The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  Katherine often had trouble sleeping and she had a bottle of Sominex in her bedside cabinet. He watched her walk down the hallway to the bedroom, a little surprised at her reaction because it wasn't like her to show so much emotion, not since her father had died, anyway. An aunt, admittedly one with whom she'd had little contact in recent years, had died after a short illness a few months earlier and she hadn't shown a tenth of the grief she was showing over a bullet in Art Brown's leg. Freeman scratched his wet hair. Maybe it was because Dr Brown was closer to home.

  Katherine took Mersiha to all her sessions with the psychiatrist and they'd met socially at various charity functions, but even so her reaction seemed a little extreme. He wondered if there was something else worrying her.

  He towelled himself dry, put on a bathrobe and went into their bedroom. She was already under the covers, a red satin sleep-mask over her eyes. The bottle of sleeping tablets was by the bed and she was snoring softly, but Freeman had the feeling that she was only pretending. He stood for a while, watching the slow rise and fall of the quilt, then he dressed in jeans and an old sweatshirt and went downstairs. Mersiha was still in the kitchen, sitting at the table and reading the Baltimore Sun.

  She looked up and tapped an inside page of the newspaper.

  'It's here,' she said. 'It happened yesterday morning. Isn't it amazing?'

  Freeman sat down next to her and she slid the paper across to him. There were only half a dozen paragraphs on the page. The shooting in the leg of a Parkton psychiatrist wasn't considered a major news story on a day when two young girls had been killed in a drive-by shooting and a police officer had been shot in the chest during a city drugs bust. According to the article, an intruder had entered through an unlocked door and had surprised Dr Brown in his bedroom. The psychiatrist had told police that a young black male had threatened to shoot him unless he'd told him where he kept his money. When Dr Brown had insisted that there was no money in the house, the intruder had shot him once and fled. The description Dr Brown gave to the police fitted about half of the city's young black males. The gun had been a.22-calibre, the weapon of choice among inner-city drug dealers.

  'Amazing, isn't it?' Mersiha said. 'I was supposed to see him tomorrow evening. That's why Nancy called. I guess that means no more sessions for a while.'

  Freeman folded the paper and gently rapped his daughter on the head. 'I'm sure it'll take more than a bullet in the leg to stop Dr Brown from seeing you. Katherine said he'll be out of hospital in a day or two.'

  Mersiha shook her head. 'She said Nancy gave her the names of some other shrinks. She said Dr Brown wouldn't be working for a while.'

  'We'll see,' Freeman said. 'And don't call them shrinks.

  At sixty dollars an hour they're highly trained professional psychiatrists, okay?'

  Mersiha laughed. 'Sure, Dad. Whatever you say. Where's Katherine?'

  Freeman nodded upstairs. 'In bed. She isn't feeling very well.'

  'Shall I take her up something?'

  'No, let her sleep. She's tired.' Freeman looked at his watch.

  'Do you want to catch a movie?'

  Mersiha's eyes widened. 'Yeah, sure!' she said. 'That'd be great.'

  Katherine took the blue and white striped laundry bag out of the wicker basket and carried it over her shoulder to the bathroom opposite Mersiha's bedroom. She pulled out the laundry bag full of Mersiha's dirty clothes and dragged both bags down the stairs to the laundry room. After she'd emptied both bags on to the table, she quickly sorted through the pile, putting the whites on one side and everything else into the washing machine. She reached for a pair of Mersiha's black Levis and turned them inside out. There was something hard inside one of the back pockets. Katherine slid her fingers into the pocket and pulled out the object. It was a brass shell case, and it glittered under the fluorescent lights.

  She frowned, tossed the cartridge into the air and caught it.

  She made a fist and put it to her lips, blowing into her clenched hand like a magician preparing to make it disappear, but when she opened her fingers it was still there. She put it into the pocket of her dress and carried on throwing the dirty laundry into the washing machine.

  Later, with the machine started on its washing cycle, she poured coffee into two mugs and carried them through into the sitting room where her husband was sitting with his feet on the coffee table, a stack of papers on his lap.

  'Thanks, honey,' he said.

  Katherine put the mugs on the table and tossed him the brass cartridge. Freeman caught it one-handed. 'What's this?' he said, frowning.

  'What does it look like?' she asked.

  'I know what it is, honey. Why are you giving it to me?'

  'I found it in Mersiha's jeans?'

  'You what?'

  'I found it in the back pocket of her jeans. I just want to know what we're going to do about it. Or to be more accurate, what you're going to do about it.'

  The?'

  Katherine raised one eyebrow archly. 'Tony, I don't want to keep repeating myself. That's a cartridge case, isn't it?'

  Freeman nodded. 'Yeah, a.22 by the look of it. What on earth would she be doing with it?' He looked up. 'Do you think she got it at school?' . 'I've no idea,' Katherine said.

  'Have you found anything else?'

  'I haven't searched her room, if that's what you mean. You know how closely she guards her privacy. I think you're going to have to talk to her. She's being funny with me at the moment.'

  'Funny?'

  'She doesn't seem to want even to be in the same room with me.'

  'What sparked that off?'

  'God knows. But I don't think she's in the mood for a heart-to-heart, not with me anyway. Besides, she's always been a daddy's girl.'

  Freeman couldn't help but smile. 'We're both her parents.

  Maybe we should tackle her together.'

  Katherine shook her head. 'She's sure to feel threatened if we both confront her.'

  'Toss you for it?' Freeman joked.

  Katherine pointed her finger at her husband. 'It's your turn.'

  'What do you mean, my turn? I tell you what, you take this one, and I'll give her the sex talk. Deal?'

  Katherine smiled. 'You know full well that I gave her the sex talk two years ago. And the menstruation talk. And the drugs talk.'

  'I did the drugs talk,' Freeman reminded her.

  'You gave her the first drugs talk -1 had to redo it a couple of weeks later. Your jokes about not remembering much about the sixties garbled the message somewhat.'

  'Okay, okay,' Freeman said, holding up his hands in surrender.

  'I'll give her the gun talk.'

  'We just have to know where she got it from, that's all.'

  'She might have found it.' Freeman slipped the cartridge case into his shirt pocket. 'So, what's happening with Art?'

  Katherine lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and then exhaled before replying. 'I don't know. I just don't know. I can't even get through to him on the phone. All Nancy will say is that he's reducing his workload and that we should get someone else.

  She's nice about it and all, but it's like talking to a brick wall.'

  'It doesn't make sense,' Freeman said. 'He said she was making progress. I can't see how he can drop her and call himself a professional. Do you think I should have a word with him?'

  Katherine shuddered as if something cold had trickled down her back. 'Maybe. I don't know. Whatever you like.'

  'Are you okay?' He reached out and put his hand on her wrist.

  She smiled nervously and slowly withdrew her hand from his touch, using it to brush her hair needlessly behind her ear.

  They sat in silence for a while. Freeman didn't know why she was being so cold. He couldn't imagine what he'd done to upset her. He ran the conversation back in his mind, searching in vain for a clue to her annoyance.

  'I'll speak to her, don't worry,' he said. 'But I'm sure it's nothing. Is she asleep now?'

  'It's after ele
ven. What do you think?'

  Freeman realised that whatever he said would only make matters worse. He decided to say nothing. He picked up his papers and pretended to study them. Katherine glared at him for a few seconds before she realised he wasn't going to answer. 'I'm going to bed,' she said frostily, extinguishing her cigarette. 'Don't wake me when you come up.' Her high heels tapped across the floor, echoing like pistol shots.

  It was the same dream as always, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. Mersiha knew that she was dreaming, and part of her even knew that she was actually lying safe in her bedroom, but the terror and shame she felt were every bit as intense as if it were actually happening to her in the real world.

  Her mother was there, but then she always was in the dream: screaming and pleading, held down by the men with guns.

  Mersiha was pleading, too, not for herself but for her mother, begging the men to leave her alone. The room was dark, but she could see the faces of the men, sweating skin and wide eyes, mouths distorted with hatred and lust, and she could see the blood on her mother's mouth, like badly applied lipstick.

  Hands grabbed for Mersiha, hands that ripped at her clothes and pinched and slapped, not because she was resisting but because they wanted to hurt her. They wanted her to cry, but she refused to give them the satisfaction. No matter what they did to her they would see only contempt in her eyes.

  She was lifted bodily off the ground by unseen hands and rotated like lamb on a spit as her clothes were torn from her, and then they threw her down on to one of the many mattresses that were lying on the floor. She began to scream, knowing what was going to happen and that there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She began to scream, in pain, in sorrow, and, more than anything, in anger.

  Freeman sat by the side of Mersiha's bed, rubbing the palms of his hands together. He hated to see the way his daughter was suffering, but Art Brown's advice had been unequivocal – waking her in the middle of a nightmare would do her more harm than good. The dreams had to run their course – it was her mind's way of dealing with the trauma. It was a healing process, like the gradual closing of a wound.

  Mersiha tossed, her face bathed in sweat, her arms trying to fend off unseen assailants. Freeman could only imagine what she was going through. He reached over and stroked her forehead, hoping that in some way she'd know he was there, with her, even though she was still asleep. Her mouth opened and closed as if she were forming words, but no sounds came. He tried to read her lips, but whatever she was saying in her dream, it wasn't English. At least she wasn't screaming any more. She began shaking her head from side to side, her arms outstretched. Despite the torment she was going through, she wasn't crying. She looked angry, and for some reason he couldn't understand on a conscious level, Freeman was suddenly immensely proud of her.

  Lennie Nelson unscrewed the cap from his plastic bottle of Evian water and put it next to his salad. He stabbed a piece of cucumber with his white plastic fork, dipped it in the Dijon mustard dressing and ate it as he studied his notes on Ventura Investments. He had gone as far as he could in discovering who was behind the investment vehicle, and his workload didn't allow him the luxury of the extended investigation he knew would be necessary if he was to make any further progress.

  He'd called the Securities and Exchange Commission. They had no record of Ventura, but that was hardly surprising because it wasn't a public company and didn't appear to have raised money by issuing shares. The Corporations Bureau in Annapolis also drew a blank. The nature of the investment suggested a limited partnership, but he'd scoured state records to no avail.

  This surprised him, because he was sure that Maury Anderson had said that Ventura was composed of local investors. That had sparked the thought that maybe the investors had something to hide, and that thought had led swiftly to Delaware. Companies operating all over the United States were incorporated in Delaware to take advantage of the state's favourable regulations and low tax rates.

  He contacted a company search operation in Wilmington, and in less than a day they'd struck gold – Ventura Investments was indeed a limited partnership. But the only name on file was that of a New York lawyer and the only address was the lawyer's Seventh Avenue office. There was no way of telling who the actual principals were, and Nelson knew that it would take more than a phone call to the lawyer to find out. He speared a chunk of tomato and chewed it thoughtfully. New York was closer to home, and he had good contacts in the Big Apple, but whichever way he played it he was going to come up against an impenetrable wall of silence. Impenetrable by legal means, anyway. What Nelson had to decide was how far he wanted to push it. He remembered how nervous CRW's financial director had been during the board meeting. The man was definitely hiding something.

  Nelson made up his mind. He reached for his Rolodex. The card containing Ernie Derbyshire's address and phone number was well thumbed. As usual the private detective wasn't in his office, but Nelson left a message on his answering machine.

  Nancy looked up, startled, as Tony Freeman entered the waiting room. She positively beamed when she recognised him. 'Mr Freeman,' she said. 'We're not expecting you, are we?'

  'No, Nancy, I just dropped by to see Dr Brown. Is he in with a patient?' Freeman could tell from her face that he wasn't, but she quickly recovered and held up a hand like a policeman attempting to stop traffic. There were small scratches on her hand, as if she'd been gripped by strong fingers with undipped nails, and as he got closer to the reception desk Freeman could see a faded yellow bruise under her left eye. She put a hand up to the old injury as if trying to conceal it from his gaze. Freeman smiled to ease her embarrassment. 'I just wanted a few words with him, Nancy.'

  'I'll have to ring through first…' she began to say, reaching for the intercom, but Freeman was already on his way to Art's office.

  The psychiatrist was sitting on one of his couches, his left leg sticking out to the side. The left trouser leg had been cut up to the thigh, presumably to allow for the bandage underneath, and was held together with safety clips. Brown jumped as if he'd been given an electric shock. 'Tony? What's wrong?' he asked.

  'Just wanted a few words, Art,' Freeman said, closing the door behind him. 'How's the leg?'

  'Healing,' Brown said. 'I was lucky. An inch either way and the bullet would've shattered the kneecap or gone through the artery.'

  Freeman sat on the edge of the psychiatrist's desk, crossing his arms, as if it were his office and Brown the visitor. 'I see it hasn't stopped you from working.'

  Brown's eyes narrowed, and for several beats the two men stared at each other like poker players trying to get the measure of their opponent. 'I'm cutting back on my workload, Tony,' the psychiatrist said eventually. 'I have to. The assault was a real shock to my system. It's not just the physical damage.'

  Freeman nodded sympathetically. 'That sounds like the sensible thing to do,' he agreed. 'But I don't understand why you have to stop seeing Mersiha. I'd have thought that a teenager with her sort of background would have been one of your priorities.'

  Brown licked his lips nervously. 'I've given Katherine a list of alternative therapists,' he said. 'They'll be more than happy to take her on.'

  'Nancy gave her two names, Art. Two.'

  'I'll give you more. There's no shortage of good people in Baltimore.' Brown's cheeks were beginning to redden and he bit down on his lower lip.

  'Art, what the hell's wrong with you? You know how important it is that Mersiha feels secure. She can't switch therapists like this. She has to have stability in her life, she has to feel safe.

  You yourself told me that, right at the start, remember? After what she's been through, she has to know she's safe.'

  For a brief second Brown's lip curled up in the semblance of a sneer, but just as quickly it disappeared and was replaced by his professional smile. 'I'll pass on her file, Tony.

  And you know as well as I do that she's much better than she was.'

  'She's still sleepwalking. She'
s still having nightmares. We still don't know what happened to her in Bosnia. She hasn't spoken about it. Not once.'

  Brown looked away, unwilling to meet Freeman's accusatory gaze. 'You don't know the pressure I'm under,' he muttered.

  'No, I don't,' Freeman said. 'You're turning your back on a teenage girl who needs your help.' There was no reaction from the psychiatrist. Freeman sighed, at a loss for words.

  The door opened and Nancy popped her head round. 'Everything all right, Dr Brown?' she asked, in the same tone with which she probably addressed her husband after he'd had a few drinks.

  Brown nodded, not looking at her. 'It's just that your five o'clock appointment is here.'

  'I won't be long, Nancy,' Freeman said quietly.

  Nancy hesitated for a moment, as if there were something else she wanted to say, then she closed the door.

  'What's wrong?' Freeman asked.

  'Nothing's wrong.' Still the psychiatrist avoided looking at him.

  Freeman snorted softly, a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

  It had suddenly occurred to him that Brown was now in the same position as his patients normally were – sitting on the sofa, avoiding eye contact and putting up barriers. But he didn't have the time, or the inclination, to continue probing the man's psyche. 'Okay, Art. This isn't getting us anywhere. Just give me Mersiha's file and I'll be on my way.'

  'Impossible,' the psychiatrist said, shaking his head. 'Out of the question. I'll send it on to whichever psychiatrist you decide on, but you can't have it. Medical records are confidential.'

  'She's my daughter,' Freeman insisted.

  'That doesn't make any difference,' Brown said. 'Children have rights, too. I could be sued.'

  'Who's going to sue you, Art? I'm not. I'm sure Mersiha won't.

  I think you're being a little paranoid.'

  'Medical records are confidential,' Brown repeated.

  Freeman pushed himself away from the desk and walked over to a bookcase crammed with textbooks, most of them on child psychology. 'I'm going to take over her case,' he said. 'I'll need the file.'