The reporter was a young Asian woman. I'd seen her work; thought she was pretty good. "Ms. Crowder? Ms. Crowder? Are you here to interview Susan Peterson? Is she a suspect in her husband's murder? Have the police interviewed her yet? Ms. Crowder?"
Lauren's balance faltered as the reporter closed in. I tightened my grip on my wife's hand and silently urged her to keep walking. After another step or two, Lauren spoke without turning toward the camera. "I'm here visiting a friend who's hospitalized. That's all."
"Is Susan Peterson a suspect in her husband's murder? Ms. Crowder? Ms. Crowder?"
The reporter's voice faded as the sliding glass doors closed behind us. "I wasn't expecting them here," I said. "You handled yourself well."
"Thanks. They're like grasshoppers. Once they show up in one place, it seems they show up everywhere."
We were alone as we made our way up the elevator. I asked Lauren the same thing the reporter was wondering about. "Is there any chance Susan was involved? What are you hearing in the office?"
"When the police found her in bed she was so heavily medicated that she was almost impossible to arouse. Her neurologist doesn't think she would have had the strength to do what was done to Royal. So, no, even though they'll take a close look, no one's taking that possibility too seriously at this point."
The elevator door opened. We got out and paused at the nursing station to get directions to Susan's room. A nurse pointed out the room and said, "Her doctor's in with her right now. I'm sure it will only be a few more minutes. You can wait in the lounge."
Just then the door to Susan's room opened and her doctor walked out, a Palm Pilot in one hand, a stylus in the other.
I said, "Good morning, Adrienne." Adrienne Arvin, a little fireball of a urologist, was our neighbor and close friend.
She stopped in her tracks, looked up at Lauren and me, then smiled. "Hi, guys. What are you doing here?"
I stepped over to give her a kiss on the cheek, then Lauren did the same before she responded, "We're here to visit Susan. She's one of yours, I take it?"
"Be silly of me to deny it at this point, I suppose. I'm doing a consult."
"She's okay?" Lauren asked.
Adrienne muttered, "Oy," and made a face that aptly communicated that "okay" was not one of the modifiers she would use to describe Susan Peterson's condition. "MS is a tough disease, Lauren. I don't have to tell you that. Susan's is particularly insidious. The stress of having her husband murdered hasn't made it any easier on her."
I asked, "Can we go in?"
"Be my guest. She'll be pleased to see you, I think. She's quite tired. I wouldn't stay long."
"Of course," Lauren said. Adrienne pocketed her little computer and bounced off down the hall.
S usan Peterson's multiple sclerosis was different from Lauren's. Susan had secondary progressive disease. Although she'd been diagnosed years after Lauren, Susan frequently used a wheelchair, and lately was bedridden more often than not. She was virtually blind in one eye, and Roy had once confided in Lauren that the pain she suffered from spasticity was growing more and more severe. Adrienne's presence on Susan's care-team was a clear indication that she was suffering bladder problems as well.
While Lauren could expect periods of remission between infrequent exacerbations of her disease, Susan was likely to deteriorate progressively, with little or no respite from the assault of multiple sclerosis.
We found Susan on her side in bed, facing away from the door. Her room was full of floral bouquets and the aroma was a cloying mix of hospital disinfectants and nature's perfume. The television was tuned to religious programming, but the sound was so low I couldn't hear the minister's words.
We took a couple of steps into the room and Lauren said, "Susan? It's Lauren and Alan."
"Oh, oh, good," she said. "You came to see me? Come on over on this side so I can lay my eyes on you."
Lauren and I crossed the room. Immediately, Susan said, "My girls came in early before church and helped me get made up. It's Sunday, and I wanted to look nice. It's not the way I would do it myself, but- Do I look okay?"
Lauren told her, "Your daughters did a great job, Susan. You look wonderful. Lovely."
"Thanks. But I don't know about the eye shadow. It's so, so… And my hair after three days in this bed… what can you do?"
Despite the fact that Lauren had done all the talking since we'd entered the room, Susan addressed her words to me. I'd always suspected that Susan was uncomfortable with Lauren. I thought it was because Lauren, too, had MS. And I thought perhaps Susan's ambivalence was exacerbated because Lauren had the less malignant form of the disease.
I said, "How are you, Susan?"
"Better, better. The nurses are a little-I don't want to say slow, but-anyway, anyway, let's just say they're not the most prompt. You buzz, you buzz and… you know. I wish Matthew could have stayed longer. He came in from Phoenix but he's gone again already. Mothers and sons, right? Thank God I have my girls. They bring food at least." She touched her hair with her hand. "You could starve to death in here waiting for something edible to arrive."
I bit the soft flesh on the inside of my lower lip.
Susan Peterson had probably always been a difficult woman-what her children's generation would have called "high maintenance." According to Royal, when Susan's disease was first diagnosed she actually softened a little, but as the insidious myelin destruction progressed in her central nervous system, the underlying flaws in her character seemed to have become magnified.
If a young psychology graduate student I was supervising asked me to describe a narcissistic character disorder, I would have been tempted to introduce the student to Susan Peterson.
"What you've been through, Susan…" Lauren said. "We're so sorry about what happened to Roy."
"Thank you," she said, and her chin crinkled and began to quiver. "I'm so frightened. So frightened.
"The other night, you know? When it happened? I was asleep. It sounds awful but what can I say? I usually don't sleep well. I have pain that wakes me up. It's in my feet and my back and my left leg… sometimes it feels like an electric shock or being stabbed with a sharp knife. So some nights I let Roy give me a sleeping pill so that I sleep through the night. It's mostly for him that I do it, really. It's so I don't wake him during the night with my… moaning. Halcion. That's the one he gives me. I don't like it because it knocks me out so much. But sometimes Roy would give it to me in the evening and I'd take it. That's what happened, Friday. He gave it to me and he looked so tired that I took it. I didn't hear anything until these police officers woke me up. They wouldn't tell me what happened to Roy. I didn't find out until the next morning. A policeman told me. A policeman."
She raised a hand to cover her mouth. She looked right at Lauren and started to cry. "Oh, what am I going to do? Who's going to take care of me?"
T en minutes later as we walked down the corridor outside the door of Susan Peterson's room, I said, "A saint."
Lauren asked, "What are you talking about? What do you mean 'a saint'?"
"She asked who's going to take care of her. Well, that's who's going to take care of her. The answer is, a saint."
"Alan. That's so unkind."
"I'm sorry. Her situation is tragic, sweets. But she makes it tough to be purely sympathetic."
"She does. Dear Lord, she does. She's gotten worse, hasn't she? Since she's gone downhill so fast, I mean. I don't complain like that, do I? Tell me I don't. And please tell me I'm not that myopic about my life."
"You don't. You're not. You could never be."
"You don't resent me the way Roy resented her?"
"Roy resented Susan?"
The elevator door opened. Lauren whispered, "He was no saint," as we stepped into the crowded elevator.
"What?" I asked.
"Later."
We exited the hospital through an open delivery door and walked three blocks out of our way to avoid another ambush from the press.
; While we were skirting the eastern edge of the park on Ninth Street, the pager we carried so that the babysitter could reach us vibrated on my belt.
I reached for my hip and said, "It might be Viv." Viv was our babysitter/nanny. She was a young Hmong woman with a heart the size of Southeast Asia. With Lauren heading back to work, we were thrilled that Viv had agreed to continue to watch Grace, who seemed to adore her. While Lauren fumbled in her purse for her phone, I glanced at the number on the screen of the pager. I said, "I don't recognize this phone number," and showed it to Lauren.
"Me neither." She punched the number into her cell phone. A moment later she said, "Cozy? Is that you?"
We took about ten more steps as she listened to whatever Cozier Maitlin had to say. Lauren stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and moved off toward a nearby bench. I sat next to her.
Into the phone, Lauren said, "No, I'm technically off leave until tomorrow… That's right, I'm not officially involved with the case at all. I wouldn't be under any circumstances, Cozy. If Roy's murder doesn't go to a special prosecutor, it's going to be run by whichever member of the triad prevails."
Cozy said something. Lauren nodded. "That's right. Mitchell and Nora. The third player in the triad is Elliot." She listened. "Yes, he has that kind of status in the office. Mitch and Nora are wary of him. That's all it takes. Elliot has his supporters, especially among the younger assistants."
I mimed "What?" at my wife. She ignored me.
Cozy spoke for almost a full minute before Lauren said, "Are you kidding? Me? Why?" She listened, and looked my way, widened her violet eyes, then raised her eyebrows. Behind her, the park was vibrant with activity. Joggers, bladers, bikers, kids in strollers, couples hand in hand. The mountains loomed immense to the west and the brilliant sky was streaked with wispy clouds. The plums and cherries were in bloom and the air was fragrant with honeysuckle. I catalogued it all while I eavesdropped.
"Yes, I promise I'll think about it. You don't have to worry about that. I'm not sure I'll think about anything else. I'll call you later today… Okay, okay, I'll call you before dinner." Pause. "We eat around six, Cozy. I'll phone you before then. Good-bye."
"Well?" I said.
She folded the phone with uncommon deliberation. "Cozier Maitlin just made me an offer. He'd like me to assist him in representing Lucy."
"You're not kidding?"
"I'm serious."
"Can you do that? I mean can an assistant district attorney just cross over and be a defense attorney?"
"People do it all the time when they leave the office. Cozy used to be an assistant DA himself. With one phone call to Mitchell, I could extend my maternity leave. I haven't gotten the impression that the workload's been killing anyone, so I don't think there'd be any objections. Then I suppose I could do anything I wanted. Once Mitchell learned what my actual plans were, he wouldn't like it one bit, but I don't think there's anything he could do about it."
I sat back on the bench and gave her an appraisal that, had I given it to a stranger, would have probably earned me a whole peck of trouble. I said, "You're interested, aren't you?"
She smiled at me. A soft, natural smile that I hadn't seen in a few days. "You know, hon, I think I am."
CHAPTER 6
L auren didn't have an answer for Cozy before dinner on Sunday. In fact, she still hadn't arrived at a decision by the time I left the house to drive downtown to see my first patient of the week early on Monday morning. Watching her decision-making process had reminded me of accompanying her to buy a new swimsuit just a few days before. She'd tried on ten different suits but nothing was exactly what she wanted. I tried to stay neutral and supportive as she found a flaw in each and every style she squirmed into, some of which I'd found quite fetching. The problem, I'd decided that day, was that nothing fit the image she had of herself at the beach.
And being a defense attorney didn't fit her image of herself as a lawyer. What she did all day Sunday was the equivalent of twirling in front of the mirror trying to make her ass appear smaller, or larger, or whatever the right size for her ass was.
I'm happy to go on the record as stating that I thought her ass was just fine.
T he first patient in my clinical psychology practice that Monday morning was due at 8:45. I had five more scheduled before the end of the day, the last session ending at 5:15. If my patients behaved themselves, it would be a relatively easy day.
By the time I'd finished the earliest appointment, a woman I didn't know had left an urgent message on my voice mail requesting a return call as soon as possible. I phoned her back between sessions. She begged me for my first open appointment. I offered her 11:30.
She wasn't available.
What about 3:15?
Sorry.
We settled-me reluctantly, she enthusiastically-on 5:15. My relatively easy day was deteriorating before my eyes. I left a message for Viv letting her know I'd be home a little later than I'd thought.
T he offices that I share with another psychologist named Diane Estevez have a simple system for greeting patients. When a patient arrives in the waiting room, he or she flips a switch marked with either my name or Diane's, which illuminates a tiny red light in the corresponding office. At the appointed time, Diane or I go out and retrieve our patient. Saves a fortune in receptionist expenses.
The light indicating the arrival of my 5:15 wasn't illuminated at 5:15. I walked out to the waiting room just in case the new patient-a woman named Naomi Bigg-hadn't mastered the system, which happened sometimes. But the waiting room was empty. I returned to my office, made the next move in the game of phone tag I'd been playing with Lauren all day long, and wrote some notes, stealing frequent looks at the clock. At 5:25, I decided to give my new patient until 5:30 before I headed home. No-show first appointments were a rarity, but a nuisance nonetheless. My personal rule in life was that fifteen minutes was a reasonable amount of time to wait for anyone, for anything, in almost any circumstances.
The light flashed on at 5:27. I was disappointed; I'd crossed the line and was hoping my new patient had changed her mind and wouldn't show. I reluctantly returned to the waiting room, where I greeted a woman who I guessed was about fifty. She was slender and tall and was dressed in a blue gabardine suit. I assumed she was a businesswoman.
"Hello," she said, stretching out her hand. "I'm so sorry I'm late. It was chaos at the office. I'm sorry, that's not your problem. Oh, I didn't even ask-are you Dr. Gregory? Please say yes."
"I am," I replied, and shook her hand.
"Thank God. I'm Naomi Bigg."
"Please come on back to my office."
Naomi chose the chair opposite mine and surprised me by pulling a compact from her purse and checking her face before she turned her attention to me. The interlude of vanity gave me a chance to observe her.
For some reason, I immediately focused on her eyebrows. They'd been plucked with a ferocity that was impossible to ignore. The remaining arc of hair was so narrow that it appeared to have been drawn into place with a fine-tipped pen.
She snapped the compact shut and returned her gaze to me.
I always started the first session with new patients the same way. I said, "How can I be of help?"
She pulled her hands together in front of her chest as though she were about to pray. "I'm not sure. I'm confused-I guess it would be great if you could help with that." Her eyes were focused out the window. The redbuds in the backyard of the old Victorian were ablaze with the pink of spring. I knew the brilliant blossoms would disappear with the next snowstorm.
I waited for Naomi to continue. She didn't.
Finally, I said, "You're confused?" My words had a singular intent, akin to freeing a stuck CD.
"In the sense that I don't know the right thing to do, yes. I'm that kind of confused."
I waited again, longer this time. It was apparent she wanted to play this like a tennis match. She hit. I hit. I wondered whether it was wise to oblige.
I said,
"And you think I can be of help with your decision?"
"Yes. Do you know how I chose you?" She looked my way for the first time since she'd greeted me in the waiting room.
I shook my head.
"I saw you on the news after that thing that happened last fall in Steamboat Springs. You know, with those girls? That's how long I've been thinking about this, about coming to see somebody for… help. For therapy, you know? Since at least last fall. I thought because of that work that you did-I mean helping to find who killed those two girls after such a long time-that you might be the right person to help me, too."
She returned her gaze to the redbuds.
I felt like telling her to get on with it, that I had a baby waiting for me at home, a baby who smelled even better than the flowers on those trees. But I didn't.
As I waited for her to resume, my mind drifted back to the previous autumn's events in Steamboat Springs. Lauren and I had accepted an invitation from a private group of forensic specialists called Locard to participate in an investigation of the 1988 murder of two girls outside Steamboat Springs. The outcome of the investigation had garnered a lot of press coverage, both local and national.
"And then I saw you again on the news last night. You were outside Community Hospital? I think you were with your wife. That's when I decided I was going to call, that it was the right time."
Damn news cameras, I thought.
Naomi Bigg said, "You know what anniversary is this week?"
A crack of sunlight burned through my late-day fog. Aha! Anniversary reaction. She wanted to talk about a loss she'd suffered at this time last year, or the year before, or…
"No," I said, "I don't know what anniversary is this week."
She crossed her long legs, tugged down her skirt. I noticed that her left ankle was bruised. I filed the information.
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