A few paragraphs in between. Nothing that required a Ph.D., but education’s what they pay me for.
A week after I sent my findings to Nancy Maestro, I returned home after a run and found Connie Sykes out on my front terrace, sitting in one of the wicker chairs Robin and I leave there when we want to catch sunrise over the trees.
Warm morning; I was sweaty, breathing hard, wearing a sleeveless tee and shorts.
She said, “Nice muscles, Doctor.”
“What can I do for you, Connie?”
“Obviously, I’m pretty crushed.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I understand,” she said, in a softer voice than I’d ever heard. But still, that strange, digital spacing. As if every word needed to be measured prior to delivery. “I knew at the outset that it was a long shot. May I come in?”
I hesitated.
“Just for a little support? You are a psychologist.”
I glanced at my watch.
“I won’t take up much of your time. I just need to … integrate. To talk about my own plans. Maybe adopting a child of my own?”
“Was that something you’d thought about before?”
Her shoulders heaved. “Can we talk? Please? Just briefly but I’ll pay you for a full session.”
“No payment necessary,” I said. “Come on in.”
This time she allowed me to lead. Settled in a different spot on the couch. Placed her leather purse to her right and her hands in her lap.
I said, “Morning.”
She smiled. “I guess things work out the way they’re supposed to. Though I wish I could be more confident about the poor child.”
“Rambla.”
“She really is in danger, Doctor. You may not be convinced of it, the court may not be convinced of it. I’m not even sure my own lawyer was convinced of it. But I’ve got superior analytic powers. Always have. I can see things — sense things — that elude other people.”
Gone was the soft voice.
Something new in her eyes. A sputter of … irrationality?
“So,” I said, “you’re considering adopting.”
She laughed. “Why would I do that? Why would I assume the risk of ending up with something genetically inferior? No, that was just … I suppose you’d call it an icebreaker. Gaining rapport in order to build up trust, so you’d let me in. That’s your thing, right? Rapport. You sure pulled a fast one on me. Convinced me you understood me and then you went and wrote that I had absolutely no case. Very ethical, Doctor.”
“Connie—”
“Dr. Sykes to you,” she snapped. “You’re ‘Doctor,’ I’m ‘Doctor.’ Okay? It’s the least you can do. Show me some respect.”
“Fair enough,” I said, keeping my eye on her every movement. “Dr. Sykes, I never—”
“You never, you never, you never,” she snapped. “You’re Doctor Never. And now that poor child is destined to never lead the life she deserves.”
Smoothing black gabardine slacks, she lifted her right hand, stroked the purse’s fine, whiskey-colored leather.
“I’m not going to shoot you, Dr. Delaware. Even though I should.”
Tapping the bag, she ran her finger over a swell in the leather and smiled wider and waited.
Master-of-timing comedian, pausing to see if the audience got it.
When I didn’t respond, she tapped the bag harder. Something beneath the leather gave off a dull thud.
Something hard and dense. Implying she’d come with a weapon.
If she had and decided to use it, I was too far away to stop her, blocked by the desk.
Bad situation; I’d let down my guard, broken every rule, allowed her to catch me off guard.
No way to predict something like this.
Lots of victims probably thought that. No excuse for me; the whole point of my training was expecting the unexpected. I’d always figured myself pretty good at that.
The worst kind of assumption: blithe and arrogant.
I studied the flat-eyed, weird woman sitting across from me.
Serene stare from her. Icy contentment. She’d evoked fear, knew it. Had gotten what she’d come for.
The threat was the first time she’d used my name.
A new form of intimacy.
I kept silent.
Connie Sykes laughed. Then she got up and left the office and continued up the hall and I scurried to lock myself in, feeling like nothing but prey.
CHAPTER
8
My true love is a gorgeous, thoughtful, intense woman who cherishes solitude and makes her living transforming wood into guitars and mandolins of great beauty. Sequestered in her studio, she plays her own ensemble of instruments: routers, chisels, gauges and knives, band saw, jigsaw. A roaring table saw that rips through rosewood and ebony like a hungry predator.
Soft flesh versus razor-edged metal. A single slip can lead to horror and Robin lives with hazard every day. But it’s my work that has led us to danger.
I sat at my desk, wondering what to tell her about Connie Sykes.
We’ve been together for a long time and how much I divulge about the terrible things has always been an issue. Robin knows better than to ask about therapy patients. But the other stuff — court work, the murders Milo brings like bloody gifts — is open territory and I fight the urge to overprotect.
I’ve finally figured out an approach that seems to work: assess how receptive she really is, divulge no more than she wants to know, temper the details.
Working with power tools and avoiding people doesn’t mean you lack insight and sometimes she offers an opinion that leads to a solution.
That’s the way it is, now.
Years ago, a psychopath burned our house down. After the shock wore off, Robin recouped quickly, the way she always does, designing and supervising the building of the eye-filling white structure we eventually learned to call home.
Connie Sykes’s visit marked the first time, since then, that I’d felt personally threatened by someone sitting on my battered leather sofa.
I’m not going to shoot you.
Technically, a non-threat.
Massaging the bulge in her purse.
Subtle.
Connie Sykes had shown herself eager to use the legal system as a weapon, so maybe the visit was a ploy. Enticing me to accuse her of something, so she could file a spite lawsuit.
A weapon? Ridiculous. I keep tissues, cosmetics, and a cell phone in there. This is defamation and harassment, this man is clearly unfit for the job with which he’s been entrusted.
If she tried that, she’d lose. Again. But that wouldn’t stop her from convincing herself she had a chance of winning. Because if Connie Sykes believed it, it had to be true.
I could call Milo but drawing him into the mess would just add complication.
I imagined a fine-print complaint against him hand-messengered to the LAPD brass. Parker Center was Cover-Your-Ass Central. Milo, always an official irritant operating beyond his official boundaries, would be vulnerable.
Medea Wright, not my biggest fan, would enjoy the process.
Gun in a purse? The complainant is a physician, not a criminal, and this alleged mental health expert is showing himself to be rather delusional and paranoid, leading to serious questions about his professional competence and qualifications for state licensure. Furthermore, his exploitation of personal connections to the police department in order to exert vengeful damage to the complainant is nothing short of venal.
If you couldn’t get the outcome you wanted, torture ’em with process.
The more I thought about it, the better it explained Connie showing up on my terrace. Bested in court, she itched to squeeze out a few drops of control.