Phantom Limb
A Daniel Rinaldi Mystery
Dennis Palumbo
www.DennisPalumbo.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2014 by Dennis Palumbo
First E-book Edition 2014
ISBN: 9781464202575 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Phantom Limb
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To my parents,
With love—
Acknowledgments
The author thanks the following people for their continued help and support:
Ken Atchity, friend and literary manager;
Annette Rogers, my editor, as well as Robert Rosenwald and Barbara Peters, founders of Poisoned Pen Press, for their creative insights and ongoing encouragement;
Elizabeth Weld, Suzan Baroni, Tiffany White, Beth Deveny, and Pete Zrioka, also at Poisoned Pen, for their professionalism and enthusiasm;
And, as always, my long-suffering friends and colleagues, too numerous to mention, but with special appreciation to Hoyt Hilsman, Bobby Moresco, Norm Stephens, Richard Stayton, Rick Setlowe, Bob Masello, Garry Shandling, Jim Denova, Michael Harbadin, Chi-Li Wong, Claudia Sloan, Dave Congalton, Charlotte Alexander, Mark Evanier, Bob Corn-Revere, Lolita Sapriel, Mark Baker, Mark Schorr, Bill Shick, Thomas B. Sawyer, Fred Golan, Dick Lochte, Al Abramson, Bill O’Hanlon, Sandy Tolan, Stephen Jay Schwartz, and Dr. Robert Stolorow;
To Carey Rupert, for suggesting the shortest route for Dr. Rinaldi to get home;
And, most importantly, to my wife, Lynne, and son, Daniel. (And a special thanks to Daniel for his much-needed technical assistance and advice!)
Epigraph
“You don’t need a weatherman to know
which way the wind blows.”
—Bob Dylan
Chapter One
The last time I saw Lisa Campbell, she was naked.
That was almost thirty years ago, when I was in junior high and she was the latest Hot Young Thing, smiling invitingly out at me—and thousands of other lonely guys—from the pages of Playboy Magazine. Barely nineteen, sprawled seductively across rumpled satin sheets. Every horny adolescent’s fantasy. Perfect breasts, perfect ass, perfect teeth.
Now, as she stood in my office waiting room, cashmere sweater folded neatly over her arm, I had to admit that the years since had taken their toll. Her face—though still comely, fine-boned—was lined, leather-tanned. Framed by thick chestnut-brown hair, lightly streaked with silver. Strained, weary eyes burned behind fashionable wire-rimmed glasses.
She’d been standing at the waiting room’s single window when I came out to greet her. Her still-shapely body turned away from me, she stared out at the cool light of early spring. Five floors up from Forbes Avenue, the view included the University of Pittsburgh’s urban campus—its gabled buildings, chain stores and local hangouts—as well as the new green shoots on the venerable maples and oaks lining the sidewalks. Plus the familiar cacophony of car horns, downshifting semis, and shouting students crossing against the streetlight, hurrying to make their last classes of the afternoon.
At first, Lisa didn’t seem to register me. Then, as if reluctant to pull herself from the sights and sounds beyond the window, she turned to face me.
I felt her shrewd, guarded gaze as we shook hands. Her undisguised appraisal of my looks, my clothes, my apparent social status. I returned the favor, taking in her designer-label blouse, slacks, and heels, her five-hundred-dollar haircut, the expensive diamond bracelet and matching wedding ring.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Harland,” I said. “I’m Daniel Rinaldi.”
“Obviously.” Her lips tightened. “And don’t use my goddamn married name. Nobody else does. I’ll always be Lisa Campbell.”
I nodded stiffly, then led her into my office.
I knew her story, of course. At least the public version. Most people here in Pittsburgh and environs did, too. Especially in her hometown of Waterson, about a hundred miles east of the city. Her career journey, from small-town beauty contestant to Playboy Playmate to sexy film actress, had been a long, well-publicized one. Accompanied by the shrill carping of Waterson’s outraged local press, excommunication from her church, and the painful yet predictable estrangement from her pious, deeply conservative family.
It didn’t help that, once she’d moved to Hollywood, her acting career consisted mostly of roles in low-budget horror films, in which she was frequently naked, and invariably tortured and killed. She also developed a reputation as a reliably freaky party animal, clubbing every night with the rich and trendy, showing up late and disoriented for work, sleeping with the usual mix of celebrities and Eurotrash.
Until her very public second divorce, a protracted and ugly drug scandal, and a series of embarrassing box office flops pushed her out of the glare of the tabloid spotlight and—seemingly overnight—into the purgatory of semi-obscurity.
At least, that was how her story was told in a two-part feature the Post-Gazette ran on Lisa when, almost a decade ago, she abruptly returned to her hometown. “With her tail between her legs,” as one self-satisfied neighbor had put it.
According to the paper, Lisa claimed she tried to reconcile with her family, but was flatly rejected. As broken in spirit as she was financially, Lisa had no choice but to seek work here in the city. After six weeks
, she landed a job as a clerical assistant in the CEO’s suite at Harland Industries, a Fortune 500 favorite. After six months, she landed the CEO himself.
Lisa Campbell and Charles P. Harland, thirty years her senior, were married in a private ceremony in Barbados. Accompanying the feature story was a series of photos of the happy couple, now back in Pittsburgh, relaxing in the expansive, manicured gardens of the billionaire’s gated estate in tony Fox Chapel. A few people thought the marriage was romantic—a damaged, unhappy woman’s dream come true. Most thought it was a scandal. Or else a cruel joke played on a deluded old man.
Regardless, in the years since, Lisa and Harland had become a fixture among the city’s wealthy and powerful, hosting charity events, attending lavish premieres, jetting off to vacations in exotic locales. Blending in quite easily with the heirs of the Mellons, the Scaifes, and the Carnegies, until, apparently, some undisclosed illness landed Harland in a wheelchair.
Since this was hardly my crowd, everything I knew about Lisa and her life nowadays came from the occasional news item that caught my eye, or some piece of gossip excitedly shared with me by one of my more starstruck patients.
Which was why now, ushering the sharp-tongued, middle-aged woman into my office, it was difficult to match her name to that of the seductive young girl I recalled from the magazine. To be honest, the present-day Lisa Campbell looked like any number of proud, arch women in designer clothes who stride purposely through newly gentrified Shadyside, kids long since grown and flown, resigned to the inattention of their workaholic husbands, defined by their jewelry.
Lisa paused before taking a seat, giving my office the same kind of cool appraisal with which she’d favored me. The antique marble-top desk, cherry wood cabinets, my battered Tumi briefcase. Books jammed into wall shelves, psych journals piled in more or less tidy stacks in the corners. Another broad picture window, slightly opened to let in the late March breeze. The pale, diffused sunlight. The muffled sounds of the street life below.
Finally, sitting upright on the chair opposite mine, she composed herself into a picture of grim determination. Jaw set. Legs demurely crossed. Only her clear hazel eyes, blinking, betrayed any anxiety.
A long silence.
“I must admit,” I said finally, “I was surprised when you called for an appointment. How do you know about me?”
“Don’t be so fucking coy, okay, Doc? It’s very unattractive in a man.” Her gaze narrowed. “And I might as well warn you up front, I got a real mouth on me.”
“Duly noted.”
“The thing is, I know about you because everyone knows about you. The famous trauma shrink.”
“I’m not a shrink. I’m a clinical psychologist.”
“Either way, you must have one hell of a publicist.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but—”
“No shit? That is a surprise, Dr. Rinaldi. Given how often you’ve been on the news…”
“Not by choice, I assure you. Last couple years, it’s mostly been a case of wrong place, wrong time.”
She shrugged, unconvinced.
“Whatever. Besides, I had my people do the customary due diligence before choosing you. Well, my husband’s people. So I know all about you.”
I risked a smile. “Really?”
“Really.”
She reached into the Louis Vuitton bag on her lap, withdrew a single piece of paper and peered down at it through the bottom half of her progressive lenses.
“Let’s see. I know your father was a cop and an alcoholic, and that your mother died when you were very young. In your late teens, you became an amateur boxer, God knows why. Golden Gloves, Pan Am Games. Looks like you didn’t set any records, though.” She cleared her throat. “Then you went to Pitt, making it all the way through grad school. The first one in your family to even go to college. Though by the time you got your PhD in psychology, your father, poor bastard, had passed away, too. Cirrhosis of the liver.”
She glanced sharply up at me then, obviously to gauge my reaction. Whether due to my clinical experience or some innate stubbornness on my part, I didn’t give her any. Still, though my face was composed, I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.
“I know you were married,” she went on reading from her notes, “and that you and your wife got mugged one night and she was shot. You both were, but she died and you didn’t. So you kinda went around the bend. Survivor guilt and all that. Now you’re a consultant with the Pittsburgh Police, treating victims of violent crime. Last couple years, your involvement in some high-profile cases landed you on the national news.” She sniffed, looked back up at me. “My opinion, you’re about ten minutes into your fifteen minutes of fame.”
After which, she casually folded the paper in half, dropped it back in her bag. “I miss anything?”
I’d felt my chest tighten, the dull pang of a rising anger, as she’d calmly laid out my story like it was some anecdote at a dinner party. Then, forcing myself, I exhaled slowly. Giving myself time to carefully choose my words.
“No, Lisa. You pretty much got it right.”
“My husband’s people are very good. Hell, they’re fucking bloodhounds. The final report ran to fifteen pages. But I just read you the highlights. None of the more…well…intimate details.”
“I appreciate your discretion.”
She snapped her bag closed. “Look, I don’t give a shit what you do in your private life. But a woman in my position has to be careful. I have to know who the hell I’m dealing with.”
“I can understand that.”
“Good. By the way, they ever catch the prick who did it? Killed your wife?”
I shook my head. “Just some kid. Seemed coked out of his mind. Probably needed money for drugs.”
“Christ, who doesn’t at that age? Though I never had to shoot anyone to score. Usually a blow job worked just fine.”
“I assume you’re talking about your time in Hollywood. In the movie business.”
“Assume what you want. Though you and I both know I could walk two blocks up Forbes Avenue, right now in the middle of the day, and carry out that exact same transaction. In some back alley, behind some bar. Cops know, everybody knows. The same holds true in my hometown. Sleepy little Waterson. Cheerleaders blowing jocks for a dime bag. It’s American as apple pie.”
I sat forward in my chair. Let my own eyes narrow. It didn’t take a psychologist to know Lisa Campbell was in pain, and keeping me at a distance with hard banter. With attitude.
Yet here she was, in my office. Which meant she wanted something. Needed something. From me.
“Look, Lisa, obviously you’re hurting, or in trouble, and I want to help. Has something happened to you?”
She placed a fist against her chest, over her heart.
“Happened?” As her face paled.
“Something bad? It doesn’t have to be recent. Maybe something that happened when you were out west, or even earlier. In childhood…”
“Has something happened to me?” Voice rising. Shrill, choked. “Has something happened?”
Her hazel eyes had gone black, lasering into mine. A fierce, unbelieving, agonized look.
“Jesus, Lisa, I’m sorry if I—”
Then, with a slow, deep breath, she lowered her head. Let her fist drop to her lap, fingers still clenched.
“Lisa…?”
She just shook her head. I shut up.
Another thick, uncomfortable silence followed. Filled only by the rise and fall of the breeze sifting through the foliage beyond my window. The gentle rustling of leaves and branches. And nothing else. The street traffic below, for an odd, brief moment, suddenly hushed. Stilled. As though holding its breath.
“Okay, listen.” Her eyes meeting mine again. Voice even, almost flat. “I’ve made all the financial arrangements. I have the means at home, in my desk. A bot
tle of pills.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s a little after four. These sessions are what?—forty-five, fifty minutes?”
“Fifty.”
She considered this.
“All right then, Doc. Here’s the deal: I plan to kill myself at seven o’clock tonight. Which means you have fifty minutes to talk me out of it.”
Chapter Two
It took me a few seconds to fully comprehend Lisa’s words, to convince myself I’d heard her correctly. When I did, I felt a flood of conflicting emotions.
Because what she’d said certainly surprised and alarmed me, challenged me in terms of how best to help her. But to be honest—and despite my best efforts—it also angered me.
And so, without a moment’s thought, I blurted out, “Why wait till seven o’clock? Why don’t you just die now?”
Lisa started. “What did you say?”
My only reply was to repeat the question, since I had no goddamn idea what I was doing. Other than stalling for time.
“I said, why don’t you die now?”
She stared, at a loss. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“I don’t think so.”
I literally did not know what words were going to come out of my mouth, even as a vague, fairly ludicrous idea began forming in my mind.
“I just think, since you’re planning to do it anyway later tonight, we might as well take advantage of the time we have now. Let’s at least get something out of this session.”
“I’m fucking serious, Doctor. Why the hell aren’t you?”
Her own anger flamed, sheeting her face. I ignored her.
“Would you be willing to try something?” I asked.
“That depends.” Though clearly still rankled, she seemed more curious than suspicious at this point.
Then, as reasonably as I could, I suggested that she lie down on the floor on her back.
“You’re kidding, right?” Her voice grew an edge.
“Not at all.”
She gave me a grim, openly hostile look.
“Are you afraid to try it?” Pushing her now.
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