I hadn't had the question put to me so directly before. I thought about it for several seconds. I thought about Julia's belief that Bishop craved control, that he couldn't tolerate intimacy. I thought about the parts of his own soul he had snuffed out. "Yes," I said. "I think he is."
She kept staring at me. She seemed on the verge of agreeing to get Tess to a safer place. But then her gaze fell-maybe under the weight of so many years bending her will to Darwin Bishop's. "I have to think about this," she said.
"I hope you'll think about it sooner rather than later," I said. Later as in too late, I thought to myself.
She looked back at me, hopefully. "Will you be at Brooke's…" she said, then stopped, choked up. She waited a bit, took another deep breath. "Will you be at Brooke's funeral tomorrow? It's on the island. St. Mary's on Federal Street. Five p.m." She had to pause again. " Darwin wants the sun to be setting as the mass ends."
Another possible reason why Bishop would prefer an evening funeral mass occurred to me: the stock market closes at 4:30 p.m. "I'd like to be there," I said. "I'm not sure Darwin would be comfortable with my attending, given the ongoing investigation."
"I want you there," she said. "I need you there, whether Win has a problem with it or not."
"Then I will be."
"Thank you," she said softly.
I told Julia I would walk her to her car. I was on my way out of Bomboa, with Julia a few steps in front of me, when K.C. Hidalgo caught my arm. I stopped.
"She's terrific," K.C. said. "You look great together." He winked at Julia, who had stopped near the door.
"It would be mixing business with pleasure," I said, half to remind myself. "Probably a recipe for disaster."
"What a pleasure, though," he said.
K.C. was living with the night manager of his joint, a stunner named Yvette. "I'll take that from where it comes," I said. "Say hello to Yvette for me."
"You got it." He paused. "Hey, one other thing, champ," he said. He leaned toward me. "When you ordered that Sambuca? I had already told Stevie at the bar not to serve you any booze. Try sneaking another drink at my place, I'll lock you in the fucking basement and throw away the key until you're good and dry."
I forced a smile.
"I mean it," he said.
"You're a good guy, K.C."
"Get a hold of yourself, will you?"
"Sure," I said. "I will. Trust me on this."
"Right," K.C. said. His tone made it clear he wasn't buying my bullshit. "I'm here if you need me."
I caught up with Julia. We walked outside.
"My car is in the Dartmouth Street garage," she said. We started down Stanhope, headed toward Dartmouth. But within several steps, Julia stopped. "I'm okay alone," she said.
"I don't mind the walk," I said.
She glanced across the street. "It's not a good idea."
I followed her eyes and saw a white Range Rover with smoked windows. I assumed it was one of Darwin Bishop's. I felt a rush of adrenaline. "He's having you followed?" I said.
"Unlikely," she said. "He's probably having you followed." She held out her hand. "Shake," she said. "All very businesslike, right?"
I took her hand, but just held it. She looked into my eyes with what I read as a combination of tenderness and fear. "I'll see you tomorrow night," I said. I let go of her hand.
She nodded tentatively, turned around, and headed toward the Dartmouth Street garage.
I crossed the street and walked up to the Range Rover. I couldn't see through the driver's-side window, so I knocked on the glass. The window came down. A man who looked to be in his mid-thirties was in the driver's seat. His neck was weight-lifter thick, his face half-shaven. He was wearing a blousy silk shirt, but it covered an obviously large frame.
"Can I help you with something?" he said, without any emotion.
"I want to get a message to your employer," I said.
He didn't respond, but he didn't close the window.
"Tell Mr. Bishop I don't mind if he has me followed. I don't mind if he visits me, either. I live at Thirty-nine Winnisimmet Street in Chelsea. Top floor. Unit Five B. I'm there a fair amount, almost always in the late part of the evening."
"I'll be sure to do that," the man said.
I started to leave, but turned back. "One more thing: Since I'm not a kid and I'm not female, tell him he can expect to have a tougher time with me than his usual targets. He might want to bring someone like you along to give him a hand."
8
The telephone was ringing when I walked into my loft, but I got to it too late. I glanced at the answering machine. It had registered thirty-one calls, but used up less than a minute of talk time. That meant lots of hangups. I was about to scroll through them for caller IDs when the phone started ringing again. I grabbed it. "Clevenger," I said.
"How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?"
I recognized Billy Bishop's voice. "Where are you?" I asked.
"C'rnon," he said. "How many?"
"Three," I guessed, to appease him.
"Just one," he said, "but the light bulb has to want to change."
"Okay," I said. "Pretty funny. Now, where are you?"
"I'm not locked up in that loony bin," he said.
I glanced at the caller ID. It read, "Unknown Caller." I figured Billy was probably at a pay phone. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, if you forget the part about my father trying to throw me in jail for life. It would take an awful lot of therapy to get my mind off something like that, don't you think?"
I smiled, despite the gravity of the situation. "I guess you're right." I paused. "Tell me where you are," I said. "I'll meet you."
"No. And I can't stay on the line long," he said. "I need you to loan me a little money. I'll pay you back. I promise. I'm good for it."
I wanted to slow things down and coax Billy back into the hospital, even though he would certainly be arrested. As risky as navigating the judicial system might be for him, it was a lot safer than the streets. And Billy wasn't the only person in peril; I hadn't forgotten that his history of violence meant he might strike out in unpredictable, very destructive ways. "I think you made a mistake leaving Payne Whitney," I said. "I think you're better off going back and getting a lawyer to fight for you."
"Thanks for the advice," he said. "Will you do life with me?"
"They have to prove you're guilty," I said.
"I need money," he said. "That's all I need right now."
"Where can I meet you?"
"Like I said, you can't. There's a safe place where you can leave it for me. I have somebody who can grab it and bring it to me."
"Where are you?" I pushed.
"Can I have the money?" he asked. "You know I didn't kill Brooke. You know it."
He was starting to sound desperate. I gambled he was desperate enough to trust me. "Not unless we can meet face-to-face," I said.
"Impossible," he said.
"That's the deal, Billy. Take it or leave it."
He was silent a few seconds. "I'm at the end of my rope," he said finally. "You've got to come through here, Doc. I'm counting on you."
I closed my eyes, imagining how terrifying it would feel to be sixteen years old, all alone, facing life in prison. "I'm just asking you to meet me halfway. You get the money when I get to see you."
"That's it. Your final answer?"
"That's it."
"Then you're as much to blame for what happens as anyone else," he said bitterly.
"To blame-for what?"
"Read about it in the papers." He hung up.
"Billy!" I yelled into the receiver. I dialed *69, trying to be reconnected, but got the standard computer message telling me the callback feature wouldn't work. I slammed the receiver down. The phone crashed to the floor.
The end of my rope. I stared at the phone cord looped around one leg of the table. I could almost hear the call I had gotten years before from Anne Sacon, a social worker with the Department of Youth Services, after Billy Fisk had been found hanging from a noose in his parents' garage. Days earlier Fisk had reached out to me for what proved to be the last time, telling me how unhappy he was at home and asking whether he could come live with me. It hadn't seemed even remotely possible at the time. Patients don't move in with their psychiatrists, after all. But had I known how close he was to the edge, I would have agreed.