Pragmatism was always a good ally.
Maryam stomped after him, then marched ahead of him, glancing over her shoulder with hot, angry eyes. “I am going to report you to your superiors.”
“I believe you, Doctor.” Oliver tried not to ogle her shapely ass. Not that he could see the outline all that clearly, because her dress was A-line. But it was red and it was sleeveless and that made it sexier than hell. Her hair had been pulled back into a bushy ponytail, showing off an oval face with mocha skin, slightly bumpy from a few acne marks. The imperfection only made her that much more attractive. Of course, her deep brown eyes and mother-thick red lips didn’t hurt, either. The nostril pierce, as small as it was, still bugged him. But hey, you can’t have everything.
For a brief moment, Oliver flashed on Cindy, probably because of Maryam’s forceful personality. He missed her in ways he dared not admit to anyone, least of all himself. But there were times when he lay alone at night in his bed, just thinking…. He had summoned up the nerve to call her several days ago, suggesting a friendly, nonpressured dinner. To his surprise, she accepted. That was supposed to have taken place tonight, but Tarpin’s murder changed all that.
Marge spoke to him behind the fast-paced Maryam. “We look for Holt first?”
“Yeah.”
Marge stopped abruptly. “He’s not a current patient, and we don’t know the Baldwins’ filing system. How about we try a truce?”
“Be my guest. I’m never one to anger beautiful ladies.” He reviewed some options mentally. “How about if I go through the desks in their offices first while you ask her about the files? Plus, dealing with Holt may work to our advantage because he’s not a current patient. She may have fewer problems with confidentiality.”
Marge jogged to catch up with Maryam, and tried out empathy. “Please wait a moment, Dr. Estes. Let’s talk this out.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“There’s a lot to discuss. Don’t you want to hear about it?”
No response, but Maryam halted in her steps. Folding her arms across her chest, she tapped an open-toe sandal, the red nails going up and down, up and down.
“First of all, I’m very sorry. This must be awful for you. Not only the Baldwins, but Mr. Tarpin as well. You can see why we feel there’s some urgency here. We’re doing this job first and foremost for your protection.”
Maryam stopped tapping. “My protection?”
Marge tried out a wide-eyed look of surprise. “Doctor, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. First it’s your bosses, then it’s Mr. Tarpin. Right now, we consider you at risk.”
Maryam was taken aback. “No one is out to get me.” Her voice wavered. “Why would someone be out to get me?”
“Why would someone be out to get Merv or Dee Baldwin? Or Hank Tarpin?” It was time for Marge to make her pitch. “I believe the answer is in those patient files.”
“I don’t agree.”
“With what?”
“That someone is out to get me! It doesn’t have to do with the practice. It has something to do with the nature camp—probably because of that man!”
“Tarpin?”
“Exactly!” She was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convert Marge. “The camp wasn’t my bailiwick. As I told you the first time, I primarily worked with Dee, doing testing and relaxation therapy for anxiety disorders.” Her jaw tightened, but now her eyes were nervous. “I actually had very little to do with Mervin. And nothing whatsoever to do with Hank Tarpin!”
“You didn’t like the man,” Marge stated.
“What in the world was there to like about him? He was a racist pig!”
“He made comments to you?”
She slammed her lips shut. “Not directly.”
“How about indirectly?”
“No,” she admitted. “But he was associated with that vile hate group.”
“The Preservers of Ethnic Integrity?”
“So you know about it.”
“Yes, Doctor, we do. Did Tarpin ever talk to you about it?”
“No, he didn’t. But that freak that Tarpin brought around sure spoke his mind!”
“Darrell Holt?”
Maryam was shocked. “Yes. Darrell Holt. Exactly! How did…”
“What do you know about him?” Marge tried to hide her excitement.
“What do you know about him?” Maryam retorted.
Turning a question into a question. Marge kept it short. “He was the local head of the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”
“That little freak had the nerve to insinuate that I acted like I did because I was ashamed of my heritage. That to get in touch with who I am, I needed to figure out what I was. As if you can hide being African-American. I am very proud of who I am and want my people to see me as a role model of what they can become. I was never so insulted in my life. I would have kicked him out on the spot, but then Dr. Baldwin walked in and the three of them went into the doctor’s office.”
“What did the three of them talk about?”
“I have no idea. I was so unnerved by the conversation that I went out on my lunch break!”
“Did you talk to Dr. Baldwin about it?”
She lowered her head. “No! I only spoke to that little freak the one time. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But I did tell Tarpin not to bring him around when I was here.”
“So Holt came around often?”
“Not often at all.” Maryam hesitated. “I saw him maybe three times in my eighteen months here.”
Three times. More than just an accident. Marge said, “How did Tarpin respond when you asked him not to bring Holt around?”
Maryam waited. “Actually, he sort of apologized for the freak’s behavior. He claimed that Holt was a bit outspoken but had his good points.”
“What kind of good points?”
“I never asked because I didn’t care.”
“Why do you think Holt was meeting with Baldwin?”
The question made her anxious. “I couldn’t imagine why. Except that Dee often…extends herself to disturbed people. She’s very ecumenical.”
“Dee was ecumenical,” Marge said.
“Yes. They both were.”
Marge regrouped her thoughts. Every time someone spoke about “Dr. Baldwin,” Marge assumed it was Mervin—a holdover from growing up a military brat. “Doctor” always meant a man. “So it was Dee who met with Tarpin and Holt?”
“Yes, didn’t I say that?”
“You didn’t specify which doctor,” Marge told her. “Did you know that Darrell Holt was a patient of Mervin Baldwin’s?”
Her face darkened. “Who told you that?”
“Tarpin did,” Marge answered. “Tarpin claimed that Holt saw Dr. Baldwin about eight years ago.” She made a face. “He also didn’t specify which one. In either case, Holt doesn’t appear to be a success story.”
Maryam said, “What school did he go to?”
“What school?”
“College. Do you know if Holt attended college?”
“Supposedly, he went to Berkeley. Why do you ask?”
“Because maybe Holt didn’t see Merv for behavioral problems. Maybe Holt saw Dee for college counseling. And if he got into Berkeley, then maybe he was a success story.”
Defending her bosses to the end. Marge said, “I was led to believe Holt was seen for behavioral problems.”
“Well, then, you know more than I do.”
“Why don’t we find out?” Marge suggested. “Why don’t we start by looking up Holt’s file?”
“From your questions, I take it you have grave concerns about Darrell Holt.”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
Now Maryam really looked worried. Her hand went to her throat. Suddenly, she appeared small and vulnerable with her bare arms and painted nails.
Marge said, “Maybe we should look at Holt’s file?”
Maryam nibbled a hangnail. “Follow me.” Taking out
a key, she unlocked a door that led into a six-by-eight windowless room illuminated by fluorescent light. It was lined with metal file cabinets. “This is where we keep our former clientele information.”
“Lots of files.”
Maryam didn’t respond. She jerked open the appropriate drawer and started sorting through the multitudes of Pentaflexes. Within minutes, she pulled out a skinny folder, then yanked the papers from the folder, flipping through the pages—three or four of them. Then she went back and started reading in earnest, heaving burdensome sighs as punctuation. Her hands were shaking.
“May I see the notes?” Marge asked.
“There’s nothing much in here, Detective.” Maryam seemed reluctant to let go. Perhaps she was hoping that the notes contained a magic bullet. “These diagnoses…” Another sigh. “They’re interchangeable with those of the thousands of other teenagers that have passed through these portals.” She hit the pages with the back of her hand. “Holt was seen by Mervin. He seemed to be a hostile teenager exhibiting oppositional behavioral problems. He also had an unresolved oedipal conflict with his father, stemming from his mother’s absence. Being as he was of mixed blood, he suffered with identity crises…and he had the nerve to accuse me—”
“May I see the papers, please?”
Maryam looked up; her face was covered in sweat.
Marge took the papers. “Maybe you should sit down, Doctor.”
“Perhaps that would be…” There was a small folding chair in the room. Maryam plunked herself down and dropped her chin to her chest. “I think I’m overreacting. I’m very suggestible.”
“It’s totally understandable,” Marge said. “Give me a moment to look at these papers, all right?”
As Marge scanned the notes, she realized that Maryam had been improvising. Baldwin didn’t believe in complete sentences, using abbreviations whenever he could. There were more single words and fragmented phrases than actual sentences. The first page was more like an appointment sheet, dates written in the left-hand column on grid-lined ledger paper. What looked like check numbers and the abbreviation FF were written in red ink after each date. No monetary amount was recorded, however. Several of the lines were inscribed with the word “progress,” but several others were marked with the word “regression.”
The actual notes were penned on blank sheets of paper. The first was titled FAMILY HISTORY—written in block letters with a red, felt-tip marker.
Intake by Father. Mother AB “out of picture by age ten” as quoted by F. Refuse to talk about it. Only child of Preston and Myna Holt. Accord to F, FT baby with norm Apgar, but F doesn’t know. Speaks of precocious child but F doesn’t know milestones…walking, speaking, toileting. Bhav problems started at 10, progressed into adolescence. Concomitant with AB of Mother?
F: cold, distant…very wealthy!
Marge said, “He mentions that the father was rich.”
“Let me see…” Maryam read the notes. “In this context, I believe Dr. Baldwin was presenting a psychological profile of a man more concerned with money than with his child.”
“It doesn’t say that,” Marge said.
“That’s because you have to know how to read between the lines!”
“If you say so.”
Marge read on to page two. More dates and check marks and FF. Some diagnostic notes:
Hos & Ang, unre ID crises with mix-race—M 1?2 black, unre OE con, origin; bad breast. Mother???? Deserted or removed????”
She pointed the abbreviations out to Maryam. “Translate for me, please.”
Maryam sighed again. “Hostile and angry, unresolved identity crises—mother was half-black, unresolved oedipal crises stemming from a bad-breast mother—that’s a Freudian way of saying a cold, unresponsive mother.”
“What does Baldwin mean by ‘deserted or removed’?” Marge asked. “Did the father kick the mother out or something?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Maryam stated. “Obviously, this was something that Dr. Baldwin was dealing with Darrell about.”
Marge said, “Is it unusual that the father refuses to talk about the mother?”
“Lots of men have communication problems. Usually…” Maryam made a face. “When a party is that resolute in his or her silence, it obviously means the situation was very, very painful—beyond the usual stress of divorce.”
“An affair?”
Maryam shrugged.
“Did the mother suddenly desert the family?”
“I couldn’t say. But it was obviously very traumatic for the father.”
Marge turned back to the ledger page. “What does FF mean?”
Maryam blushed. “I think it means full fee.”
She thinks.
“That would make sense,” Marge said. “It goes along with Mervin stating that the father was wealthy.”
Maryam looked away, not wanting to deal with the implications.
The next page of notes was more like scribbles, taken at varying times in different colored pens:
Anti-S bH shown by W, DU, isolation, long hours at the computer. Extreme oppositional behavior!!!!! Perfect for nature camp. Tkd to F: agreed for June session, FF.
Again, she showed the page to Dr. Estes. “What’s this stand for?”
The doctor looked at the chart. “Anti-S is antisocial. W is withdrawal. DU is drug use.”
“And what is oppositional behavior again?”
“Acting out,” Maryam stated. “Darrell Holt had a big behavioral problem.”
“And we’re back to FF again. This time Baldwin appears to mean that the father was willing to pay full fee for the camp.”
“Why are you begrudging Dr. Baldwin’s right to make a good living?”
Marge didn’t push it. “I’m sorry if it appears that way. I’m just trying to understand the man—”
“He was not in it for the big money. He could have made far more bucks doing the radio and TV talk-show circuit, but he refused to play that game because he and Dee felt it was unethical!”
Marge tried to appear convinced. Another page of notes with more abbreviations. An appointment set up to talk to the father about the nature camp.
On the last page—dated six years ago—the heavy block letters had been replaced. She noted the word “Harvard” scrawled across the page. Under it was a complete sentence: “SAT review set up for Saturday the 15th.” She showed the sheet to Maryam. “The handwriting changes.”
“It’s Dee’s. Obviously, she did some college counseling and test review therapy with Holt.”
Marge said, “And Dee set up a test review with him on that Saturday?”
“Yes, it seems like it.”
“What exactly is test review therapy?”
“A simulated SAT test. Then they go over the answers together, figuring out the best way to approach each question. It’s basically a one-on-one SAT review course.”
“There are courses on how to take the SAT?”
“Yes. As I recall, you spoke about having a thirteen-year-old daughter? You’ll know about these things later on.”
“What kind of questions do you ask?”
“Questions that Dee felt might be representative of the test.”
“Where’d they get the questions from? Past tests?”
“Some from past tests to be sure. But that’s not enough because everyone has access to past tests. Mostly, Dee formulated her own questions, based on her extensive knowledge of test-taking skills. Her seminars are designed not only to give her patients maximum exposure to typical test questions but also to teach a student how to take the test with minimum anxiety for maximum performance. And lest you scoff, take a look at Dee’s results.”
“I’m not scoffing at anything,” Marge said. “Lots of pressure, right? To perform well on these tests.”
“Unbelievable. Some of it is self-generated, but lots of it comes from the parents. They are vicious when it comes to their children. You’d swear that it was they who were applying. If their childr
en don’t get into the prescribed school, they take it as a failure on themselves.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “Because…unfortunately…they see their children as a reflection upon their own status. Lots of these parents didn’t go to any of the Ivies. So they want something better for their children. And those that did go, they feel their children should continue the legacy.” She licked her lips. “It’s a bit intense—”
“It’s nuts!” Marge said. “There’s life beyond college.”
“Not in this fiercely competitive world. You need an edge.”
“And this is what Dee Baldwin was selling?” Marge asked. “The edge?”
“She wasn’t selling anything! She was just helping kids reach their maximum potential!”
“You know what happens to a machine that runs full-tilt?”
“People are not machines!”
“But they do burn out. How much do these parents pay to get the edge?”
“They pay for the therapy and for the tutelage. It varies from child to child.”
“About.”
“Three-fifty an hour. About what lawyers make, and they do a hell of a lot more good than attorneys.” She kneaded her hands. “It’s not an easy task—fitting each child with the right university. Sometimes parents are insistent even if the odds are bad. You do your best with whatever raw material you have. Sometimes parents want miracles.”
“And what happens when they figure out you’re not a miracle worker? What happens to those cases?”
There was silence. Then she said, “Dee had a good success rate. She could always point to that.”
“Dee scribbled the word ‘Harvard’ on Holt’s chart. But Holt went to Berkeley,” Marge said. “Does that mean he didn’t get into the college of his dreams?”
“I have no idea.” Maryam hesitated. “Berkeley is a top school.”
“It’s not Harvard—”
“Actually, it’s better than Harvard in some departments.”
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