“That feeling you get when a relationship is new isn’t love, Carolyn,” Brad went on, vocalizing what she’d been thinking. “It’s excitement, and excitement only exists when something is new.”
The problem with love, Carolyn decided, was it wasn’t always rational. And woman weren’t the same as men. Regardless of how many times they’d been disappointed and hurt, they never lost hope that a great love would one day find them, a love so tender and beautiful that it could never be tainted. And Carolyn was no different. Suppose Marcus was the person who could give her that love? She was willing to take that chance.
“Thanks for the coffee and the lecture, Brad,” she told him, rising and walking behind his chair. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take it under consideration. Right now, I need to go upstairs and check on John.”
“Wait,” he said. “I came to tell you something before we took off on a tangent.”
“What?” Carolyn asked, circling back around.
“You’ve been approved for a three-week leave of absence. With pay, of course. I had a meeting with the chief this evening. That’s why I ran late. Put work out of your mind for the time being. Concentrate on John and Rebecca.”
“But you don’t have enough people as it is,” Carolyn protested.
“I’m going to pick up the slack.”
“That’s ridiculous, Brad,” she said, dropping back down in the chair. “You have to run the unit.” His responsibilities extended beyond making case assignments. Every report had to be conferenced with him before a probation officer could submit a recommendation to the court. He had to agree that the sentence was justified, as well as go over all the terms to make certain they were computed accurately. Interpreting and applying the laws was a complex task. It was easy to make a mistake, even in something as simple as the math. Conferencing up to a hundred cases a month, along with his other duties, was time-consuming. “No,” she said. “Really, Brad. All I need is maybe a week to get John back on his feet. Not that I don’t appreciate—”
Brad interrupted with, “I’m going to work at home and on the weekends. I’ll stay late and interview the defendants and victims. You need this time, Carolyn. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I’d rather you take time off now than to have you crater on me later.”
Carolyn reached across the table and touched his hand. “You really are a wonderful friend, Brad. If you need me to do work at home, all you have to do is call me.”
“Don’t worry about anything. Leave the scumbags to me. Now get back to your son before he wakes up and finds out you’re gone.”
The winding roads leading down the coast were perfect for Dean Masters’s burgundy Porsche 911 Carrera. Navigating the corners at high speeds was exhilarating. Each turn distanced him from his life with Kathleen. He should have never left the golf course. That’s where he belonged. In college it was all fun and games. Today golf had become a reality-avoidance mechanism, his way to disappear from the world and try to heal the past. The future was much more unpredictable than it used to be. Dean would start a new life now, as he had done before, but this time, he had a loose end remaining: Kathleen.
She had somehow survived.
Dean pulled off the road into one of his favorite spots. The late-afternoon sun reflected on the water, turning it a shimmering shade of silver. The ocean looked as if it had turned into a sea of mercury. His thoughts brought him back fourteen years, to a time before people called him Dean Masters.
He heard his assistant, Kimberly, and was back in his office in Manhattan.
“Dr. Wright,” she announced over the intercom, “your one-thirty is here.”
His large executive suite was paneled with dark wood, the walls covered with certificates of accomplishment and framed photos of him with important people. He was a prominent psychiatrist, and his practice was flourishing. Why wouldn’t it be? He was not only smart, he was good-looking and personable. Most of his clients were women, either depressed housewives or single career women who dressed and acted like men. They wondered why they had problems when the answer was blatantly obvious. The housewives were stupid or superficial, the businesswomen overbearing.
Dr. Wright would have given up his practice several years ago, but seeing patients was his entertainment. He was probably one of the few remaining psychiatrists in Manhattan who still believed he could help people without dispensing medication. Listening intently, he could hear how vulnerable they were, and he molded their minds with simple, clarifying discussion. Many times only a few well-placed words made all the difference.
His fee of $150 per hour was adequate. Instead of placing his money in blue-chip stocks, he’d gambled in the technology arena and pocketed a fortune. Now he saw patients on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The rest of the time he spent in Connecticut or upstate New York at country clubs, playing golf and chasing women.
Once Thomas Wright acquired something, whether it was a possession or a lover, he would not relinquish his hold on it until he no longer wanted it. When he decided he wanted to elevate his status in New York society, he realized that wealth alone wouldn’t provide him with a ticket to mingle with the upper echelon. Having millions of dollars in Manhattan was like having a warm coat in Alaska. Marrying the daughter of a highly esteemed state senator, however, coupled with his professional accomplishments and polished appearance, would open doors that had previously been closed.
He met his fiancée at what he had thought was going to be another boring political fund-raiser for her father, state senator Clarence Simons. A thirty-two-year-old gorgeous brunette, April was a physical therapist. Like him, she didn’t work for money. What she wanted was independence from her smothering father, and her job was a necessary outlet.
He had fallen in love with her, but the risk of love was that it masked the reality of the inevitable disaster. April would grow old and ugly, cheat on him, leave him, or die. He hadn’t decided which of those alternatives was the worst.
“Leonard Steinberg is on the phone,” Kimberly said, poking her head into his office.
As usual, he’d been daydreaming while the seventy-eight-year-old silver-haired matron sitting across from him blubbered, having spent the past nine months grieving over the death of her poodle, Bitsy. “As you can see, Kimberly,” he said, annoyed, “I’m with a patient. Tell Steinberg I’ll call him back.”
“I told him that, Doctor, but he insists that you speak to him. He says it’s urgent.”
“I’m sorry, Ethel, can you excuse me?” he said in a placating tone. “If you don’t mind waiting in the lobby, we’ll resume in a few minutes. Kimberly, get Mrs. Mooney a soda. She doesn’t drink caffeine, so make sure it’s decaffeinated.”
After the two women left, he walked over to his desk and snatched the phone off the cradle. “What’s so important, Len?”
“We’ve got trouble,” the attorney said. “Did you sign for a package yesterday afternoon?”
“I don’t usually sign for things,” he said, wondering what was going on. “Kimberly handles…Oh, wait, I did. Something came in while she was out to lunch. Why?”
“You signed for a summons to appear in court, Thomas, a ninety-page complaint filed by Harvey Goldberg on behalf of a woman named Nicole Pelter. You’re being sued. Out of courtesy, her law firm sent a copy to my office. It’s Brown, Franklin, and Weiss, the same firm that handled Sarah Briscoe’s unfounded accusations against you last year. Is Pelter one of your patients? Did you have sex with this woman?”
The psychiatrist stood, placing his hand on his head. “This can’t be happening again. She’s lying. Nicole Pelter is a bitch. Believe me, she’s a gold digger. Her last husband was in his eighties. She got tired of waiting for him to die, so she filed for divorce and took him to the cleaners.”
“We’re not talking about Sarah Briscoe,” the attorney continued. “Need I remind you? This is one of the top medical malpractice firms in the country. We slid with Briscoe because she didn’t get her facts strai
ght, and Goldberg refused to make a fool of himself in the courtroom when he learned we weren’t going to settle. I guarantee you Brown, Franklin, and Weiss wouldn’t have taken this case if they didn’t think they could win. They’re asking for two million.”
“Ridiculous! This is blackmail!” Wright said, seething. “Yes, she’s my patient. I didn’t have sex with the woman. Christ, Len, I’m engaged to April Simons.”
“Nicole Pelter has a different story,” the attorney told him. “Did you ever treat her at her residence?”
“Yes, that’s not a crime,” Wright said, pacing behind his desk. “She lives four blocks from me, and she sounded like she was borderline psychotic when she called me at three in the morning. I was afraid I might have to commit her. When I got there, I gave her a sedative by injection and she calmed down. I’ve seen other patients at home. What’s your point?”
“How many?”
“Two,” he said, having had to rush out and sedate Ethel Mooney the night her dog died.
“That’s not enough to make it seem usual or customary,” Steinberg told him. “Unfortunately, it’ll be your word against hers. Pelter claims you gave her some type of narcotic and she woke up an hour later with you on top of her. She didn’t call the police right away because she passed out again from the drug.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll fight this thing for you, of course, but it doesn’t look good. They also filed a formal complaint with the New York Office of Professional Medical Conduct. You could lose your license.”
Wright sucked in a deep breath, then let it out in an audible whoosh. “So what do we do now?”
“Pay her off,” Steinberg suggested. “Your insurance will cover it. The fact that another claim was brought against you won’t help us, particularly with the medical board. Usually where’s there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“I’ve never touched a patient,” the psychiatrist yelled. “Nicole Pelter doesn’t deserve a cent. Do you understand me? Not a penny. Tell them I’ll see them in court. No one is going to extort money from me.”
“Have it your way,” Steinberg said. “Just remember, I warned you.”
“Mom,” John said. “Can I have a drink of water?”
“Sure.” Carolyn helped him sit up by propping a pillow at the base of his back. “Comfortable?”
“Yes,” he said, still pale and weak. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay…what is it, honey?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he told her, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think I should go to MIT.”
“Didn’t we have this conversation already? The doctors say they’ll have you walking in a few weeks.”
“It’s not that,” John said, lowering his head. “What Rebecca told you was true. I use pot. And I’m not talking about a hit here and there. I’ve used every day since I was twelve. Sometimes I just can’t relax, Mom. Pot helps me to sleep at night. I usually smoke it in the backyard, or at Turner’s house. That was the first time I smoked in Rebecca’s room. I’m sorry I let you down.”
Carolyn was shocked at his admission, even though she’d feared this possibility, after Rebecca’s accusation. But under the circumstances, she had to be supportive. “Does Rebecca smoke?”
“No,” John said. “She’s really a cool kid, Mom. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Unlike me, I’m sure she’ll do fine.”
“It’s okay,” she said, moving her chair closer to the bed and stroking his thick hair back from his forehead. “Everyone makes mistakes, sweetheart.”
“I feel so bad,” John continued, choking up. “Pot started out as a way to escape. You and Dad were fighting all the time. It was right before the divorce. I couldn’t believe my father was a drug addict. Then I thought, hey, what the heck, it’s just a little grass. I know that’s a cop-out, but I…I don’t deserve to go to MIT or any other college for that matter. At least, not until I prove myself. In the meantime, I can just work at Giovanni’s and try to save more money. It wouldn’t be right for you to sell your house for a loser like me.”
“Stop, John,” Carolyn demanded. “I want you to go to MIT because of what you have up here,” she said, pointing to her head. “You’re going because you can, understand? You’ve been accepted. Losers don’t get accepted to MIT, Harvard, or any of the other top schools. Of course I’m not happy about you smoking pot. At least it’s not crack or heroin.”
“I’ll wait a few years,” John said, his eyelids getting heavy from the medication. “I can always go later.”
“Your success is my success,” Carolyn told him, stroking his arm. “I wasn’t as intellectually gifted as you, so I didn’t have the same opportunities. My happiness comes from seeing you achieve things I wasn’t able to do. I know you can stop using pot. It’s not physically addictive. And now that it’s out in the open, it should be easier.”
He shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that, Mother. Pot isn’t the same as it used to be. Today’s stuff is pretty potent.”
“You can do anything you want to do,” Carolyn insisted. “Just think, you’re going to be in an entirely new environment. The bad influences here at home will stay here.” She was thinking of his friend Turner. They’d been friends so long, it was hard to think he’d been a negative influence on her son. Now she knew. “Concentrating on your studies will help you put this behind you. I’m sure you wouldn’t risk being thrown out of MIT because of drugs.”
Both Carolyn and John stopped speaking when they saw Neil, Rebecca, and Carolyn’s mother enter the room.
“There’s my brilliant boy,” Marie Sullivan exclaimed, rushing over and kissing him on the forehead. Petite like her daughter, she wore her short silver hair naturally curly. She was dressed in a pair of purple pants and a pink sweater. She handed John a box of See’s candy. “Sometimes chocolate is better than medicine.”
“Thanks,” John said, smiling. “They told me I could go home Monday.”
“Well, you’re going to be staying at Neil’s house,” Mrs. Sullivan said, exchanging glances with her daughter. “That awful man knows where you live. There’s no way you can go home until he’s back in jail where he belongs.” She saw Rebecca glaring at her. “And you’re not going back home, either, young lady.”
“Please, Mom,” Rebecca said, turning to Carolyn. “I’m not afraid. If he comes back, I’ll kick his butt. You know how far Neil’s house is from my school. When John gets out of the hospital, we’ll both have to sleep in the studio. Neil took the bed out of the guest room so he could store some of his paintings. What about all my clothes and things? His computer is an antique, and he doesn’t even have Internet access. Even the pope knows how to use the Internet.”
Carolyn placed a hand on her forehead. “John’s going to be on crutches for a while,” she said, looking over at her mother. “It’ll be easier for him to get around at home. I appreciate the offer, Neil, but your studio is a long walk from the main house. I don’t want him to slip and fall into the pool.”
At the mention of the pool, her brother’s face darkened and he looked away. A girl he’d planned on marrying had been murdered and dumped in his swimming pool the year before, sending him into a severe depression.
“You’re talking like an idiot, Rebecca,” John argued. “How are you going to kick Holden’s butt? I don’t mind staying at Neil’s place. It’ll be fun. At least I won’t have to worry about someone shooting me again.” He turned to his mother. “I’m not a baby. I’m not going to fall into the pool, Mom. Even if I do, I can swim.”
Carolyn held up a palm. “We’ll figure everything out tomorrow. Maybe by then the police will have arrested Holden. I’m too exhausted to think. You guys stay here with John. I’m going home to take a nap, shower, and change into some fresh clothes. I’ll call Veronica and see if she can pick Mother up in a few hours and drive her back to Camarillo, Neil.”
“What about me?” Rebecca said, flinging her arms out to the side. “
I have to go to school tomorrow.”
Carolyn’s patience was wearing thin. She couldn’t handle the bickering. “You need to stay here in case Holden comes around,” she told her daughter. “You know, so you can kick his butt.”
CHAPTER 26
Friday, September 22—8:15 P.M.
Carolyn ran into Marcus in the parking lot. “I bet you’re beat,” she said. “Did you get any rest today?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he told her. “I’m used to going without sleep. I know you don’t have a car, so I thought I’d come by for a visit, then give you a lift home.”
“My friend Veronica arranged to have a county car dropped off for me. I have the keys. Now all I have to do is find it.”
“Those pool cars are rattletraps,” Marcus said. “I have an extra car I can loan you.”
Carolyn laughed. “You’re right about the county cars. I was driving one a few years back, and the brakes went out on the freeway. I was lucky I didn’t get hurt. But, really, I’ll be fine. I’ll turn the car in tomorrow and use John’s Honda until I find out what the insurance company intends to do about the Infiniti.”
“Come to my house. Then you can decide,” Marcus said. “I’ll feed you. You need a change of scenery. You haven’t left the hospital in three days. Ride with me. You probably shouldn’t be driving.”
“Thanks, Marcus,” she said, touching his arm. “I need to go home and freshen up, maybe catch a few hours sleep.” She looked down at her clothes. Mary’s red murder shirt was ripped in several places. “I feel like these clothes are glued to my body, and they’re not even mine.”
“You can take a shower at my house,” he offered. “When you’re ready to go back to the hospital, we’ll swing by your place and you can pick up whatever you need.”
Sullivan’s Evidence Page 25