She was behind a big mahogany desk almost as neatly arranged as Rafe Valer’s, in a fairly large room that included this office area and another space where chairs faced each other for consultations, plus a small kitchenette with a table and chairs and a fridge and a counter with coffee-maker.
Despite the latter, I had not been offered anything to drink. On the other hand, my chair was a padded leather one and comfy, and the general tone of the place—pale blue walls, sunny landscape paintings—was soothing.
Dr. Sanders’s icy smile, however, wasn’t all that soothing—her lipstick was dark red and the effect was that of a cut in her face.
“We can talk,” Dr. Sanders said, as she placed the affidavit on her desk ever so perfectly. Neatness issues.
I kept my tone pleasantly businesslike. “As Marcy Addwatter’s psychologist, you met with her monthly, I understand.”
Her eyes went to mine but somehow didn’t meet them. “Yes.”
“How would you characterize her condition?”
She could rock in her chair and she did, a little. “Under medication? Stable.”
“Are there...degrees of stability?”
Half a smile flicked, tiny annoyance registering. “Ms. Tree, Mrs. Addwatter is severely schizophrenic. It’s a small miracle she’s done as well as she has.”
“But she has done well?”
“Very well.” The smallest of sighs. “And that may be the problem.”
“How so?”
Her shrug was barely perceptible. “Patients who think they’re doing fine sometimes take it upon themselves to go off their meds.”
I nodded. “If, for whatever reason, Marcy Addwatter were off her medication...and if she learned her husband had started cheating again...could that add up to, well...murder?”
She stopped rocking. “Possibly.”
“Did you prescribe her medication?”
“Through referral, yes.”
I gestured with an open hand, tried to keep my tone non-confrontational. “With patients who’ve been doing very well...particularly those who’ve been stable for years...don’t mental health practitioners sometimes take such patients off their medication? And substitute placebos?”
She tried to brush that off with her cut of a smile, but her eyes were tight behind the sleek gray-rimmed glasses. “That’s called a ‘drug holiday,’ and Mrs. Addwatter, as events have shown, would hardly be a candidate.”
“We know that in retrospect.” I leaned forward, and when I spoke I tried to keep the threat out of my voice though it could hardly escape my words. “Dr. Sanders, if you recommended a drug holiday for Marcy Addwatter, we need to know it.”
The gray eyes opened wider, then settled back into a self-controlled chilly gaze. “If that were true—and it isn’t—that could be a serious case of malpractice.”
I shook my head. “I can assure you, Dr. Sanders, that if you innocently sent your patient on a drug holiday, that information would be regarded by her legal representatives in the most friendly way. It would aid immeasurably in Mrs. Addwatter’s defense. Any considerations of malpractice would be off the table.”
She listened to all of that with strained patience, and her smile was typically frigid as she said, “I can assure you that I would be the first to step forward to help Marcy, if my misjudgment had unintentionally aided and abetted this murder.”
I raised an eyebrow, and the ante. “Murders. Two people were killed, her husband and a prostitute.”
Her elbows were on the desk now, perfectly parallel; she tented her fingertips.
She tilted her head in a manner that told me this interview was over. “Ms. Tree, is there anything else? You’re past the five minutes you requested, and I’m sure you’ll understand that I have a busy schedule.”
“I do understand, Doctor.” I gave her the finger that points like a gun. “What you need to understand is that your patient was on a drug holiday, whether you prescribed it or not.”
Her laugh was as chilly as her smile. “That’s absurd.”
I got to my feet. “What if I told you Marcy Addwatter’s medication was analyzed and found to be sugar pills?”
“Why, I’d say you were—”
I did my best to give her a smile every bit as cold as the ones she’d dished out to me. “Crazy?”
EIGHT
Chic Steele and I were at Mike Ditka’s again, without Rafe Valer as a chaperone this time, in a leatherette booth just two down from where we’d sat on our previous visit. We were having coffee and working on one crème brûlée with two spoons.
For well past the end of the business day, my tanned, blue-eyed, blond dinner companion looked depressingly fresh in his dark blue sportjacket, lighter blue Oxford shirt and striped chocolate tie. My maroon pinstripe one-button jacket with matching cuffed pants, and the silk blouse with cami, had looked pretty sharp to me this morning; I wondered if my outfit was looking as drag-assy by now as I felt.
“And why aren’t you hitting Lt. Valer up for this information?” he was asking me. “Isn’t this Event Planner his case? Or should I say, obsession?”
I swallowed my creamy bite. “Rafe’s a little frazzled, at the moment, frankly.”
Chic’s forehead tensed with concern. “Word around HQ is, our man in Homicide is not his normal cool-headed self.”
Having witnessed the lieutenant’s less than deft interrogation of Ron Grubb, I knew that to be true.
I shrugged and said, “Whatever’s going on with Rafe, I’d rather not put anything else on his plate right now....”
Chic dipped his spoon into the crème brûlée. “So this is on our plate?”
“Yeah.”
“Why is that exactly?”
“Maybe because we owe it to somebody.”
Chic swallowed his bite of the dessert and his expression darkened. “Your husband?”
“Your partner.”
“Same guy.”
“Same guy.”
When the dessert was finished, I pushed the dish aside, leaning forward to take Chic’s hand. “Dan did a quick check, and the woman I’m seeking seems to’ve changed her name.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Maybe she’s on the run from social services.”
His smirk had a hint of disgust in it, or anyway irritation. “And you think the police should do your P.I. work for you? You think that’s fair to the other taxpayers?”
My smile was angelic. I even batted my eyelashes a few times. “I’m not asking you to protect. Just to serve.”
Then I sat up a little in the booth so I could lean even closer and give him a nice little kiss on the mouth, sweet as the crème brûlée we’d just shared.
Settling back in my seat, I noticed he had his familiar half-smile going as he dabbed his face with his napkin. “You ask me, you’re the ‘Planner’ around here....Anyway, you sure know how to pull my strings.”
“First thing tomorrow?”
He tossed the wadded napkin on the table like he was throwing in the towel. “Yes, yes. I’ll look into it, and call you first thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” I was getting my credit card out of my purse; it was my turn. “Care to come over for a nightcap?”
“What, as my reward?”
I gave him a look that pretended to be annoyed. “Why, are you above such things, Captain?”
“You trying to bribe me, lady?”
“Think of it as a perk.”
He pretended to think it over. Then he grinned and said, “Okay.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following you, Ms. Tree,” the doctor said. “What woman? And what does this have to do with—”