False Allegations b-9

by Andrew Vachss

  And another…

  Most things in life are all a matter of perspective. How you look at something is more important than what you're looking at. You've seen this for yourself, haven't you, dear?

  All the same…

  Remember, Jennifer, your feelings are your own. They are private, special things, unique to you and you alone. And you are always entitled to them. They are always yours. The best things in life are always investments. You have to wait for them to pay off. And this takes patience. I know things are hard for you now, but they'll get better, I promise.

  I thought about promises. In the hands of an expert, they're like razor cuts—so sharp the target never feels them until he sees the blood.

  And when the target trusts you enough, sometimes he doesn't even see the blood. Until it's almost all gone.

  I rented a bronze Taurus sedan at the airport and used the City Planning Commission maps to find him. It wasn't hard—the house was in Brother Jacob's name, and I had a pretty good photo that came with the file Kite had given me.

  A pearlescent orange Jeep chugged up next to me at a light. The sun blazed on the Jeep's wheels—masterpieces of sculpture with hand–set centerpieces, gold–plated. A set like that can set you back a few thousand dollars. Useless—you're paying for the flash. Like two–hundred–dollar sneakers. And like the ultra–sneakers, there were more people stealing them than working for them. And not even real stealing—the robot mutant psychopaths don't have the brains to boost a car or shoplift some shoes, so they rough it off face–to–face. Your stuff or your life—either one gratifies the urban punk killing machines.

  It was late afternoon by the time I found the place. A freestanding house of weathered white wood on a short block in what looked like a middle–class neighborhood with aspirations. A matching one–car garage stood at the end of a driveway, no fence around the small front yard. The house looked well tended, but whoever owned it wasn't obsessive about it—the lawn could have used a trim and one of the trees had branches that wouldn't last through the fast–coming winter.

  I parked across the street and settled in to watch. A trio of kids flew past on fat–tired trail bikes, shouting each other's names. A woman walked by with a chocolate lab on leash. It was an active block, probably had its share of housebound watchers too. But I wasn't worried about it—if I got out of there without being arrested, the license plate would dead–end with the Stanley Weber ID.

  I pulled around the corner and waited. It stayed quiet until evening dropped black–edged gray over the block. Lights snapped on in houses as kids went back inside. Suppertime. I dialed the number I had for Brother Jacob on the cellular phone I'd brought with me. If a housekeeper answered, I'd have to think of another way.

  "Hello?" A man's voice. Middle–aged but vigorous without being aggressive.

  "Could I speak to Brother Jacob, please?"

  "Speaking."

  "My name is Weber, sir. Stanley Weber. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time. I—"

  "I don't ever respond to telephone solicitations," he said. "If you'd like, you can mail—"

  "This isn't a solicitation, sir. I'd like to talk to you about a matter of mutual interest. In a way, I guess you're right: I am a salesman. But what I have to sell isn't to the general public—you're the only one who would be interested, I think."

  "I don't understand."

  "I could explain better in person, sir. I have some documents you might be interested in purchasing."

  "Documents?"

  "Yes. I'd rather not go into it on the phone, if you don't mind. I believe it's in your interest that we speak. Privately."

  "Look, I don't know who you—"

  "It concerns a former…student of yours, Brother Jacob. A young lady. Miss Jennifer Dalton."

  The phone went silent, but he hadn't hung up. I listened to him breathing—I couldn't tell if the hook was set. Finally he said, "I'm not sure what you're talking about, actually. But if you would like to—"

  "Just a few minutes of your time, sir. At your convenience."

  "Yes. Very well. Do you know where I—?"

  "I can be at your house in, say, fifteen minutes. Would that be convenient?"

  He went back to breathing again. Then: "All right. But I don't have a lot of time. I'm expecting—"

  "I'll be right over," I said, cutting the connection.

  I gave it ten minutes. Then I locked up the car and walked around the corner to the white house. The door was painted a dull red, with a switch for the bell set into its center. I turned the switch to the right and heard the ding–dong sound inside.

  A medium–height white man opened the door. He had thick dark hair set unnaturally low on his forehead. A toupee, and an expensive one. He was about my height, with a soft round jowly face, and he wore a red flannel shirt over a pair of old putty–colored corduroy pants, brown blunt–toed brogans on his feet. His eyes were pale blue, set deep into their sockets.

  "Mr.…" he said.

  "Weber," I finished for him. "May I come in?"

  My midnight–blue suit and white silk shirt reassured him slightly, but he still looked spooked. Maybe because I wasn't wearing a tie.

  "Uh…certainly," he said, stepping aside.

  The living room was just past the foyer, furnished in what I guessed were antiques: heavy, solid dark wood, light chintz upholstery. I took the couch. He thought about sitting next to me, then passed in favor of a straight chair with padded arms.

  "You said…"

  "Jennifer Dalton," I told him again, looking at his mouth, avoiding his eyes. I was there as a salesman, not an interrogator. "I have some…documents which I thought might be of interest to you."

  "Documents?"

  "Letters," I said gently. "Your letters, I think."

  "Why would you…?"

  "Miss Dalton has been seeing someone. A therapist. In the course of their…work together, she brought the letters in."

  "I don't understand," he said, his voice fibrous with tension.

  "It's quite a common thing," I said smoothly. "When a patient is trying to…recapture their past, a therapist often asks for…keepsakes. To reconstruct events."

  "But I don't—"

  "I understand," I told him. "Maybe this was a bad idea. If I wasted your time, I apologize."

  "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "I don't know. I mean…I can't say."

  "You tell me," I said, opening the black aluminum attaché case and taking out one of the letters. I handed it over to him, then busied myself looking through some other papers, keeping my eyes down.

  He took the letter. I could hear him turning the single page over in his hand. "This is…this appears to be, something I…might have written a long time ago."

  "Yes."

  "A letter of encouragement. To a young woman with many personal problems."

  "Yes."

  "Why would you have this?" he asked, breathing through his mouth.

  "I'm a businessman," I said. "I have my finger in a number of pies, so to speak. Therapists aren't very well paid. And this particular therapist happens to owe some money. Not to American Express…to some people who are very impatient."

  "I…see. Is this the only one you have?"

  "No. I have them all," I told him. "There's eleven all told."

  He cleared his throat. Swallowed hard. Then: "If I wanted these…letters, it would be to spare the possibility of….oh, I don't know, unnecessary embarrassment."

  "If you have the money, there doesn't have to be any embarrassment," I said quietly. "Not for anybody."

  "It's very easy to make copies—"

  "They're no good," I lied. "Without the originals, they're meaningless. No professional document examiner would ever—"

  "Document examiner?"

  "Like they use in court," I said, watching his face. "The important thing about…some letters is the date," I said. "There's no date on any of the letters. And you can't tell the date from a photocopy.
You can't test for the age of the paper, the ink won't—"

  "I understand what you mean now," he interrupted.

  "Do you want the letters?" I asked.

  "I'm…concerned," he said. "A therapist shouldn't—"

  "I agree with you, Brother Jacob. I make no apologies for my own position. Like I said, I'm a businessman. And the people I represent, they're business people. A therapist does have certain…obligations. Sometimes a person is obligated in more than one direction at the same time—I'm sure you understand. Let me see if I'm following your chain of thought," I said, gentling my voice. "You might be interested in buying back these letters so you can show them to Miss Dalton yourself. So you can prove this therapist to whom she entrusted her deepest secrets is actually not acting in her best interests. Is that about right?"

  "Yes," he said. "That is right. Exactly right."

  "Good. I won't waste your time in meaningless bargaining, Brother Jacob. This isn't a question of whatever 'value' the letters may have. After all, it's a question only of what the therapist owes my…employers."

  "And that is?"

  "Twenty thousand dollars."

  "That's impossible!" he blurted out. "I don't have that kind of money."

  "Well, we would have no way of knowing that, would we?" I asked reasonably. "Because you're the only…market for these particular items, it's not as though we could put them out for bids."

  "I understand. I mean…I know what you're saying. But I don't see how I could…"

  "That's up to you," I said, holding out my hand for the letter.

  "Is it possible to…compromise?"

  "I'm afraid not," I said, still holding out my hand. "I'm a salaried employee, Brother Jacob. I don't work on commission. If it were up to me, I'd do something about the price. I know why you're buying the letters, and I admire you for it. Not many people would spend a lot of money just to help someone else out. But there's really nothing I can do."

  "What are you going to…?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all. We'll explain to the therapist that there's no value in the letters. The money will have to come from someplace else. My employers thought it was worth a plane ticket to see if there was another possibility, that's all. I hope you don't feel I wasted your time."

  "No. Not at all," he said, still holding the letter.

  "Brother Jacob…," I said, looking directly into his eyes.

  He cleared his throat again. "Is there a way I could…pay it gradually?"

  "Of course," I said. "You could pay for each individual letter. But if you wanted them all delivered at once, certain…security would be required."

  "Security?"

  "My employers are very serious people," I said. "These are not things you put in writing—it's a matter of honor, you understand? You give your word—you keep your word."

  "Yes, of course. But if—?"

  "There is no 'if,' Brother Jacob. Except for this one: If you want the letters, I am authorized to agree to a time–payment plan. Say five hundred dollars a month."

  "I…believe I could do that."

  "For fifty months."

  I could see the gears turn in his head for a few seconds. Then: "Fifty! But you said twenty thousand. Fifty times five hundred would be…twenty–five thousand."

  "That's the business my employers are in," I said, my voice going flat and hard, driving out the reasonable tone I'd been using. "Lending money. The therapist borrowed a bit less than the twenty, but it's gonna cost twenty to get square. You want to pay this off, you're borrowing twenty. It's gonna cost you some juice to get square too, okay?"

  "I…how would I…?"

  "In cash," I told him, letting him hear the jailhouse and the graveyard in my voice. "Once a month. We can have somebody come by, pick it up. Or they could meet you, anyplace you say."

  "How do I know…?"

  "Like I said, the letters aren't worth anything to us. You can have them all, up front. How's that?"

  "That seems…fair."

  "We operate on good faith, Brother Jacob. Like I said: We trust you with our money; we trust you to keep your word."

  "All right."

  "I appreciate it," I said. "You keep that one. I'll be back in a couple of weeks with the rest. I hand them over to you, you give me the first payment. After that, once a month, okay?"

  "Yes."

  "Thanks for your time," I said, getting to my feet.

  He didn't offer to shake hands.

  Wolfe was waiting in the parking lot, standing next to her old Audi, the Rottweiler by her side on a loose lead. As I approached, the baleful beast snapped to attention, glaring at me with his dark homicidal eyes.

  "This is her," I said, handing over a copy of everything I had on Jennifer Dalton.

  "You talk to her yourself?" she asked.

  "Yeah. And she rings righteous. At least for now."

  "We'll take a look."

  "Thanks. One more thing. Those addresses you gave me? The co–ops Kite owns. Can you get me a tenant list?"

  "How deep you want to go?"

  "Far as you can. How they pay the rent, canceled checks, leases, anything."

  "Neighbors too?"

  "Be careful you don't spook—"

  "We know what we're doing," Wolfe cut in.

  "I know," I said by way of apology.

  A pair of elderly ladies strolled by arm in arm, steps slow but eyes alive. Pals, glad to be with each other.

  "Look, Rosalyn," one said to the other, pointing at Bruiser, "isn't that one of those Wildenheimers?"

  "Well, I think so," her friend said, raising her eyebrows at Wolfe.

  "That's right," Wolfe told her, a merry smile on her face.

  "Are they good watchdogs?" Rosalyn asked.

  "Oh, very good," Wolfe assured her.

  "That's good, dear. A young woman in this city needs protection these days. You can't be too careful."

  The two old ladies moved on, yakking away. "A Wildenheimer?" I said to Wolfe.

  "That's a Jewish Rottweiler," Wolfe smiled at me. "Don't you know anything?"

  "You know anything about the Gospel of Job's Song people?" I asked the slim, hard–featured man. We were in a gay bar just off Christopher Street, talking in the four o'clock dead zone between the lunch crowd and the evening mating dance.

  "The Psalmists? Sure. They're not with us exactly: homosexuals aren't really welcome in their hierarchy, and none of us serve as ministers. Not openly, anyway. But when it comes to AIDS, they're right there. I don't care for a lot of their doctrine—hell, I don't care for any doctrine—but they stand tall against that 'God's punishment' obscenity."

  "You ever have any dealings with them?"

  "Not personally."

  "Okay. Thanks for your time."

  "Tell Victor I said hello," the man said.

  "I don't like the hypnosis piece," I told Kite.

  "Not to worry," he said smugly. "We're on all fours with Borawick."

  "What's a Borawick?"

  "A case, Mr. Burke. The proverbial 'federal case,' as it turns out. The Second Circuit set the standard just last year. It's not a rigid formula—they use the so–called 'totality of the circumstances' test. But the factors the court must consider are all in our favor."

  "Tell me."

  "Very well. Borawick was the same set of facts: hypnotically refreshed memories of child sexual abuse recovered from an adult who entered therapy for what she thought was an unrelated problem. That in itself is one factor: why the subject underwent therapy in the first place. Then the court will consider the hypnotizability of the subject, qualifications of the hypnotist, the procedures utilized, and any corroborating evidence."

  "Which we have."

  "Yes. In spades. But the most important issue is whether any suggestions were implanted."

  "How could any court tell that?"

  He templed his fingers, gazed at me over the steeple. "The key is whether there was a permanent record of the hypnosis itself."
>
  "And…?"

  "Heather," Kite said, a tone of triumph in his voice.

  Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. I heard a cabinet being opened, the sound of snapping plastic. I felt her come up behind me. She gently placed a standard audio cassette into my lap and stepped back.

  "I presume you have an adequate machine available?" Kite asked.

  "Sure."

  "What you have is a copy, Mr. Burke. I plan to introduce the entire history of Miss Dalton's sessions into evidence. And then I shall step back and simply say what I have waited to say all my life as a lawyer: res ipsa loquitur."

  He raised his eyebrows, but I didn't take the bait. "It's Latin," he said. "It literally means 'the thing speaks for itself.' And the tapes do. Eloquently, I assure you. And, unlike Borawick, in which the refreshed testimony was not allowed, our hypnotist is not some amateur with a high school education and no formal training who didn't keep adequate records. In our case, Mr. Burke, if you will remember, the hypnotist was a psychiatrist. And a psychiatrist who not only kept written records of his sessions; they were all preserved exactly as they occurred. If ever one searched for the classic case to rebut the so–called 'False Memory syndrome,' one could not do better than what we have."

  Most investigators don't even know what the word means. You stop the cops from using informants and the only crimes they'd ever solve would be those by deranged postal workers who come to work once too often. There're plenty of well–meaning amateurs, but they run around like headless chickens on crystal meth. Private eyes? They're mostly ex–cops with some contacts. Or find–out–if–your–husband–is–cheating–on–you keyhole peepers. Or hypertech guys who know all about code–grabbers and digital scramblers but don't get the concept of tire irons and duct tape.

  I don't have a license, but the humans I learned from were the best teachers in the world. You want someone to find secrets, use a man who has plenty of his own.

  When games have no rules, they're only games to the players who made them up. I never made up the games, but they made me a player. When I was just a kid: ugly secrets, dark corridors, terror around every corner. I learned how to hide real good. And now it's real hard to hide from me.

  Plus I was working my own city. Where I know how to find the best slip–and–slide men in the world. The Prof might have lost a step—maybe he wasn't up to bank vaults or high–security buildings anymore—but he could still go in and out of a regular apartment house like smoke through pantyhose.