Shrink Rap

by Robert B. Parker

  “This is the first time you and he had sex.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “So I said, ‘All right’ and I lay down on the couch. I remember I felt funny, lying on the couch.” She paused and tossed her head slightly once, then back to the back and forth. “I remember being very modest as I lay down, very careful with my skirt.”

  “What did you do with your handbag?”

  She was silent for a time.

  Then she said, “On the floor. I put it on the floor beside the couch. And he gave me a shot and I did relax and then he began to… to feel me up.”

  I waited. She didn’t speak.

  “And?” I said.

  “And he undressed me. The bottom half. He left my top on. And…” She shrugged. “And then he did it.”

  “And you were aware?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you couldn’t move?”

  “No. I felt so relaxed all I could do was lie there.”

  “Could you speak?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t try to.”

  “Did he disrobe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Entirely?”

  “Yes. For God’s sake, why are you digging at me? You’re like a voyeur.”

  “I need to know,” I said.

  “I can’t go much further.”

  “Not much further to go,” I said. “What happened when it was over?”

  “He put his clothes back on, and went back to his desk and sat and looked at me.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not then. After a while I could move and I got up and put my clothes back on. And he said I had been right to trust him, and that having such an experience with a man I totally trusted would take me a long way toward recovery.”

  “How long after the shot did it start to work?”

  “Maybe five minutes.”

  She stood and walked to the other end of her living room and back and stood in front of me.

  “I can’t anymore. I won’t talk anymore.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “You don’t need to.”

  Chapter 65

  We sat at a round, glass-topped table in Richie’s kitchen, while Rosie slept on the couch in the living room.

  “What if the Dilazaplin doesn’t work?” Richie said.

  “I’m assured that it will,” I said.

  “On Xactil, yes. What if he uses something else?”

  “You rush in and save me.”

  “And how do I know whether you need saving or not?”

  “That’s one of the things we need to figure out,” I said.

  Richie nodded and leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. His arms were very muscular. That wasn’t anything new. Why was I noticing it now? Why was I thinking about why I was noticing it? Maybe I should see a psychiatrist.

  “I need to know the layout there,” Richie said.

  “We’ll walk through it,” I said. “It will help me visualize.”

  “Visualize,” Richie said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been seeing a lot of shrinks lately.”

  “Pretty soon,” Richie said, “you may be seeing one less.”

  “I hope,” I said.

  We stood and walked into the living room. Rosie was snoring. She opened her eyes long enough to see that we were doing nothing that involved a ball or a cookie, and closed them again and resumed snoring.

  “His house faces the street. A big Victorian with a front porch.”

  “Two stories?”

  “Two plus an attic. There could be rooms in the attic. The office is in the back. There’s a path…” We began to walk across the living room. I turned right past the coffee table, and opened an imaginary door. “I go in.”

  “The door’s unlocked?” Richie said.

  “Yes. There’s a small waiting room and a stairway. The office is on the second floor.”

  “How do you know when it’s time to go up?”

  “He comes to the top of the stairs and says ‘come on’ or some such.”

  “Can he see the whole waiting room from the stairs?”

  “No. Over here is out of sight of the stairwell.”

  “Okay,” Richie said, “so he says ‘come on’ and you go up.”

  “The stairwell turns at a landing.” I walked back across the living room, gesturing directions with my open right hand. “At the top of the stairs there’s a hall, you turn right”—I did—“and go in his office.” I took two steps and stopped. “He holds the door for me and closes it when I come in. His desk is sort of right there”—I gestured slightly to my right—“and he sits and I sit facing him in a chair. The couch is behind me.”

  “How’s the room run?” Richie said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is it more or less an extension of the hall or is it like the cross of a T?”

  “T,” I said.

  “Tell me about the hall.”

  I closed my eyes, and gestured. “Runs down to the left. Door at the end. Door to the left of the stairs. Door across the hall.”

  Richie got a Bic pen and a yellow pad of blue-lined paper from a drawer.

  “Draw it,” he said.

  I sat at the table again and sketched it out. “The drawing is pretty bad,” I said.

  “It is,” Richie said. “Where’s the couch in his office?”

  “To the left when you enter.”

  I pointed with my pen.

  “And what’s in this room?” Richie said.

  He was talking about the room across from the stairs.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Does the door have a lock?”

  I stopped and closed my eyes.

  After a moment I said, “No.”

  “What’s going on with the rest of the house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyone live there?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “I’d be happier,” Richie said, “if you were wearing a gun. Or a wire. Or both.”

  “You’d be happier if you could sit in the room with me, and so would I,” I said. “But I’ve got to let this guy go far enough to trap him, and I’m afraid he’ll discover them if I wear either one.”

  “You’re going to let him paw you?”

  “I’m going to let him incriminate himself,” I said. “I’ll go as far as I can stand.”

  Richie blew his breath out softly, and rubbed his thick hands together.

  “Me too,” he said.

  Chapter 66

  Rosie stayed at Richie’s. I went home and didn’t sleep very much. Wednesday morning, Meyer the state cop came by just after breakfast.

  “Where’s your dog?” he said.

  “Vacation.”

  He nodded. “The ME went over Kim Crawford’s body again, with a magnifier.”

  “And?”

  “You were right. There was a small puncture wound.”

  “Where?” I said.

  He didn’t look at me.

  “In her…” He paused, looking for the language.

  “Hidden by her pubic hair,” he said.

  “Was she clothed when you found her?”

  Meyer shook his head.

  “In bed,” he said. “Naked. Covers over her.”

  “And the dog?”

  “Lying on the bed beside her with his head on her hip.”

  “Any sign she had sex before she died?” I said.

  “No.”

  “The son of a bitch,” I said.

  Meyer raised his eyebrows at me. The technique seemed to be spreading.

  “He went there and convinced her they were going to make love and when she had her clothes off and was on the bed he jabbed her with a needle.”

  “Instead of,” Meyer said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Then he got up and put on his clothes and probably patted the dog and walked out and in a little while she died.”

&nbs
p; “He might have waited to be sure,” Meyer said.

  “In which case he got up and got dressed and sat and watched her die before he patted the dog and walked out.”

  “We can’t prove the puncture wasn’t self-administered.”

  “Would you stick a needle into yourself down there?”

  “Jesus, no.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” I said.

  Meyer leaned forward on my sofa with his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped. The posture made him tip his head back a little to look at me.

  “So now we don’t have a probable heart attack,” he said. “We got a probable murder.”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t give you much slack on a probable murder,” Meyer said.

  “I know.”

  “What’s the doctor’s name?”

  “Give me another day’s worth of slack,” I said. “I’ll bet the ME’s report hasn’t even been formally submitted yet.”

  “Another day?”

  “Till Friday,” I said. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got on Friday.”

  “That’s two days,” he said.

  “Not counting today,” I said. “Just give me Thursday.”

  Meyer’s clasped hands bobbed between his thighs. His head nodded slightly in the same rhythm. He sucked on his lower lip. Then he smiled.

  “Okay,” he said. “You give me everything you got on Friday.”

  “Promise,” I said.

  “Sure,” Meyer said.

  He took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  “Anything comes up, give me a call. If there’s a collar in this, I’d just as soon make it.”

  “I’ll call you first,” I said.

  “Remember to tell your old man that Normy Meyer was asking after him.”

  Chapter 67

  I went to the South End to see Spike.

  “Want some hot chocolate?” Spike said.

  “Hot chocolate?”

  “Yes. I make it from scratch.”

  “I may have never had hot chocolate made from scratch.”

  “It’s time,” Spike said.

  I sat at the kitchen table in Spike’s condo while he melted chocolate in a double boiler.

  “When you say scratch,” I said, “you mean scratch.”

  “I’m tired of Nestlé’s Quik,” Spike said.

  “My mother’s recipe,” I said.

  Spike nodded, stirring the chocolate carefully with a wooden spoon.

  “Other than hot chocolate and the chance to admire my physique and wish I were straight,” Spike said, “what brings you over the channel?”

  “I could straighten you out,” I said.

  “In your dreams,” Spike said. “Whaddya want?”

  “I need somebody to take care of Rosie,” I said. “If anything happens to me.”

  “Wouldn’t that be Richie?”

  “If anything happens to me and Richie.”

  Still stirring, Spike turned his head and stared at me.

  “You’re going to make a move on that fucking doctor,” Spike said. “Aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “And Richie’s going to help you.”

  I nodded.

  “And it’s dangerous.”

  “It might be,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “If I were going to do something dangerous,” Spike said, “I’d just as soon do it with Richie.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Sure, of course,” Spike said. “I’ll take Rosie. She loves me. I love her. She’d be fine here.”

  “She’d miss her mommy,” I said.

  “For a while, but she’d adjust.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I help you with the dangerous thing?” Spike said.

  “No. Thank you. But I need you to stay with Melanie Joan, all day, tomorrow, including tomorrow night and Friday until you hear from me.”

  “So the deal is Thursday,” Spike said.

  “Yes.”

  “And if I don’t hear from you?”

  “Rosie is at Richie’s condo. I’ll give you the address and a key.”

  “Okay.”

  “And tell Richie’s father that whatever happened is John Melvin’s fault.”

  Spike turned back to his hot chocolate, pouring a thin stream of milk from a pitcher into the double boiler while he continued to stir with the wooden spoon.

  “Which,” he said, stirring gently, “would be the end of John Melvin.”

  “He can’t be allowed to continue.”

  “I’ll bet you could make that arrangement with Desmond Burke, without risking your ass.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Cop’s daughter,” Spike said.

  “It’s more than that.”

  “I know,” Spike said. “I know.”

  Chapter 68

  I got through the rest of Wednesday and all day Thursday, but not happily. Thursday evening I drove to Richie’s condo at twilight. It began to drizzle, and the hint of snow that had fallen earlier was washed away. Everything glistened: the headlights on the wet streets, the red taillights, the gleam of moisture on the red brick buildings. I had become silent as the time approached. My whole self was still. My breathing was easy. My heart beat quietly. My mind was nearly blank.

  When I got there, I stashed my suitcase, and Richie and I took Rosie for a walk along the waterfront. Rosie trotted self-importantly ahead of us. The rain wasn’t hard enough to discourage her. We were quiet at first.

  “You’re sure you want to do this,” Richie said after a while.

  He was wearing a leather jacket and a black Chicago White Sox hat. The drizzle was persistent. We walked past Lewis Wharf.

  “I need to do this,” I said.

  I was in black too, a trench coat with the collar up, jeans and boots, a wide-brimmed felt hat to keep my hair dry.

  “No gun, no wire,” Richie said.

  “No,” I said.

  There was a thick black ornamental chair along the water, anchored to upright granite blocks. Rosie stopped to examine one closely, sniffing the full circumference of the granite.

  “I run into a locked door,” Richie said, “I’m going to kick it in.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m not taking any chances with you.”

  “I know,” I said. “I want to catch him, but I don’t want to get raped or killed or both to do it.”

  Satisfied with what she had learned from the granite post, Rosie moved on briskly.

  “He might have his friends with him,” I said.

  “I figure I went to a tougher school than they did,” Richie said.

  Again we were quiet. When we reached the Marriott, we turned and began to walk back toward Richie’s condo.

  “Just remember,” I said. “These are sick and dangerous people.”

  “I know.”

  It was dark now. The drizzle was beginning to turn to rain, which Rosie didn’t like. She looked back at me anxiously, then picked up the pace toward home.

  “I told my uncle Felix,” Richie said, “that if anything happened to us, Melvin did it.”

  I smiled. Richie saw me in the ambient light of the city.

  “What are you smiling at?” he said.

  “I told Spike to tell your father the same thing.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said we could probably arrange to have your family do something about this without taking any risk.”

  “We could,” Richie said.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “I know,” Richie said.

  Rosie was at full tether now, with the drizzle now fully turned to rain, heading home as fast as she could drag me.

  “I don’t think I could do this without you,” I said.

  “It’s good you don’t have to,” Richie said.

  “It’s kind of a relief,” I said. “To tell you I need help.”

  “It’s kind of a relief to hear it,” Richi
e said.

  Chapter 69

  We were in my car. It was 7:20. We had come early so we could cruise the neighborhood around Melvin’s office. I was in my Sonya Burke outfit again. Tonight I had chosen a plaid skirt and a demure white blouse. I took some gum out of my purse and peeled a stick and began to chew it.

  “There’s the Porsche,” I said.

  “You’re sure.”

  “I remember the plate numbers,” I said.

  “So it’s a gang bang,” Richie said.

  At 7:25, I stopped around the corner, out of sight of Melvin’s house. We looked at each other for a moment. We’d gone over it many times. There was nothing to say. Richie put his hand out. I took it and we held on to each other for a moment. Then he closed the door and I drove around the corner and parked in front of Melvin’s office. I took the gum out of my mouth and wrapped it around my Dilazaplin tablet and tucked it up inside my cheek.

  When I went into the waiting room, I made sure the door was unlocked, and put a strip of duct tape over the latch tongue to keep it that way. The lights inside made the outside darkness more implacable. There was a white-noise machine. There were back copies of The New Yorker on the small reading table between the two waiting chairs. I didn’t look at them. I sat with my purse in my lap and my knees together and my ankles crossed, like an actor imagining herself into character. I breathed slowly and deeply, trying to relax my shoulders. The whooshing made by the white-noise machine underlined the stillness. I concentrated, saying Richie’s name to myself. Richie Burke, Richie Burke, Richie Burke. As always I heard no footstep, he simply appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Come on up,” he said, as he always did.

  I went up the stairs, turned at the landing, reached the top. He stood by the door and gestured me through and came in after me and closed the door behind him. Did it lock? I went to my usual chair and Melvin went and sat at his desk as always. He tilted his chair back a little and smiled at me.

  “Should I talk?” I said. “Like a regular session?”

  “Usually,” Melvin said, “you talk and I listen.”

  He smiled some more. He was such an attractive man. His smile was reassuring.

  “Today,” he said, “it’s my turn for a moment or two.”

  I nodded. “Of course,” I said.

  “We have discovered, you and I, and, by the way, you’ve done impressive work here, that, as is the case with most girls, the first man in your life was your father.”