A Murder Too Personal (ed rogan)

by Gerald J. Davis

  “No.” She cast a quick glance at me, looked away, and then turned back to me. “Do you think he had something to do with it?”

  “I won’t know until I talk to him.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Dr. Donald Pasternack lived and worked out of a white stone townhouse on Eighty-eighth, just off Fifth Avenue on a block that fairly reeked of quiet old money. He buzzed me through the wrought iron outer door and then through the inner door to the vestibule. There was no receptionist. Was he cheap or was it just her day off?

  I checked the alarm system on the way in. It was one of those rudimentary motion detectors that was at least fifteen years old. It wouldn’t pose any problem.

  The good doctor stood at the top of the stairs looking down at me as I walked up. That was the last time he was able to look down on me. It wasn’t until I got to the top of the stairs that I could see he was at least a foot shorter than me. He wasn’t a dwarf exactly, but he was really short for a full-grown man, like one of those little people in the Wizard of Oz. Five-two maybe. He had a powerfully-built upper torso and a head that looked too big for the rest of his body. This, and his full-face bushy black beard and sharp eyes, gave him the look of a lion. A voracious pussy cat, at that.

  When I faced him, he put out his hand and gave me a strong grip. Overcompensating?

  Then he spoke and his voice came out as a full-throated growl. “Mr. Rogan, follow me.”

  Definitely overcompensating.

  The landing was sparsely furnished with some expensive art objects. The house looked more like an architect’s place than a psychiatrist’s. The floors were white marble and the walls were stark white. The whole setting gave off a cold and unwelcoming appearance. It was tough to see how any patient would feel comfortable here.

  He took me into his consulting room and shut the two soundproofed doors behind us, even though no one was within earshot. Matter of fact, there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the house. The room was silent as a tomb. He sat down on a large comfortable chair. There was no place for me to sit except the couch. But it was one of those torture racks that designers love-all chrome and leather that they think is pleasing to the eye but is pure hell for a real human being to sit on.

  I sat on it and cursed him under my breath.

  He was a dapper man. One of those guys who takes too much care about his appearance. His hair was black and bushy, just starting to show the first hints of gray like his beard, and just as well-trimmed. He was wearing an expensive cashmere sport coat, a Hermes tie, gray slacks and Gucci loafers. On one wrist hung a chunky gold bracelet and on the other a Santos watch.

  He was sizing me up too, and he didn’t like what he saw either.

  “I’m here…” I started to say.

  He cut me off. “I know why you’re here. I’ve been expecting you. I suppose you think you can dance in here, get whatever information you believe you’re entitled to and then dance out again without taking any of the responsibility.” He leaned forward in his chair and put his hands on his knees. “Well, it doesn’t work that way. We all share the blame for Alicia’s death, but you most of all.” His eyes blazed. “Yes, you most of all. You were the one who killed her.”

  I was beginning to get his drift, but I wasn’t buying a nickel’s worth of his psychobabble. These shrinks lived in a world of their own. They were all insane to begin with and heartily distressed with anyone who wasn’t.

  “Was something troubling her the last few months?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Now we were finally getting somewhere. “What?”

  “You. You were constantly on her mind. You were an obsession with her. You were the one who was going to save her, rescue her from the mess she’d made of her life. Sir Galahad on a white charger. But I told her she was wrong. You weren’t going to save her.”

  This shaman was right about that. “Why was I an obsession with her?”

  “She never forgave you.”

  I laughed. It wasn’t a pretty laugh. “Shit. Forgave me? She was the one who fucked Wheelock and walked out on me.”

  He shook his head. “No, my friend.” It was obvious from the way he said it that I wasn’t his friend. He pointed a manicured finger with clear nail polish at me. “You weren’t there for her when she needed you. Sure, you were there physically, but you cut yourself off from her emotionally. You were out to lunch, emotionally-speaking. You didn’t communicate with her. You couldn’t give yourself to her spiritually. She said you never told her you loved her.”

  His finger jabbed at me like he wanted to poke out my eye. “You kept your emotions bottled up inside you. You never talked with her about the way you felt.”

  “All this rhapsodizing doesn’t have anything to do with Alicia’s death,” I said.

  He grinned at me. One of those grins you give when you want to knee someone in the balls. “You’re wrong. It has everything to do with it. Because that’s when she started down the road that led to this end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave me his evil grin again. “You sent her into Wheelock’s arms with your indifference. That led her into further situations which she shouldn’t have been in-situations and relationships that were destructive to her well-being.”

  Now we were getting to the red meat. “What situations?”

  He got up and walked over to where I was sitting. He came so close I could smell his cologne-a sweet powdery scent that men with manicures wear.

  “Even if I could tell you, I wouldn’t.” He smiled with the command of his withheld knowledge. “Suffice it to say that she began her descent into her own private torment when you split up.”

  He was standing next to me now and his head was almost on a level with mine. Two could play this amusing power game. I stood up and towered over this toy psychiatrist with his Olympian view of the human species.

  I took a long shot. There was nothing to lose. “Dr. Pasternack, why were you engaged in sexual activity with your patient against her wishes? You know that’s a strong breech of professional ethics.”

  He took an uncertain step back and stared up at me.

  “I…I never…”

  “She told me all about you. She told me what you did to her. How you had your way with her when she didn’t want to. How you took advantage of her weakness with your so-called therapy. I could take a little walk up to the state licensing board and give them all the details of your indiscretions with your patients. They could pull your ticket for a stunt like that. Then you’d be reduced to selling bagels on Forty-eighth street in all kinds of inclement weather.”

  He waved his hands helplessly in front of him as if he was brushing me away. “It’s not…what you think…the way you think.”

  “That’s not what she said. She gave me the story…about what a lowlife son of a bitch you are.”

  “The only thing I ever did to her…I swear, I once got my finger in only a little way…for a very short time…and only once. She must have exaggerated…she was given to exaggeration.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not what she told me.”

  “She lied…she lied.” He was near tears. “I swear it. One finger…once. I loved her. I swear it. I loved her. She shouldn’t have been killed. You killed her.” He started to babble and blubber at the same time. Tears rolled down his hairy cheeks. “I wanted to but she wouldn’t let me. I loved her but she didn’t love me…she called me her love pygmy.”

  The guy was out of control now. He couldn’t hold back the sobs or the torrent of words.

  “I loved her. God, how I loved her. Now she’s dead. Gone forever…” His hands went over his face and his fingertips pressed into his eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears.

  He was carrying this transference nonsense a trifle too far. There was no sense in hanging around here any longer. He was no use to anybody like this.

  I went down the cold marble staircase. Were his tears from grief or guilt? How much more did he know that he didn�
��t tell me? The only sound in the house was the rhythmic fall of my steps, the echoes of his nemesis walking away, leaving him with his solitary agony.

  Downstairs, sitting on a flat leather bench in the entranceway, was a pale nondescript woman dressed in black and gray, a rust-colored Gucci scarf wrapped around her head. Her eyes were cast down, refusing to meet mine- a patient waiting for the uncertain relief of her therapy session.

  Upstairs, Pasternak’s sobbing was clearly audible through the open door.

  “I’d give him a couple of minutes to pull himself together,” I told her. “He hasn’t had a very nice day.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  “Last I heard he was flogging some junk public-housing munis for a bucket shop in New Jersey. He knew the paper wouldn’t survive till maturity. And he was right.”

  Dave Tanner grabbed the neck of the bottle and held it upside down so the last drops of beer could wet his throat.

  “Guy could perish of thirst in this joint,” he said. Tanner had a point. The bar was one of those overdecorated yuppie watering holes where the staff does you a favor by waiting on you. We hadn’t seen a waitress in ten minutes.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said. “I feel like stretching my legs.” I tossed a twenty on the table, got up and straightened my tie.

  Tanner nodded in agreement and grabbed his jacket. As soon as we stood, the waitress was all over us. She looked like an aspiring actress who would have had trouble remembering her lines.

  “What’s the matter, gentlemen,” she said with an edge to her voice. “Didn’t you like our service?”

  “Sure,” I said. “The same way the cow likes it when the bull gives her service.”

  We were out the door before she could frame her reply.

  The night was cool for June and there was a good breeze as we headed north on Third. The sun was just setting and the sky was the kind of red you sometimes see in a Turner painting. Even Tanner looked at the sky and made a comment on the light, and he wasn’t the kind of guy who notices those things. It was the time of evening when couples start to stroll around and take the measure of each other.

  “Is Wheelock still working in that boiler room?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he shook his head. “Place folded soon as the SEC started poking around. The owners closed it and opened a new outfit across the street under a different name and they used new straw men as the principals. The Feds never had a chance. Soon as they smelled a rat, these guys would shut the shop down and open a new one with the same salesmen. Always two steps ahead of the law.”

  We walked past a succession of boites, cafes and gin mills where the new generation was learning the unalloyed joys of the liquid fermentation process.

  “What happened to Wheelock after that?”

  Tanner shrugged. “Lost track of him. He dropped out of sight.”

  “Who would know where to find him?”

  Tanner watched a couple of girls coming toward us. “Wheelock was a strange bird. He didn’t have many friends. Laura might know.” When the girls reached us, Tanner turned to them and said, “Excuse me, ladies. I was wondering if you subscribed to the Apollonian or Dionysian world view.”

  The girls stopped and exchanged glances. I mean, we looked presentable enough. No disfigurements that they could see. Two decent-looking apparently successful fellows in well-tailored dark business suits. They wanted to believe we were sincere and well-intentioned but there was dissonance in our words. They were at a loss as to how to reply.

  Finally one of them, the plainer one, said, “I really don’t understand your question.”

  They were in their early twenties, obviously out-of-towners, new to the Morris dance mating rituals of the unforgiving city. You could see the quandary they were in. They didn’t want to blow a chance at a hot night on the town but, on the other hand, they had no idea what the hell Tanner was talking about.

  “What I mean to say is do you prefer Apollo or Dionysus?” Tanner went on in his sardonic tone.

  The girls exchanged another glance. The prettier one allowed a gleam of insight to shine through her heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Hey,” she said. “Are these like discos or nightclubs or something?”

  Tanner nodded. “Yeah, but very old and very Greek.”

  The girls squealed in despair. There was some kind of communication gap here.

  “I’ve never been to a Greek disco before,” the prettier one said.

  I nudged Tanner. “Let’s keep moving,” I said. There was no contest. It would have been too easy.

  Tanner nudged me back. “We can nail them, old buddy,” he said in a mock whisper.

  I grabbed Tanner’s arm and said, “Come on, champ.” To the girls I said, “Good night, ladies. Don’t you know the dangers of chance sexual encounters?”

  I hauled Tanner away against his protests and left the girls with a look of wide-eyed wonder on their faces. Defender of the innocent, protector of a maiden’s chastity. Was I a man living in the wrong century?

  “Laura told me Wheelock called Alicia a couple of months ago,” I said.

  Tanner raised his eyebrows. “And she doesn’t know where he is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fond of the sauce, he was. The guy could always drink you and me together under the table.” He paused. “Think he whacked Alicia?”

  “I don’t know. The odds are good. She didn’t want to go out with him. You know what a hard head he was.” I pictured Wheelock’s face. Flat, cold, smooth with deep-set eyes. “He was capable of it.”

  Tanner nodded. “Maybe. Let me make some calls. You never know. He might turn up under some rock.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Justine rolled over on her side and gave me one of those sleepy, satisfied smiles. The pink satin sheet had fallen away and exposed her tired left breast.

  I smiled back at her. She wasn’t bad-looking for her age. You could see she’d once been able to turn heads on the street but time and some of life’s little disappointments had etched their passage on her face.

  She ran the tips of her fingers over my face and lips. Long ruby-red nails, beautifully manicured. The final chords of a Mozart concerto echoed through the house. It was a long piece with violas and woodwinds. I used to know which one, but now I forget.

  I leaned over and nuzzled her neck. Her perfume smelled good, but it wasn’t Shalimar. She put her arms around me and pulled me to her. The motion was feminine, eternal, giving.

  I hadn’t meant it to turn out this way when I called her at Chisolm’s office. I was trying to find whatever I could without being too obvious, but soon we were sliding down that slippery slope. Now I was flat on my back in Chisolm’s bed with his secretary and his house was wide open to me. Chisolm and his wife were out of town for the weekend and Justine just sort of hinted that her mother wouldn’t take it too kindly if she brought a man home to spend the night. My place, of course, was being painted, as it always is when such a need arises.

  She climbed out of bed with a sigh and padded off to the bathroom. Her buttocks were a little too full and her thighs were cratered with what was popularly called cellulite, but you could see she worked out regularly. She was limber and in reasonably good shape. I guessed she was in her mid-forties.

  She blew me a kiss as she closed the bathroom door. I lay back in the bed. It was a custom-made job, as big as a Civil War battlefield. I wondered if Chisolm kept a box score of his sexual encounters with his wife-or if he even had sex with her.

  The ceiling was lavender, just like the walls. The room looked like some kind of training ground for the Sex Olympics. Mirrors, exercise equipment, bidet, the works. At the foot of the bed was some kind of a roll bar whose use I couldn’t figure out.

  I tossed back the sheets and got dressed. By the time she came out of the bathroom I was standing by the window with my jacket and tie on and a really strong craving for a cigarette. She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything. She was wearing a white sati
n robe that had a fluffy collar and cuffs like the heroines used to wear in those films noir of the forties. Mrs. Chisolm’s maybe?

  “I guess I should get dressed too,” she said as she brushed her hair back with long slow strokes.

  “Tempus fugit,” I said.

  “I know, I know,” she nodded. “We’ve stayed longer than we should have.” She finished the last slow strokes and said, “Do you think we could have one more drink?”

  I spread my hands. “Sure, if you make it as good as the last one.”

  She giggled like a teenager. Some women never lose that quality. She snapped off a sharp military salute. “Yes, sir. An extra dry martini coming right up.” Without makeup her skin looked drier and sallower, the way Irish girls look as they age.

  The martini was better than the first one, or was it just that booze tastes better after the act?

  As she sipped her drink, her eyes questioned me. “Was it wrong to do it or was it just wrong to do it here?”

  “Neither,” I said. “No one was hurt and there was no damage, if you don’t count the stained sheets.”

  She reddened. The flush was apparent through her translucent skin. “Oh, don’t be concerned about that. I’ll have them cleaned and the bed made like new before they get back.”

  I had the feeling she’d done this before. We carried our drinks down an endless corridor and went down two steps into a sunken living room. The house was done in a slick modern style that suited Chisolm. There were huge abstract paintings on all the walls. Each room had its own fireplace and they were so clean it was apparent they had never been used.

  We lingered another half-hour over the drinks. Our conversation was the talk of two solitary souls who knew the words would be the last between them.

  When I stood up, she got to her feet and went down the hallway back to the bedroom to get dressed. After she was gone, I had a chance to scope out the alarm system and the window locks. I left one of the living room windows open a crack.