by Andrew Kane
“So I gather,” Cheryl said. She waited a beat, then added, “I take it things were different when Katherine was alive.”
Savitri looked at her, seeming to realize how difficult it must have been for her to broach this subject. “Katherine was very different,” she said sadly.
“I’m sorry…”
“No, no, no. There is nothing to be sorry about. Your curiosity is natural.”
Cheryl thought for a moment. “It’s hard to ask Marty about her.”
“I’m sure it is.”
From the den, Ashok called, “Savitri!”
“We’ll be right there,” Savitri answered.
“The two of you were friends?” Cheryl asked.
“We were the best of friends.”
“She must have been quite a woman.”
Savitri looked sad. “And from everything I can see, so are you,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Savitri put her hand on Cheryl’s shoulder. “Come, let’s join them.”
“You’re awfully quiet,” Martin said, his eyes glued to the road in front of him. It had been a few minutes since they’d left the Reddys’ house.
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Things.”
They came to a red light. He turned to her. “You’re being cryptic.”
“Is that what you say to your patients?”
“When I have to.”
She smiled and pointed to the light. “I don’t think it’s going to get any greener.”
He grinned and started driving again. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“I was just thinking about us.”
“What about us?”
“Nothing in particular. Just about where we are headed, I suppose.”
“And where is that?”
“You tell me.”
“Right now, we’re on our way to your place.”
She hit him in the side.
“Sorry, bad joke,” he said.
She waited for a better response.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly, “but I’m really enjoying it. I haven’t enjoyed anything this much in a long time.”
She put her hand on the back of his neck. “Neither have I.”
He thought for a moment. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay,” she said, trying to contain her apprehension.
“Before I met you, I had met someone else.”
Her nerves relaxed. She had thought he was going to reveal whatever he had seen in her apartment the night he had acted strangely.
“I was in Chicago,” he continued, “at a conference, giving a paper.”
“Was she a psychologist?” she asked, trying to conceal her jealousy.
“Yes, from San Francisco.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No. That’s sort of what I wanted to tell you. I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what?”
He pulled the car to the side of the road and looked at her. “I couldn’t sleep with her.” He hesitated, then added, “I couldn’t sleep with anyone.”
She was wordless, struck by a strange amalgam of gladness, guilt and trepidation. She was the one, the only one, since the death of his wife.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said.
“I know,” she responded, moving toward him. She placed her lips on his, wishing that everything else would somehow disappear. But inside, her anguish grew, knowing that he, too, was the only one for her, and that she was destined to lose him.
chapter 38
Dan Gifford stared at Martin Rosen for a good while without saying anything. It was hard for him to admit the need to be back in this room again, but he was resigned to the fact. For now, he couldn’t go it alone.
Martin looked concerned and seemed to be waiting for Gifford to start. An explanation would be the first step, Gifford knew, not only for Martin’s curiosity but also for therapeutic soundness. There could be no skirting or avoiding the point.
“I’m surprised you didn’t call me,” Gifford said.
“Surprised or offended?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose you guys have ways of handling these things. Like, protocols that tell you under what circumstances you should or shouldn’t call a patient.”
“There are rules, but to me it’s an individual thing. I was going to call you, eventually, but thought it best to give it a while. You obviously had your reasons for doing what you did, and I didn’t want to push just yet.”
“I understand.”
“Which gets us to the next thing: your reasons. What were they?”
“My reasons for quitting, or returning?”
“Both.”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time.”
Gifford hesitated. He understood that he had to come clean. He had considered Schwartz’ warning, as well as the possibility that Rosen might somehow be connected, but decided: to hell with it. Whether what he was about to do was self-centered or ignoble could no longer concern him. His very survival was at stake, and the only thing that mattered was getting the help he needed to stay sober. After that, the other pieces would somehow get sorted out.
“It began a few weeks ago,” he said uneasily, “after leaving your office. I was walking to my car and noticed another car, a black Mercedes, across the street, down the block. There were two men sitting in it and it struck me as suspicious. I suppose I was paranoid because of the case I’m working on.”
“The drug dealers?”
Gifford nodded. “Anyway, I didn’t see them following me as I drove off, but that didn’t mean they weren’t. I didn’t notice anything after that, but I put some guys on you, just in case.”
“You had people watching me?”
“For a while. Sorry, Doc, but I thought they could just as well have been after you.”
“For what?”
“They might have thought I told you where Roberto Alvarez was, or maybe they just wanted to kidnap you to get me to give up Alvarez.”
Martin looked at him incredulously.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but in my world you can’t be too careful.”
“You’re not in Navy intelligence anymore,” Martin said.
“You’re right, I’m not. At least back then there were rules. With these creeps, there aren’t. They’ll come after your family, friends, whatever. They don’t give a shit about anything.”
Martin seemed to back down some, indicating for Gifford to continue.
“Anyway, nothing happened for a week. No cars outside your office, nobody following you or me, at least not that my guys could see. So I figured, if they’re after me, the best time to catch them would be right before or after my session with you.”
Martin raised his eyebrows.
“You see, Doc, you’re the only steady gig I’ve got. All the other times I’m alone – at home, on my way to work or on my way from work – they aren’t predictable, considering my schedule. My apartment’s also pretty impenetrable.”
“I can imagine,” Martin said.
Gifford took no offense; he understood that it was hard for Martin to relate. “The long and short of it is that I missed my session with you the following week to see if I was right. I showed up with one of my men and someone from Nassau County to keep things kosher.”
“You mean you believed whoever it was would return, so you were outside to watch.”
“Exactly. And they showed, just as I’d figured.”
Martin’s eyes lit up.
“My guys got out of the car and confronted them,” Gifford continued, “and it turns out they’re Israelis.”
“Israelis?”
“Better yet. I get a visit from an FBI special agent later that night telling me to back off. It’s none of my business what these guys are doing.” Gifford searched Martin’s eyes for some indication that he knew where this was headed, and found nothing but inquisitiveness. “After this FBI guy leaves, I did some research on him, and guess what he’s into.”
Martin appeared bewildered. “Dan, do you think I know something about this?”
“To tell you the truth, Doc, I don’t know what to think.”
“Is that why you decided to stop coming?”
“Not really. It wasn’t that I suspected that you actually knew something, but there was the possibility that you were somehow involved in something that you didn’t know. Get my meaning?”
“Sort of.”
“There was also the fact that I couldn’t tell you any of this.”
“Why not?”
“Because the FBI guy said so, which also led me to believe it had something to do with you.”
Martin did a poor job concealing his dismay.
“Look,” Gifford said defensively, “for all I know, they were listening to our conversations. Maybe they still are, and I’m getting arrested as soon as I leave.”
“Dan, what are we talking about here?”
“Nazis.”
“Nazis?”
“Not the neo kind either. The real McCoy.”
“You mean the FBI and the Israelis have been outside this building on Monday mornings looking for Nazis?”
“Probably one Nazi, as in war criminal.”
Suddenly, Martin clammed up.
“You okay, Doc?” Gifford asked.
“I’m fine,” Martin said haltingly. “It’s just so… unbelievable.”
“Why do you think this was on Monday mornings?” Gifford asked, suddenly realizing the import of his question. Holy shit, he thought, it’s another steady appointment.
Martin just stared.
“I can’t offer any speculation on that,” Martin said, apparently struggling to remain poised.
“I guess not,” Gifford responded. It was obvious to him that the bond between them was getting shaky.
“Why did you decide to return to treatment?” Martin asked, eager to stay on subject.
Gifford swallowed hard. He wanted to answer the question; after all, that was why he was there. Yet, a feeling of reticence overcame him. Suddenly, it occurred to him that this was the crossroad: he had to decide here and now if he and Martin had a future. Moreover, he had to decide just how important his sobriety was, and all that came with it. In this, he would not only have to leave Martin’s problems – whatever they were – to Martin, he would also have to trust Martin even more than he already did.
“I went to a bar a few nights ago,” he said.
Martin didn’t seem surprised. “Did you drink?”
“No. But I came close.”
“What was it about?”
“The stress, I suppose. It’s not an excuse. It just is what it is.”
“Aside from the situation you just described, was there something else?”
“Oh, I’d say so.”
Martin waited for more.
“I got shot at by two Colombian hit men.”
Martin’s eyes opened wide. “What happened?”
“They came at me in the garage where I work, late at night as I was leaving. So much for being unpredictable.” Gifford felt himself tremble. “If it wasn’t for Bobby Marcus – I think I’ve told you about him – if not for him, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”
“Is he okay?”
“Better than me.”
“And the guys who shot at you?”
“Dead.”
Silence filled the space between them.
“You went to the bar after the shooting?” Martin asked.
“Right after I gave my statements.”
“I could see why you did.”
“Just talking about it makes me want to…” Gifford stopped himself.
“So, why haven’t you?”
Gifford considered his response. “I don’t know.” The words came out softly, as if he had spoken them to himself.
“I’m glad you came back,” Martin said.
It amazed Gifford how Martin was able to seemingly dismiss his own dilemma and focus on his patient. It was almost as if they’d never discussed the first thing. Almost.
“I am too,” Gifford said.
Dan Gifford exited the office and nodded to the man sitting in the waiting room as he walked past. It was awkward for each of them, but it would have been more awkward, and certainly impolite, for two strangers who crossed paths week after week to simply ignore each other. This time, however, Gifford was glad for the exchange. It reminded him of how, back in his intelligence days, he had been able to completely scrutinize another person with a mere glance, and, though he was recently a bit rusty, he would now pay more attention.
He left the building, once again convinced that he recognized the stranger but still unable to put a name to the face. He could procure the services of a sketch artist, but that might be going too far – unless Rosen was actually in danger.
Gifford approached his car, looked around before getting in, and saw nothing suspicious. If the surveillance was ongoing, he mused, they were doing a better job at staying out of sight. He opened the door, got in, and stared out the window before starting the engine, wondering if he was completely off-base about all this.
Was it possible that he had misread Rosen’s reaction? After all, anyone would be shaken by what he said, especially a Jew. And could it have been merely coincidence that the black Mercedes appeared only on the same day and time that he would be leaving the building. If so, then Rosen and the stranger in the waiting room might have nothing to do with any of this.
He turned around and looked back at the building. It consisted of four stories. By the length of it, he estimated there could be as many as fifty apartments. There were two other doctors’ signs in front, one for an internist, the other a urologist. He had to admit that there could be other explanations.
He put the car in drive, pulled out, and ignored the sign in front of him that said, “No U-turn.” As he drove past the building, his original suspicions took hold again. Sure, there were other possibilities. But his instincts wouldn’t allow him to discard the ones he was certain were true. The only thing he wasn’t certain of was what to do about it.
After Gifford left, Martin took a few minutes before ushering Benoît into his office. He opened his desk drawer and looked at the brooch he had placed there. What kind of game is he playing? Martin wondered as he removed the brooch from the drawer. He read the inscription once again, and it sent a chill through his body.
He hadn’t wanted to lie to Gifford, but there was no way he could have taken the matter any further. He could not, and would not, discuss one patient with another, regardless of the circumstances. And was he even certain that Benoît was the key to all this? Maybe it was just a coincidence, and someone in another apartment was the target of the investigation. Or maybe Benoît was in fact the man being watched, but the Israelis and the FBI were mistaken about his being a war criminal.
He stared at the brooch, more bewildered than he’d ever found himself.
Why, in God’s name, did he choose me?
chapter 39
Martin Rosen gathered his composure as he opened the door. For a multitude of reasons, he had decided that the worst thing he could do at this point would be to confront Benoît. First, all he had were suspicions. Second, a confrontation, valid or not, would be certain to drive Benoît away. And most important, Martin thought, if his suspicions were true, he needed to learn more before deciding on his next step.
“Good morning, my dear doctor,” Benoît said as he rose from his seat.
“Good morning, Jacques.”
The two men entered the office and took their places.
“You look a bit stressed,” Benoît observed.
“No, I’m fine,” Martin responded, angry with himself for not having hid it better.
Benoît appeared unconvinced.
“How are things?” Martin asked.
“I can’t complain.”
Silence.
“So, have you thought about my gift?” Benoît asked.
Martin waited a beat. “Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“I’m still considering it.”
“Good. I guess that means you’re not returning it yet.”
“That’s correct, for the time being.”
Benoît smiled.
Martin now understood that smile more fully than he had before. It was a cat-and-mouse thing with Benoît, a sign of enjoying the competition of who’s going to get whom. Only now, the stakes were higher.
“You know, Jacques, in thinking about the brooch, I’m still not sure why you gave it to me.”
“But I told you.”
“I understand what you said, but it seems such an unusual thing to do.”
“I’m an unusual man.” Again, the smile.
“I can’t help wondering if there isn’t some other reason.”
“There you go, playing psychologist. It must be taxing, not being able to take what anyone says at face value.”
“It has its disadvantages. And its benefits.”
“You think I have some hidden reason for giving you that brooch?”
“I do,” Martin said.
“Well, I can’t imagine what it is.”
Martin observed his patient’s discomfort. “Neither can I.”
“Why do you doubt me?”
“It’s not that I doubt you, it’s that I believe that things can often have multiple meanings. Take, for example, your statement that you were giving the brooch to me because I am Jewish. However, I’m also your therapist, meaning we have a special relationship, and that makes me think that there was more to your choosing me than simply my religion.”
“But I told you that I chose you because of my fondness for you.”