“That’s great news.”
“Yeah. It’s just . . .”
He stopped himself and walked over and sat down on the loveseat adjacent to the couch. A glass of coke with ice was on the coffee table. He took a sip. The sweet, smoky, rusty taste of it was very good.
“Anyway,” he said.
“Anyway,” she echoed. “You’re a neurobiologist? Tell me about it.”
And he smiled a little and got comfortable and tried to make himself sociable.
* * *
About fifteen minutes later, they took their drinks to the porch, and he lit a cigarette. Olivia watched him smoke it.
“You ever try CHANTIX?”
“No.” He exhaled a puff of smoke, blowing it away from her direction.
“You’ve made your mind up about it, I see.”
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “All that I did in six years of school, all that was to eventually study habits.”
“And you did? You worked in your field?”
He nodded. “I went to school at NYU’s Neuroscience Institute and was earning my PhD while finishing up school working at the Langone Medical Center. But I only worked there for one year.”
“What did you do?”
“Like I said. I studied habits.”
“How?”
“Mice. Sometimes students.”
“I’ve never met anyone who actually did studies with mice before.”
“I preferred human beings.”
“What sort of studies?”
“Langone really has a strong emphasis on wellness. Not just treating a disease, but increasing overall wellness. Wellness is largely determined by genetics. But it’s obviously affected by habits, too. The thing is, genetic precursors have a lot to do with why a person starts down the path of this or that habit.”
“So it’s all genetics? I don’t buy that.”
He took a drag and looked at her. “You’re a ‘nurture over nature’ person.”
“I’m a therapist. Absolutely.”
“Well, you’re not alone. All the recent advances in neuroscience show plasticity to the brain that wasn’t previously considered. In fact, that was my area. Trying to ‘nurture’ positive habits, life-changing habits, even in the face of strong genetic contradiction.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like lots of things. Like taking a person born with an exorbitant amount of fat cells, who is inclined to sedentary behavior, and getting that person more oriented for routine exercise, like someone naturally more athletic might be.”
“And?”
“It’s tough. Habits are underrated. Habits take root in one of the most ancient areas of the brain. This is why we could use mice effectively, because the basal ganglia of the brain are at work in both mice and humans. Habits are rudimentary. No species is immune.”
He was finished with his cigarette. He field-stripped it by rolling out the ember and letting it fall to the wood floor and then squashing it with his shoe.
“You can throw that out inside. Come on in. It’s getting cool out again.”
“It is,” he agreed. The sun had been dropping and with it, the temperature. It would be dark in half an hour or less. They returned inside.
She pointed him to the trash can in the kitchen, and he dropped in the cigarette filter.
“Why were you only there for a year?”
He’d been waiting for the question and wondered why he had even told her about his short stay at Langone anyway. Of course it would provoke an inquiry.
“Personal reasons,” he said.
“I see.” She looked around the kitchen. “Am I making dinner, or are you taking me out?”
* * *
It was dusk as they drove towards Utica, where they had decided on a restaurant.
“So if you’re a nurture person, I’ve got a question.”
“Oh boy.”
He smiled. “What would make someone go into porn?”
He braced himself for her reaction. She would ask him why in the hell he’d brought up a subject like that at this time, on what might in fact be their first date.
But she didn’t. “Oh that’s definitely nurture.”
“You think?”
“Come on. You’re the neurobiologist. You’re the detective. You ever found anything to suggest someone got into porn because of genetics?”
“Well, sure. Their looks, for one. Body type. But also their neuropsychological make-up. Kids on the playground, four and five-year-olds, some of them are extroverts, some are quiet and shy. They can become adults who are exhibitionists, free-spirited types, or they can hide their lamp under a bushel basket.”
She scowled at him in the dark. “Did you skip over developmental psychology, doctor? And by the way, why don’t you call yourself doctor?”
“I never finished. I said I was earning my degree. I left first.”
“Huh. Well, I’ll call you doctor anyway. And developmental psych is a sophomore class. Kids have been majorly sculpted by the time they are the four and five year-olds you describe hopping around the playground, some of them flashers, some of them agoraphobics.”
This elicited a laugh despite some fresh stomach pains Brendan felt building. He was having a nice time, but he couldn’t get Rebecca out of his head. The image of her in the bedroom, the recent video discovery, any of it. And all of this playing the searchlight over the wreckage of his past; it was hard to deal with.
“Well, now, you know certain kids are born a certain way. Given the same exact set of parents, let’s say, doing the same exact things; some kids are apt to be criers, some are more passive. Some babies are colicky, some sleep through the night, right away.”
“All nurture. All environment.”
“No way.”
“I have a feeling this is an argument we’re probably going to have our whole lives.”
He glanced at her for a second and then put his eyes back to the road. He could feel the little bit of awkwardness that followed her comment. He was sure she felt it, too. It suddenly reminded him of being sixteen years old, and holding a girl around her waist at the dance, having trouble making eye contact.
His stomach started to calm down. The atmosphere in the car lightened. She clicked on the radio and went up and down through the band until she found the station she was looking for. “You like classic rock?”
“Sure. It’s both, anyway.”
“What’s both?”
“It’s nature and nurture. There’s no distinction. Genetics are the template, then environmental factors begin their influence even in the womb. The babies who were in utero during the Hunger winter in the Netherlands in the 1940s. Many of them developed weight conditions and diabetes later in life because their bodies had learned to hoard any fats and sugars they got. Epigenetics switch on the genes for this or that right from the start – we’re changing from the moment we’re first formed.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re obsessed.”
He smiled. “I just don’t want us to waste time having that argument the rest of our lives.”
They drove the rest of the way to the restaurant, listening to the music in silence.
* * *
Dinner was more relaxing. Olivia didn’t ask Brendan any more questions about his past. He worked to keep his mind off of the case. He asked her about her own background. She was from the west suburbs of Syracuse and had gone to school at Bishop-Ludden. She had done her undergraduate work at Hobart and William Smith, and then obtained her masters in Psychology elsewhere – she didn’t say. Instead, she explained how she had to pass several tests; the Examination for Professional Practice in Psychology and a Licensed Professional Counselor exam before she was able to practice on her own.
She had three brothers, and she was the youngest. “My mom was so thrilled when I came along,” she told him, without a trace of ego. “I got a lot of extra attention, so I’m probably a bit of a spoiled
brat. But I had three older brothers who were constantly fighting and eating and stinking up the house. I think my mom wanted to protect me from that a little bit.” And she smiled, flashing her teeth for just a moment, in a way he was becoming familiar with.
The evening ended with a quiet drive back to her house. Both of them seemed lost in thought. He opened the door for her. The gesture provoked a painful memory which he quickly pushed away. She thanked him and kissed him on the cheek. As he pulled out of the driveway, he saw her standing on the porch, and she waved.
It was on.
Yet the feeling growing in him was no longer the awkward teenage high he may have felt for a moment, earlier in the night. Instead, it worried him. It worried him because of what secrets it meant he might have to reveal, and it worried him because of the ongoing investigation with the Heilshorn girl.
Olivia was involved in the case, whether she wanted to be or not. She was definitely a tough woman, able to hold her own, he thought, but she had also been protected her whole life. Protected by three older brothers; protected by her mother, by her own admission.
Until this case was solved, and the killer found, Olivia was involved. She’d already been put in harm’s way once. He worried that as long as he continued to keep in contact with her, she was likely to be in harm’s way again. So the two impulses clashed within him; the urge to protect her, and the sense that he needed to create a distance.
This conflict roused his sleeping stomach ache, which returned with vigor. He took three Rolaids and tried to sleep. When he finally fell into unconsciousness, his dreams were plagued by lurid sex and violence. Olivia was in them, often taking the place of Rebecca, performing lascivious acts. He was both aroused and revolted, and the conflict within him continued to grow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE / SUNDAY, 7:06 AM
He sat drinking coffee and watching the news online. He searched for fresh reports on the case. Nearly every station reiterated the same facts with some repackaging. Skene was there, standing at the microphones, giving his vague, politician’s statement to the press. Bottom line: There were several persons of interest, but no real suspects.
Until Brendan had shared the information about the porn video, no doubt Delaney and the State Detectives had been steering the investigation deeper into Rebecca Heilshorn’s past. They would’ve been looking into her day job, if she had one, and her co-workers. They would have peered into her college records and tracked down old roommates. The same things Brendan would’ve been assigned to, were he still on the case.
The crucial forty-eight hour time period following the murder had come and gone. During that time, the investigation had yielded only a few results, most of which had turned into blind alleys. Previous relationships, with airtight alibis. A laptop which had been utterly destroyed. Brendan wondered what the phone records had turned up. Likely a few calls to family, a couple of banks, maybe, and who knew.
Brendan opened his email and found the 911 transcript that Colinas had sent over.
The sight of the little paper clip in his email window, indicating an attachment, filled him with dread. Delaney had already been over the transcript, and if there had been anything significant, it would have already been added to the case. But Brendan had yet to read it.
He was saved when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. It was Taber.
“Good morning, Sheriff.”
“Detective Healy. Sorry to call so early.”
“Not a problem. What can I do for you?”
“Okay,” said Taber. He cleared his throat. It sounded like he had only recently gotten out of bed himself. “Here’s how we’re going to play this.”
Brendan waited. He felt a little trill of electricity run up his back.
“Delaney and I have consulted. We need you back on the case, but we’re going to play it very close to the chest, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nobody will know you’re still actively investigating. In fact, I’ve got something else which will be your cover for a few days, should anyone nose around about what you’re working on.”
“Will IA know?”
“IA is not interested. They’re going to follow up with you on the shooting, as I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to.”
“Very much, sir.”
Taber either missed or bypassed the sarcasm. “Delaney will meet with you at eight at your house. Can you meet at eight?”
Brendan looked down at himself. He was in his underwear and a t-shirt. He glanced at the time. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. He has something to go over with you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Taber paused again. “This thing with the videos. We, ah, we have to keep it ultra-quiet. I don’t want the press even getting the faintest scent. I certainly don’t want the Heilshorn family to know. Not in this way.”
“But, sir. They may already know about it. They may be the best people to talk to about it.”
“Which is why Delaney is going to handle them for now. He’ll be feeding you anything he gets from them which may be relevant at your end.”
“But . . . is Delaney the best man for that job? He can be . . .” Brendan stopped himself. He could sense the Sheriff growing impatient. Taber knew Delaney’s limitations; he didn’t need to be told by the rookie Investigator what they were. If the Sheriff was playing things this way, it meant he had considered all the variables.
“I’m happy to do it, sir.”
“You and I will consult privately every day at five o’clock until this thing is resolved. Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
By the time Delaney arrived, Brendan had showered and dressed but was too nervous to eat. He felt like he had the morning that he’d arrived at the murder scene. His head was buzzing with questions. What-ifs.
Delaney came inside Brendan’s house and took in the décor, or lack thereof. It occurred to Brendan that Delaney had never visited before. “Moving out?” Delaney looked at some boxes at the far end of the living room.
“No. In. Just not much of an un-packer.”
Delaney had a folder with him and set it down on the kitchen table. Both men took a seat. Throughout their conversation, he made little eye contact with Brendan. Brendan wondered if Delaney resented the Sheriff’s decision to bring Brendan back in.
Shit happened.
Delaney opened the folder and pulled out Rebecca Heilshorn’s phone records. There were several numbers highlighted.
“We’ve made sense of all the rest of these.” He pointed to each number as he explained its significance. “Heilshorn’s financial advisor, number one. Heilshorn’s financial advisor, number two. Community Bank. Heilshorn house in Scarsdale. This is a moving service. This is a car rental. This is a day spa in Utica. This is a local contractor. We think maybe she had some work done, handyman stuff, on the house. We’re looking into it.”
Now he moved to the highlighted ones. “These numbers we believe have to do with the new situation. With the, ah, video. That line of work.”
Brendan distantly observed that the subject of pornography, something two men might ordinarily discuss with pleasure, felt taboo. Delaney seemed a bit uncomfortable. Brendan remembered Delaney had a daughter, about the same age as the deceased. Maybe that had something to do with it. Or maybe that he was rumored to have slept with the Assistant District Attorney; that in thirty-one years he may have climbed the fence more than once.
Delaney’s eyes briefly cut over to Brendan. “Have you studied the 911 transcript?”
“Colinas just sent it to me.”
“I know.” Delaney said no more, but the words felt accusatory. “Well, check it over. You’ve got the name, Danice, you’ve got the videos, you’ve got the 911 transcript, you’ve got these numbers. My guess is that laptop would have given us a lot, and that’s why it was destroyed. We looked at everything, twice, on the laptop recovered at the scene. There wasn’t any trace o
f these types of videos in the event history in the browser, and not a scrap of . . . pornography . . . on the hard drive. The other one was likely burned because it would have been rife with the stuff. She wanted to get rid of it.”
“Or someone else wanted to get rid of it.”
Delaney raised his eyebrows with skepticism.
Brendan explained. “It’s a mistake to think that Rebecca was contrite. It could have been someone else trying to get her to stop. Hence the book, with that passage, a warning. And the laptop could have been destroyed, you know, sanctimoniously.”
Delaney said nothing for a moment, only stared down at the phone records, his palms out flat on the small kitchen table. “This your table?” The question was a non sequitur.
“Came with the house.”
“Place came furnished?”
“Some furniture, yeah. I needed a bed, couch, stuff like that.”
Delaney glanced around. “So what in the hell is yours?”
“Ah, the computer. Some books.”
Now Delaney made direct eye contact for a moment. His eyes were smoky grey, small, shot with red. His mustache twitched. “You really just bombed up here from downstate, huh? Came in like a bat out of hell.”
“I got a tip on a job.”
“Yeah, oh, I know all about it. Seamus Argon. Him and the Sheriff.”
Brendan cocked his head. His nervousness had abated, and now his defenses were rearing. “Is there something you want to say to me, Ambrose?”
It was hard to get a bead on Ambrose Delaney. One minute he seemed like the consummate kindly mentor. The next he acted like a jealous older brother, one prone to teasing or bullying. Brendan remembered that people were often more than the singular attributes we associated them with. If someone offered a kind word, we said they were a nice person. If they cut you off in traffic, they were a total asshole. It was that Factual Attribution Error at work again. But people were always more complex.
One could consider Rebecca Heilshorn as a case-in-point.
HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 16