Fatal Analysis (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 2)

by Tom Bierdz

  “I’m good.”

  She stepped to the other side, bounced a few balls. “What should we play for?”

  “Winner’s choice.”

  “Mmm. You mean when I beat you I can decide what happens between you and me?”

  “For today and maybe tomorrow, not forever.”

  Smiling, she bit her lower lip, shaking her head, holding back her impulse to laugh.

  My face flushed for my asinine needless qualification. When would I learn to flow in the moment?

  “Volley for serve.”

  The volley was short as she tapped one just over the net when I was near the line. I hit her first two serves into the net and she was quickly up thirty-love. It took me a while to get my mojo up. Her forehand was fierce. She had me running back and forth across the court like a ping-pong ball. She played the net, but I hung in there winning points on lobs that barely stayed in bounds. She won the first set 7-5.

  “Good game,” she said, handing me a bottle of water from her bag. “You were only inches away from winning the set.

  I drank heartily, wiped the sweat from my face with a towel, and replaced my wet headband with a dry one. She had a sheen on her exposed body but wasn’t dripping wet like mine. “You’re as good as I remembered.”

  “You didn’t think I was lucky the last time?”

  “No, I thought I was better this time. You still beat me.”

  “You were better. Ready? Let’s change sides.”

  I won the second set 6-4. We played pretty even with long volleys and balls hit at precise points. Like the last time she was able to return any kind of shot with sizzling speed and accuracy. I won only because her serve was off and she double-faulted. It wasn’t a gimme. She was determined without the killer look and apologized for the one errant shot that buzzed by my ear.

  “I’m bushed,” she said, sweating like me when she congratulated me. “What say we forget the third set and call this a draw.”

  “No sweeter words were said.” I huffed and puffed. “So who gets their wish?”

  “I say we both do. What’s yours?”

  My eyes zeroed in on hers. “To spend the night with you.”

  She showed a full-face grin. “We’re in synch. My wish was the same.” We showered and met in the front.

  It was cool, but she rolled back the car top anyway. We were warmly dressed and it seemed by exposing us we were making a statement for the world to see, that we were together again. She drove slowly taking in the sights, passing by verdant parks with rolling hills, azure blue rocking lakes with sailboats in the distance, and peaceful residential neighborhoods. We jabbered non-stop; talking about nothing in particular, talking to reconnect. As we began the incline into her subdivision I fantasized how proud I would feel, motoring my Porsche up the winding roads through the picture-perfect palatial estates with their professionally manicured, landscaped yards.

  Remotely opening the wrought iron entry gate and garage door, Megan rolled her car into the garage.

  I hopped out, looked around the three-car garage. “Will there be space for my Porsche if I move in?”

  “Of course. I can move the car over a little and if we re-stack that patio furniture, there will be plenty of room.”

  “I thought your SUV was black,” I said, glancing at her huge Mercedes on the other side of the garage. “Now it looks maroon.”

  “Cinnabar red. I traded the other one in.”

  “They look the same.” My eyes remained on the utility vehicle.

  “Yeah, but it was last year’s model.”

  “You trade every year?”

  “Usually. Sometimes every couple of years.” She hit the button to close the garage door, began to walk toward the house.

  I followed. “Why do you need an SUV?”

  “For delivery. When I need to move something. It’s either that or a truck. I don’t see myself driving a truck.”

  “I’ve never seen you in the SUV.” I assumed any large delivery items were transported by servants. I closed the door behind me as we were both in the mud-room now.

  She untied her head scarf, shoved it into the sleeve of her brown leather jacket that she hung on a hook. “Anytime you want a ride in the SUV, let me know.” She finger-combed her hair. “You’re very inquisitive today.”

  “Well, if I’m going to move in here with you I need to know if there’s a place for my Porsche among other things.” I dropped my overnight bag on the floor and hung up my jacket.

  “Then let’s uncork a bottle of Dom Perignon and talk about the details.”

  “Scotch first. I’ll celebrate later.”

  “Start a fire. I need to use the lady’s room, then I’ll bring out the drinks.”

  I sauntered to the living room to the massive, two story, stone fireplace with the terrazzo hearth, stacked a pile of kindling on the grate and lit it, adding birch logs when the fire took hold. I sat on an ottoman watching the flames, reflecting on how something so beautiful could similarly warm and comfort or destroy. Was there a parallel with Megan? I had experienced both sides of her.

  Megan brought me my drink, taking me away from the hypnotic flames. “I missed you terribly.”

  She sat beside me, pushing me over with her hip.

  “You didn’t call.”

  “I would have in another day or two.”

  “You have more willpower than me. I couldn’t wait any longer. I was lost without you.”

  She gave me a squeeze. “Me, too. Let’s talk about some ground rules before we get carried away.” She sipped her martini. “I know you need to feel comfortable, so I suggest you keep your place for now should you need some space.”

  “I plan to.”

  She looked like she was about to say something but, instead, sucked in a swallow of air. She curved her lips in a smile. “For now we’ll just play it day to day. You want to add anything?”

  “No, long as you realize I’m still a little skittish, I make no long term commitment, and might need a little space once in a while.”

  “As long as you come back to me.” She gave me a seductive look, stood, and reached for my hand.

  I set my glass down, stood, and drew her toward me, kissing her passionately. As she pulled me toward the bedroom, I breathed, “And if it doesn’t work out?”

  “I’ll tell everyone how you sexually took advantage of me.”

  “You can add tonight to the list.” I threw her on the bed. There was a frenzy to our joining. It was as if our separation was too long and too much, filled with the realization that it could be over for good, and that this moment might never arrive. Now that it was here, we clung to it desperately and drained it of every last passionate drop.

  30

  For the first week I found my living arrangement with Megan to be mostly satisfying, but I still had that niggling feeling of discomfort; unease about something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Some of my anxiety was the typical kind of thing anyone who has been divorced, or hurt in a prior living arrangement feels in the beginning of a new commitment. Am I making the right move? Is this the right person for me? Will she continue to love me and accept me with my limitations after the newness wears off, or will she turn against me and hurt me? But there was more: raw fear, the kind that chilled my whole body, gave me the shakes and the sweats. It was the mean streak I witnessed, plus the warnings from Nick and Hanna.

  And, the visit from Detective Rollins found a way of creeping into my mind at the most inopportune times.

  One night when I was struggling with a nightmare, broken out in sweat, I told Megan it was because of Kevin. I lied, yet it was related in the sense that I haven’t been able to trust my instincts since he killed himself.

  This particular morning, like the others, Megan dropped me of
f at the office. The day began in typical fashion. My patients came and went, then in the middle of the afternoon Bobby informed me that Detective Rollins was here to see me. My stomach flipped and I steeled myself behind my desk as I watched him stroll into my office, a happy-to-be-the-bearer-of-bad-news, sardonic grin on his battered face.

  “Your boy said you’d have some time to talk to me,” Detective Rollins sneered, turning the good side of his face to me, a habit I assumed developed after his cheek bones had been crushed.

  I wanted to choke Bobby for not warning me beforehand. “Sure, Detective, take a seat.” I tightened up, tried to camouflage my revulsion with a wan smile. “Apparently, you haven’t put the theory of foul play behind you, or did you come to apologize?”

  Rollins sat in front, dropped his elbows on the desk and glared at me. “I thought doctors were all for the truth. You know, the truth will set you free, as they say. One truth for sure, you and Miss Fatal Attraction are an item.”

  “Yes, Miss Wilshire and I are seeing each other. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “Living together is what I would call it.” He said, smirking like he pulled one over on me. “Sometimes referred to as an LTA, a living together arrangement.”

  I flinched. How would he know that? My move in was recent. Am I being watched? “Like I said, that’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He picked up a paperweight on my desk, a palm-size stone with the word, create inscribed; played with his lower lip with his other hand as he studied it; then glared at me while he set it down. “I thought it was unethical to sleep with your patients.”

  “She is not, and never was, a patient. As I told you before, she came in for help to prevent her sister’s suicide.”

  “Creatively inspiring like your stone. A rose is a rose is a rose.” He leaned back, an acrimonious grin spread upon his face. “My father used to say, you can tell the true character of a man by how he conducts himself, by how he stays true to his principles.”

  Seething with anger, I felt my whole body tighten. I wanted to smack that pompous bastard. “I’m not going to sit here and be insulted, Detective. Either you get to the point as to why you’re here or get out!”

  He locked eyes with me, gradually erased the smirk from his face. “I’m still not convinced Sasha was a suicide.” He rose, ambled over to the Final Analysis poster, not so subtly reminding me of the parallel he made during his last visit, comparing me and Megan to Richard Gere and Kim Basinger. “We found a couple of Zoloft pills under the bed.”

  “So she dropped some.”

  “Maybe. Seems a little far-fetched that someone who wants to kill herself drops pills. Usually, I would think, the victim directly swallows them from the bottle, or dumps them into her hand and swallows the bunch.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “Detective, you’re not considering the person’s frame of mind. She’s nervous. Even if she’s determined to end her life, she’s scared. There’s no going back. No changing her mind once she takes those pills. Her hand shakes. She drops a couple of pills and they scatter under the bed.”

  He nodded, pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “I might find your explanation reasonable except for the fact that she left no fingerprints on the pill container. Tell me, Doctor, how does someone take the pills from the container without leaving fingerprints? She wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  Speechless, I froze in mid-motion like a toy whose battery stopped working. I didn’t have an answer.

  “The only thing I can figure is the killer had her fingerprints wiped off and in the process, wiped off the victim’s too.”

  “I have to admit I’m stumped, Detective. There has to be an explanation but I don’t have one at the moment.”

  “Think about it and if you come up with one, call me. I aim to get to the bottom of this, Dr. Garrick. I think your girlfriend did it. I don’t know if you’re a partner, maybe, even the master-mind, or if you’re simply an innocent pawn.” He started to walk away, then sidled back, moving closer, his eyes taking me apart. “I still think it’s more likely you’re the innocent pawn. If so then I advise you to get the hell out of there while you can.”

  I felt a surge in my stomach as I watched him walk away, and nearly choked on the bile that rose to my throat. I couldn’t rationally dismiss the facts as the detective presented them. I knew I would exhaust my mental capacity searching for an alternative reason Sasha’s fingerprints were not on the Zoloft vial, but I’d be unlikely to find one. The free-floated anxiety that had haunted me suddenly coalesced into a leaden feeling of dread. I had to move out of Megan’s house. I had to extricate myself from Megan.

  “You’re rather distant this evening,” Megan said, setting down her fork.

  We sat around the dinner table eating salmon on expensive china with a blue fleur-de-lis pattern that Margot had prepared. Megan was decked out in her pink lounging pajamas and had romantically lit candles and filled the room with soft mood music.

  I wasn’t feeling very romantic and had been picking on my salmon. I wasn’t hungry. I forced a smile. “Preoccupied. Uh...a fragile patient...possibly suicidal. Maybe I should have hospitalized her.” I was preoccupied, not with a patient, but with my meeting with Detective Rollins. Maybe I was suicidal remaining in the home with Megan.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “God, no! I want to forget about it.” I couldn’t stop thinking about the vial without fingerprints, nor come up with a satisfactory explanation that erased any suspicion from Megan. Yet, I needed more time to sort it out in my mind before confronting her. If Sasha was murdered someone else could be the killer. Nick? Anyone else? If Megan is innocent and I falsely accuse her, I’ve put a kink in our relationship that would be hard to recover from. My breathing was labored. I was in the heart of a dilemma. My fear quotient was rapidly rising. I couldn’t stay in the house with her tonight with what I knew.

  “You’re looking pale. Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m a little under the weather. I think I need to stay at my place tonight.”

  Megan’s face and eyes were impassive. She stared at me for several long seconds, then with a weary, troubled sigh, she lowered her eyes to her wineglass.

  My heart thrummed. I tried to imagine what she was thinking and hoped she remembered our bargain.”

  “If you must,” she said, lifting her head. “You’ll take a taxi?” “Yes,” I muttered, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.

  “Lock the door on your way out.” She stood, turned away and left the room.

  I heard her march up the stairs.

  31

  Right after I called for the taxi, I called Carrie. I needed to talk to someone and I didn’t want to be alone. Her voicemail said that unless the call was an emergency, or was related to the Benson murder trial, she wouldn’t return the call. I didn’t leave a message. She needed to prepare for the trial. I considered calling Bobby or Hanna but didn’t for a variety of reasons. Then it struck me that I could go to the Mariner’s game. It would be a distraction and I wouldn’t be alone. My watch said it was almost game time, but it wouldn’t matter if I missed the beginning. I called Bruce to see if I could get a ticket. He’d see what he could do and call me back. I was seated in the taxi when I got the call. Bruce had left two tickets for me at the box office.

  Two? I hadn’t thought of bringing anybody but now that I had the extra ticket I should take Greg since I promised him. I called Carlos, arranged it, and directed the cab driver to the group home.

  Greg was delighted. The Mariners were playing their nemesis, the Angels, and we had box seat tickets on the first base side a few rows from the front. We arrived in the third inning. The game was scoreless. Although we had both eaten, if you can count what I ate at Megan’s, that didn’t stop us from grab
bing a hot dog and a soda for Greg, a beer for me.

  The score was two-all in the seventh inning. After our seven-inning stretch, Greg felt comfortable to ask me, “Do you have the pictures?”

  “What pictures?”

  “The ones you were going to have developed?” Seeing my blank expression, he added, “The photos I took of the eagles by the house where the lady killed herself.”

  “I thought you were developing those.”

  He frowned, fought to contain his impatience, his voice rising an octave higher. “No. Remember I told you that mom ruined my dark room and that I didn’t want to go back there anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, Greg, I didn’t remember. I guess I’ve got too many things on my mind. I’m afraid that’s not a very good excuse, but the only one I got.” I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten to do that. I knew I wasn’t always running on all cylinders, especially lately, but processing the photos seemed pretty basic. “That seems so long ago. Why didn’t you say something before?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I didn’t know if I should.”

  The crowd erupted when our leadoff batter doubled by slugging a ball off the fence. When the sound diminished, I continued, “I thought our relationship was stronger, that you’d feel free to ask me things.”

  “I know I can talk to you about me, but I didn’t know if I could...”

  “...question me. “ Was the problem with him or me that he wasn’t comfortable enough to ask me earlier? “Healthy relationships should be give and take. You should feel free to ask me anything. If I don’t want to answer, or think your question is inappropriate, I’ll let you know. Wanting to know about the film is entirely reasonable. You’ve showed extraordinary patience. When we get back, give me the film. I’ll get those photos developed right away.”