Fuss, fuss, fuss. She was no stranger to dangerous criminals, knew she could hold her own if need be. Being aware was nine-tenths of the law when it came to being hunted. Not being where you were expected to be also helped. And that’s exactly what she planned to do.
No one knew about the conversation she’d had with Jasmine on Wednesday. Thalia Abbott was at St. Ann’s. She could swing by there after she went to see Ellen Ricard, who was expecting her to come by at eight.
She invited the guard in for coffee, explained her intentions. She made it clear that he had no choice and made him swear not to tell Baldwin she had left. Give me two hours, she told him, then I’ll be back and be a good girl.
When she rolled out of the garage, she was whistling. They may take her badge, but damn it, they weren’t going to stop her investigation of these crimes.
Her conscience kept trying to get her attention, but she ignored the little voice in her head that said to go back home, nestle in with a good book, and let Baldwin handle things. When had she ever trusted a man to take care of her? Never. It wasn’t that she was thumbing her nose at him, but somewhere, she subconsciously wanted to prove to him that she was the tough girl he thought her. And what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
She watched for cars following her, but saw nothing that gave her the slightest bit of concern. So far, when Aiden was around, she’d always been able to tell. He set off her warning systems; all her antediluvian adrenaline caches pushed into the red zone whenever he was in proximity. She trusted that wouldn’t change.
His wife’s grave. Baldwin had said that Aiden had a twofold plan—ruin Baldwin’s life and see his dead wife. She’d forgotten to ask where Lucy was buried. Maybe Aiden had decided to slip off and commune with her spirit before garroting Taylor’s throat.
The drive downtown was uneventful and she pulled in to the parking garage under the building. It was dark and gloomy. She wondered briefly if she should go ahead and park at the meters on the street. Deciding that would be the smart thing to do—see, Baldwin, I’m not a total idiot—she wound her way back up the ramps and onto West End. She found a spot on a meter that had a sign saying she could park there starting at 8:00 a.m. She looked at her watch. Seven forty-five. Close enough. What would they do, give her a ticket?
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Baldwin had her spooked enough to watch her back, that was for sure. The thought that Aiden had taken off once he knew Baldwin was in town came back, stronger than before. It made sense. Wishful thinking, probably, but hey, a girl could dream. What would life be like if they weren’t chasing madmen? Boring and staid, definitely.
In the lobby, a black lacquered sign listed Dr. Ellen Ricard’s office on the eighth floor. There was a communal bustle toward the elevators—patients, receptionist, the odd nurse in blue scrubs coming in with coffee from the nearby West End Starbucks. Taylor moved into the scrum and took her place in the elevator.
Dr. Ricard’s office was at the end of the long hallway on the right, next to an emergency stairwell. Taylor entered, a discreet ding announcing her presence. The office was finely decorated—a red and gold patterned Aubusson rug took up almost all the floor space, making the matching textured impressionist oils by local artist Jennifer Wilken stand out against the creamy walls. The furniture was thick, square and suede. A glass coffee table held Town and Country magazines, and the place smelled slightly of Chanel perfume.
Alerted by the door’s subtle chime, Dr. Ricard emerged from an interior room. She had shoulder-length silver hair that didn’t match her youthful face. Square black glasses, minimal makeup, black knit pants with a deep-cut black-and-white silk top—Ricard was an odd mixture of hippie and hip. She couldn’t be more than forty, but Taylor wasn’t very good with ages.
Ricard crossed the room and held out her hand. Taylor shook it, then followed when the doctor gestured, leading the way into her inner sanctum.
The room was filled with sunlight—facing east, the early morning sun spilled through the windows, lending an air of good cheer to the surroundings. Two heavy couches faced one another across a second art deco glass coffee table; a large wing chair covered in black velvet bore the markings of frequent use. Sure enough, Ricard crossed the room, curled like a cat with her feet tucked under her, laid the notepad and pen on the coffee table and indicated Taylor should sit with a nod of her head. Taylor did, amazed at the control the woman exuded without even speaking. After a moment, the doctor spoke, her accented voice making Taylor feel like she was on a museum tour in Great Britain.
“I’m Ellen Ricard, but you already know that. How can I help you, Lieutenant?”
Straight to business. All right. “Corinne Wolff. She was a patient of yours. I was hoping you’d tell me why.”
“If you know she was a patient, then you know that I’m not bound to tell you anything about our private sessions. But, I am sorry that we’ve lost her. Corinne was a magnificent girl.”
“Then help me find out who killed her, Doctor.”
“Isn’t that readily apparent, Lieutenant? Two days out and you already had a suspect in custody.”
“That’s true, but I don’t think it’s a foregone conclusion that Todd killed Corinne. Yes, he’s been arrested because there’s evidence condemning him, but the investigation into his actions is far from complete. That’s not why I’m here. I understand that Corinne and her husband were…open with their sexuality.”
“Be that as it may. It’s you who isn’t sure. You don’t want to be responsible if he is innocent.”
“You’re right, I’m not convinced. I’m not careless with people’s lives, regardless of their choices. And stop psychoanalyzing me. I’m not a patient, I’m trying to get some answers.”
Ricard finally smiled, and relaxed in the chair. “All right, Lieutenant. I’ll stop playing games if you will.”
Taylor wasn’t sure what to make of the good doctor. Was this going anywhere, or was she just spinning her wheels?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ricard steepled her fingers, tapping her two forefingers together. “It means I saw the news this morning. That you’d been suspended. Is this true, or did you get reinstated five minutes ago?”
Taylor slid farther into the sofa cushions, miserable. Damn.
Ricard waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t care, Lieutenant. I’ve seen the tapes.”
Taylor blanched, but Ricard continued, not warmly, but with a certain sense of shared camaraderie.
“Don’t worry. It’s blatantly obvious that someone is upset with you and trying to ruin your reputation. I’ve been through that kind of crap myself. Intimidation, coercion. Don’t let them get you down. But in all honesty, none of that matters here. I see that you’re true in your desire to find Corinne’s real killer. The fire in your eyes is unmistakable.” She smiled, the first kind look that had crossed her face since Taylor entered her sanctum.
“This will have to be off the record, though. Surely you understand. If I’m going to divulge secrets of a patient to an unfrocked police officer, I can only speak hypothetically.”
Taylor searched Ricard’s face for signs of mocking, and found none. What did she have to lose? It wasn’t like she could march into headquarters and announce she’d solved the case anyway. No, better to take the doctor at her word, listen to what she said, glean as much information as possible.
“I understand. That’s fine. I’m just curious why someone as controlled and secure as Corinne Wolff would fall apart like she did. For her to be taking prescription anti-anxiety medication during a pregnancy seems wholly out of character, and if it’s a clue that will help me discover if it’s her husband, or someone else, who killed her…”
Ricard was nodding, so Taylor stopped and let the woman gather her thoughts.
“You know a lot about her already. A thorough victimology, I presume?”
“I’m trying to build an accurate victimology. Corinne seemed to be a w
oman with two distinct personalities. On one side, the suburban housewife and mother, the former tennis wunderkind, the short-lived businesswoman. The other side was apparently out of control, desperately searching for happiness and pleasure. I’d like to find out why this woman had two sides that were so extreme.”
“We all have two sides, Lieutenant. The persona we adopt for our fellow man, and the self that we keep hidden, the real part of us that allows the core to make judgments and derive pleasure from our actions. You can’t tell me you’re the same person at home, in private, that you are in public. Simply being a woman in a man’s position would preclude you from showing any normal weakness or vulnerability on the job.”
“I’m hardly a woman in a man’s position, Doctor. And yes, I am the same woman at work as I am at home. What you see is what you get.”
Ricard smiled, her lips thinning. The woman didn’t like being challenged.
“Really? How many female lieutenants are there in the police force these days?”
“Plenty.”
“And do they have field jobs or administrative posts?”
“In Metro? Administrative. I’m the only lieutenant in the field.”
“And I bet you have the respect of your team. That you never show them how deep down you wish you could relinquish control and allow them to care for you.”
“Oh, you’re wrong there. We are a team. We work together, and I surrender to them all the time. If I didn’t they’d never trust me.”
“And you have a man at home?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s with the FBI. He’s…”
“Yes?”
“He’s in the middle of an investigation and keeping certain aspects of the case from me. He wants to protect me, and I don’t need protecting.” Shut up already, Taylor. This chick was good.
Taylor continued. “But that’s neither here nor there, Doctor. It has nothing to do with Corinne Wolff.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re so very wrong. Corinne also operated under the misapprehension that she was in complete control of her life. That the choices she made were her choices. That she engaged in distasteful behavior because she wanted to. But in reality, there’s always a part of a woman that wants to be cherished and protected, not subjected to multiple sex partners. Much less have those most intimate moments sold to the highest bidder.”
Taylor looked at Ricard. Behind the glasses, the mask of cool reserve, Taylor saw a shrewd woman. Taylor made sure her own face revealed nothing but cool interest in Corinne Wolff.
“So you’re saying Corinne is a victim?”
“In a way. Corinne, unhappily, is no longer with us to verify that she felt abused by her husband’s proclivities. You, on the other hand, are early enough in the game that you can steel yourself to the accusations against you, knowing deep in your heart you’ve done nothing wrong. Corinne didn’t have your fortitude, I believe. She was easily led. Instead of fighting, she acquiesced. Allowed herself to be used.”
“I’m not a victim, Dr. Ricard. That’s where Corinne and I differ. I’d appreciate you keeping this discussion strictly about her, please. Was she being used by her husband?”
Ricard looked amused for a moment, then nodded and continued. “Corinne was being used by many people. Husband, family, siblings, lover. You’ll hit upon the truth soon enough, Lieutenant. Let’s talk for a bit about the anxiety a young mother might feel if she were in a position similar to Corinne Wolff.”
“Okay.”
“Think of the difficulties facing an exceptionally talented child. A completely controlled existence, a world structured around said child’s genius. Constant work, attention, adulation and expectation. Until the one day the child wakes up, literally and figuratively, and decides she doesn’t want to be a prodigy. She doesn’t want to work so hard to live her life. She sees the people around her taking the easy road, sleeping in on the weekends, having plenty of time to date and do homework, and suddenly, she decides that is the life she wants. Someone who is so driven might actually pursue that simple life with the dogged determination that made her such a gifted athlete.”
“Corinne’s mother mentioned that her drive for tennis dissipated when she got into high school,” Taylor said. When Ricard didn’t comment, she asked, “Would small things that normally wouldn’t be a big deal to you or me set this kind of person off?”
“Certainly. Someone so in control would have great difficulty in letting others take the reins. Unless she was compromised, to a point. Something that wouldn’t be rational. Like being in love.”
Well, that made sense. Taylor thought back to the first video she’d seen, with Todd and the two girls. Corinne was manning the camera. Perhaps she enjoyed the sex play, perhaps not, but by taking control of what the audience saw and felt, she took control of her situation with her husband. She was directing him, a thoroughly nontraditional role.
“Was there something in Corinne’s life that presaged this need for control?”
“Ah, sadly, Lieutenant, since we are only discussing a hypothetical situation, I can’t answer that. But someone with this level of need for stability might have a past that saw some sort of abuse, self-inflicted or external. With many young phenoms, their manifestation comes out in their talent. Once that talent is taken away, even something as simple as a parent telling the child he or she must go to bed now instead of studying their art could send a child of extreme gifts into a tailspin. They use their talent for control, just like an anorexic child uses starvation to whittle away her body. It’s all perception.
“Take that away, by force or necessity, and you’d have a child who couldn’t, or wouldn’t be able to survive without some sort of mechanism to control the behavior and desire.”
“Sexual promiscuity?”
Ricard gave a ghost of a smile. “Very good, Lieutenant. You’re catching on. Monogamous sexual promiscuity, another example of how distasteful anything indiscriminant could be to a child like this.”
“But that child would grow into an adult. I take it that she wouldn’t grow out of it?”
“Some do. Some don’t. Some follow their art, some, when separated from the one item that controls their identity, decline rapidly. They shrivel up, and ultimately end up institutionalized or dead. But that is only extreme cases. Most go on to lead productive, if not happy, lives.”
“Would there need to be a catalyst? Something that would send a person like this over the edge, make them do things they otherwise wouldn’t?”
“Yes, I believe you could say that. A life-changing event.” Ricard spoke pointedly, and Taylor began to understand.
“Was this pregnancy unwanted?” she asked.
Ricard nodded, but said, “I couldn’t say one way or the other about that. Corinne was a very regimented, controlled person.”
So, that was the problem. She had gotten pregnant and wasn’t thrilled about it. That was strange, for a young mother who was seemingly happy.
“Would an unplanned pregnancy be difficult for a woman who has to have control over everything? To the point that it would spark a pathological issue?”
“Nicely deduced, Lieutenant. In some extreme cases, an individual would have difficulty relinquishing control over their body in order to carry a baby. The individual might feel that the fetus is a foreign being and experience moments of hatred so profound that the only comfortable resolution is termination. Or, the individual may seek counseling to better handle the claustrophobic tendencies they are experiencing. High-level anxiety, overwhelming desire to escape, to effect a separation, yes, those things would need to be dealt with using extensive cognitive therapy, regression, relaxation and biofeedback.”
“Was Corinne having these problems? Claustrophobia about her pregnancy?”
“Now, Lieutenant, you’re treading too close to our hypothetical line again.”
“All right. What about medication?”
“Well, in the case of a pregna
ncy, the client would certainly be encouraged not to use medicinal means to handle the situation.”
“But Corinne chose the medicinal route. Why?”
Ricard glanced at the clock. “Oh my, Lieutenant, I’m afraid we need to wrap things up here.” She stood.
“One last question.” Taylor got to her feet too. “Would Corinne Wolff have been a danger to herself?”
Ricard straightened her glasses and pulled her tunic down so it lay tight across her hips. “She may have been. But I think it highly unlikely that she wielded the murder weapon and beat herself to death.”
Thirty-One
Taylor left the doctor’s office, head spinning, full of ideas and theories. A better picture was emerging of Corinne Wolff. Taylor knew that the best way to solve a murder was to know the victim. Chances were the murderer was someone in the victim’s sphere. The deeply personal nature of the beating, the accessibility to the house, all pointed to a killer bent on revenge and punishment. Ergo, someone Corinne knew. If Taylor could get to know Corinne intimately, she would find the person who killed her. It may have been Todd—the evidence against him was certainly damning—but it could have been someone else.
Since she didn’t have anything better to do, she decided to go ahead with her illicit day. She wondered if Julianne Harris would accept a phone call from her? Michelle Harris had obviously checkmarked the box that said Taylor wasn’t on their side, but if the mom hadn’t shut her out yet…She pulled out her notepad and flipped back to the first few pages. Yes, there was the number for the Harris house. She dialed it, fingers crossed on her knee. Julianne Harris answered on the second ring.
“Do you have news about my daughter?” she said without preamble.
“Mrs. Harris, thank you for taking my call. I appreciate—”
“I don’t want to talk about what’s been happening to you, Lieutenant. What do you need?”
Judas Kiss Page 22
