‘I will.’ She watched as he headed out. The kiss on her cheek burned, like I’m his fucking grandmother, worse than a punch. When she turned back to the window, she saw her own reflection. The compare and contrast between her and golden Jeffrey was harsh. Lines everywhere. It’s just the lighting. No it isn’t. It didn’t do it to him. Her buzz dissipated in the reality of her reflection. Beauty is power. He knew it. She knew it. He had it and she did not.
She leaned forward and grabbed her laptop and booted up. First things first. She logged on to her secure hotspot, and entered a password for a dark-net browser. She typed in Dr Malcolm Bender – traitor, let’s see what happens to whistle blowers. She was rewarded with pages of news feeds. How sad. With a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit the ex-UNICO oncology researcher had crashed his Mercedes into a busload of children. The images were fabulous and gruesome. He had not worn a seatbelt and gone through the windshield. Color photos of tearful kids being led away from the mangled remains of a man who thought he could snitch his way to a multi-million-dollar payout. ‘And that’s what you get.’
She toggled to her email and hit the attachments Dalton had assembled on Garfield. The man was a mix of damaged goods and brilliance. What do you want, Dr Garfield? Unlike Jeffrey whose ambitions were tattooed on his forehead, Garfield was subtle. And this may be my last chance. With her phone on speaker she dialed Dalton. ‘Where is Garfield’s mother?’
‘Croton Forensic Hospital, it’s near Katonah,’ Dalton said.
‘Why did she kill his father and try to kill him?’
‘Delusions. She thought Frank was going to grow up to be Satan. Wanted to do the world a favor, by killing him before that could happen … and she was pregnant at the time.’
‘What happened to the baby.’
‘She self-aborted in prison, but I don’t have the details on how, not something the warden was eager to release. Then transferred to Croton, copped an insanity plea, and has been there since.’
Leona toggled through PDFs about the stabbing death of Garfield’s father, Edwin Garfield, MD. ‘Apples and trees … How crazy is he?’
‘He’s intense, driven. Invested in those kids at St Mary’s. Sees a psychologist at the university health center and has for more than a decade. On no psych meds. Raised by his paternal grandparents, both now dead. They brought him to a lot of shrinks, and he got locked up a few times on psych wards, but nothing since twelve. I scanned the records.’ He directed her to a file labeled FG Behavioral Health.
Leona clicked on it. It was a psychiatric evaluation of ten-year-old Francis Xavier Garfield. ‘Interesting, sent to an emergency room after he trashed his classroom. Smashed some windows and threw a chair at a teacher.’
‘Keep going,’ Dalton said.
‘Let’s see … they shot him up with drugs and got his grandparents to sign him into Beekman Lodge in Massachusetts. You never said he had money.’
‘He doesn’t and they didn’t, but they did have good insurance. His grandfather was a lifer with the postal service. Second generation Italian Americans.’
She read on. ‘Early onset psychosis, and post-traumatic-stress, rule out Asperger’s, rule out schizophrenia. They had him on a bucket-load of medications, risperidone, haloperidol, Ativan … and the episodes continued. Had him in restraints … at ten, really? Someone did not like this child.’
‘They couldn’t get him under control. They kept him at Beekman for nine months.’
‘And then?’
He directed her to another PDF. ‘Grandparents had him discharged. The doctor disagreed and tried to stop them. At discharge the diagnoses were schizophrenia and autism.’
She scanned handwritten notes from the psychiatrist.
Appears to be responding to internal stimuli, but denies hearing voices. Oppositional and participates only in school-based activities where he excels. Isolative and no meaningful social connections on the milieu or with staff. Consistently asks to leave.
When directly asked about his mother, he either dissociates, or becomes mute. Similarly, when asked about the events that led to this hospitalization he is uncooperative. Makes minimal eye contact and seems oblivious to social cues. Left alone he reads for hours, excessively and obsessively, and will cease only when repeatedly directed to do so.
She jumped over pages of laboratory results, including an MRI scan of his brain, which was read as normal. ‘This is interesting.’
‘What?’ Dalton asked.
‘You read the psychological testing?’
‘Yes. What catches your eye other than his IQ is monstrous?’ Dalton asked.
‘195, yeah that’s up there. And no surprise. But whoever did this report … a Dr Jillian Grossman, she disagreed with the psychiatrist. Her summation is interesting.’
Frank is an intense and brilliant child who has suffered overwhelming trauma that has left him with typical and extreme psychological symptoms, all of which can be traced to what he experienced both on the night of his father’s murder, and during a prodromal period when he was left alone in the custody of a mother who was psychotic and abusive. It is this combination of years of verbal, emotional, and possibly physical abuse, coupled with the horrific events that led to his father’s death and his mother’s current incarceration that have led to Frank’s current symptoms. These are: Extreme dissociative episodes, which appear to be triggered by either real or perceived cues from earlier traumas. During these episodes, Frank loses all sense of control, and blacks out. He has limited recall after these events which last from a few seconds to hours. He clearly suffers with symptoms of both depression and anxiety, much of which he relates to his current hospitalization.
Leona chuckled.
‘What’s funny?’
She read on. ‘I can only imagine how this went over with his shrink.’
As to the diagnosis of autism, based on his poor eye contact, social avoidance, and intense interest in reading anything and everything, this appears to be related to issues of impaired trust, self-preservation, and escapism from his current situation, which he finds painful and frightening. Throughout this evaluation, Frank was engaged and forthcoming and made a good effort on all the administered tests, displayed an interest, commensurate with his IQ, but well beyond his numeric years. There is no evidence of a true psychotic process, or of schizophrenic illness.
‘And the psychiatrist just ignored that?’ Dalton said.
‘Pretty much, went with the diagnoses he wanted on the discharge.’
‘After that,’ Dalton said, ‘one more brief hospitalization at a community hospital for ten days, a couple emergency room evaluations for similar school meltdowns, but all outpatient treatment.’
Leona pulled up random files and sifted through the data. ‘Bat-shit crazy mother who wanted to kill him.’ She thought of her own mother.
‘Still does,’ Dalton added.
‘You have her records? From Croton?’
‘Of course. Would you like them?’
‘You have to ask?’ Again, impressed with Dalton’s resourcefulness. Tell him. But she didn’t. ‘And no boyfriend?’
‘He’s got a crush on the detective assigned to the Jackson Atlas case.’
‘Useable?’
‘Possibly, but not bankable. Sean Brody, Brookline PD. Thirty-two, nice to look at, clean record. Could be gay. Probably not. Although …’ he chuckled.
‘Share.’
‘That’s poor Frank’s dilemma. Gay, but clueless. Is he or isn’t he? Does he like me? Pathetic, but cute. I’ll send you what I’ve got on the detective.’
‘My bet, you figure him out before Frank.’
‘That’s a sucker bet.’
‘Should make for an interesting dinner.’
‘If he shows.’
‘If he doesn’t,’ she said, ‘we track him down. His work matters … a lot. I need him and it now.’
‘Understood. Atlas’s murder rattled him, and now I think we’ve got the right bait.’
‘The kids? You said he has a Christ complex.’
‘Yes. That’s what deepened the split between him and Atlas. He thinks he can save them, and Atlas told him not to.’
‘I hope you’re right. I’m trusting you on this.’ And then she did the thing that took effort. ‘This is good, Dalton. I’m proud of you.’
Silence on the line. ‘Thank you, that means a lot.’
Best to leave it there. But she couldn’t, ‘Now if you’d only ditch that silly music stuff and those videos, this is what you’re meant for.’
‘Right. Eight o’clock it is.’ And he hung up.
FIFTEEN
Fuck! Will I ever learn? Dalton seethed as he stared out at the million-dollar view of the Boston Gardens after dark. Fairy light reflections rippled on the lake, colors muted to grays, black, and white. Seated at the linen-covered table, he swigged craft beer and fought back the bitter pill that his life was not his own. I am Renfield. I am Mother’s Renfield … not bad, maybe a song title. Or just shorten it to Renfield.
He sank back and surveyed the private dining room in the penthouse of the Taj he’d arranged. It’s good. Lux Indian silks festooned the walls and ceiling. Candles birthed soft shadows, and aromas of tamarind, cinnamon, turmeric and other spices softened his senses. Frank likes Indian … I’ll give him Indian. The only thing left to chance … the big thing. Will he show? And what will she do if he doesn’t?
He turned his head at the sound of a door. Mother. Too bad it wasn’t Frank. Might be nice to get some time alone with him.
‘This is beautiful,’ she said. ‘A bit gaudy for my taste. I assume it’s deliberate.’
‘Of course.’
‘Should I have worn a sari?’
‘Overkill.’
She looked back at the red-and-black uniformed host who’d escorted her in. ‘Single malt, neat.’ And then to Dalton. ‘Where’s Garfield and what does he drink?’
‘Not here, and he likes bourbon, though not a big drinker.’ He held her gaze and observed the shifts in her expression, near-imperceptible quivers beneath a Botox mask. If he’d been a regular employee his ass would have just been canned. Like Medusa, stare too long and you’re dead.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’m tired of this. Did you do everything to get him here?’
‘Short of a blow job, yes.’
‘Don’t be crude … Would that have worked?’
‘No.’
Her expression softened. ‘Should we hunt him down on the streets of Cambridge.’
‘Tranquilizer darts and a net?’ he offered.
‘You look handsome, Dalton.’
Her compliment set him on edge. Could she know he’d tried on four shirts before returning to a soft white button-down? But then he’d obsessed over how many buttons to open. Where was the line between professional, casual … slut? Or that he’d spent thirty minutes gelling and then ungelling his hair? Finally settling for something unpolished and in step with Dr Garfield’s unruly mop. ‘You too.’
‘That’s nice of you, but we don’t lie to one another. Correct?’
If only that were true. ‘You do look good,’ for your age. Her fitted green Chanel suit softened at the neck by a triple strand of pearls, that caught the candlelight and distracted from the wrinkled mesh beneath her jaw.
The waiter returned with her drink, accompanied by a flustered maître d’.
‘Excuse me Mr Lang, Doctor Lang, I have a young man at the front desk who says he has a meeting with you.’
‘And?’ Dalton stood.
‘He didn’t come dressed and refuses the jacket we have for these occasions. He’s quite loud. I don’t know if I should call the police or …’
Are you fucking kidding me? Dalton bolted from the table and headed towards the elevator. He suppressed the urge to punch the maître d’ and wondered if he was a different species from the morons who populated the planet. I could not have been clearer. Hours earlier he’d alerted the desk staff to their guest, complete with photographs he’d taken of Frank so they wouldn’t fuck it up. And she’ll blame me for this.
He tried to calm himself as the elevator stopped and started. Each second increased the likelihood that Garfield would say this wasn’t worth the hassle, and leave. And this is where the fish breaks the line.
The doors swished open. Dalton scanned the meant-to-impress space with its marble-inlaid floors, gilt-edged paneling, and wrought-iron grand staircase. He spotted Frank’s back, he was headed towards the revolving doors. He ran. ‘Dr Garfield. Frank.’ Is he ignoring me? ‘Frank.’ He shouted, but he’d already pushed into the door.
Dalton followed, rapped on the glass.
Frank turned, and stumbled as the door clipped him on the heels.
‘Frank.’ Dalton watched as he steadied himself, looked out at the street, back at him, and then pushed to keep going around and return to the lobby.
A lump caught in Dalton’s throat. Too fucking close. His pulse pounded in his ears as he came out next to Frank in the lobby. Words would not come, which was strange.
‘I’m here,’ Frank said.
He looks pissed and … crazy. Dalton did a fast reappraisal of the man he’d had under surveillance for the past six weeks. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Garfield.’
‘You didn’t tell me I needed a jacket,’ Frank said, his gaze fixed on Dalton.
‘You don’t.’ He wondered if Frank had given any thought to his leather bomber jacket, olive cargo pants, worn red sneakers, and blue button-down. But after six-weeks of surveillance he knew the answer. No. ‘I screwed up,’ Dalton said.
‘Everyone does,’ Frank said. ‘But I’m not dressed for this place. Didn’t this use to be The Ritz?’
‘Yeah. And you look fine,’ and Dalton did something he’d not intended. He showed his hand … at least a part of it. ‘I rented a dining room on the penthouse so we can talk. We’re having Indian. Really good Indian.’
Frank smiled back. ‘I love Indian, and I told you that. You did this for me.’ His gaze narrowed as he scrutinized Dalton.
‘I did.’ Dalton found it hard to breathe.
‘And your mother is here?’
‘She’s waiting.’
Frank rocked back on the heels of his runners.
Dalton sensed his conflict to stay or to go. What can I do? There has to be something.
‘Lamb?’ Frank asked.
‘Rogan josh, on the bone.’ Weeks of preparation had led to this. Why does he matter so much to her?… to me? He knew this was Frank’s favorite dish, that he and Grace Lewis ate Indian at least once a week, and one or both would order the rogan josh.
‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this.’ Frank’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘I don’t trust you … but I love lamb. I want to meet your mother. I have questions for her.’
‘Good,’ Dalton said, though that last bit rang sour. ‘Let’s get you past the guards.’ He fought the impulse to grab Frank’s arm, and waited for him to follow. They rode up in silence. Come into my web said the spider to the fly.
As they exited, Frank asked, ‘What is this costing you?’
‘A few thousand,’ Dalton said. ‘Maybe ten.’
‘Right. Good to know,’ and Frank followed him.
Is it too much? Dalton wondered, as he opened the door onto the lush Mughal-themed room.
Leona rose, smiled, and extended her hand. ‘Doctor Garfield, thank you so much for agreeing to meet. I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty to order you a bourbon, but if you don’t drink or would rather something else …’
Frank ignored her extended hand. He stopped two feet from the table and stared at her.
Leona’s smile didn’t falter, as seconds stretched into a minute. She let her hand drop.
Dalton, by the door, watched and wondered what is he thinking? What are his first impressions?
Frank broke the silence, ‘I can see it.’
‘What’s that?’ Leona asked.
‘Jackson said you
were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Your face is frozen now … Botox?’
‘Yes, sadly time will have its way.’
‘Did you care for him?’ Frank asked, not moving to the tumbler of bourbon, and assortment of samosas, fritters, and steamed breads.
‘I did … a lot.’
‘OK then.’ He glanced back at Dalton. ‘I’ll stay.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘I’m not agreeing to anything.’
‘We’re just here to talk.’ Leona said.
Frank sat, picked up the bourbon and sniffed. ‘Ten thousand for one meal.’ He sipped. ‘And you’re both staying here?’
‘Yes,’ Dalton said.
Frank swirled his liquor. His gaze fell on the treats. He reached for a chickpea and onion fritter and said, ‘Tell me about Jackson,’ popping it into his mouth.
‘What do you want to know?’ Leona asked. ‘Like you, he was my PhD supervisor. And then years later I wanted him to work with us. Like yours, his work broke new ground.’
‘You recruited him for UNICO?’
‘I tried.’ She smiled. ‘Jackson was not having it.’
‘You hurt him,’ Frank said.
‘I did. He told you about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting,’ Dalton said, wanting to ease the tension, and aware that Leona did not know that he knew about her affair. ‘Something you haven’t told me, Mother?’
‘I was young, and we got too close. I should have known better. He certainly should have known better. But there you have it. Things happen.’
‘He wanted to leave his wife and marry you,’ Frank said.
‘He was in love with me,’ Leona said. ‘Or who he thought I was. We would never have worked. I knew that, he didn’t. I ended it, before it could destroy his career and his marriage. You never met Ruth, she was a lovely woman and more than anything I regret the pain our stupidity caused her.’
‘You walked away from your research,’ Frank said. ‘You might have been the first to correctly identify that DNA leader sequences had purpose. Why wouldn’t you follow that up?’
‘Who says I haven’t?’
Elixir Page 9
