by Casey Dorman
“A little, but not like when I woke up from the dream last night.”
“Did you then or do you now have any thoughts about the dream?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something that pops into your mind. Some thoughts that the dream provokes.”
“My brother.”
“Your brother?”
“My older brother died around the time my leg was paralyzed.”
“How did you feel when he died?”
“We weren’t close, but I felt lost when he died. I had a panic attack. A lot like the feeling I had in my dream. Then my leg stopped working and I had to cope with that, using crutches, then a cane. I forgot about my brother and my panic went away.”
“Do you remember what you were panicked about?”
Lucas hesitated before answering. “I guess the fact that I might die. He was only forty-eight, barely older than I am now. My father died at fifty. I felt doomed.”
“So six years ago you were worried about dying, but after your leg became paralyzed you stopped thinking about dying?”
“I had too much else to deal with.”
“What did the doctors say about your paralysis? What did they say caused it?”
“I never went to the doctor.”
“You couldn’t move one of your legs and you didn’t go to the doctor?” George tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He didn’t want to make his client defensive.
“No.” Bonaventure’s tone was blasé. As if what he was saying were perfectly natural.
George recognized Lucas’ reaction as the classic la belle indifference, which often accompanied hysterical symptoms. Freud had written about it many times. “Why didn’t you go to the doctor?” he asked, although he knew that his client would not have an answer.
“I guess I figured it was temporary. My problem was how to get around on one leg.”
“And the paralysis just went away on its own?”
“After about six months I woke up one day and it was gone.”
“How about your fear of dying?”
“I stopped thinking about it.”
It was time to end the session. George regretted that he wouldn’t be able to follow up on Bonaventure’s dream further, or on his mysterious paralysis. Lucas Bonaventure had no insight into the unconscious sources of his behavior. Such cases were almost unheard of among educated Americans in the twenty-first century. But the rules of psychoanalytic sessions were ironclad, and despite George’s curiosity, it was time to stop. “I’ll see you next week,” George said.
“You haven’t told me yet whether you’ll meet with Sherry,” Bonaventure said, as he sat up and put on his jacket.
“I’m still thinking about it.”
Chapter 13
“That was our guy, all right,” Abe Reynolds said. “He fits the description and he’s got a record of assault against women, even did some time for it in Florida. And after the Bonaventure woman was reported missing, he changed his hotel.”
Susan Lin looked skeptical. She was sitting across from him in his office in the Newport Beach station. Through the window, she could see golfers on the spacious course, which ran all the way down to PCH. Beyond that was Balboa Island and the sea. “He knew we were looking for him and he had a record. That’s why he was at the Motel 6. Even if he was innocent, it made sense for him to switch hotels. And we don’t have any other evidence against him. What’s worse is that, if it was him, how are we going to find Mrs. Bonaventure if her kidnapper is dead?”
“C’mon, admit it. You can’t let go of Bonaventure.” Reynolds looked as if he were laughing at her. “After all, you’ve put in all that work on proving he’s a psychopath.”
“He’s a psychopath whether he killed his wife or not,” she answered, trying not to sound defensive.
“Our job’s to find a killer, or at least a kidnapper, not to diagnose the victim’s husband.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You were convinced that Bonaventure killed his wife, just as much as I was. You know you were.”
“Sure I was, but that was before this guy Danny Rosberg came along. He was the man who met Regina Bonaventure in the bar, he has a history of beating up women, and he changed his hotel so no one would find him. Not to mention that he panicked and tried to get away when the Santa Ana cops tried to stop him.”
Susan nodded her head, grudgingly. Reynolds was making a lot of good points, but she knew that Lucas Bonaventure was at least capable of killing his wife and she wasn’t ready to give up on him yet. “I want to continue looking into Bonaventure, but I’m going to find out more about Rosberg too. He’s clearly a psychopath himself.”
“Good,” Reynolds said. “Keep an open mind. I have to admit that, even though Rosberg looks like he’s our man, I’d prefer that it be Bonaventure. At least with him, we have some chance of finding out what happened to Mrs. Bonaventure. We can’t question Rosberg now that he’s dead.”
They were interrupted by the sergeant from the front desk. “Lieutenant, we’ve got a new development in the Bonaventure case. They’ve found the wife’s car.”
“Where?”
“Parking garage at John Wayne Airport.”
Reynolds looked over at Susan. “The perfect hiding place. People leave cars there for long stretches of time without attracting attention.” He turned his attention back to the sergeant. “Get the crime lab people over there and don’t move the car until they’ve collected all their evidence.”
“Maybe this will be the break we need,” Reynolds said to Susan. “If Rosberg’s prints are on the car, then he’s our guy. If not, then Bonaventure is back in the picture.”
“Or Regina Bonaventure parked her car at the airport and took a flight,” Susan answered. “Remember we haven’t got a body. She could have just left Orange County. Hadn’t we better check that out too?”
“For a psychologist, you’re a pretty good cop,” Reynolds said, smiling. “I’ll get someone to check the flights on the night she disappeared.”
“And the next morning,” Susan added.
“Right again.”
— — —
“The only prints on the inside of the car were those of Mr. and Mrs. Bonaventure.” Jerry Sloan, the crime lab detective had an apologetic expression on his face, as though he was at fault for bearing bad news.
“Any evidence that anything had been wiped?” Reynolds asked.
Sloan shook his head. “Nobody wiped anything, but the last driver wore gloves.”
“So we don’t know if it was Rosberg or not,” Reynolds said, his discouragement evident in his voice.
“Not really. But there’s no solid evidence that Rosberg was ever in the car. Unless you guys find a pair of gloves with Mrs. Bonaventure’s blood on them in his hotel room.”
Detective Reynolds shook his head. “Nada. There was nothing in his room with blood on it, none of the woman’s possessions, nothing to tie him to Mrs. Bonaventure at all.”
“We’re still checking the back seat and the trunk—hairs, blood, you name it. If there’s anything there we’ll find it.”
“Great. Keep me posted.”
Danny Rosberg seemed a likely suspect, but with no direct evidence, other than his probably having been the man seen in the bar with Regina Bonaventure, Abe Reynolds knew it would be hard to prove anything. And, as Susan Lin had pointed out, if Rosberg had been responsible for Regina Bonaventure’s disappearance, it would be next to impossible to find her, or her body. That would bother Abe. Newport Beach was a small town and murders were rare, less than one a year, most years without any a
t all. There hadn’t been any unsolved cases since he’d been put in charge of homicides ten years ago. It was a record Abe was proud of, and he didn’t want it spoiled.
It sounded to Abe Reynolds as if Susan Lin was on the right track. Barring any hairs or threads that would tie the car to the late Danny Rosberg, Lucas Bonaventure was still a suspect. Rosberg wasn’t ruled out by any stretch of the imagination, but so far, because he was dead, there wasn’t much that could be done to prove that he’d done anything except drive drunk and try to elude the police. Maybe Susan Lin would find something to point a finger more strongly in the direction of the husband. Abe hoped so. His pride would suffer if they never found Regina Bonaventure’s murderer, but he didn’t have any qualms about giving Susan the credit if it was her digging into Lucas Bonaventure’s past that solved the crime. His pride was based on achieving results, not personal distinction. He was too professional to allow his vanity to cast a shadow over his work.
Chapter 14
“See?” George held up the front page of the paper for his wife to see. “The police found the man who Regina Bonaventure met in the bar the night she went missing and he has a record of assaulting women.”
His wife came out of the kitchen and into the living room where her husband was sitting with a gin and tonic on the table next to him. She had a drink in her own hand. She didn’t bother to look at the paper he was holding in the air. “Has the man admitted anything yet?” Her words came out like an accusation
“He can’t. He died in a police chase. Ran head-on into a truck coming off the freeway. But they’re following up on him. It says here that a source in the police department said the man was a prime suspect in Mrs. Bonaventure’s disappearance.”
She sat opposite him in one of the Queen Anne chairs. “It sounds to me as if they don’t know anything. You’re still seeing the husband, right?” Her tone was disapproving.
“He’s my patient. He hasn’t done anything.”
“Hasn’t he? Do you know that for sure?” She stared at her husband, waiting for his answer, as if she had caught him in a lie.
“He has a classic neurosis. Some of his dreams are right out of a textbook. He hasn’t a clue what they mean. And even better, he experienced a six-month hysterical paralysis when his brother died six years ago. I haven’t had a case this good in years. I might even write it up.”
She put down her drink. She was shaking her head. “Write a paper? Nobody would read it but your group of deluded colleagues in the Analytic Institute. You’re practicing in the dark ages, you and the rest of your Analytic Society. I still can’t believe people pay you for doing this stuff.”
“You’re perfectly happy to spend the money they pay me.” He knew he was treading on thin ice with such a comment, but she was beginning to irritate him, as she often did when they discussed his practice.
“I admit you make a good living. But I bring in my share. My writing may not produce blockbusters, but it’s very well respected in literary circles. Each of my novels has been reviewed by the New York Times. I was on the short-list for a National Book Award with Winter Song. I may not make as much money as you do, but what I’m doing is at the forefront of progressive culture, not some leftover set of ideas from the last century.”
“A lot of writers utilize psychoanalytic theory in their novels. It’s very popular among intellectuals.”
“Was, George, was popular. You’re thinking of Faulkner or Capote, people of that era. It’s fallen well out of favor in the last few decades.”
He gulped down the rest of his second gin and tonic. “I couldn’t understand human beings without it.” He had the fleeting thought that he might have just admitted his own failing rather than made a point in favor of psychoanalysis.
“You can’t understand them with it or you wouldn’t be fooled by this Bonaventure deviate, who’s obviously working you into his defense, in case they ever find his wife’s body.”
“You have no evidence of that. It’s your theory and it’s probably no longer even the theory of the police, who are following up on this Rosberg guy, the one who died. You’re just using Bonaventure to mount another attack on my work, probably because you’re jealous that I make more money doing what I do than you do doing what you do.”
“Now you’re acting like a child, George. I thought your training analysis was supposed to cure you of that. If there was ever proof that your method doesn’t work, you’re it. You play all day at being a doctor, even though nothing you do resembles medicine, and then you come home and carry on juvenile, competitive conversations with me. And now you’re risking your livelihood—our livelihood—by insisting on treating this psychopathic wife-murderer, just to spite me.”
He felt himself withdrawing under her withering attack. He wished he could run away or make her disappear. His wife always personalized everything. He thought about Susan Lin, the police psychologist. Doctor Lin didn’t believe in psychoanalysis any more than his wife did, but that didn’t stop her from respecting him as a doctor, or at least it hadn’t seemed to the two times they’d met. Madeline used every conversation about his work as an excuse to belittle him, probably because she didn’t respect him as a man. They hadn’t had sex for over a year. Neither of them was clear if the other wanted it, and both of them were content to ignore the topic.
“You’re not even listening to me, George. You never do. You drink yourself into a stupor and pretend that I don’t exist. You’re married to one of the most celebrated writers in America, and you can’t take the time to listen to her opinions. Thank God I’ve got my university seminars and my academic colleagues. If I had to be content with talking to you, my IQ would probably plummet.”
“Are we going to have dinner tonight?” he asked.
She stared at him. “Sure, George. I’m your wife; I can cook. I’ll serve you dinner so you don’t starve to death and then I’m going out. I’m going to find someone with whom I can have a real conversation”
“Great. Just make dinner, then do whatever you want.” He got up to fix himself another gin and tonic.
Chapter 15
“You’re feeling powerless?” George asked.
“About helping Sherry.”
“Not about finding your wife?”
Lucas started to sit up, then lay back down “No, not about my wife. I told you, I know I can’t do anything about finding her.”
“And that doesn’t make you feel powerless?”
“Not really. I know the investigation is being handled by the police. I’ve put out a reward. There’s nothing else I can do. It’s Sherry that I’m worried about. That’s something I can do something about.”
“What can you do?”
“Get her to listen to me. Get her to change.” He lay on the couch silently for a few moments. “I’ve come up with a plan.”
“A plan?” George felt his pulse quicken.
“For getting Sherry to talk to you.”
“I’ve told you…” His tone was half-hearted, and he was aware of that.
“No, no,” Lucas interrupted him. “I don’t want you to do therapy with her, I just want you to meet her, to get to see her, give me some idea what you think. I’ve figured out how to get you to meet her.”
George knew that Bonaventure was using Sherry as a diversion from his unconscious fears, but he couldn’t curb his interest in the idea. “Go ahead, tell me your plan.”
“She’s quitting. She sent me a formal letter resigning her position. She’ll be gone in less than two weeks.”
“And…?”
“I told her that we offer our employees exit interviews to help them find another job. It’s true but only if we are the ones letting them go and only
for our executives. But she doesn’t know that. So I thought that you could interview her.”
“You mean I should pose as your exit interviewer?” George leaned forward in his chair.
“You could even tell her that you are my therapist and that it’s not a typical exit interview, that you’re doing it as a favor to me.”
“And then I’m supposed to help her find a job?” He felt let down. Such a plan would never work.
“No. We don’t really do that anyway. After the interview, we just hook them up with an employment agency. It’s more of a PR thing, to be sure someone doesn’t come back and sue us for letting them go.”
“So it’s worthless to the employee.”
“Most employees seem to appreciate it.”
“I can’t see someone under false pretenses.”
“So how about I go back to plan A. I tell her that I know she’s quitting because of me, and I’m sorry, and I’m trying to get help for myself and my therapist wants to talk to her to find out what I’ve done to drive her away.”
“That’s more honest.” George felt his resistance melting.
“It even makes sense. How do you know that I’ve told you the whole story? Maybe I’ve done even more than I’ve told you.”
“Have you?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Maybe I’m too ashamed to think about it, or I don’t even realize what I’ve done.”
Bonaventure might be talking about his wife as well as Sherry. George thought about Madeline’s accusations about him not being aware that Bonaventure might be a wife-killer. This might be George’s chance to find out for himself.
“OK, I’ll do it,” George said, his anxiety spiking even as he gave his answer. “But you have to be honest telling her who I am and what I’m doing this for. It has no real benefit for her. She’s liable to turn you down.”
“At least I can try.” Lucas seemed calmed by George’s acquiescence. “Thanks, doc. I think this will help me a lot.”