The young woman looked down at D.D.’s detective shields, then pursed her lips and made a phone call.
“If you’ll have a seat, the doctor is with a patient but he’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”
Fair enough. D. D. retreated to the camel-back sofa provided for visitors. She’d been warned this interview would not be easy. Dr. Samuels was not without some experience when it came to answering questions involving homicide.
For now, she occupied her time on her laptop, reading more of the articles she’d pulled about the esteemed therapist.
Malachai Samuels was a Jungian therapist who’d devoted his life to working with children with past-life issues. He and his aunt, who was the codirector of the foundation, had documented over three thousand children’s journeys and presented remarkable proof of the lives they’d discovered in their regressions. So fastidious was their research and methodology, they were actually accepted by the scientific community and often spoke at psychiatric conventions.
In the last seven years, however, Malachai had been named a “person of interest” in several different criminal cases involving stolen artifacts, resulting in the deaths of at least four people. The reincarnationist had never been charged with any wrongdoing. But the FBI special crimes detective D.D. had contacted, Lucian Glass, was disturbed when he heard Malachai’s name was connected to yet another murder.
Glass still believed Malachai was complicit in several of the cases and that he should be in prison. “But we’ve never been able to find any actual evidence of his participation. I hope you do, Detective Warren. I hope you do.”
“Detective Warren?” A rich, mellifluous voice cut through her thoughts. D.D. looked up to find the man in question now standing directly before her.
“Dr. Malachai Samuels. How may I be of assistance?”
Samuels was wearing a well-cut navy suit, carefully knotted silk tie, and a crisp white shirt with a monogram on the right cuff. Everything about him, from his clothing to his manner of speaking, suggested a gentleman of an earlier time. Which already got D.D. to thinking. Was the good doctor merely collecting valuable old artifacts, or did he include himself among them?
“I’m here about an incident in Boston,” she said. “Could we talk someplace more private?”
“Of course, this way.”
He led her down a hallway lit by stained-glass sconces and lined with turn-of-the-century wallpaper. Silk would be her guess. With a faded floral pattern and hints of what was probably real gold.
“Would you like any coffee or tea? Perhaps bottled water?” he asked as he opened the door to what D.D. surmised was his personal office. In keeping with the theme of the rest of the place, the space was lined with old books and lushly appointed with a fine Persian rug, an antique desk, and a comfortable leather couch and chairs. It faced an inner courtyard planted with trees and flowers, as befitting someone with a doctor’s fine sensibilities.
D.D. said she’d like some water, then took a seat, still cataloguing the plethora of antiques and works of art scattered about. A tingle of excitement shot up her spine when she noticed a Chinese jade horse on Samuels’s desk.
Malachai handed D.D. a crystal glass filled with ice water. He took a seat opposite her on the other side of the glass coffee table.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“We found your business card at the scene of a murder.”
“That’s terrible. Who was killed?”
“Mr. John Wen.”
Malachai’s face showed no emotion. In fact, he remained so unruffled that D.D. was instantly suspicious.
“Did you know him, Doctor?”
“I’m a therapist, Detective. Even if I did I couldn’t tell you. Everything that goes on in my office is confidential. Surely you understand that.”
“The man is dead, Dr. Samuels. His confidentiality is on the floor in a pool of blood.”
Malachai remained silent.
“Surely you understand that by not talking to me you are as good as admitting he was a patient.”
“If that’s the conclusion you want to draw, so be it. But I’m neither saying he was or wasn’t. I’m not at liberty to discuss your case with you.”
“Your business card was there when he died.”
“How unfortunate, then, for us both.”
D.D. frowned, feeling the first tinge of annoyance. Samuels was within his rights but it was going to make the case more complicated if she had to wait to get a court order.
“Last time you saw him alive?” she fished.
“Who said I ever saw him?”
Special Agent Lucian Glass had been right: Samuels was good.
D.D. went about it another way. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were a detective investigating the homicide of man who imported ancient Chinese artifacts, who would you question?”
Samuels merely arched a brow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head in the direction of the decorative mirror hanging over his left shoulder.
A Freudian slip, D.D. thought, or just the incredible arrogance of a well-respected gentleman who may or may not have gotten away with murder?
“I am sorry, Detective,” Dr. Samuels informed her, “but I cannot assist you in this matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another patient waiting.”
He stood up, and she had no choice but to follow. Show over, meeting adjourned. D.D. had wasted an entire day, not to mention a decent portion of her department’s budget, on a trip to New York that had yielded her absolutely nothing.
“Nice horse,” she said, pointing at the jade piece as she rose to stand.
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t; like many objects in this building, I inherited it. I moved it into my office, however, because I find it particularly compelling. Do you know why people collect antiques, Detective Warren?”
Aha, finally a little conversation. “They like old things?”
“Perhaps. More accurately, they identify with old things.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself. She gazed around his clearly nineteenth-century office. The good doctor didn’t appear offended, more like amused by her unspoken point.
“Mr. John Wen,” she tried one last time, “didn’t just collect antiques. By all accounts, he believed people should live with them. Such as you do.”
“Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means you’re spending too much time in the present, Detective Warren, given that you are investigating a man who was all about the past.”
Dr. Samuels granted her one last, knowing smile. Then graciously but firmly, he escorted her out the door.
After the Boston detective departed, Malachai returned to his office where he poured himself an inch of forty-year-old Macallan. Lifting the heavy crystal tumbler he took a sip. Savored it. Then, drink in hand, he sat down heavily in the chair at his desk. Opening his top drawer he withdrew his Symthson notebook.
This was a private journal that he kept to record his musings on “The Search,” as he had been referring to it for the last thirty-five years, ever since he’d opened a nineteenth-century book on mesmerism that he’d come across in the library and a scrap of old, yellowed paper had fallen out. The handwriting had been spidery and appeared to have been written with a pen dipped in ink, which, along with what it said, helped Malachai date the note to the mid-to-late 1800s.
Meeting with Mr. T at two PM regarding place to secure the papers. Wednesday, at his establishment, 259 Broadway.
According to family legend, Malachai’s ancestor, Davenport Talmage, had been in possession of papers that detailed all the amulets, ornaments, and stones that made up the lost cache of Memory Tools. Smuggled out of India and brought into Egypt before 1500 BC, these items were said to be able to stimulate past-life memories.