by Diane Lawson
I took it.
He escorted me to the door. I told him I knew the way, but he said it was regulation. I clomped down the hall not giving a damn about the noise.
Teresa’s voice echoed behind me. “Vaya con Dios, Doctora.”
When I turned around, she was waving.
Slaughter wasn’t the only one to work me over that day. At 2:02, Renee lay on the couch, her arms folded over her chest, a red lipsticked half-smile on her face.
“It’s not that I don’t know what I’m thinking, in case you’re back there wondering. It’s just that it wouldn’t be very nice to say.”
Nice was a long word out of Renee’s mouth.
I braced for some catty observation of me. I ran my tongue over my teeth in search of a stray piece of spinach from the salad my housekeeper Ofelia had put together for my lunch. Nothing there. Perhaps Renee had heard another lurid detail of my marital problems.
“Say it anyway,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“That rich bitch killed herself.” She almost sang it. “That fancy Forsyth woman is just a stain on the sidewalk now, and one excellent piece of Alamo Heights real estate is up for grabs.”
The light went dim, and my body seemed to float off my chair. If I’d had words, I wouldn’t have been able to say them.
Renee needed no encouragement to continue. “I thought you might cancel today. I know you were seeing her. What does that tell you?”
My right hand balled into a fist. What was I supposed to say to that? Interpret some anxiety about my being able to take care of her? Confront the hostility toward me? In the end I said, “It might suggest that money can’t buy happiness.”
I should’ve known the backhanded criticism would be wasted.
“Maybe not for her,” she said.
“For you either.” Don’t let her distract you, I thought. Allison’s death has nothing to do with Renee’s problems. Keep focused.
“So, I was miserable married and rich. And I’m miserable now, divorced and poor. Believe me, it’s better being miserable rich. I’m sure it’s harder for you now that you only have one income.” She paused to see if I’d respond. “I know it’s none of my business,” she finally went on, “but Allison Forsyth’s suicide does make the point that you have no magic.”
I did some careful deep breathing. “Small children think their mothers have magic,” I said. The interpretation was a therapist cheap shot, but I needed some time. Renee never passed up a chance to talk about her childhood.
“Yes. My momma had the magic, and she gave it all to my little bastard brother. I hate her. I hate him. And I hate M. King Buchanan III and his I-talian slut wife. And if they all jumped off a big old building tomorrow, it’d be just fine with me.”
Analysts are charged to put themselves in the line of fire, to provide the target for the heat-seeking missile of the transference. I did it then out of duty, without enthusiasm. I did it because Freud was staring at me, and I wanted him off my back.
“Perhaps you left someone off that list,” I said.
“Don’t push it. Hanging around here is no better than hanging on Momma’s tit, hoping a drop will fall in my mouth. You cost me about five dollars a word last time I figured. And I’m going to miss one or two of them because I have to leave early. I got to put on my sweetest drawl to get some old bag of a rancher’s widow to list her Olmos Park estate with me.”
“You scheduled an appointment to cut into your session? You feel that you get so little already. Maybe this leaving early has to do with your fantasy about what happened with Mrs. Forsyth.”
“You think peons like me set the rules? Mrs. Ernest T. Stanley made it supremely clear that I was to be out of her drawing room in time for her Garden Club tea party. If you have anything else to say, you can save it for tomorrow. Maybe you’ll understand how it feels to get cut off.”
The exit door slammed so hard it bounced back open.
Slaughter did call that afternoon. The investigations so far, he reported, indicated nothing suspicious about either Howard’s or Allison’s death. He’d finally cornered Allison’s divorce attorney in the oak-lined parking lot of the elegant Argyle Club. According to the barrister, his client had tensed up a bit discussing child custody issues, but hadn’t indicated any extreme concern. He reported they’d had a “Jim Dandy visit.”
“Shows how well he knew Allison,” I said.
“He was her lawyer, not her shrink.”
I wanted to defend myself, but Slaughter wanted done with me. The idea that somehow Howard and Allison were murder victims had taken a malignant hold. Paranoia is a seductive state of mind. It makes sense of nonsense. Puts order into chaos. Offers control over the uncontrollable. And the biggest advantage of all is that the bad guy isn’t you. I needed Slaughter.
“If you won’t help me,” I said, “can you at least refer me to a private investigator?”
“Why don’t you talk this over with your husband?” Slaughter said. “He has a knack for analyzing this stuff.”
“That is not an option,” I said. “I want a private detective.”
“Do you refer dissatisfied patients to psychics? Most of those guys are con men. I know my business.”
“Some have to be better than others. I can use the Yellow Pages.”
I heard him breathe in through his mouth and out through his nose. “Look. Don’t tell anyone I did this. There’s a guy. Used to partner with me. Miguel Ruiz. Goes by Mike.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m warning you though,” he said. “Ruiz is a pistol.”
Chapter Eight
Ruiz’s place was just west enough on Dolorosa Street to make me wonder if my Lexus would be an invitation for trouble. In Chicago, I’d have taken a cab to an iffy location and paid the driver to wait. But cab use is rare in San Antonio except to and from the airport. I didn’t want to be dependent on an itchy cabby on the near west side, even if I wasn’t sure about finding the place.
As it turned out, Ruiz’ office would have been hard to miss. A beige Chrysler LeBaron sat, defying rush-hour restrictions, smack in front of his door. The ruckus generated by the angry line of backed-up morning traffic, honking and signaling frantically for lane change, clearly marked the spot. I drove past and parked around the corner.
I clicked the lock-door button twice on my key chain remote as I set off from the car, wincing at the realization that my anxiety had inspired me to adopt yet another of Richard’s irritating habits. I tried to carry myself in a no me moleste posture, but my espadrilles in combination with the heaved-up concrete slabs of a former sidewalk made it a challenge to keep from breaking my neck. If you want to feel like a second-class citizen, like a totally expendable commodity, try walking anywhere in San Antonio aside from the touristy RiverWalk. Most streets don’t have sidewalks. The existing ones need repair or are so narrow and flush to the street that you might as well just throw yourself under the wheels of one of the underused city buses and get it over with. This was just one of my peeves about Richard’s hometown that he got tired of hearing about.
Ruiz’s storefront was crammed between a desperate-looking insurance agency and a Latin grocery, neither of which was open. Since no one seemed to be watching, I peeked into the illegally parked LeBaron, wondering what kind of person would be so inconsiderate as to park there at that time of day. I’m a born snoop. Being a psychoanalyst just gives me a license for the habit. The backseat was piled high with papers, magazines and dry cleaning. The strong probability that the car belonged to the detective himself was not reassuring.
The bubbled film on the glass office door provided a sickly polka dot sea for the floating white vinyl letters:
MIGUEL J. RUIZ
Private Investigator
210-225-ISPY
Appointment Not Necessary
Bells tied to the inside handle of the door made a high-pitched jingle. The reception area held no receptionist. The décor was a jumble of indoor-outdoor carp
eting, a metal card table and matching folding chair. There were a few male decorative touches—mounted heads of a deer and another large animal I couldn’t identify (a moose maybe or an elk), a shelf of dusty high school athletic trophies and a Blanco Axle and Brake calendar frozen in March of the previous year. Magazines and catalogs covered the table—Sports Illustrated, Office Depot, Esquire, Guns and Ammo, Sharper Image, L.L. Bean.
Sharper Image?
“Hello?” I said.
The torso of Miguel Ruiz himself, or so I assumed, leaning back precariously in a desk chair, appeared in the doorway of the inner office.
“Yeah? Just a minute.” He waved me in, a phone receiver clamped between left ear and shoulder. “I’m on hold,” he said.
The room was small and oddly configured. The too-large desk was jammed perpendicular to the back wall, dividing the room in half. I had to squeeze by the end nearest the door to get to what seemed to be the visitor's corral. And then there were the boxes. If it hadn't been for the dust, I would have thought some cut-rate movers had thrown the load into the room two minutes before and split. The setting did not inspire confidence. I tried not to rub up against anything.
“Go ahead. Sit down,” he said, pointing to a folding chair in the corner that was stacked with papers. I recognized it as the other piece of the waiting room ensemble. “Put that stuff on the floor. No, on the box. No, other box. Thanks.”
He swiveled his chair away from me and stared into the reception room, chewing gum like too much depended on it. I did what I was told. Then for lack of anything better to do, I studied him. His head was shaved. He wore a green polo shirt that looked like it had been left in the dryer for about a week and a pair of corduroy pants that would be considered out of season in a San Antonio March, much less June. There was an exotic look about him that I couldn’t place. The name was Hispanic, but there was something else thrown in. Slavic maybe? His skin would have been dark if it had seen the sun. His black eyebrows were a tad too heavy, and he had a straight, angular nose that asked for trouble. His shoulders looked broad, which I found immediately reassuring.
I was enjoying that calming sensation when an air conditioner unit wedged into the one small window on the back wall kicked on and began chugging out dank air. In seconds, the whole place smelled of mold. My nose started running, and my mood flipped full spectrum to one of annoyance. I rummaged through my purse, looking for a tissue and a Plan B. I blew my nose for attention as much as need and gave Ruiz my most impatient look.
He held up the index finger of one hand and slipped on a pair of reading glasses with the other, continuing into the receiver. “What? I don’t think so. It says right here. ‘Valid until—’ Well, I’m sorry you don’t have that in front of you. I do. That’s not acceptable.” After a pause, he extended his arm, holding the phone receiver out like a gift. “The bitch hung up on me,” he said.
I noticed I was holding my breath.
“You the gal Slaughter sent?” he went on. “The psychologist?”
To my memory, I’d never been referred to as a gal.
“Psychiatrist,” I said.
“All the same to me.” He consulted a yellow legal pad. “Said you think someone is killing your patients.”
“I suggested it was a possibility. Detective Slaughter didn’t think there was quite enough evidence for his department to get involved.”
Mike turned his notes sideways, squinting at his writing. “Said to me he didn’t think there was a shred of it.” He looked at me over his glasses.
“This may have been a mistake,” I said.
“Don’t take it personally. Homicide is overworked.”
“I meant coming here.”
“Relax. Take some deep breaths. Use your abs. Let it out slow,” he said, demonstrating as he spoke. “I’ve been doing yoga for stress-management. Seems to help.” He did five rounds of noisy in and out before he picked up. “You might as well tell me about it. I don’t charge for the first visit.” A smile set off a web of crinkles around his eyes.
It had been a long time since someone had smiled at me. Seriously smiled. I settled into my chair. I’d registered that he had an uncomplicated sexiness about him, but right then it seemed it was just the semblance of kindly acceptance working on me. Miguel J. Ruiz, Private Investigator, was far from my type.
My mind muddled in response to the unexpected feelings. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Believe it or not, I’m a pretty clean slate around your kind of work,” he said.
“Well, I am a psychiatrist, but also a psychoanalyst. I treat people with personality problems. It’s intense work. I only have a few cases at any one time.”
He started doodling on the legal pad just like Slaughter had, making a series of quick little triangles that he then enclosed in boxes.
“I don’t mean to bore you,” I said.
His smile had thrown me. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to make everything alright. A heavy sorrow settled around my shoulders. I thought about Howard. I thought about Allison. About why I was there. I made myself sit up straight.
“Let’s go for the basics,” he said. “How many cases do you have?”
“I had seven. Now I have five.”
“You work part time.” He made a note.
“No. I do psychoanalysis. I see each patient five times a week.”
“You mean a month.”
“I mean a week,” I said. The room wasn’t particularly hot, but I broke out in sweat. “How do you charge, by the way?”
“Depends,” he said.
“On what?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes went back to his notes. He ran his right hand over his head. I wondered how his shaved scalp would feel. The clock on his desk was ticking. I noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. He put his left hand in his lap, as if he’d caught me checking.
We were both nervous. Mr. Ruiz, I suspect, was eager for a paying customer. As for me, I was holding myself tight, like too much was riding on my performance, back to the twelve-year-old me trying to grande jete across the floor to Monsieur Rodney’s review. Voila, Mademoiselle Nora, our careful dancer.
“So.” Mike finally broke the silence. “These people, these customers…What do you call them?”
“Patients. I’m a physician. I call them patients.”
“Whatever. They come to see you most every day? For weeks or months?”
“Years.”
“Years. So they must be wacko.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he removed his hand, I noticed that the eyes were blue. “Okay. And in two weeks two of them are dead.”
“Right. What are the odds?” I said. “Two of seven people.”
“Stranger things happen.” Mike waved his hand. “In my line of work, it’s all about patterns. About connections.”
“They were both my patients, and they both died on a Monday. A week apart. Don’t you think that means something?”
“Everything means something,” he said.
I felt myself blush. “I tell patients that all the time. It’s Freud’s concept.”
“Freud?” he said. “I thought he died.”
I was afraid he might be serious so I ignored the comment. “The problem,” I said, “is that no one knows who my patients are but me.”
“That makes you number one suspect,” he said in a voice too loud for the room.
“That’s absurd,” I said. “And you don’t have to yell.”
“That wasn’t yelling. That was emphasizing.”
We stared at each other for another while.
“Think about it.” Mike had softened his tone. “Who else might know?”
“Patients will occasionally see other patients in passing.” I was getting restless, starting to feel like I was wasting my time.
“Where’s your office?” he said.
“At my home.”
“Saves on rent. You wouldn’t believe what I pay for this place.”
&nbs
p; “It’s not about money. It’s about psychoanalytic tradition. Freud—”
“I’m sure that guy is dead. Saw it on some PBS deal.” Mike put both elbows on the stacks of paper on the desk and leaned in toward me. “Look, forget Freud for now. You suspect someone is knocking off a very select group of people. Okay. Who could be in a position to do this? And why would they want to do it?”
I didn’t care for the tone that was creeping into his voice. Too much like Detective Slaughter. Too much like Doctor Bernstein. Too much like Richard, for godsake.
“If what you say is true—and it’s a big if,” he went on, “you’ve pissed somebody off. I’m going to need something to work with. Who could see people coming and going from your office? Husband? Household help? Children?”
“I don’t see how this is getting us anywhere,” I said.
“It’s not about what you see. It’s about questions that need to be asked.” He seemed stone serious now. “Who has a grudge against you, Doctor? A crazy neighbor who resents your business traffic? A dissatisfied patient? Spurned lover?”
A tiny hiccup of a laugh rose into my throat and out my nose. I turned my head and glanced at the floor, Saltillo tile that hadn’t been polished in about a decade.
I closed my eyes. “I don’t tell anyone about my patients.” I enunciated each word clearly.
“So,” he said with a smile that bordered on a leer, “people would only know if you told them? I’m not a psychiatrist, but tell me if that’s not a little self-centered.”
I looked at the door, thinking I’d have to squeeze past him to get out of the room. In-Patient Psychiatry 101: Never let the patient sit between you and the exit. Know how to call Security. Keep the door open if you suspect the patient is violent.
“Okay,” I said. “My patients do see each other on occasion. Some of them know who the others are. San Antonio is a small town, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Not so small by my count,” he said, “but I include the brown people.”
“You know what I mean.”