“You see, I was trying to pull him away from this obsession he has with Gates, trying to channel his energies toward a positive goal. It didn’t work. He yelled at me. You know what? I leaned back in my chair and laughed back at him. He threw a paperweight at me and stormed out.” Dr. MacLean shook his head, still laughing. “What an unprincipled yahoo. I didn’t see him again after that. He didn’t even call to cancel his weekly appointments.”
Before the disease had struck him, Sherlock doubted she would have ever heard Dr. MacLean speak in that sneering, dismissive, mocking voice about a patient. Had he really laughed at his patient? She doubted it. She wondered if he would remember speaking like this to her and Dillon. She said, “Did Mr. Clapman tell you anything that, if made public, could hurt him?”
“Yes, certainly,” MacLean said, no hesitation at all, not a single protest about physician ethics or scruples. “Lomas built his company on the back of his supposed best friend and partner. He sold his first plane design, some sort of low-flying tactical aircraft, to the government back in the early eighties—fact was, Lomas stole his friend’s idea and schematics right out from under him. His partner was an inventor, his head in a different reality, and he didn’t even notice when Lomas put the patents under his own name. As for the partnership agreement, it didn’t cover the patents. The poor schmuck killed himself maybe fifteen years ago, dead broke. Can you believe that?”
Sherlock said, “Was Mr. Clapman seeing you because he felt guilty about what he did?”
“No, not really. He thought he deserved every unethical dime in his coffers. Nah, he saw me once a week because he wanted to brag about how great he was, and I was forced to sit there for fifty minutes and listen to him. His wife left him, you know, and I can’t say I blame her.”
Savich said, “If that got out, I imagine it would have considerable negative impact on Mr. Chapman personally and on his company, not in mention lawsuits from his partner’s widow and family.”
“You think Lomas tried to kill me? Excuse me, is trying to kill me? To keep me quiet?”
“Possibly,” said Savich. “But you know, it just doesn’t seem enough to me.”
MacLean laughed. “Lomas also falsified performance trial data, massaged the stats on his fighters to meet government requirements. I told him to put a halt to that, that it would come to light, things like that always did. I remember he actually giggled, said it was all history now, anyway.”
“Bingo,” Sherlock said.
MacLean stared at them, a drug-happy smile on his face, his eyes glittering, a bit manic. “You think old Lomas would try to knock me off for that? He told me straight out that everybody does it, that the Pentagon knows everyone does it, and so they simply make allowances, they even have tables that show the range of acceptable deviations, that sort of thing. He said it was all a big game.”
Sherlock said easily, “Could you tell us exactly why Lomas Clapman was seeing you, Dr. MacLean?”
“He was impotent. After all the tests and a couple of tubs of Viagra, his doctor recommended he see me, see if his inability to sustain an erection was mental or emotional.”
Savich said, “Did you help him?”
“I’ll tell you, Agent Savich, Lomas is so filled with envy and arrogance, I think it would take God himself to help him.” MacLean closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the pillow, and sighed.
EIGHTEEN
Savich said, “The bartender our agent spoke to said you also talked about Dolores McManus, a congresswoman from Georgia.” And Savich waited to see if he would continue to talk with candor and cynicism, or would revert to the psychiatrist renowned for his discretion.
MacLean closed his eyes for a moment, hummed deep in his throat, carefully rearranged himself a bit to ease his ribs. They watched him give his pain med button a couple of pushes. Several minutes passed in silence. MacLean sighed and said, “Sorry, I just wanted to float about for a little bit, such a lovely feeling. These drugs are first-rate. Ah, Dolores—you strip away all the glitz and glamour and the attention her position has brought her, and what you’ve got is one simple basic human being—not many frills or mental extras, if you know what I mean.
“I wanted to sleep with her, I knew I could please her, but she wasn’t interested.”
Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. This was a kick. She said, “Dr. MacLean, you propositioned a patient?”
“Oh no, I merely thought about it. I could tell she’d never see me that way.” He sighed. “Even though she’s nearly as old as I am, she still has gorgeous breasts, nicer than Molly’s. Three kids’ll make your breasts sag, Molly tells me, and then says to count my blessings. Molly’s always been big into counting blessings. Even with all this crap, she still tells me I’m her biggest blessing.” He continued without pause, “It was difficult to keep my eyes on Dolores’s face, to listen to all her crowing. She was so proud of being on the A-list, wouldn’t shut up about all the famous people who call her by her first name. Then she’d switch gears and crow for the umpteenth time about how her background hasn’t slowed her down. She’d been a housewife with a college degree in communications, no work experience of any note, raising two kids, but she had one major asset— her mouth. She never hesitated to mix it up with the mayor, the governor, the newspapers, the phone company. It was her successful assault on the EPA that got her elected to her first term. She cut them off at the knees about a local cleanup project they weren’t funding.
“Being elected to Washington simply gave her a bigger canvas. I have to admit, watching her take on all comers—it’s a treat. She can spin on a dime, make you believe you just left the room when in reality you were actually coming through the door. It’s her only talent, and makes her the perfect politician. As for substance, I guess she has about as much as any of her colleagues.”
Sherlock asked, “Do you remember telling Arthur Dolan if she had anything in her past that could harm her if made public? Something so grave she’d feel threatened?”
“I never told Arthur a thing, I’ve already told you that. I wouldn’t. Would she feel threatened enough to kill me? Of course not. Everything in her past is nickel-and-dime stuff—really nothing much at all, except that she murdered her husband.”
They stared flabbergasted at MacLean, saw his eyes go vague, the manic light die out. He was about to go under. He’d given himself one too many doses of the pain meds. This congresswoman murdered her husband? The bartender hadn’t heard anything about murder.
As if on cue, the door opened and Dr. Bingham looked in. He listened to MacLean’s vitals, but didn’t attempt to engage him in conversation. They all stood by his bed and watched him drift off.
Dr. Bingham nodded, then straightened.
Savich said quietly, “Do you have a moment?”
Sherlock shut down the small recorder in her bag as she left the room.
Once outside in the wide hallway, Dr. Bingham asked, “Was he alert? Did he make sense?”
Savich thought about how to describe one of the strangest interviews he’d ever tried to conduct. “He was alert, yes, and he made perfect sense, for the most part. But it was how he spoke of his patients, his family, his tennis partner—it was like there were no brakes between his thoughts and what came out of his mouth. He didn’t seem to realize he was saying outrageous things, vicious things, and he spoke so matter-of-factly. Without the requisite social buffing, I suppose his descriptions of his patients are painfully accurate.”
Sherlock said, “But his disdain, Dillon, his contempt for them— I simply can’t imagine that’s how he normally thinks of his patients. Then he’d become himself again, I guess you could say. Serious, ready to fight to the death for the privacy of his patients. It was an amazing interview.”
Dr. Bingham said, “Given his reputation, I would agree with that. It’s a very sad thing that’s happening to him, this dementia, and the resulting loss of sell. It’s a horrible thing, in fact, horrible.” Dr. Bingham shook their hands, walked away, his head down, h
ands in the pockets of his white coat, and Sherlock would swear she heard him humming.
Sherlock said, “Dillon, do you think it’s possible Dr. MacLean’s having us on, maybe making a lot of this stuff up?”
Savich shook his head. “He might have exaggerated part of it. I don’t know.” And to Agent Tomlin, he said, “Take good care of Dr. MacLean. This guy’s a huge target.”
“No one gets past me,” Tomlin said. “You can count on that, Agent Savich.”
Savich was aware of Tomlin staring at his wife until they entered one of the elevators at the end of the long corridor.
Sherlock said as she pressed the lobby button, “Are you inclined to believe that Congresswoman McManus murdered her husband?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
“I wonder if that was why she went to see a shrink—you know, bad dreams, guilt, remorse.”
“There’s that,” Savich said, and pulled her against him, kissing her until the elevator stopped at the third floor and a bleary-eyed intern staggered in.
NINETEEN
Slipper Hollow
Tuesday
“It’s a beautiful day,” Rachael said, shading her eyes and staring up at the clear blue summer sky, the thready white clouds. She pushed her hair behind her ears, tugged at the skinny braid. “Hard to believe there’s so much actual bad out there in Uncle Gillette’s world.”
“I fear bad is rampant in the land,” Jack said. “But it’s not right here.”
“Unlike Uncle Gillette, I never thought of Slipper Hollow as confining, never considered it a place to escape from. It was always a sanctuary, a haven where I’d be safe. Of course, I was a kid. Looking back now, I recognize that Mom was restless, wanted to go out on her own.”
He looked at the braid in her hair, plaited closer to her face this morning. When she leaned her head to the side, it cupped her cheek. He said, “I really like the braid.”
“What? Oh, thank yon. Jimmy liked it, too.” Her voice shook a bit on his name.
“For the most part,” Jack said, “I agreed with your father’s politics.”
“I did, too. Can you believe Uncle Gillette washed and ironed our clothes?”
“I nearly kissed him for it, but drew back at the last minute.”
“I kissed him enough for both of us. I believe he’s gathering all the reports he can find about Jimmy’s death. There are even film clips from the funeral. He said he’d have it all together for us by this afternoon.”
Jack nodded. He felt suddenly itchy felt his left elbow ache, something that tended to happen when something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t figure out what it could be. Slipper Hollow was a sanctuary, Rachael was right about that. It was cut off from the world; it was safe. Here they could enjoy the peace before they hunkered down to examine all the details of this psychotic situation. Psychotic? Jack thought about that for a moment. Odd, but psychotic was what came to mind. His elbow shouldn’t be itching, but it was, big-time. He chose to ignore it. “You’re not married,” he said.
“I was close, once, but I found out he liked to gamble, and that was a deal breaker. My grandfather had that problem. I remember hearing my mom and my grandmother talk about it.
“I told my mom about the guy I’d thought I loved and wanted to marry, told her I’d found out he gambled, and you know what she said? Not a single thing. She only listened.”
“Wise woman.”
“Yeah, the last thing a twenty-seven-year-old woman who thinks she knows everything needs to hear is that she’s an idiot and this is what she should do.”
Jack wanted to know everything about this man, but now wasn’t the time. “How old is your half brother?”
“Ben turned ten last week. He’s a pistol, that kid, a pro quarterback in the making, fast, agile, strong throwing arm. His dad is thinking he’s the next Joe Montana.”
“What have you been doing, Rachael? I mean, did you go to college? What?”
Her chin went up. “I’m an interior designer.”
She waited for him to laugh, to poke fun, to make a snide remark. He said, “I really like how Gillette did the house, particularly the kitchen. The tile job is incredible. Did you help with that?”
She nodded. “I remember drawing him a sketch of what I saw in my head, and he liked it.”
“You’ve got to be the most popular girl in your group.”
Rachael laughed. “It’s been so long since I’ve been around friends—you know, people you trust and like and don’t have to watch what you say when you’re around them? The kind who won’t hold it against you when you drink too much and act like an idiot.” She tucked her hair back again. “Since I went to Washington to see Jimmy, I’ve simply let them go by the wayside.”
“Did you work in Richmond?”
“After I graduated from the Everard School of Design, I joined Broderick Home Concepts. I was one of six designers on staff. I learned a lot, made a lot of contacts, and received a lot of glowing reports from clients. I had seed money lined up and was ready to go out on my own when my mom told me about Jimmy. I took a leave of absence, then Jimmy talked me into quitting Broderick, said he’d like nothing better than to set me up in Georgetown.” She swallowed. “He was so excited, maybe more than I was. He ...” She turned and walked away.
Jack grabbed her hand, pulled her against him, and wrapped his arms around her back. He realized they both smelled like the same soap, sort of sweet and tangy, like lavender, maybe. “It’ll be okay, Rachael.”
She leaned back. He saw she wasn’t crying, she was shaking with rage. “Six weeks, Jack. I only had a father for six weeks! It’s not fair, not fair.” She slammed her fist into his shoulder. “I want to bring them down. Dear Jesus, I even have their last name now, legally I’m a bloody Abbott.”
“Your father adopted you really fast.”
“I was just getting used to introducing myself as Rachael Abbott.”
“Keep his name. Do it to honor him. It doesn’t tie you to the others. We’ll get them, Rachael, we will. I’ll call Savich, see how much longer he wants you kept under wraps. Besides, you and I have a whole lot to discuss. I want every detail, Rachael, beginning with when you met your father for the first time. Have you finished writing up the detailed account of everything that Savich asked you to do?”
“No, I haven’t even started yet.”
“We’ll get to it. Come over here, let’s sit under that oak tree. Tell me again about the first time you met your father.”
She sat, wrapped her arms around her knees, and began talking. “Did I tell you what he said when he first saw me? He shouted, ‘Wait a minute—my God, a man can’t be this lucky.’ And he grabbed my hands and pulled me into his office, past his staff, people waiting. Like I told you, he never doubted for an instant I was his daughter. He was amazing. He had the most beautiful smile. It lit up his face, made these little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want to let me out of his sight. We talked for hours. He told me about what had happened all those years ago, how his father took him and his friend to Spain to get him to forget my mother, only he didn’t, not really. I told him what his father did to my mother, and he was tight-lipped. Of course I told him my mom didn’t tell me about it until after his father died because she was afraid.”
Rachael sucked in the fresh sweet summer air, and continued when Jack nodded. “He told me the first time in his life he really stood up for himself was when he made the decision to run for the Senate. He said he’d never felt so free as when he told his father to suck it up, it was his life and this was what he wanted. He said toward the end of the campaign, his father poured money into the coffers, probably put him over the top, got him elected.
“Then he laughed, shook his head. Right after Jimmy took his Senate seat, his father announced that he would now call the shots. Jimmy said he received detailed memos from the old man, telling him exactly what he wanted done. Naturally, he paid no attention. Jimmy told me his father had to ma
nipulate and control everything and everyone until he died, supposedly issuing orders with his last breath. Jimmy said his mother probably died young just to escape him.”
Jack asked, “How did Laurel and Quincy react to their father?”
“They both worshipped and feared him, like he was a god, one who was omniscient, one who could smile upon you or crush you.”
“And how did they react to you?”
“The first time I met Laurel, her husband Stefanos Kostas, and Quincy was at dinner at Jimmy’s house. He’d told them only that he had a big surprise for them.” She looked up to see a rabbit sitting at the edge of the woods, seemingly content to stare at them. “I remember Laurel looking at me like I was a termite that just crawled out of the woodwork. Her niece? She couldn’t believe it. All she could do was gape at me, and then at Jimmy.” Rachael could hear Laurel saying, “Pardon me? What did you say, John?”
“This is my daughter, Rachael Janes, soon to be Rachael Janes Abbott. I’m adopting her so she’ll be mine legally, as she should have been from the beginning.
“Rachael, your uncle Quincy and your aunt Laurel and my brother-in-law Stefanos.” And he rubbed his hands together, he was that happy, that excited. He hugged her against his side, kissed her forehead. “Rachael Abbott—now that has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Quincy cleared his throat, looked beyond Rachael’s left shoulder. “She does perhaps resemble you a bit, but you must be responsible here, take your time to do things right. You must have DNA tests, make certain she is who she says she is.”
Jimmy said simply, “She’s my very image. Come on now, Quin, admit it. And there are simply some things you know to your soul. Listen to me, this is an evening to celebrate. I have another daughter I never knew about. I remember her mother, Angela, have thought of her often over the years. There is no doubt, and just looking at her, you know there’s no question as to her paternity. Now, let’s have some champagne.”
Rachael sipped the French champagne as she eyed the braised French snails and the French sauced beef tips. The only thing French she liked was baguettes, but there wasn’t any baguette. Laurel and Quincy were civil, but she knew they weren’t happy, knew they distrusted her, believed she’d suckered their brother. As for Stefanos Kostas, he looked at her like he’d just as soon have her sitting naked astride his lap, her tongue down his throat.
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