"What are they?"
"Guess!"
"Spotted rocks."
She giggled. "No! They're uncooked cookies."
"Don't look like cookies to me. Cookies are flat. Those are round."
"They flatten when they cook. But watch this!" She picked up one of the balls of raw cookie dough with her chopsticks and popped it into her mouth. "See? I can do it now!"
"Well, I'll be!" Rob said, hugging her closer. "You did that just like a real Chinese! Can I have one?"
Jill picked up another with her chopsticks and got it to Rob's mouth.
"Hmmmm," he said. "Tell the cook it needs more vanilla."
"Not me!" Jill said. "You tell her!"
Jill ate another dough ball.
"You know," Rob told her, "you're so good with those, I think we can take you to a sushi bar."
"What's that?"
"That's where they eat raw fish on rice balls."
Jill made a sour face. "Eeeeuuuuu!"
Kara watched Rob rock his head back and laugh. She had to tell him about his daughter. And soon. Before he figured it out on his own.
▼
2:55 P.M.
Rob sat in Gates' waiting room and surveyed some choice photos of the murder scene. The best was a close-up of the writing on the floor. Rob had made sure the photographer had set the lamp so that the light reflected off the still-wet letters. He was anxious to show this to Gates and watch how he reacted to seeing his own name written in blood.
Kara was innocent and Gates was guilty. He firmly believed that. He had no right to. He hadn't a shred of evidence to back that up. It was a gut feeling.
Or was he fooling himself? This was why cops were supposed to stay away from cases in which they were emotionally involved. Emotions clouded judgment. Were his feelings for Kara clouding his?
Rob began to turn the photo over on his lap, then snapped it back to face up. From this angle, the smears to the right of "Gates" had looked like an "equals" sign, followed by a "K."
The hairs at the back of his neck began to rise. Gates is Kara? Rob stared at it from all angles. Was that what Bannion was trying to say? That Gates was in Kara? Like the note on the electric bill had said? Like Kara had said less than an hour ago?
The number of people who believed in that crazy idea seemed to be growing. Was it possible that—?
Rob shook off the thought. No. Couldn't be. Something like that simply wasn't possible. The smeared end of Bannion's scrawl—the "=K" part—had to be a trick of the light. People did a lot of awful things to each other in New York, but they didn't take over each other's bodies.
When Gates' patient came out, Rob scooted into the consultation room as he had done before, without waiting for the receptionist to warn the doctor.
"Detective Harris," Gates said in a bored tone. "What brings you back?"
"Your friend Edward Bannion is dead," Rob said without preamble.
It had the desired effect. Gates stiffened and blurted:
"My friend?"
Any uncertainties Rob had harbored about Gates being involved in Bannion's death evaporated with those two words. He took grim satisfaction from the fact that Gates' first response was not to ask who was Edward Bannion or what the hell Rob was talking about, but to challenge the idea that he was a friend.
He shoved a particularly gory crime scene photo under the psychiatrist's nose.
"Sure. Don't you recognize him?"
Gates took the photo and studied it. The blood and the corpse did not seem to faze him.
"I've never seen this man before in my life."
"Really?" Rob handed over the close up of the scrawl. "The last act of his life was to write your name."
Gates was clearly jolted by the sight of his name written in blood. But Rob had to hand it to him: he recovered quickly.
"This could mean anything. It doesn't say 'Dr. Gates' and it doesn't say 'Lawrence Gates,' it just says 'Gates.' That could mean anything."
"Yeah," Rob said softly, staring at him, "but you know and I know that he means you."
"Are you accusing me of murder?" Gates said.
"You said it, not me."
Gates leaned back and smiled. He picked up the key ring from his desk top and began twirling it on his finger.
"All right, Detective Harris. Let's assume you are accusing me of the murder of a man I have never even heard of until this very moment. Let's play this game through. I have no motive, and no opportunity."
"Can you account for your whereabouts at the time of the murder?"
"Which was?"
"Approximately two-thirty A.M. Sunday morning."
"I was here, in my office, working on patient charts. And I have the best witness in the world."
"Really. Who's that?"
"A member of the city's police department. You."
Rob felt the surprise break through onto his face.
Gates's smile broadened.
"Come now, Detective Harris. Did you really think your pathetic attempts to shadow me went unnoticed? I know you've been watching me. It's been quite amusing, really."
But I wasn't outside your place all night! Rob thought. He had been at Kara's before the murder and at Bannion's after. Plenty of time for Gates to sneak out and kill Bannion.
But he wasn't going to tell Gates that. Not yet.
"If you think you were shadowed before, pal, you wait."
The smile faded from Gates' face, replaced by a look of cold contempt.
"Don't look for trouble, detective."
"I won't be looking for trouble—just looking for you. No matter where you go, you're going to look up and see me. I'll connect you to Bannion, and then you'll be mine. You can file harassment charges, but that won't stop me."
"Harassment charges? Do you think I'd have to stoop, to that? Against you? Do you really think I couldn't lose you any time I wished? Do you actually believe that someone like you would be any sort of match for a man with my intelligence and knowledge of the human mind? Don't make me laugh!"
"That's the last thing I want to make you do, pal," Rob said.
He gathered up his photos. The guy was guilty. Rob could smell it. A grim, cold determination crowded out the anger that had built up during their exchange. He was going to nail Gates, or lose his badge trying. He headed for the door.
"Be seeing you."
At last! The punishment is over!
This was by far the worst ever. So weak I can barely write. Not physically weak, but weak in the spirit, in the mind. This time he brought me to the precipice of madness. I know my grip on sanity has been tenuous at best, but this time nearly undid me. A few hours more of his torture and I fear I'd have been irretrievably mad.
And I failed! That's the worst part. Got my warning to her but she didn't heed it! Maybe the little fool deserves what's happening to her! Maybe—
No. That's unfair. It's too much to ask anyone to believe something so far beyond her own capabilities, something without precedent in her own experience or knowledge, something that should be impossible.
But perhaps I haven't failed completely. He's disturbed about something. Something's gone wrong. Don't know what it is, but he's upset. Detect ripples on the customarily serene surface of his sublime indifference to the world. His supreme confidence in his ability to deal easily with whatever the lesser mortals around him might do appears to have been challenged.
Am I responsible for that? I pray so.
Also sense that tonight he will answer that challenge. I hope his opponent is mentally agile. A survivor.
I'll be cheering for him. I hope the opponent kills the swine! Or maybe I'll get the chance. If I can, I'll do it. I know I can do it now!