The blood seemed to drain from James’s face and he asked carefully, “What woman?”
My spidey-sense told me that James knew exactly what I was talking about, so I leaned in close over the desk. “The woman your grandfather murdered over this stupid bit of nothing,” I said and shoved the box at him.
James recoiled like he’d been bitten and said, “I think you need to leave.”
I stared him down for a long moment then I took the box back and stood up to go. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, just so you know,” I said, then walked out of his office and nodded to Candice who accompanied me out the shop’s door.
“How’d it go?” she asked when we reached the sidewalk.
“Could’a gone better, actually.”
“Sorry about that. Now what?” she asked as we reached her SUV.
“Let’s swing by my office and pick up my car, then head back to Dutch’s. I need to talk to Milo.”
A short time later Candice and I walked into Dutch’s living room and noted that Milo and he were already there, talking. I smiled a hello to Milo, but avoided Dutch’s eyes, afraid he was still mad at me. Candice made her own introductions and she and I shrugged out of our coats, each taking a seat in one of the two wing chairs in the living room. “How ya doin’?” Milo asked me, worry in his eyes.
“Feeling like I’ve been sucker punched,” I said to him.
“I’ll bet. We finished dusting for prints in your office, and we notified the building’s manager of what happened. Your landlady’s worried about you and wants you to call her. She also said she could hook you up with the building’s cleaning crew to help pick up the mess if you’d like.”
I gave a small smile. “Yvonne is really cool. I’ll give her a call later when I can stand to think about it. Right now I can’t even process what’s happened.”
“Are you up for giving me a statement?” Milo asked as he reached for the spiral notebook tucked into his shirt pocket.
“In a minute,” I said, waving a hand dismissively, “First I have to tell you that I know who broke into my office.”
“You know who did this?” Milo asked.
“Jean-Luke Carlier.”
“The guy in the mental ward?”
“Yep. He escaped about two weeks ago, so if you looked at the record you would think he was still incarcerated because no release has been issued.”
“Son of a bitch,” Milo said, making a note.
“How, exactly, do you know this, Abby?” Dutch said carefully.
Candice jumped in quickly, noting the tension in his voice, “Abby had a hunch and through my connections I was able to make a few phone calls and find out he’d escaped.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .
I flashed a grateful smile at her. If Dutch knew I’d gone back to visit James he really would blow a gasket. “It all fits, Milo. Ever since I bought that house on Fern I’ve been stalked, attacked and both my house and office have been broken into. There has to be a connection, and I’m convinced Jean-Luke is it.”
“What’s this guy want?” Milo asked.
“This,” I said, reaching over to retrieve the puzzle box I’d placed on the coffee table.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a box Dave and I found at the house on Fern. It was underneath some floorboards and I think that Jean-Luke had been looking for it for years.”
“What’s in it?” Milo asked, holding out his hand so I could hand him the box for inspection.
“Nothing at this point. But it did hold a small leather-bound journal of some kind.”
“Where’s the journal now?” Milo asked.
“We took it up to U of M so my buddy T.J. could take a look at it,” Dutch offered.
“Your old college buddy?” Milo said.
“Yeah. He’s an expert in French literature, speaks the language fluently, and since the journal was written in French, I thought he’d be able to help us figure it out.”
“So what did it say?” Milo said, looking to Dutch again.
“We’re not sure. We know the journal’s old, and are guessing that it traveled over with Jean-Paul when he emigrated here after World War II. In it there were lots of notations about gemstones and carat weights, and a list of what appear to be names.”
“Hmmm,” Milo said, putting down the box and tapping the side of his head as he thought through the information. “So, the bigger question is, what does this have to do with Liza’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I said into the silence that followed as we all thought about it for a minute. “But I know there’s a connection.”
“Someone’s really going to have to fill me in on this,” Candice said, looking at all of us a little bug-eyed.
I smiled at her and said, “It’s a long story, and I don’t want to bog you down with the details. I know you traveled a long way for me to take a look at your case. Could you leave me the file and I’ll give you a call tomorrow?”
Candice smiled kindly to me and said, “Sure, Abby. But just so you know, my grandmother’s French, and she lives in town. Remember? That’s how I first found you. She gave me a gift certificate for my birthday a few years ago?”
“Oh!” I said, perking up. “Now I remember. Wow, I had forgotten about that. But I think T.J. can help out with the translation, thanks all the same.”
“No problem, but you may want to consider that my grandmother also emigrated here after World War II. She’s really into the French community here in Royal Oak, which is much bigger than anyone realizes, so if you need dish on anyone, I’d start with her.”
My intuition buzzed in my mind. I cocked my head and listened as my guides indicated I needed to take Candice up on her offer. I grinned and thought about the coincidence of Candice needing to see me today of all days. Perhaps my guides had prompted this little visit as a way of helping me out. “You have a deal,” I said. “When can I meet your grandmother?”
“Let me make a call,” she replied and pulled out her cell phone, then headed into the kitchen for some privacy. Milo stood up next and nodded at Dutch and me, “I’m headed back to the station to work this Jean-Luke Carlier angle. Call me if either of you gets any more info.”
I walked Milo out and leaned tiredly against the front door after shutting it. It had been an emotional day, and I was still very sad about my office. A moment later I felt strong arms around my waist as Dutch pulled me away from the door and held me in his arms. “I’m sorry about your office, Edgar.”
I nodded my head as the waterworks started again, and I turned into his chest and began to weep. He stroked my hair and rocked me back and forth for a bit, periodically kissing the top of my head. After I’d had a good cry I pulled my head up and said, “I’m really sorry about that ‘it’s tough being your girlfriend’ crack.”
Dutch looked at me kindly for a long moment, then he gently kissed my lips and whispered, “So make it up to me later.”
“Deal,” I whispered back.
At that moment we heard an uncomfortable cough from behind us, and we both looked over at Candice as she sheepishly said, “I’ve talked to Nana, and she’d be more than happy to help you any way she can. She’s got a bingo game tonight, but said to come by early tomorrow if you want to chat. I’ve left her address on the counter in the kitchen, along with that file I need you to look at.”
“Thanks, Candice,” I said. “I really appreciate you helping me out today.”
“No sweat, Abby. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a long drive ahead.” And with that she headed out the door.
When the door closed I looked up at Dutch and asked, “What now?”
He smiled, gave me a peck on my forehead and said, “Since you’re convinced this Jean-Luke Carlier character is the one that attacked you, let’s take a road trip to the mental hospital and see if we can find out anything.”
I smiled back at him and nodded. I got my purse, my coat and we headed out the door too.
Dutch naviga
ted as I drove and we kept the conversation short, neither one wanting to disturb the newly found peace treaty between us. The ride took about twenty minutes, and led us to a town about three cities north of Royal Oak, to Pontiac. We passed the now deserted Pontiac Stadium, which the Detroit Lions once called home, and kept going for another five minutes before Dutch said, “Turn here.”
I pulled onto a side street and followed the winding road until he pointed right and we headed north again for a little ways until I saw a sign ahead that read MASHBURN HOSPITAL. I turned where the sign indicated and pulled into a large parking lot surrounding a one-story brick building that stretched out and back a good way.
I found a spot near the door and Dutch and I got out and headed toward the front entrance. We walked into a lobby with shiny parquet floors and the smell of antiseptic. A reception desk greeted us and we moved forward to the middle-aged man behind it.
“Good afternoon,” Dutch said good-naturedly as he pulled out his badge and flipped it open for the man. “I’m Agent Rivers, this is my associate Abigail Cooper and we’re here investigating the disappearance of one of your patients.”
The man behind the counter moved closer to inspect the badge, and I couldn’t help but notice that he also sat up straighter in his chair. “You must be here about Jean-Luke Carlier,” he said to Dutch, reaching for a phone on the desk.
“That’s the one,” Dutch said tucking his badge away.
“Why don’t you take a seat in the lobby and I’ll page Doctor Michaels for you.”
I sat down while Dutch stood nearby, leaning heavily on his cane. “Another tough session today?” I asked, noting his stance.
Dutch gave me the barest of nods and said, “No pain no gain, right?”
“How much more do you have to go through before you get the all clear?”
“You mean before I can make a dishonest woman of you?” he asked, bouncing his eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes and smiled, “We’ll need to do something soon, sugar. It’s getting harder and harder to sleep next to you, you know.”
“About the harder part? Yeah, I know,” he said with a chuckle.
I giggled. “You’re bad, Dutch.”
“No, sweethot . . . I’m actually really, really good,” he replied with a knowing wink that made me want to jump him right there.
Just then a door opened off the lobby and a very pretty blond-haired woman about my age dressed in a white lab coat walked out. “Hello,” she said when she spotted us. “I’m Doctor Michaels. I understand you’re here about Jean-Luke?”
Dutch walked forward pulling out his badge and handing it to the doctor. “Yes, I’m Agent Rivers of the Troy field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and this is my associate, Abigail Cooper. Is there someplace we can talk?”
She inspected Dutch’s badge briefly and took note of his cane. “This way,” she said and walked us back through the door she’d first entered from.
We followed her down a long corridor with offices and hallways jutting off to either side, before we reached a wooden door with a nameplate that read, DR. MICHAELS.
The doctor unlocked the door and held it open for Dutch and me. We entered into a moderately spacious room and I took in the surroundings.
Dr. Michaels had nice taste. Her office was a soft rose color, wth sheer curtains cutting out most of the glaring sun that was streaming in through the window behind her desk. Against one wall was an overstuffed couch, off-white in color, and laden with several silk pillows in a variety of styles and patterns. A matching chair was angled to the side of the couch and it too held a few pillows. In front of the couch was a low table, an Indian statue centered prominently in the middle and a Kleenex box off to one side.
Against the opposite wall were several gilded frames that housed medical degrees and certificates. To the right of those was a large bookshelf filled to capacity. Dr. Michaels’s cherry red desk was neat and organized, but loaded on the right side with a large stack of files.
When we were all inside, she waved her hand toward the couch and chair, indicating we should take our seats, and walked around to her desk where she sat and leaned her elbows on the surface, her hands folded over each other.
Once Dutch and I were settled she asked, “How can I help you Agent Rivers?”
I leaned back on the cushion, keeping my lips shut. I had a feeling we were on pretty dicey ground here, as this was hardly an official investigation, so I was content to let Dutch do all the talking. This would also give me a chance to snoop into Dr. Michaels’s energy while she talked with him.
“What can you tell me about Jean-Luke Carlier?” Dutch asked, taking out a spiral notebook and flipping it open.
“What would you specifically like to know?”
“We understand that Jean-Luke was committed here approximately five years ago by his brother, James. I know you may not be able to give us much due to patient-client privilege, but anything you can offer us might help.”
Dr. Michaels looked at Dutch and me for a long moment, probably wondering what this was all about. “Exactly what has Jean-Luke done that warrants an investigation by the FBI?” Dr. Michaels asked.
“For starters, he attacked an aid to the FBI and resisted arrest,” Dutch said, as I hid a grin thinking he must be referring to me as the aid to the FBI, and his smashing Jean-Luke with his cane as resisting arrest.
Dr. Michaels’s face blanched. “We’ve made a point to inform the local authorities to Jean-Luke’s violent tendencies and are working diligently to find him.”
“I know, and we appreciate it,” Dutch said kindly. “Again, without putting you in a tight spot with that doctor-patient privilege, anything you can tell us might be useful.”
Dr. Michaels gave a small wave of her hand and said, “Based on his current medical diagnosis, and the fact that he has escaped, privilege is waived.”
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. If this were true, then we might be able to get some real answers here.
“He’s a threat to himself or others,” Dutch said, understanding why privilege would be waived.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us what his current medical condition is?” Dutch asked.
“Jean-Luke was originally committed to the hospital by his brother on the grounds that he was suicidal. He was kept for observation until we were able to make a determination as to his mental state. Shortly thereafter he was found to have a textbook case of borderline personality disorder with dissociative tendencies.”
“Can I have that in English, Doc?” Dutch asked, smiling.
“For all intents and purposes, Jean-Luke is a predator without conscience,” Dr. Michaels began. “He would look to gain the trust of unsuspecting and vulnerable individuals, then take great care in planning their downfall. He is dispassionate about suffering. In fact, it is an emotion he cannot clearly understand, yet works very hard to evoke from anyone unfortunate enough to come into contact with him.”
“Yikes,” I said from the couch, a chill running up my spine.
“Yikes is right,” Dr. Michaels said, her face composed but her eyes revealing a deep worry. “In recent years Jean-Luke has become increasingly violent. He had attacked several patients and an intern before he was taken out of the general population.”
“So how would you treat someone like that?” Dutch asked.
“Typically we medicate with an assortment of mood-altering drugs and sedatives. In Jean-Luke’s case, however, this method was ineffectual because he proved deeply resistant to most of the medications we had him on, both through his ingenuity at avoiding taking them and the fact that his own body chemistry was reluctant to absorb them to their fullest effects.”
“He was able to avoid taking the drugs? How could he get away with that in a place like this?”
Dr. Michaels gave Dutch another long look and said, “You are obviously underestimating Jean-Luke’s intelligence. This is an individual who tested at a 168 IQ. That qualifies him
for membership into Mensa.”
Dutch whistled. “168?”
“Eight points higher than genius,” Dr. Michaels said. “Which makes him infinitely more dangerous.”
“That changes things,” Dutch said, looking pointedly at me. “Dr. Michaels, do you have a photo of Jean-Luke?”
“Yes, one moment,” she said and stepped to a filing cabinet. After a moment she pulled a file, opened it and extracted a photo. She handed it to Dutch, who studied it for a moment then handed it to me.
I looked at the photo and winched. Jean-Luke stared back at me disheveled and very angry. He had wild dark hair that stood up on end in several places and appeared matted and tangled. His beard was overgrown, obsuring much of his facial features, and his eyes were like daggers staring into the camera. He was wearing a blue jumpsuit and it too looked rumpled. I looked for the resemblance to his soft-spoken, well-dressed brother, but other than being roughly the same build, these two men were worlds apart.
“Can you tell us how he managed to escape?” Dutch asked. “I mean, I would think you took some extra precautions given the level of danger with this guy.”
“I can assure you, Agent Rivers, we took every imaginable precaution.”
“So what happened?”
“As I said, Jean-Luke’s intelligence and patience levels far exceeded our expectations. We weren’t able to imagine the way he got out, and to be honest with you we’re still puzzled. We found one of the nurse’s aides, unconscious and heavily drugged, by a door that Jean-Luke should never have had access to. The nurse’s aide doesn’t remember a thing and I’m perplexed as to how Jean-Luke pulled it off. However, that’s beside the point—the real problem now is that he’s out there among an unsuspecting public and has more than likely already selected a victim.”
“So who would he target?” Dutch asked.
“Someone who could most effectively meet his needs.”
“Like what?”
Dr. Michaels sighed. “Well, he’ll need money, food and shelter in the short run, and in the longer run transportation and an identity. He will probably look for a victim that he can manipulate into helping him with obtaining all of these things.”
A Vision of Murder Page 15