by Lisa Black
“You went through her whole address book?” Maggie asked.
“Didn’t find one.”
“I meant on her computer.”
“Computer’s missing. It’s probably in that backpack she’s toting.”
Jack leaned in the doorway, checking his text messages, as Riley answered her questions. Maggie did a slow circle, peeking into the matching canisters on the counter. “Cell phone?”
“She left it here. Call history doesn’t tell us anything except that she talked to her cousin Jerry once in a while, which we already knew.”
“That’s smart, leaving it here. Car?”
“In her parking space. She’s on foot. And,” Riley added, “what a foot.”
“Workplace?”
“Called in sick the morning after Wilton’s murder and hasn’t been heard from since. We checked all that. Give us a little credit.”
“Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do here.”
“Look at the fibers and the dirt on the floor and tell me where she might have gone.”
“Seriously? Who do you think I am, Sherlock Holmes?”
Riley and Jack looked at each other, then back at her, and said nearly in unison, “Yes.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and left the room.
In the bedroom she opened some drawers and checked out the medicine cabinet. She didn’t want to disappoint the two cops, but she wasn’t Sherlock Holmes and in any case there wasn’t much she could do without a microscope. Feeling a bit like a voyeur, she examined Shania Paulson’s jewelry (understated but quality), reading material (mostly nonfiction, about proper muscle maintenance, the collapse of the economy, investment advice for women, and the occasional bodice-ripper), and clothing (quite a bit bolder than Maggie dared, but from the photos around the room, Shania Paulson had the figure for it). The bathroom held the usual million-and-one accoutrements that women needed to face the world every day, hair items, makeup items, a large tray of nail polishes and files. Maggie paused to admire a few of the shades, then got back to work. The cabinet held an array of vitamins and supplements, but no prescription medication; Shania must have been a healthy young woman. Or, Maggie corrected herself, is a healthy young woman.
She took another look at the photos around the room and the clothes in the drawers. Then she pulled a duffel bag out of the bottom of the closet.
Jack had wandered to the doorway. It trapped her inside, but that didn’t bother her so much anymore. Perhaps she had grown accustomed to hanging around with a prolific serial killer. Perhaps they were both focused on other things at the moment.
“Are you finding us someplace to look? Based on cat hair and plaster dust?” he asked.
“That doesn’t work for everyone.”
“Only me.”
She frowned at him, but clearly Riley stood nowhere in earshot, so she let it go. “She doesn’t spend a lot of time in homes with pets, but she does hang out with a couple of smokers. She likes scratch-off lottery tickets, but nothing indicates that she goes to the casino. She had a cold a few months ago and can’t settle on a favorite hand lotion. She goes to the beach in the summer.”
“It’s not summer.”
“Don’t I know it. And, you might have noticed, she has neither a Rottweiler nor a willow tree.”
“I meant anything that might help us—”
“It’s impossible. If I were her, I would pick someone obscure, someone it would take you weeks to work through her social tree to find. A second cousin, my childhood best friend, a sorority sister. But she might be panicked enough to go someplace familiar, someplace she’s comfortable but can be unnoticed. Someplace with showers and lockers and a snack bar.” Maggie pulled a plastic badge from the bottom of the duffel bag. “Have you checked her gym?”
Chapter 26
Dr. Caitlyn Michaels looked exactly like one expected a psychiatrist to look, but her office appeared to have been lifted straight out of a frat house. Michaels had black hair pulled into a neat bun, cappuccino-colored skin, long eyelashes, and conservative but flattering clothes. Her desk held books, papers, and medical journals in heaps that indicated an all-night cram session, the end table could not fit one more used coffee cup, and the bookshelves had been filled not according to size or subject but whim and convenience. A troll doll peeked from the top of the most recent Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. An autographed basketball threatened to burst from its cavity between slumping magazines and worn textbooks stacked horizontally instead of vertically and with no regulation of size.
The shelves didn’t look too sturdy to begin with and bulged at places where the contents had expanded beyond the available space. Maggie had to clean magazines, an afghan, and a toy football from the couch to find space to sit. The window had some trinket or knickknack sitting on each frame or hanging from the latch or stuck to nearly every inch. The entire place ought to have smelled like a boy’s locker room; instead, Maggie caught only a pleasant whiff of lemongrass.
“I’m glad you could find the time to see me,” the doctor began. She sat in a worn leather armchair perfectly sized for her Junoesque body, legs delicately crossed, steno pad on lap. If she sensed any sort of disconnect with her surroundings, she hid it well. Perhaps, Maggie thought, that was the point. She could probably tell a lot about her patients from the way they reacted to her office.
She saw the hazard of speaking to a psychiatrist—the attempt to guess what they were trying to guess and how they were trying to guess it. Did her comment mean that she knew Maggie had been dodging her? That she felt, as a doctor, her time should take priority and she shouldn’t have to chase her patients down? Did she think by pointing out that she’d had to wait, it would make Maggie feel guilty and thus work harder to give the doctor what she wanted, which was access to Maggie’s soul and innermost thoughts, so that the doctor would feel better and like her? Because surely everyone wanted to be liked.
Did Jack want to be liked?
Dr. Caitlyn still waited for Maggie to make some response, to acknowledge that they were even in a room together. Now she felt even more guilty—
Maggie gave up. Truthful and professional, no second-guessing, that’s how she would handle this. Tell her everything except, of course, what she couldn’t tell anyone. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I know I was supposed to report within the first four days.”
The doctor waved a casual hand, her gaze never leaving Maggie’s face. “That’s a guideline, not a rule. What’s important is that you’re here now. Let me go over some vitals first, so I’m sure I have the right information. Okay?”
Without referring to a file or report—perhaps she’d jotted notes on her steno pad—the doctor confirmed Maggie’s age, marital status, how long she’d been working for the department, civilian job category, and general health.
She reaffirmed that her purpose was to provide a safe outlet and emotional support for Maggie, “or just a friendly ear if that’s all that’s needed.” This Maggie believed. She was a little bit of a hero for the department; the powers that be had no desire to discredit or downplay any of her testimony. The mandatory counseling had been decreed because of a genuine concern for her health and welfare, and more importantly, because they were required by the GO—General Orders—for all staff. Even civilians.
She also reiterated that all their sessions were confidential, and that while she would be making a report to say she had no qualms about Maggie working in the field and/or concerns about Maggie posing a danger to herself or others, the details of their discussions would be forever locked away and never, ever revealed. This Maggie did not believe. She highly doubted that Dr. Michaels, despite her integrity as a psychiatrist, would not tell her employers that their serial killer still roamed the city at large and by the way he’s one of your officers. Maggie wouldn’t even expect her to—she wouldn’t, if their roles were reversed. Medical ethics were all well and good, but surely preventing future murders took priority
. There would be many things she would not be sharing with the good doctor.
“Tell me about yourself, Maggie,” the doctor began.
I murdered a woman a few weeks ago. Things like that.
“Um . . .”
Dr. Michaels smiled, a warm, caring smile that probably disarmed most of her patients and did a number on Maggie, too. She had to fight the urge to pull her knees up to her chin and fidget. It was okay to be a little nervous, but if she let her inner basket case show, that would only prolong the number of sessions. Calm. Professional. Go.
She went over her childhood, her loving parents—a chemical engineer and a part-time music teacher—and her adorable and exasperating older brother, Alex. Alex’s wife, Daisy, and their two kids. Maggie’s college years, her love of forensics, her coworkers. She covered all that in about four minutes flat and felt it a good job.
But then the doctor moved on to more recent events.
“I’m really tired of talking about that,” Maggie said, and thought it sounded reasonable. It shouldn’t be a story she’d want to tell again and again.
The doctor sympathized but didn’t let her off the hook. Dillon Shaw had come close to killing her. Michaels didn’t actually state that Maggie needed to talk about it, but it felt implied. Strongly.
She tried to describe the cacophony of emotions that encounter had produced.
“How did that make you feel?”
Maggie goggled. “Seriously?”
“I know. You’re thinking, how do you freakin’ think it made me feel, you moron? But I’m serious.”
“You want to know what it felt like to have someone try to plunge a knife into my heart?”
“I want to know what it feels like now. Now that he’s dead and you know you’re safe, now that the urgency and the panic and the terror are over. What is the first emotion that comes to mind when you think of it?”
Maggie tucked one leg under herself without realizing that she’d done it, that she’d begun pulling herself in for added security. “Hurt.”
“In pain?”
“No, hurt. Like my feelings are hurt.” She felt herself looking at Dr. Michaels with what she knew must be surprise. “Isn’t that stupid?”
“Feelings are never stupid. Inconsistent, illogical, contradictory, but never stupid. Has anyone ever tried to seriously hurt you before, either physically or emotionally?”
“No.”
“You’ve always gotten along with people.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She’d conflicted with plenty of teachers, coworkers, superiors, and one incompetent veterinarian in her time. But what was it Jack said? She always had to be the good girl? “No, I’ve never been attacked like . . . like it was really me they hated.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but what you’re feeling is completely normal.”
“I’m not crazy?”
She smiled. “Not even a little bit, though I don’t like words like crazy.... I actually don’t like words like normal either, since I don’t believe there is such a thing. What I mean by that is typical, but that word has come to be sort of an insult, so that doesn’t work so well either.”
Maggie smiled back. So psychiatry sessions weren’t a walk in the park for the psychiatrist, either.
“Then this vigilante killer returned.”
“Yes.”
“And killed Shaw.”
“Yes.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Really, really glad.” Maggie slid her leg out, put her foot flat on the floor. She had to stop moving, every twitch of her toes probably telegraphed information to Dr. Michaels’s steno pad. “Is that typical?”
The doctor nodded in a sage and comforting way. “Under those circumstances, yes. I’d say absolutely. And then you followed this vigilante to another location because you believed he planned to kill again.”
“And did,” Maggie said. Sort of.
“You didn’t call the police—”
“He took my phone.”
“Or stop at the station.”
“There wasn’t time.” Very true statements, delivered unequivocally.
“You went to stop him. By yourself. Unarmed, untrained. You knew he had a gun.”
“So?” Maggie demanded.
“I’m not questioning your decision. I just want to talk about what led you to it.”
Maggie felt the wrinkle between her brows form. “I don’t understand. I just told you what led to it. I didn’t see any other option.”
“We were talking about typical. Chasing down this man on your own is not exactly typical.”
She tried to smooth out her forehead, without much success. “What does that mean, that I have some sort of death wish or something? Besides, how do you know it’s not a typical reaction? How many people find themselves in circumstances like that?”
“True, it’s a small sample pool. But—”
“How come when a man does something like that, he’s brave, but when a woman does it, she’s mentally unstable?”
“I hear you,” said the other female in the room.
Maggie saw the real question that the doctor didn’t even know she was asking. Would Maggie have run to the building on East 40th and confronted Jack if Jack had been a total stranger? If she had never seen him before he shot Dillon Shaw, if she hadn’t spoken to him and worked with him and ridden in a car with him, would she have ventured into that dark house knowing that he was armed and quite dangerous?
Had she counted on his acquaintance with her? Or had she simply reasoned that if he hadn’t killed her before, he wouldn’t then?
Would she have been so self-sacrificing if she hadn’t had that knowledge?
She’d like to think so. But the scenario had been so bizarre to begin with, it felt impossible to calculate an alternate ending. Things were what they were.
A more relevant question now might be: Would Ronald Soltis still be alive if she hadn’t been previously acquainted with the murdering vigilante?
Dr. Michaels broke into her reverie. “What are you thinking about?”
Maggie looked at her watch, and said, “I think we’re out of time.”
“I don’t have a patient next hour. We have all the time we need.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t. I have a meeting that . . . it was nice talking to you. I’m sorry it took so long to get here, but I feel this was helpful. . . .”
Dr. Michaels stood, gentle and implacable, and with a smile said, “That’s quite all right. We’ll table that for our next session.”
Maggie paused mid-rise. “Next session?”
“Oh, yes.” Gentle, implacable. “I’m sure there’s much more that you need to tell me, Maggie Gardiner.”
Chapter 27
After they dropped Maggie back at the Justice Center, the two cops postponed a trip to Shania’s fitness center and returned to the Herald building, where Jack studied the white points on the waves of the lake through the windows of Jerry Wilton’s office. A few intrepid fishermen braved the brisk spring air to try their luck, and an ore ship maneuvered its way toward the mouth of the Cuyahoga. He wished the windows would open because the police IT tech he’d brought with him wore way too much body spray. He apparently believed the commercials that showed hot girls throwing themselves at any male who liberally spritzed. So far that didn’t seem to be true, because the hot girl who had escorted them to Wilton’s office hadn’t given the kid a second look.
“Finding anything?” Jack asked him, for the third time in the past forty minutes.
“No. At least—no. I don’t know. I’m usually looking for kiddie porn or threatening e-mails. This is all about sales figures and advertising rates and where to get lunch today. Really helps if you tell me what you’re looking for, dude.”
“Something someone would kill him over.”
The tech made a not very happy sound, and Jack couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t feeling too happy himself. Roth would not let the cops take the
computer with them. He felt bad about Jerry, but they still had a paper to get out, etc. etc. And besides, the hard disks belonged to the Herald, not to Jerry. If they wanted it they would have to get a seizure warrant, so instead of arguing with Roth it seemed faster to seal the door with evidence tape to prevent any tampering with said computer and bring the tech to it. Faster, that is, for everyone except the tech.
“Stocks,” Jack said. “Look for mentions of stocks.”
“Tons of that. This guy received memos and memos about stocks. Apparently that’s a really big deal here.”
“It would be, yes.” Keeping the stockholders happy kept everyone in their jobs, kept the newsprint going out on the trucks, kept the true believers in print journalism holding off utter despair for one more day.
Riley appeared in the doorway, a bundle of energy, the trauma of climbing over fences the previous night completely gone. He waved a sheaf of papers with one hand. “Got it!”
“Got what?”
“Sprint finally came through. I’ve got the call history for Davis’s phone. Nothing from Verizon yet, but I’ll keep on them.”
“Don’t make the poor girl cry again.”
“I can’t make any guarantees. So . . . Davis’s phone. Just glancing at it I can see three numbers he called quite a bit. His wife runs a distant fourth . . . which might explain her lack of broken-upedness. So, let’s find out who’s at the other end of these calls.” He picked up the phone on Wilton’s desk, shuffling past Jack, who took the spot in the doorway. The office might have a nice view, but not much in the way of elbow room. Riley dialed.
“Won’t do you no good,” the IT tech said. “It’ll be burners.”
“Junior’s vote of no-confidence notwithstanding,” Riley said, and listened. “Ringing. Ringing. Ri—automated voice mail, no ID of the recipient.”
“Told you,” the tech said.
“Shut up. Second-most-popular number.” He dialed.
Jack, leaning on the doorjamb of Wilton’s office, heard the tinny notes of Van Halen trilling from the next room. He ignored it.
“Ringing,” Riley said. “Ringing. Ringing—oh, this is Tyler, leave a message. Hello, Tyler, this is Detective Riley of the Cleveland Police Department, please call me back.” He hung up but continued to speak. “Lot of men in this case. I was hoping to reach a mistress—”