Birdie did not jump into his pause.
"I want you to know that we at the institute are deeply saddened by your husband's passing," he went on.
Birdie was sure he was.
"Your husband was a wonderful man." The doctor's voice was pitched to soothe, but she wasn't soothed by it. She'd been studying the foundation's tax returns all afternoon and knew that Max had given the Psychoanalytic Institute of New York a whopping five million dollars over the last several years. It hurt her that she'd never heard of it.
"The funeral was very moving," Dr. Frank went on. "And there was a wonderful turnout. I couldn't get anywhere near you to pay my respects," he rattled on.
"Yes, the line was very long," Birdie acknowledged, and she hadn't known a quarter of the people who'd shaken her hand. It had made her feel horrible. So much of her husband's life had already been lived decades before she was even born. But the funeral was three weeks ago; enough about it.
"Dr. Frank, how well did you know my husband?" she asked.
"Oh, very well. He'd been deeply interested in psychoanalysis for many years, as you know. And, of course, he served on our board. I was privileged to know him personally for over twelve years."
Birdie exhaled silently. A growing complication of missing Max desperately was her increasing fury at all the things he'd done without her.
"He was a very astute businessman, very helpful. We will miss him a great deal." Dr. Frank's voice droned on. It sounded more unctuous than sad to Birdie, and she hated this shrink already. He'd never get any more money from her.
"How was he helpful to you?" She said the words slowly, trying to get a handle on her feelings.
"Your husband advised us on the reorganization of our institute, helped us with our business plan. He donated to our building renovation. He was very active." He sounded surprised that she didn't already know all this.
"I wasn't involved in the foundation. Your call came as a surprise to me. I'm playing catch-up," Birdie admitted. In fact, Max had treated her like one of his children. He hadn't told her anything.
"I'd be delighted to help you. What would you like to know?"
There was a subtle change in his tone. Birdie hesitated. She needed a translator, someone close enough to Max to explain his state of mind, his decisions, even the cause of his death. If she didn't know whom she could trust, how could she go about finding out if he'd died of natural causes? You're next. She couldn't get the words out of her mind. Next for what? Finally she answered.
"Dr. Frank, there are a lot of things I need to know, including everything about you. I never heard of the Psychoanalytic Institute until your call today."
A long silence suggested Dr. Frank's continued surprise.
"That's the reason I asked how well you knew him," she added. "The truth is, I have some questions about the way my husband died."
"What do you mean?" the shrink asked cautiously.
"He was a very healthy man," she said.
"Yes, he was lucky. He did not show any vulnerabilities. He hadn't slowed down yet."
"He was a healthy man. He had the heart of a forty-year-old," Birdie said flatly.
"I understand, but surely your doctors have told you that it's not uncommon for older people-"
"He was in good health. I would know," she insisted.
"Well, healthy people can have hidden vulnerabilities."
Dr. Frank still sounded smooth, and Birdie realized that he was arguing with her. She didn't like that.
"I thought shrinks were supposed to listen," she said sharply.
"Ah…"
Silence. She'd stopped him cold. But now she didn't trust him and didn't want to go in that direction. "Why was he interested in psychoanalysis?" she asked.
"Oh, he was interested in the human mind, why people behave the way they do."
"This is news to me. Did he talk about his children?"
"Ah…"
"Dr. Frank, you called me for my support of your organization. If you want my support, there are a great many things I need to know."
"Of course, would you like to come to my office? I'd be happy to fill you in…"
"Tell me now," she insisted. "Why was he so interested in the human mind?"
"Max didn't tell you about his wife's history?"
"Dr. Frank, my husband was from the old school. He wanted life to be pleasant all the time. As far as I was concerned, his wife was perfect, his children were perfect, his life was perfect, and psychology simply didn't exist."
Now she heard him sigh.
"Max was a very private man," he murmured.
"Are you telling me that Cornelia Bassett had a history of mental illness?"
"She had problems," he said hesitantly.
"Problems? What kind of problems?" This was news to Birdie.
"I'm surprised he didn't share this with you."
"What about Max's children? Do they have problems, too?"
"Everybody has problems, Mrs. Bassett."
This was not what Birdie expected to hear.
"Dr. Frank, were you my husband's doctor? Did you treat him or his wife or his children? Is that why he gave so much money to your organization?"
"Mrs. Bassett, I met Max after his wife died. He felt he hadn't given her the right kind of support and didn't want to make that mistake again with you or his children."
"Oh, really." Birdie was stunned. Once again, he hadn't shared his issues with her.
"We talked, but he felt he was too old for therapy. That was how he came to be involved with the institute. He wanted to learn more. He was an interesting person," Dr. Frank finished up.
He was indeed.
"Well, I need to know a lot more. Would you mind coming to the apartment?" Birdie said.
"No, of course not. Would you like me to bring the president of the institute? He knew your husband very well, too."
"Not at this time. When are you available?" It was Thursday. Dr. Frank was not available to see her until the following Thursday. They made a date, but Birdie Bassett wouldn't live to keep it.
Sixteen
The Bernardino task force was working out of the Sixth, the precinct where NYPD Blue was filmed. At eight p.m. Thursday-twenty hours after the killing-the second-floor squad room was no quieter than it had been at noon. The priority case had sucked in ten of Mike's detectives from the Homicide task force, plus eight detectives from the Sixth. Plus a half dozen more from downtown. That didn't count the number of detectives from Internal Affairs, which was running its own parallel investigation, the hot line that had been established, or the Crime Stoppers van that had been cruising the area all day. They were looking for witnesses. A man with a big dog. So far, nothing.
In some cases, no matter how many detectives and uniforms fanned out to canvass an area for witnesses to a crime, they weren't the ones to get information. The anonymous channels out to the public sometimes caught it. Hot lines and Crime Stoppers numbers were flashing on the news, and the nuts were coming out.
Since two p.m. Mike had been supervising the collection of data from people working the streets. He was also organizing the time charts. Where Bernardino had been in the twenty-four hours before his death. Whom he had seen and talked to. What he had planned for the next day. And Mike had to manage the delicate task of mapping the movements of everyone who'd been to Bernardino's party and what they'd done after they left.
No strong leads had emerged yet. But it was impossible to know which bits and pieces that were coming in from many sources might be useful down the road. Only the scope of the investigation was clear. It was going to be wide. By eight-thirty Mike had done all he could do and needed a break from the noise. Before heading home for the night, he decided to visit Marcus Beame, Bernardino's closest associate. He knew that Beame was working the second tour that day-four p.m. to midnight in the Fifth Precinct. Mike headed over to see him.
The Fifth was one of the oldest police precinct buildings in New York, built before the turn of the last century and renovated twice during the tenure of the last three police commissioners. Finally completed for the final time with the typical second-class workmanship precincts were known for receiving, the building was already looking like the dinosaur it was.