“Well, you'd better. 'Cause if I'm gonna do this, then I damn well want something for it. I deserve it.”
“That remains to be seen,” Kate said. “So far you haven't given us squat. I'll check into the reward. In the meantime, you're a witness. You can help us and we can help you. Maybe you don't feel ready for this. Maybe you don't think your memory is strong enough. If that's what's really going on here, then fine. The cops have mug books stacked to the rafters. Maybe you'll run across him in there.”
“And maybe I can just get the fuck out of here.” She shoved herself up out of the chair so hard, the legs scraped back across the floor.
Kate wanted to choke her. This was why she didn't work juvenile: Her tolerance for drama and bullshit was too low.
She studied Angie, trying to formulate a strategy. If the kid really wanted to leave, she would leave. No one was barring the door. What Angie wanted was to make a scene and have everyone fuss over her and beg her to come back. Begging was not an option as far as Kate was concerned. She wouldn't play a game where she didn't have a shot at control.
If she called the kid's bluff and Angie walked, Kate figured she could just as well follow the girl out the door. Sabin would put her career through the shredder if she lost his star and only witness. She was already on her second career. How many more could she have?
She rose slowly and went to lean against the door-jamb with her arms crossed.
“You know, Angie, I gotta think there's a reason you told us you saw this guy in the first place. You didn't have to say it. You didn't know anything about a reward. You could have lied and told us he was gone when you came across the body. How would we know any different? We have to take your word for what you saw or didn't see. So let's cut the crap, huh? I don't appreciate you jerking me around when I'm on your side. I'm the one who's standing between you and the county attorney who wants to toss your ass in jail and call you a suspect.”
Angie set her jaw at a mulish angle. “Don't threaten me.”
“That's not a threat. I'm being straight with you because I think that's what you want. You don't want to be lied to and screwed over any more than I do. I respect that. How about returning the favor?”
The girl gnawed on a ragged thumbnail, her hair swinging down to obscure her face, but Kate could tell she was blinking hard, and felt a swift wave of sympathy. The mood swings this kid inspired were going to drive her to Prozac.
“You must think I'm a real pain in the ass,” Angie said at last, her lush mouth twisting at one corner in what looked almost like chagrin.
“Yeah, but I don't consider that a fatal or irreversible flaw. And I know you've got your reasons. But you've got more to be afraid of if you don't try to ID him,” Kate said. “Now you're the only one who knows what he looks like. Better if a couple hundred cops know too.”
“What happens if I don't do it?”
“No reward. Other than that, I don't know. Right now you're a potential witness. If you decide that's not what you are, then it's out of my hands. The county attorney might play rough or he might just cut you loose. He'll take me out of the picture either way.”
“You'd probably be glad.”
“I didn't take this job because I thought it would be simple and pleasant. I don't want to see you alone in all this, Angie. And I don't think that's what you want either.”
Alone. Goose bumps chased themselves down Angie's arms and legs. The word was a constant hollowness in the core of her. She remembered the feeling of it growing inside her last night, pushing her consciousness into a smaller and smaller corner of her mind. It was the thing she feared most in the world and beyond it. More than physical pain. More than a killer.
“We'll leave you alone. How would you like that, brat? You can be alone forever. You just sit in there and think about it. Maybe we'll never come back.”
She flinched at the remembered sound of the door closing, the absolute darkness of the closet, the sense of aloneness swallowing her up. She felt it rising up inside her now like a black ghost. It closed around her throat like an unseen hand, and she wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn't. Not here. Not now. Her heart began beating harder and faster.
“Come on, kiddo,” Kate said gently, nodding toward Oscar. “Give it a shot. It's not like you've got anything better to do. I'll make a phone call about that reward money.”
The story of my life, Angie thought. Do what I want or I'll leave you. Do what I want or I'll hurt you: Choices that weren't choices.
“All right,” she murmured, and went back to the chair to give instructions on drawing a portrait of evil.
11
CHAPTER
THE BUILDING THAT housed the offices of Dr. Lucas Brandt, two other psychotherapists, and two psychiatrists was a Georgian-style brick home of gracious proportion. Patients seeking treatment here probably felt more like they were going to high tea than to pour out their innermost secrets and psychological dirty laundry.
Lucas Brandt's office was on the second floor. Quinn and Kovac were left to cool their heels in the hall for ten minutes while he finished with a patient. Bach's Third Brandenburg Concerto floated on the air as soft as a whisper. Quinn stared out the Palladian window that offered a view of Lake of the Isles and part of the larger Lake Calhoun, both as gray as old quarters in the gloom of the day.
Kovac prowled the hall, checking out the furniture. “Real antiques. Classy. Why is it rich crazies are classy and the kind I have to haul into jail just want to piss on my shoes?”
“Repression.”
“What?”
“Social skills are founded and couched in repression. Rich crazies want to piss on your shoes too,” Quinn smiled, “but their manners hold them back.”
Kovac chuckled. “I like you, Quinn. I'm gonna have to give you a nickname.” He looked at Quinn, taking in the sharp suit, considering for a moment, then nodded. “GQ. Yeah, I like that. GQ, like the magazine. G like in G-man. Q like in Quinn.” He looked enormously pleased with himself. “Yeah, I like that.”
He didn't ask if Quinn liked it.
The door to Brandt's business office opened, and his secretary, a petite woman with red hair and no chin, invited them in, her voice a librarian's whisper.
The patient, if there had been one, must have escaped out the door of the second room. Lucas Brandt rose from behind his desk as they entered the room, and an unpleasant flash of recognition hit Kovac. Brandt. The name had rung a bell, but he wouldn't have equated the Brandt of his association with the Brandt of Neuroses of the Rich and Famous.
They went through the round of introductions, Kovac waiting for that same recognition to dawn on Brandt, but it didn't—which served only to further sour Kovac's mood. Brandt's expression was appropriately serious. Blond and Germanically attractive with a straight nose and blue eyes, he was of medium build with a posture and presence that gave the impression he was bigger than he really was. Solid was the word that came to mind. He wore a trendy silk tie and a blue dress shirt that looked professionally ironed. A steel-gray suit coat hung on one of those fancy-ass gentleman's racks in the corner.
Kovac smoothed a hand self-consciously over his J. C. Penney tie. “Dr. Brandt. I've seen you in court.”
“Yes, you probably have. Forensic psychology—a sideline I picked up when I was first starting out,” he explained for Quinn. “I needed the money at the time,” he confessed with a conspiratorial little smile that let them in on the joke that he didn't need it now. “I found I enjoyed the work, so I've kept a hand in it. It's a good diversion from what I see day today.”