Someone to Watch Over Me

by Judith McNaught

  “Dr. Winters, I’m sorry—I forgot to give you this. I should have done so before I asked you anything.” McCord hadn’t forgotten, Sam knew. For some reason, he wanted to get a reading on Sheila Winters. He reached into his navy sport jacket and produced the piece of paper on which Leigh Manning had written her permission, and he passed it across the desk to the psychiatrist.

  Sheila Winters slowly laid down her pen and took the paper from him. She glanced at it and handed it back to him. “I’m not going to comply,” she said flatly. “For one thing, I don’t know if this is actually Leigh’s handwriting.”

  “You have my word as a law enforcement official that it is her handwriting, and that she gave it to us personally four days ago.”

  “Very well. I’ll take your word for it,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

  “Then will you answer my question?”

  She smiled apologetically. “No.”

  Sam watched the back-and-forth with concealed fascination because she had a hunch McCord had met his match in uncompromising strength of will and determination.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Leigh Manning was obviously in a precarious mental state four days ago. If she were not, she would never have agreed to this.”

  “Are you trying to tell me she isn’t mentally competent?” McCord asked.

  “Of course not, and don’t throw phrases like ‘mental competence’ around with me, Lieutenant. I am simply telling you that four days ago, Leigh was under extreme mental duress for obvious, normal, and understandable reasons.”

  Sam knew McCord’s fear was coming to reality—at any moment, Sheila Winters was going to pick up the phone, call Leigh Manning, and tell her to revoke her permission. “Let me acquaint you with another phrase, Dr. Winters, one I feel even more comfortable ‘throwing around.’ It’s called ‘obstruction of justice.’ You are willfully interfering with a murder investigation. I haven’t asked for your records, but I’m prepared to do that and to wait here while Detective Littleton takes this slip of paper to a judge and gets a subpoena.”

  Mentally, Sam declared the situation a standoff, but McCord went on the offensive. He handed the slip of paper to Sam. “I’ll wait here and keep Dr. Winters company. Find a judge, explain the situation, and bring me a subpoena. In fact, bring me a search warrant, too, in case Dr. Winters wants to carry this battle to its inevitable, tiresome end. And bring Detectives Womack and Shrader with you to help locate whatever it is we’re looking for.”

  “I’ll offer you a compromise,” Dr. Winters said, smiling a little.

  “I’m not interested in compromise.”

  “The compromise I’m about to suggest will save us all a lot of wasted time.”

  “I enjoy wasting time,” McCord replied mildly.

  She laughed aloud at that. “No, you don’t, Lieutenant. You are impatient in the extreme under normal circumstances. However, that verges on free analysis,” she joked, “and that violates my principles. Here’s what I would like to suggest. Actually, you don’t have a choice, because Leigh Manning is due here any moment. Doctor-patient communication is a sacrosanct privilege, a concept that has been repeatedly upheld and protected by courts all over the land.”

  “So has the concept of obstruction of justice.”

  “I won’t obstruct your justice. When Leigh gets here, I will tell her in front of you that I strongly advise her against authorizing me to breach that privilege. If she listens to me, and revokes that piece of paper you’re holding, then that is her right. Isn’t it?”

  It was, and they all knew it.

  “If she still wants to authorize me to disclose information to you, then I’ll do it. Deal?”

  There was no choice, and McCord knew it. He smiled slowly, the scar in his face deepening. “How can I argue with such flawless logic and reasonable negotiating?” he said lazily. “I’m curious, though . . .”

  “I’ll bet you are—” she agreed, smiling, and Sam wondered if she was witnessing some sort of high-level flirtation taking place between two very complex and inscrutable intellects. She felt a little left out. She also felt certain that Leigh Manning would revoke her permission.

  “I’m curious about why Leigh Manning is coming here today.”

  “Oh, that’s a question I can answer. She’s been hounded by the press. They’re staked out at the front of her building, and she hasn’t been out of her apartment in more than a week, except to attend her husband’s funeral. I threatened to kidnap her if she wouldn’t have lunch with me today. For understandable reasons, she couldn’t face going to a restaurant, so I told her we’d order in.”

  “I’m sorry to be ruining your lunch plans, Doctor,” McCord replied.

  She smiled at his foolishness. “You won’t be ruining our lunch, Lieutenant. It will only take two minutes for Leigh to revoke her permission.”

  She was wrong about that, Sam realized with surprise a few minutes later. Although Leigh Manning looked deathly pale and terribly fragile, she refused to take Winters’s advice. Wearing camel slacks and a white silk shirt, she sat down on one of the leather sofas and curled her legs up beneath her, looking like a young, vulnerable girl, without makeup or pretense. Her auburn hair fell forward against her translucent cheeks, and her huge eyes were the color of a blue-green sea on a sunny day. “They need answers, Sheila. Tell them whatever you know.”

  “Leigh, I am adamantly opposed to this. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I came here today because I need answers, too. Please tell the detectives whatever they want to know about my husband, and I’ll listen, because I don’t know who he was, either. Not really. I only thought I did.”

  “All right.” Sheila Winters rubbed her forehead for a moment, then she looked at Leigh. “Let me try to phrase this in the best way I can.”

  “Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. What you don’t tell me, I’m sure to read in the newspapers tomorrow or the next day. I asked you at the apartment if you thought Logan was having an affair with Jane Sebring, and you said no.”

  McCord interrupted. “When did you ask Dr. Winters that?”

  Sheila Winters glared at him, and she answered in unison with Leigh Kendall. “After the funeral.”

  “What made you ask it?”

  Instead of resenting his tone or his interruption, she lifted her eyes to his and answered him with quiet humility—as if she no longer noticed or cared about such meaningless annoyances. “The papers were full of what I thought were malicious rumors about that.”

  “Lieutenant McCord!” the psychiatrist warned. “You can question Mrs. Manning at your leisure. I can’t stop you, but I can stop you from doing it in my office. Now, you wanted this question-and-answer session, so let me give the answers and get this over with. This is just about the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Having said that, she looked at Leigh Manning and her expression softened. “Leigh, Logan was a much more complex man than I originally thought when the two of you first came to see me. He was more complex, more troubled, and at the same time, more . . . basic in his logic than I imagined. I’m trying to put this in the most simplistic terms instead of resorting to psychobabble.”

  Reluctantly, Sheila Winters switched her attention to Sam and McCord, and explained, “Logan Manning was from an old, wealthy, and aristocratic New York family. Unfortunately, by the time Logan came along, his grandfather had squandered a major fortune, and the Manning family was reduced to a state of genteel poverty. Nevertheless, because of his family’s social connections—and some money contributed by a wealthy great-aunt—Logan was sent to the same prestigious private schools his forebears had attended. There was one major difference: Logan was impoverished in comparison to his peers, and they all knew it.

  “As a youth, Logan couldn’t vacation with his school friends; he couldn’t even bring them home. He grew up feeling ashamed of who he was and what he had. His father died when he was little, and his mother never rema
rried, so he had no male figure to encourage him or straighten out his priorities. What he did have was an endless supply of tales told to him by relatives about the Manning family in its heyday, stories about fabulous mansions and priceless antiques, stories about handsome Manning men who were notorious for their global gambling, whoring, and business accomplishments.

  “From the time he was a very young boy, Logan began daydreaming about becoming one of those legendary Manning men and restoring the family fortune and prestige. He certainly inherited their good looks, and he also inherited the brains and ambition to go with it. He achieved everything he set out to achieve. . . .”

  She paused and looked long and sadly at Leigh. “But it was never enough to make him feel good about himself. His insecurities were so deep that he needed to prove himself over and over again in every arena. You said yourself there wasn’t enough money in the world to make Logan feel secure, and you were right. And in an ironic twist of fate, Leigh, you were a large part of the reason he continued feeling terribly insecure.”

  “How did I do that?”

  “By being who you are. By being talented and admired and famous. Logan helped put you in the limelight, but he ended up being cast into the shadows in comparison to you, and his ego was too fragile to deal with that at times. So he needed to reinforce that ego.”

  “With other women,” Leigh acknowledged shakily.

  “Yes. The only area where Logan felt truly superior to you and everyone else was in his looks and his sex appeal.”

  Leigh said exactly what Sam had been thinking. “You’re a psychiatrist, you knew the problem, and he came to you for advice. Why couldn’t you have helped him?”

  “Good question—direct and simple. Here’s the answer in the same vein you asked the question: I’m a psychiatrist; I can usually fix what’s broken in a patient, but I cannot create qualities that are not there, and are not desired by the patient. To put it in plain, simple English, Logan had a weak character, Leigh. When high-minded concepts like integrity and loyalty were contrary to his own personal wishes, Logan was fully capable of ignoring the concepts. If it’s any consolation, he felt terribly guilty afterward, and vowed never to repeat the deed. But when an opportunity came along, if it happened to coincide with some personal need of his, then his needs came first. Not always, but all too often.”

  Sam’s heart ached when Leigh Kendall bowed her head in absolute, abject despair. Her voice broke as she said, “Did Logan ever tell you anything about anyone . . . or anything . . . that would give us a clue about why he was murdered?”

  “No, Leigh, he didn’t.”

  “Do you know why he might have felt a need to buy a gun?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Logan Manning’s widow stood up then, her pride and self-esteem ravaged in front of two strangers, her trust betrayed, her dreams shattered, and as Sam watched, she made a visible effort to straighten her shoulders and lift her trembling chin. She was fighting so hard to hold on to her composure that Sam thought she would surely walk out of the office—or run out of it—but instead of doing that, she stopped in front of both detectives and politely said, “I have to leave now. Do you have everything you need?”

  “Pretty much, I think,” Sam said, looking at her tear-brightened green eyes.

  When she left, no one spoke for several minutes, and Sam had the feeling that Sheila Winters was fighting very hard to get her own emotions under control. “She’ll be all right,” the psychiatrist said, although Sam didn’t know whether she was trying to convince them or herself.

  “Do you think she knew he was cheating on her?” McCord asked.

  “She knew Logan was capable of it, because he did it a few years ago and Leigh found out. She was devastated.”

  “What about recently? Do you think she suspected anything?”

  Sheila lifted her face and looked at him in angry disgust. “You saw her? What do you think?”

  THEY WERE BARELY out of the office when Sam said fiercely, “I think it’s too bad that whoever shot Logan Manning didn’t torture him first!”

  A laugh rumbled in McCord’s chest, but he was smart enough not to make some sort of joke.

  “Do you know what else I think?” Sam said, raising her eyes to his.

  “No,” he said, and for a second, Sam thought his gaze dropped to her mouth. “What else do you think, Sam?”

  “I think that Leigh Manning had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with her husband’s death. Nothing.”

  “It’s interesting that you got that out of our interview upstairs. Do you know what I heard up there? I heard motive. Lots of legitimate motive.”

  “Then go after it, Lieutenant. But while you’re trying to make the puzzle fit your picture, I’m going to try to make it fit mine.”

  Chapter 42

  * * *

  Courtney Maitland glanced at the cards O’Hara had just dealt her and laid her first discard on the kitchen table. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?” she asked him.

  O’Hara heaved a gusty sigh and stood up. “I guess I’m nervous. I did something I maybe shouldn’t have done.”

  “That’s how I live my life, O’Hara. On the edge. It’s exciting.”

  “This isn’t about my life. I butted into Mrs. Manning’s life today. It’s been two and a half weeks since Mr. Manning’s funeral, and she won’t go out, she won’t see her friends or talk to them on the phone. She talks to Mr. Solomon once in a while, but except for Hilda, Brenna, you, and me, she doesn’t see anyone else. A lot of people still call and want to talk to her. I think most of them just want something to gossip about.”

  Courtney sobered. “Leigh doesn’t know who she can trust anymore.”

  “Yeah, and who can blame her?” He took a beer out of the refrigerator for himself and a Coke for Courtney and returned to the table.

  He glanced at his watch again. “Mrs. Manning had a late appointment with a doctor who wanted to check her over after the accident. It’s after five, and I figured she’d be home about now.”

  “Why didn’t you drive her?”

  “I was picking up some things for Hilda when Mrs. Manning remembered she had the appointment, and she needed to leave before I could get back.”

  Courtney waited until he’d taken a swallow of beer before she said impatiently, “What does all that have to do with butting into her life?”

  “Because a little while ago, I told somebody that Mrs. Manning was going to be home this evening. He’s called a couple of times, but she wouldn’t see him, and I thought it might do her good if she did. I told him to come over.”

  Courtney looked uneasy. “I don’t know if you should have done that.”

  “Me neither, but it seemed like the right thing to do when I did it.”

  “Everything wrong I’ve ever done has always seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” She picked up her cards again. “So, who did you invite up here?”

  “Michael Valente.”

  She gaped at him. “Why did you do that? The last time he was here, nobody was happy about it. You said yourself that Leigh doesn’t even know the guy.”

  “I did it because the last time Mrs. Manning smiled was the night Valente was here. I know he’s got a bad reputation, but here’s why I decided he could come over—”

  “I can’t believe you discarded that six of hearts when you saw me pick up the six of clubs a second ago.” Without waiting for a reply, she picked up his discard and simultaneously said, “Why did you decide he could come over?”

  “Because the night he came here with the pizza, Mrs. Manning realized that she’d known him a long time ago. When she was in college, Valente worked in a grocery store right near where she lived, and his aunt used to make shrimp pizzas for her. One night, he even saved her from a mugging.”

  “Why did it take her so long to recognize him, or at least his name?”

  “He had a beard back then, and she only knew his nickname. I can’t remember w
hat it was, but it means ‘hawk’ in Italian.”

  “Really?” Courtney said, drawing a card and discarding it. “So that probably explains why he carried her down to the cabin in the snow that day, and why he came to her rescue right away with his helicopter. He’s sort of like . . . what—an old boyfriend?”

  “I’d have probably said they were just old friends, but Valente did something the night he was here that really made me wonder.”

  Fascinated, Courtney prodded him for an answer when he paused to study his cards. “What did he do?”

  “A couple hours after the cops broke the news to Mrs. Manning about her husband, I got up to turn out the lights and lock up. I thought Valente had left long before, but he hadn’t. He was sitting all alone on a chair near the hall by her bedroom, and he was kind of looking down at the floor like he was sad and real tired. It was sort of like he was on . . . I don’t know . . . guard duty.” He drew another card. “Gin!” he cried happily, and the telephone rang at the same time.

  He rushed to answer it, and returned to the table. “Valente is on his way up here.”

  “Great!” she proclaimed.

  “Yeah, well, I hope Mrs. Manning is half as happy about it as you are.”

  “I’ll let him in while you—do whatever you need to do,” she said, and was out of the kitchen, en route to the front door, before Joe could protest.

  In her haste, Courtney yanked the apartment door open with enough extra force to turn the simple act into an exaggerated theatrical flourish—one that caused Valente to step back and momentarily look at the apartment door as if he had gotten off on the wrong floor.

  “I’m Michael Valente,” he explained.

  “I know you are. I’m Courtney Maitland,” she said, offering her hand.

  For a moment, he looked as if he wasn’t going to shake hands with her; then he changed his mind and did it. “How do you do,” he said perfunctorily.

  “I do very well,” she replied, “although I have no idea what it is I do well. The other thing that always baffles me is why people ask each other that question. It always strikes me as corny and meaningless. How does it strike you?”