Dillon didn’t have time to read Bowen’s numerous publications in every major psychiatric journal, but he wasn’t surprised to see Bowen was a minor celebrity in his own right with a two-book deal, the first of which was being published in three months: Exploit Your Anger for Health, Wealth and Happiness.
While Bowen handled some charity cases—and made a big deal about them—his client list favored the wealthy. Upon arriving at Bowen’s suite of offices, Dillon took note of the opulence, the fine art and rare antiques complementing the predominately modern decor. The only personal effects on Dr. Bowen’s desk were several framed photographs of his family—a lovely wife with a teenaged son. Dillon remembered reading a while back that Bowen was a widower. Another picture was of a beautiful woman of about forty and Bowen on a yacht, another an older picture of Bowen as a very young man with who appeared to be his parents and sister.
Dr. Bowen himself looked the part of quiet wealth—in his midforties, manicured hands, expensive yet business-casual attire, hair graying perfectly at the temple. Dillon wondered if he dyed it to appear distinguished.
At that moment, Dillon completely understood why Emily didn’t trust this man. Teenagers, as did most people, got their first impressions based on appearance, but unlike people with more experience, teenagers routinely stuck with that impression, good or bad. Emily hadn’t said anything to that effect, but she certainly hadn’t told Bowen about her stepfather’s sexual abuse. Dillon made a mental note to check the judge’s contributor reports and charity listings for cross-references between Bowen and the Montgomery family.
Crystal Montgomery was attracted to the trappings, the feeling of wealth and confidence. These same things repulsed Emily. If Emily had been allowed to pick her own psychiatrist, perhaps she wouldn’t be in the position she was today.
Or perhaps not. Victor Montgomery was still a child predator and rapist, and Dillon couldn’t muster a whole lot of sympathy for his death. The main thing that disturbed him was that someone had either taken justice into their own hands—never a good thing—or Montgomery’s murder had nothing at all to do with Emily. That meant running through the judge’s criminal court cases one by one.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me today, Dr. Bowen,” Dillon said.
Bowen steepled his fingers. “I was on my way over to the hospital to talk with Emily when you called. I was… surprised, to say the least… when you told me you were her doctor.”
Dillon didn’t want to let on exactly what his role was. He didn’t like Bowen’s tone. “We both have Emily’s best interest at heart.”
“I didn’t know you worked for the police department.”
“I’m in private practice. A consultant, not on payroll. Much like yourself. I’m low profile.”
“Don’t be humble. You’ve handled several cases that garnered extensive media attention. The recent killer—the guy who glued his victims’ mouths shut—wonderful profile and analysis. I saw that interview with Trinity Lange. And the Lorenzo case a year ago, the Steiner trial—your analysis there was particularly fascinating, by the way—then the Brooks suspected murder-suicide. Your testimony turned the case. You have a knack for speaking straight with the average person.”
Dillon disliked the press attention he’d received, mostly because of the media’s propensity to sensationalize every detail, often to the detriment of victims and survivors. “The press just made it seem that way.”
“You’re their golden child.”
Dillon was becoming uncomfortable with this conversation, and couldn’t help but think Bowen was intentionally baiting him. He was about to get the conversation back on track when Bowen said softly, “You’re the only psychiatrist I know who can comfortably work for both the prosecution and the defense.”
It was the passive-aggressive tone, trying to elicit a reaction from Dillon, to see what buttons might be pushed. If Bowen treated his clients like this, it’s no wonder they grew to distrust him.
Dillon knew he’d waited too long to answer and had given Bowen some indication of his anger threshold. Wasn’t that his specialty? Anger?
“I wanted to discuss Emily Montgomery with you, Dr. Bowen,” Dillon said.
Bowen nodded, didn’t say anything. He didn’t take his eyes off Dillon. Did he think the scrutiny would unnerve him?
“When was the last time you saw Emily?”
Bowen turned to his computer screen, tapped a few keys, then responded, “A week ago Tuesday. I see her every Tuesday, but she missed her last appointment.” He didn’t sound like this was unusual. He’d already pulled her file; everything he did now was for show. Dillon couldn’t help but wonder what he was trying to prove—or hide.
“Did she call?”
“She did. Spoke to my secretary and assured her that she’d be back next week.”
“Is that allowed? Considering that her counseling is court-ordered.”
“It is. She’s required to take twenty-six sessions a year, every other week. Her mother insisted that it be weekly, and I accommodated that request. Considering that Emily is being counseled for anger management issues, the more often she can talk out her problems and inner anger, the better for her and less likely she’ll get into trouble down the road.” He sighed. “Can’t say that it helped in this case.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Dr. Bowen looked at him strangely, his eyebrows raised. “Considering she’s being held for murder.”
“I think you’ve been misinformed,” Dillon said. “No charges have been filed.”
Dr. Bowen waved his hand. “You know as well as I that the police are building their case as we speak, and they won’t file any charges until you report back to the court. Seventy-two hours, correct?”
“She’s under a seventy-two-hour assessment.” He saw no reason to correct Bowen’s misperception over which side he was working with.
“Suicide watch, according to her mother.”
Again, Dillon didn’t correct him. “Has Emily ever exhibited any signs of wanting to end her life?”
“Anyone filled with the rage she had when she vandalized the courthouse is capable of ending her life.”
Dillon disagreed, but didn’t argue with Bowen. However, people who were sexually abused, particularly as minors, were more likely to become clinically depressed and self-destructive. “Has she said anything to you?”
“Now we’re getting into dangerous territory, Dr. Kincaid.”
“Are we?”
Bowen straightened. Almost imperceptibly, but Dillon didn’t miss the bristling of his back. “My reports are filed monthly with the court, as per the agreement. You can read my evaluations and assessment of Emily’s progress in them.”
Dillon had been prepared to ask about sexual abuse, but pulled back. He didn’t want to give Bowen any information he didn’t already know.
“I’d hoped I could get your general feelings about Emily, her state of mind, anything that might help me in making an assessment of her emotional strength.”
Bowen sighed and glanced at the computer screen, but Dillon suspected he was thinking more than reading. “Emily Montgomery is a troubled young lady. Ran away from home—twice. Vandalized the courthouse to the tune of nearly a quarter million dollars. Serious damage. Hostility toward her mother, her stepfather, and deep-seated anger at everyone and everything in her life. I believe it stems from losing her father so suddenly, and having a mother who is, for lack of a better word, emotionally immature. Crystal Montgomery wants everything in her life picture perfect—everything to look just fine for neighbors, friends, and anyone else she wants to impress. Emily acting out—undoubtedly to gain her mother’s attention, if not her love—is the imperfect picture that Crystal abhors. But teenagers aren’t perfect, they act up, they need attention, they need guidance.”
Dillon was stunned at the seeming about-face in Dr. Bowen’s attitude. One minute, reluctant, the next, espousing a textbook explanation of the Montgomery family. It had
the ring of truth but it seemed too bland. And considering Bowen didn’t know about Judge Montgomery’s sexual abuse of his stepdaughter, Dillon couldn’t help but wonder just how much Emily had lied and manipulated to avoid talking about what truly terrified her.
“One final question, if you don’t mind,” Dillon said.
Bowen nodded, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands across his flat stomach.
“Emily’s relationship with her mother and stepfather was strained, but what about her aunt?”
“The prosecutor?” Bowen seemed surprised by the question and rubbed his chin in thought. “Emily never really discussed Julia Chandler. It seemed to me from the little she did say that they had some sort of cordial relationship, but Emily views her more as an authority figure. Considering Emily’s delinquency problems, I can’t imagine that they were all that close.”
“But you don’t know that with certainty.”
Bowen tensed. “No. Emily rarely talked about her.”
The doctor-patient relationship cleared for Dillon. Over a year of therapy and Emily told Bowen very little about her life, just enough to get by. Dillon wondered how detailed Bowen’s reports to the court were, and whether their accuracy could be trusted.
As if sensing what Dillon was thinking, Bowen said, “Teens are naturally reticent when faced with authority. Close-mouthed. Especially troubled kids like Emily.”
Sounded like an excuse to Dillon.
“Thank you, Dr. Bowen. I appreciate your assessment.” Dillon stood to leave.
“Can I expect a copy of your report?” Bowen asked.
“It will be filed with the court.” Dillon smiled.
“Of course.”
“I’ll review your court documents and get back to you.”
“Please do.” Bowen stood. Some sort of invisible line had been drawn. Dillon wasn’t sure exactly what Bowen’s game was, but something was off.
Dillon walked toward the door, stopping only when Bowen asked, “How did Judge Montgomery die?”
The information would be coming out sooner rather than later. “Penile amputation.” He kept the rest of the details to himself.
Bowen blanched. “Sounds like a sexually motivated crime.”
“Appears so, on the surface.”
“You have a different opinion?”
“I have no opinion at this point.”
“If that’s the case, you have a stronger spine than I thought.”
By the time fourth period ended and lunch began, La Jolla Academy was abuzz with rumors.
“Ohmigod! Did you hear about Emily Montgomery?”
“She killed herself.”
“No, she tried to kill herself.”
“No, she pretended suicide so she wouldn’t be thrown in jail. Her stepfather’s dead.”
“He was a senator.”
“Dummy, he was a judge.”
“Maybe one of those people he put in prison killed him.”
“Hey, maybe it was the terrorists, you know, going after people in their homes.”
“Shut up, dumbshit, they use bombs, not knives.”
“Knives? How do you know?”
“I dunno.”
Faye Kessler sat in the far corner of the gym, pretending to eat her lunch. Quiet, reticent, and known on campus as a geek, Faye had few friends at school. That she had been arrested for shoplifting would have surprised not only her teachers, who found her odd but extremely gifted, but her peers, too, who didn’t care enough about her existence to even make note of the occurrence.
Much like her father. If Faye hadn’t broken two display cases at the mall store she’d stolen from, he would have brushed the incident under the rug just like he’d done everything else in his life. She’d gotten his attention for about five minutes. Then he carted her off to a shrink, paid for the displays, and ignored her again.
Get over it.
Yeah, right, she’d been telling herself that for years, ever since her mother walked out, leaving both of them, in order to “find herself” in some country far from America. Faye got a card every August—for her birthday—and that was the only connection with the woman who’d given birth to her, then left seven years later without a second thought.
What Faye knew and what she felt were two completely different things. Sometimes her feelings bubbled up and she couldn’t control her actions. It was both invigorating and terrifying. But most of the time Faye felt nothing. Except when she was angry. She knew this, understood it, but couldn’t control it.
She spotted Mike Olson across the lunchroom. That fluttery feeling came back, starting in her chest and tingling out, down her spine, making her flush. The same feeling she’d had when Trent Payne had invited her to the movies last year. She thought he liked her because he’d told her she was “really sharp” and could get into whatever college she wanted. He’d seemed so impressed with her that she’d mistaken the attention for something more. When he’d kissed her, the same tingles were there, hot and exciting and forbidden, but then he started hurting her and he wouldn’t stop. He tore her new blouse, the one she’d bought just for their date, and tried to pull off her jeans. He was going to rape her, she knew it, while murmuring nice words in her ear, trying to get her to go along with it.
She’d seen then, in the Cadillac truck his parents bought him for his sixteenth birthday, that he had never liked her. He’d thought she’d be easy, an unattractive girl who never had dates, who no one looked at, who got straight A’s in school but no one noticed, not even the teachers. A little attention from a cute football player and she’d be willing to spread her legs and let him fuck her.
She had more self-respect than that.
Not only did she stop him from humiliating her, she’d broken his nose, and a week later his precious truck got broken, too.
Payback.
Mike Olson glanced over at her. Their eyes met. She couldn’t even swallow.
He turned away. Maybe he wasn’t really looking at her. Maybe he didn’t even know her name.
“Faye,” Skip said.
She jumped, her thoughts so focused on Mike Olson that she didn’t see Skip approach. He sat next to her at the lunch table. The tables sat eight, but she had this one all to herself. Faye always ate alone.
“We’re meeting this afternoon,” he said.
“Okay.” She glanced at Skip, Mike’s friend. Had he seen her staring at him? Her pulse quickened. She hoped not.
Skip leaned in. “Deep down Mike’s a jerk like Trent.”
Faye looked at her lunch, her appetite gone. How could Skip even bring up Trent? It was something she’d told them in anonymity. Even though, intellectually, she knew her secrets were no longer her own, no one had said it out loud.
“Hey, I’m sorry, kid.”
Kid. She wasn’t a kid.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry.” He touched her arm, made her look at him. She blinked back tears, tried to smile. “Men are bastards. Even me. But I don’t want to hurt you. Life sucks and you don’t need crap from your friends. You know I’m your friend, right?”
She nodded, unable to talk. She’d never noticed what beautiful eyes Skip had. Grayish blue, with little flecks of darker gray. Unusual. And long lashes. A small mole on his cheek. No wonder he was so popular.
And now they had a secret together. A huge secret. A secret that bonded them forever.
She smiled a little. “This afternoon. I’ll be there.”
NINE
CONNOR PUSHED the guilt aside about his plan. Right now, he had to remember that Emily was his number one concern. And if Connor had to use his connections, even if one of them was his brother Patrick, in order to prove her innocence, he would.
Patrick’s e-crimes division was in the far corner of the top floor. It took Connor fifteen minutes to get up there. Unless they were new to the force, those who still didn’t hold a grudge against him for testifying against a fellow officer stopped to ask Connor how he
was doing. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. After all, he’d left the force amid a huge scandal. Not his scandal, but he’d uncovered it. It just went higher than he’d thought and he’d been set up to blow.
Just remembering the last six months of his career as a cop made his blood boil with anger and regret. He had been right, but that meant shit when someone in power wanted to destroy you. It was only marginally satisfying that justice had been served for those poor dead girls. Because in the end, he’d lost his job, and the department had been in turmoil for years after. And as much as he was loath to admit it, his ex-brother-in-law Andrew Stanton had done more than his fair share to mend fences in the three years he’d been district attorney.
If Julia Chandler had her way, he would have sat in a prison cell for contempt a helluva lot longer than the three hours she’d managed to keep him there.
Finally, he walked into Patrick’s upstairs work area, a large open room he shared with four other cops, two males and two females. They all looked fresh out of the academy, though their quiet confidence told him looks were deceiving as they worked on eight different computers seemingly simultaneously. Where in the world had Patrick got his technical skill? No one else in the vast Kincaid family, except maybe their baby sister Lucy, could do much more than turn on a computer and check e-mail.
What a difference a few years make.
Patrick looked over, obviously surprised to see Connor. It wasn’t every day that he came by the station. In fact, the last time was when he was working a missing person’s case and needed to chat with Dean Robertson, nearly a year ago.
Connor nodded a greeting and sauntered over. Patrick was tall and skinny, almost gangly in appearance, as if he’d just gone through a growth spurt and his muscles hadn’t caught up. Actually, Patrick was a marathon runner and ten years older than he looked.
Connor extended his hand. Patrick clasped it and slapped Connor on the back. “Hey, bro. Good to see you always. Let’s go to my office.” Patrick directed his team. “See if you can get the programmer on the phone. Call me if he’ll talk. Threaten a warrant. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get the damn thing.”
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