to a psychiatrist. The first thing the shrink did was give her a new journal.
My heart flipped in my chest as a wave of hope coursed through it. Dr. Applebaum had Laura keep a journal. She must have used it to confide all the feelings that she couldn’t bring herself to verbalize. But if a journal did exist, what happened to it?
I took a bite out of the Hershey bar. It was two years past the expiration date so it tasted a little funky, but chocolate is chocolate so I ate it anyway.
“Okay,” I told myself. “Think logically.” Laura had no close friends and she kept people at a distance. Deeply troubled and with no one to confide in, she decides to go for help. She begins seeing Dr. Applebaum, but she clams up when she’s in the office.
Dr. Applebaum encourages her to write down her feelings. Seemed plausible so far.
Now, I assume most patients would take their journals home and use it in between therapy sessions in order to monitor their own emotions, like if they start to feel anxious or they have a revelation. However, Dr. Applebaum couldn’t get Laura to talk to her, so… maybe she was using the journal as a form of communication between them… in which case she would be reading the entries… which meant she would have left the journal in the office!
I jumped up so fast I nearly choked on a hunk of chocolate. Frantically, I began ransacking the place, pulling books off the shelves, rifling through drawers.
The left hand desk drawer was locked. I rattled on it for a while and then tried to pry it open with a butter knife I found that had been doing double duty as a letter opener.
Finally I gave up and began searching for the key. I scanned the room for possible hiding places and then I moved over to the window sill and began lifting the potted plants. Under a dead cactus in the corner sat a small silver key.
I stuck the key in the lock and turned it. The drawer opened easily, exposing the contents inside. I reached in and extracted a leather bound spiral notebook. I was hoping for a sign on the front of it that
said, “Laura’s journal. All will be revealed!” but life is rarely that accommodating.
I turned the page and found the first entry, dated six weeks before Laura died. The handwriting was small, neat and feminine and the sentiment expressed was short and to the point. “Sex is power.”
The next entry was dated a few days later. It was longer, but the handwriting was miniscule, as if the person who wrote it was trying to limit its power by shrinking its size. The tone was by turns angry, scared, defiant. I found one passage particularly heartbreaking in its almost childlike narration.
“Nobody knows the real me. I’ve tried to tell Daddy about Ethan, but he just sees what he wants to see. Laura is invisible. Sometimes even I don’t think she exists.”
I looked for the page marked May 2nd. Dr. Applebaum thought there had been a breakthrough that day. There were some pages torn out. I suspected Laura had removed them herself. Maybe they were so private she couldn’t bring herself to keep a written record, no matter how safe the environment.
Finally, I found what I’d been looking for. It was the last journal entry, disjointed and chilling, written in large, angry strokes.
“Ethan said he’s coming over. Well, he’s in for a surprise. I’m not his kitten anymore. The years of self loathing… it was not my fault. IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. I will no longer allow him to ruin my life. I trusted him. My brother. My protector. My lover… God how I hate him. How could he do this to me? I was just a little girl. I’m telling him tonight. It’s over.”
Ethan went to see Laura on May 2nd? That was the same day she was murdered.
Nowhere in the transcripts was there mention that Ethan had visited her on the 2nd. Was he there right before Harmon came over or… Holy cow!
Chapter Seventeen
A wave of nausea hit me with such intensity I bolted towards the window and shoved it open, gulping in the brisk winter air. It was Ethan! He killed his own sister! Jesus Christ, why didn’t I see it sooner? Because the thought was so repulsive it was beyond comprehension. And yet I knew it like I knew my own name.
Laura was going to tell him she wouldn’t be with him anymore. Maybe she threatened to tell people what he’d been doing to her all these years. Or maybe he didn’t like being rejected. Possibly, she went crazy on him. According to Danny, it wouldn’t have been the first time. Whatever the motivation, Ethan had to be the one.
He must have seen Harmon entering her apartment on the evening of May 2nd, so he sat in his car for a while waiting for him to leave, and then he came back after Harmon left, killed her and then messed up the apartment to make it look like there had been a struggle between Laura and Harmon.
But then Ethan had to make sure that Harmon would be convicted. Enter Anthony Mitchell. Mitchell was employed at the car wash across the street from where Meyers worked. Mitchell and Harmon hung around the same circles. I’d figured that someone had paid Mitchell to say that Harmon confessed to him about killing Laura. Even though Mitchell wasn’t the most credible witness, his testimony was icing on the cake.
But if Dr. Applebaum read the entry, when she heard that Laura had been murdered, why didn’t she tell the police about Ethan going over there that night… unless she hadn’t heard about Laura’s death right away. There was only a small window of time between Laura’s murder and Traci’s car “accident.” And even if she had heard about it, Harmon was such a despicable character it would be easy to assume he was guilty.
I began silently tallying up the death toll. How could Girard be responsible for so many shattered lives? I mean once you get the hang of killing, is it just that much easier to take another life and then another? It really did seem to be the ultimate in sick ironic humor that the guy’s chosen profession was an obstetrician. “Give a life, take a life, that’s my motto!” What a world.
I put the books back on the shelves and straightened up as best I could. Then I took Laura’s journal and locked up Dr. Applebaum’s office, pausing to pick up the photos on the desk.
Peter was waiting for me at the door, his wheel chair blocking the entrance. He smiled apologetically and rolled out of the way.
“I thought you might want these,” I said, placing the photos in his lap.
He studied them for a moment, a sad smile flickering across his face. “Did you get what you were looking for?” he asked.
“I did,” I said, holding up the journal. “We’re not there yet, but we’re getting there.”
On the way home I put in a call to Eric. I really didn’t want to go into the office and run the risk of being on the receiving end of one Lynne’s snotty remarks. I’d gotten away with knocking her over once, but I wasn’t sure it would fly a second time around.
Also, I was sort of wondering if I still had a job. Wendy was back full force. I’d caught her on the news this morning, sitting in as one of the judges in a local “Oprah Winfrey Look-Alike Contest.” Boy, some of those people didn’t even remotely look like Oprah. I think one lady had mixed her up with Weezy from The Jeffersons.
Eric was in a meeting, so I left a message for him to call me. I also called Bobby and got his voicemail, so I left a message for him too, telling him to get in touch with me ASAP. For all of our disagreements, I know Bobby trusts my instincts. I needed him on my side if I was going to present a case to the police, and I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Lives were depending on me.
It was past lunch time and I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything since the ice cream, half a moldy candy bar not withstanding. I cruised down South Street in Nick’s truck, looking for the new Indian restaurant that had just opened up. According to Carla, the food isn’t very good but they give you a lot.
I passed by Lucinda’s gallery and spotted Johnny climbing out of his BMW. I double parked next to him and honked. He pretended like he didn’t know I was there and kept walking, head down, as if being buffeted by high winds. I opened the passenger side window, leaned across the seat and yelled out the window.
“Yo, jerk-o. I know you see me.”
John looked up, a sheepish grin plastered to his face. He walked over to the truck and leaned in through the window.
“So how’s it goin’?” he asked.
I climbed out of the truck and came around to the side where John stood. I was wearing my shitkicker boots with the two inch heels so we were eye to eye. “You tell me John. Did you get my photo back?”
“Oh yeah, about that. Funny thing. Um, not yet.”
Unhhh! I sat down hard on the hood of Nick’s truck and jammed my fists into my pockets to keep from popping John one. “John, the one thing, the one thing I asked you not to do.”
“I swear to God, it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t there. Lucinda must’ve sold it by accident. I haven’t seen her so I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
I looked beyond John into the gallery’s big picture window. I could see movement in the room and the bony presence of its owner. “She’s in there now. Let’s go ask her who bought it and get it back.”
I jumped off the hood, all set to march through the doors, but John caught me by the arm. “That’s not such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“The thing is after the other night, you’ve sort’ve been banned from the gallery.”
“What?”
“Honey, you’re lucky she didn’t charge you with grand theft. That photo sold for $1200.00 bucks.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
John actually had the audacity to be offended. “I happen to be an artist of some renown here. Any collector would be proud to own my work.”
He began waxing poetic about his pictorial achievements but I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy trying not to cry. I guess John picked up on the psychic vibes, or else it was the tears of frustration that were beginning to well up and spill down my cheeks that gave me away. Whatever, he stopped talking and put his arm around me.
“Okay, Sunshine, what’s this really about?”
“My life is so out
of control, John,” I wailed, choking back little snuffling noises.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“You mean it shows?”
“Just a little.” John reached into his coat pocket and extracted a travel packet of Kleenex. “Here,” he said, handing it to me.
I took out a tissue and wiped my nose and then tried to hand him back the packet.
“That’s okay, you hang on to it. Look, sweetie,” he added, dropping his voice in the soothing way people do when addressing the mentally unstable, “I really am sorry about the photograph and I’ll do whatever I can to get it back for you. But there’s a bigger issue here.”
I felt the beginnings of a “heart to heart” coming on and began to panic. “John,” I told him, swiping the tears away with the back of my hand, “I just had a momentary lapse, brought on no doubt by near starvation. You really want to help me? Take me out to lunch. The ‘all-you-can-eat buffet’ down at Hannigan’s only lasts until three, so we’d better hurry.”
John shrugged his narrow shoulders in surrender. “Fine. I’ll take you to lunch. But we’re going to have this conversation sooner or later.”
Later, Johnny. Much later.
Hannigan’s is a combination Irish Pub-Nordic schmorgusborg. Even the beer tastes like herring. We took separate cars because I’d planned on heading over to the police station right after we ate.
I tried calling Bobby again, but he still didn’t pick up and my anxiety level was growing exponentially with every passing minute. Somehow I doubted that a “puff piece” reporter’s gut instincts would be enough to convince the cops to reopen the case.
I needed a credible witness to verify what I knew to be true. Unfortunately, anyone who fell into that category came with an obituary attached to them… all except for…
Ignoring the enormous “No left turn” sign at Broad and Walnut, I swung a u-ie and headed away from Hannigan’s. At the next red light I whipped out my phone and called John. I could hear plates clattering in the background.
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 24
