Patience, Poe.
Softly, he said, "I'm fine, Alison. I just need a little rest. Just like you. We both need to rest."
A long pause. Poe was about to give up.
Then she said, "So when do you think you can visit me?"
"Maybe in a couple of days."
"That long?"
"Maybe sooner. I'll do the best I can."
"I love you, Romulus. You know I love you."
"Take care, Alison."
"You're hanging up?"
She was whining. Poe lied, "They've got to draw some blood from me. I have to get off the phone."
"Will you call me back?"
"As soon as they let me. They're going to give me a sedative, which will knock me out for a couple of hours—"
"Don't take it!" she shrieked. "It's how they control you. What you do is pretend to swallow it, but then spit it out."
"Thanks for the warning. I've got to go."
"I love you, Rom."
"Bye, Alison. Take care." He hung up, heart-sickened by their conversation. A moment later, his phone rang.
"It's Dr. Braverman. You know, we monitor all our patients' phone calls."
"So I figured."
A pause. "You knew you were being taped? But you gave her instructions on how to get out."
"I knew I was being taped. She didn't." He was irritated. "She's in a mental hospital. You'd be derelict if you allowed her free use of the phone."
Another pause. "Oh."
"Besides, I'm a cop. We do the same thing."
"Are you having blood drawn now?"
"No. I'm tired. I wanted to get off." He sipped water from a glass. "You owe me. I got her talking."
Braverman said, "What are these murders that she's talking about? Is she making them up?"
"No. They're cases that her husband and I are working on. We work together—her husband and I."
"Who was murdered?"
"That's not really relevant."
"It may be relevant, Sergeant. Who is Brittany Newel? The one she claimed she spoke to?"
"A hooker."
"Could she have spoken to her?"
"Nothing is impossible. Is it likely? No."
"Was she her husband's mistress?"
Poe hesitated. Did Alison really know, or was it just a delusion? Because Jensen had claimed that Newel had been a oneshot deal.
Was he telling the truth? Was she telling the truth? Too much confusion. Poe said, "You know, I'm really tired."
"Could you find out if they were really an item? Because if they were, it might help us understand her delusions more clearly. Because all delusions have elements of truth."
"I understand your interest. But it's not in my best interest to pry into the personal life of my coworker." But Poe was going to pry. Because he had to make sure that what Alison had told him was indeed a delusion. "I need to rest, Doctor. Alison exhausted me."
"This attack that was made on her," Braverman went on. "Was it real?"
"I didn't actually see her being attacked. Just the outcome. But it looked real to me."
"So perhaps the actual attack set off the other delusions."
Poe's head was spinning. "Sounds logical."
Braverman said, "I've met Steve several times. I'm interested in your impression of him. It might help me understand Alison better."
Was she kidding? Poe said, "Doctor, I don't talk about my coworkers behind their backs."
"Don't you want to help?"
Poe repeated, "I don't talk about my coworkers—"
"I get the message, Sergeant." Braverman sighed. "We made a breakthrough. I'm just trying to follow it up."
We made a breakthrough? I got her talking, lady. All you did was listen.
"Follow up all you want, Doctor. As long as I don't have to talk about anyone, I'm willing to help."
"Just what is your relationship with Alison, Sergeant?"
"A very good question. I really need rest—"
"Sergeant, are you sure you're not using your illness to evade intimacy?"
"Doctor, I don't need illness to evade intimacy. I do it when I'm at the peak of health."
He hung up the phone, surprised by his own insight.
Not that the self-revelation would translate into any meaningful reform.
TWENTY-EIGHT
POE BROUGHT the mirror in front of his face. Three neat, parallel lines running down his neck, dipping under his jawline, and ending at his Adam's apple, all of it tidily raked like a Japanese rock garden. It felt worse than it looked. Or maybe that was the snakebite talking. It was hard to separate the two. Still, he was drunk with newfound freedom and grateful for being tube-free.
Dr. Guenswite had put down the scissors and the tweezers and was now lecturing Poe on how to keep the wound clean and how to change the dressing. A plastic surgeon, Guenswite was in his forties, his face Vegas bronze and his nails manicured pink and perfect. He wore a natty tie under his white coat. He spoke professorially. If Poe didn't want scarring, he'd have to keep the area covered when he was outdoors. Sunlight was the wound's worst enemy. Sunblock was not enough. He'd have to—
"I don't care about scars," Poe interrupted. "I'm not going around with a bandage on my face. It puts people off."
The surgeon spoke authoritatively. "I understand the inconvenience. But I caution you against acting in a rash manner. You may regret it later."
"I'm sure I will," Poe answered. "In the meantime, leave it uncovered and I'll take my chances."
Rukmani broke in, "Paul, could you give me a minute with your patient?"
The surgeon twisted his wrist, flashing a gold Rolex. "I'm on a tight schedule, Rukmani."
"You know, you're just about done. How about if I finish up?"
Guenswite liked the suggestion. He quickly charted his patient, then left, giving them both a toothpaste-white smile. Rukmani waited a moment, then said, "He's a dandy, but a damn good surgeon. And he's right about the scarring."
"I'm sure he is," Poe said. "Gimme a mirror again."
Rukmani complied. "You don't have to be wrapped like a mummy, Rom. A simple gauze bandage just to protect—"
"I thought you said it looks masculine."
"It looks like a baby version of Brittany Newel's wounds." She smiled. "Hey, where was Alison on the night of the murder?"
"Out," Poe replied. "How do I know? I've had Patricia check up on her behind Jensen's back."
Rukmani paused. "I was kidding."
"I know. But I wasn't. Am I supposed to slap some antibacterial cream on this?"
"I'll do it." Rukmani took a tube of ointment and applied it to her gloved fingers. She dabbed it gently onto Poe's cheek. Instinctively, he jerked away. One-time operant learning thanks to Alison's nails.
"Stings?" Rukmani asked.
"A little."
"Hold still." She smoothed balm over his wounds. "Do you honestly…suspect Alison?"
"As you said, the wounds are similar. But that isn't the only reason."
Another application of topical. "What is it, then?"
He waited a beat. "Alison is just too familiar with the cases. I know she hears Jensen talking over the phone. But even so, she just knows too much."
"For instance?"
"She knew that Jensen had had an affair with Newel. We kept that under tight wraps. Steve certainly wouldn't have told her. So how did she find out?"
"Wives have ways."
"She knew about our suspect's hat. She also knew her husband had owned a similar hat. Furthermore, she told me the man who assaulted her wore the same hat. If she was attacked. Alison has a vivid imagination."
"Didn't you see scrapes on her face?"
"They could have been self-inflicted. She might have done it to make her story more real or to get attention."
"Even if Alison did fabricate the entire incident, it doesn't mean she killed anyone, Rom."
"I'm not saying she did. But she knows something. Right now, I'm exploring everythin
g."
"Not that I'm defending the woman…can you tilt your head up?"
"Like this?"
"Perfect. Hold still." Gingerly, she applied ointment to his neck. "How would Alison have had enough strength to subdue and murder Newel? Drag her out to the desert? Newel wasn't murdered at the drop."
"She could have slipped something in Newel's drink—"
"The medicine would have kicked in quickly. Which means Alison would have had to drag Newel to her car. Then tie her up and mutilate her in a compulsive manner."
"My scratches look pretty damn compulsive."
"I thought you adored this woman."
"I have feeling, yes. But I'm not blind."
"Lower your head just a tad."
Poe complied. "Alison has always been different. So was I. If we were kids today, both of us would have been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. She has been diagnosed with OCD, as a matter of fact."
"Is she on medication?"
"Ruki, she's taken every kind of medication, had every type of therapy available. Everything has failed. Sure, there are times when she picks herself up, when she's almost normal. But they're getting fewer and much farther between. Right now, she's severely disturbed. I'm afraid she might have lashed out in a delusional state, thinking that Brittany was going to steal Steve away."
"If she lashed out specifically at Brittany, she had to have some kind of organized thought process going."
"Her shrink told me that delusions are often a mix of fact and fiction." He closed his eyes, feeling like a traitor. "I need you to do something for me. When Alison was at my house, she used my hairbrush. If I give you a sample of her hair, can you extract her DNA from it?"
"You're wondering whether her DNA matches the DNA of the skin scraping from Brittany Newel's nails."
"Exactly."
"It would be better if the hairs were pulled from the root. But, yes, it can be done. Especially with this new process of extracting the DNA from mitochondria. But it'll take time and money."
"Alison isn't going anywhere. Neither is Newel."
"What about Sarah Yarlborough? You want me to compare her DNA banding as well?"
"My opinion? The two cases aren't related. Yarlborough is Parker Lewiston's baby."
"You've found out something new?" Rukmani's eyes widened. "The grass underneath Yarlborough's nails! You've matched it to Lewiston's office! Good for you—"
"Not quite."
Rukmani stared at him. "So what do you have on Lewiston?"
"Nothing, actually."
"So…you're jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence?"
"Basically. But I'm right about this."
"Poe, why would Lewiston risk everything to kill a crack whore?"
"For the thrill of it. Or maybe it was a genuine accident. Everyone knows Parker has a thing for hookers—"
"Call girls," Rukmani corrected. "Sophisticated, beautiful showgirls that know how to service very wealthy men. Not crack whores like Brittany and Sarah. And if you think he did one, why not both?"
"You said the forensics didn't match."
"No, I didn't say that," Rukmani chided. "I said that superficially, the deaths don't seem related."
"Are you done with my face?"
"Just about." Rukmani capped the ointment and took out a cream. "You know, I've ordered DNA extractions from the transfer evidence pulled from both Yarlborough's and Newel's nails and vaginal swabs…see if anything matches up. Those results should be back within two, maybe three weeks tops. If you want to buttress your nonexistent case against Lewiston with some actual evidence, get me one of his hairs. I know you can't ask him for it. Maybe you can con a couple strands from his barber. The man does get haircuts."
"In order to process the hairs as indictable evidence, I need to take it directly from his head."
Rukmani said, "Well, if you get the samples, I'll send them off to the lab. When we get the results back, we can play mix and match. If you're willing to pay. No way I can justify ordering them to the county."
"No prob. I'll just dip into my readily accessible spare cash—"
"Don't play Hardluck Harry on me. I know you have mucho casino winnings squirreled away."
"More like had," Poe said flatly. "Mom doesn't have private medical insurance."
Rukmani was quiet. "She has Medicare, doesn't she?"
"Yes, she does. But you know these things, Ruki. Not everything is covered. Certainly not every doctor is covered. And at the time of treatment, you're not thinking in cost-analysis terms. Only what's best. Then you get the bills." He shrugged. "Hell with the money. Let's just get her healthy first. How's she doing?"
"Much better. She's starting to eat again. I think she even asked the nurse for a beer."
Poe smiled. "Never thought I'd say this. But I'm anxious to see her. How about if I move her to my place Sunday afternoon?"
"Great.
"Late afternoon."
"Putting it off as long as you can."
"You got it." He squirmed. "Aren't you done yet?"
"You really should let me put a bandage on. For protection as well as…aesthetics." She gave Poe the mirror. "Take a look."
The left side of his face looked like an oil slick with ski tracks running through it. "I'll grow a beard."
"I've never seen you with facial hair." She grinned. "Will it be as thrilling as my imagination leads me to believe?"
"Breathtaking." Poe laughed, then grimaced.
It still hurt to show emotion.
After signing a mound of discharge papers, he reached the Bureau by three in the afternoon. The two front-office secretaries—blue-suited Molly and black-slacks/white-shirt Brenda—gave him applause as he walked in. Each of them was trying not to stare.
"It'll heal," he assured their worried faces.
"You look great," Molly said.
"Terrific," Brenda agreed. "Very…masculine."
"A big dueling scar." Molly paused. "I don't think that came out right."
Poe smiled good-naturedly "Any messages while I was gone?"
"A few calls." Brenda handed him a thick pile of paper.
"A few?" Poe said, leafing through the stack.
"People care," Molly said.
"More like they want a favor."
Molly said, "Have fun, Sergeant."
Poe blew a kiss, then came into a near-empty squad room. After exchanging pleasantries with the other guys—who were also trying not to stare—Poe sat at his desk and busied himself in catch-up. One new homicide had occurred in his absence. A bar fight. Cut-and-dried.
The rest of the messages involved details and paperwork—court cases, files, evidence, witnesses, interviews. And a never-ending sea of phone calls. A couple hours later, he jumped at the tap on his shoulder.
Patricia asked, "Is this a ghost I see?"
Poe gave her a lopsided grin. "More like the creature from the black lagoon. Whaddaya think? Lon Chaney? Peter Lorre? Scarface?"
"You look great."
"Take pictures of my good side, baby."
Patricia pulled up a chair. "How do you feel?"
"Pretty good, actually." He drummed his desktop. "Got anything for me?"
She dropped her voice. "Alison's time frame."
Poe nodded, took out his pad.
Patricia skimmed her notes. "Here we go. On the night of Newel's murder, she went out to dinner in the early evening. Verified that from her credit card and the restaurant. The waiter remembered her. She sat alone, ate scampi and steak, and was very polite. Waiter said she tipped big, then left around…nineish."
Poe wrote in his notepad. "Go on."
"She didn't go directly home. But she made a phone call to her house at nine-fifteen. That I got from the phone records. She spoke to her father, who was baby-sitting." She cleared her throat. "That I got from him."
"Really."
"Yeah, Mr. Hennick was very nice, but…well, he seemed to be playing it pretty cagily. Why, I don't
know. Maybe he's trying to protect his daughter, maybe he honestly doesn't remember. It was a month ago."
"What did he have to say?"
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