He pulled out his cell and called in the burglary and the fleeing suspect. ‘Caucasian male, blond, early twenties, about five eleven, dressed in jeans, leather jacket, red sweatshirt. Last seen heading south on Second.’ He then added, ‘His first name is possibly Marky.’ Through the open window he heard the dogs; they weren’t letting up, and it was more than barking, they sounded as if they were clawing at something.
He climbed back up and through the window. He thought of Barrett’s comment – too many coincidences with Commissioner Janice Fleet. He followed the frantic yapping toward the front hall closet. The shih-tzus were in a frenzy, their black noses pressed in the crack of the door, their hard nails scraping off the white gloss paint and splintering the wood around the bottom.
He reached for the handle and one of the dogs stood up on its hind legs as he pulled it open. The little dog pushed its muzzle into the opening and let out a howl that sounded like a baby’s cry. Hobbs couldn’t quite tell what he was looking at – a closet in disarray, a stack of women’s coats on the floor, some large cardboard boxes along the back. But then he saw a bit of light blue chiffon that seemed out of place, and something that looked a lot like skin with freckles.
All three dogs clamored inside. They pulled at the coats, and one had tunneled its way under the jumble, only its curved tail visible.
‘Commissioner Fleet … Janice?’ Hobbs said, his stomach in knots as he pulled off the coats. He lifted off a red-wool poncho and knew, even before he’d checked for a pulse, that the woman staring at him with a fresh exit wound on her forehead – the blood still shiny and moist – was dead.
He backed away from the closet and pulled the protesting dogs out. He heard a cruiser pull up outside. After nearly twenty years on the force, most of those working major crimes, his actions were automatic. Call in homicide and don’t let anyone screw up the crime scene. He checked the time – just after eight – and let his senses drink in all of the ethereal bits of evidence that would soon be lost: the smells of Dr. Fleet’s condo, the cast of the lights, the pitiful cries and whimpers from her dogs. He stood in her hall and tried to picture what could have happened, letting the images find him. The young man with the knapsack, presumably filled with stolen goods. Entered through the front door, no sign of force. Had Dr. Fleet known him? Did they have a relationship? He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Was he someone she’d known from the DFYS, or from one of the drop-in centers … an old patient? His thoughts flew to Barrett, out on her date. Doctors weren’t supposed to have relationships with their patients outside of the office, so why did she bring Jerod home? It was a chilling thought, what if the kid with his sad ‘I’m a schizophrenic junkie’ routine was just playing them? He’d be with Ruth … and the baby. Of course, he was pretty damn certain Ruth Conyors didn’t have a wall safe filled with …
He walked back to the bedroom, and pulled out a pair of disposable gloves. He looked at the safe, and the closet floor littered with gold coins, but his thoughts kept going back to Barrett. She’d be sitting down with her hunky social worker, the one who’d been a patient of the now-dead Dr. Fleet. Hobbs had blown off her concerns about the guy’s connections with Janice. Why’d he do that? Everything here felt connected, and if Blondie was Jerod’s Marky …
He pulled out his cell. ‘Barrett, can you talk?’
‘Not really,’ she said.
Hobbs heard sitar music and pictured Barrett and her date at one of those cozy Indian restaurants in the Village, fabric-draped walls and candles in red glass holders. ‘Janice Fleet is dead. She’s been murdered in her condo.’
‘Oh my God, when?’
‘Looks like a robbery. I came in in the middle; I think the perp was Marky; he fits the description. Where are you?’
‘Bengali East,’ she said.
‘Your date?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Barrett, you were right; Fleet’s somehow tied up in this mess with Jerod and the dead kids. I don’t know how yet.’ He glanced around the bedroom, trying to push down a sudden sense of panic. Nothing added up, the wall safe filled with God knows how much gold – pounds of it – and whatever else might have been taken, the dead commissioner with her legacy of drop-in centers, kids just out of foster care getting set up to sell dope to college kids, or getting overdosed when they decide to clean up their act … lots of organization. Not a one-person organization. ‘Barrett, I’m coming to get you. I’ve got a bad feeling about your date.’
‘You’re not alone,’ she whispered. ‘Please hurry,’ and the line went dead.
TWENTY-ONE
Barrett’s date with Chase had started with promise. His cab pulled up to the red and gold restaurant facade just as she did. ‘What a day,’ he said, as he handed the driver a twenty, ‘keep it,’ striking a small but first wrong note of the evening.
She waited on the sidewalk. He was still dressed in the clothes he’d had on at the conference … only the shoes were different, not the Prada boots but equally nice, and far more practical, black leather walking shoes. ‘You look like you just came from work,’ she said, wondering why something about that seemed over-obvious, like why bring a briefcase to a date? And if he’d taken a cab, why the switch to comfortable shoes?
‘Horrible day,’ he said.
‘That call you got?’
He let out a slow breath. ‘Got to shake it off. It’s no wonder why half the counselors are burned out and the other half just don’t give a shit. You look really nice,’ he said, letting his eyes do a thorough once-over. ‘And I promise not to spend the whole time bitching about work.’
Unlike Chase, she had managed a quick, and necessary, change at home, ditching her navy suit for a pair of form-hugging black jeans, gray silk scoop-necked T-shirt with an empire waist that did wonders for her still-nursing breasts while concealing the barest hint of belly, a pair of low-heeled trendy black boots, and a mannish black sport coat worn open. She’d even put on makeup, and not just the usual dab of neutral-pink lipstick she wore for work, but smoky gray eye shadow, mascara, and lips painted a deep, almost fresh-blood red. ‘Shop talk doesn’t bother me,’ she said, as she stepped down the few steps to the restaurant.
Chase swept an arm in front of her and opened the door, letting out the smells of a dozen spices.
The proprietor, an Indian man in his early seventies, greeted them. ‘Dr. Conyors, how good to see you again.’ He gave her a quick once-over, doing a small double-take at her outfit. ‘You are most lovely tonight, the window is OK?’
‘That would be nice, Sanjee,’ she said, noting the covert glances of the diners checking them out.
As he led them to the dimly lit table, Chase whispered, ‘Every man in this room wishes he were with you.’
‘Please,’ she said, enjoying the compliment and feeling a bit unnerved by his proximity, ‘we’re in the East Village, half of them are gay and wish they were with you.’
As they sat, he gazed at her. ‘Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?’
She couldn’t help but meet his stare, those amber eyes, the perfect symmetry of his features, the almost feline slant of his cheeks, and those lips … ‘You ain’t so bad yourself, kid.’
‘It’s not easy, is it?’
His response took her off guard. ‘No, it’s not,’ she said, nervously pushing a hand through her bangs, wondering where he’d take this.
‘I think we have a lot in common, and please don’t think I spend my whole day in front of the mirror, but when you’re very good-looking … or beautiful … it’s not what other people think – kind of a double-edged sword.’
‘Yes,’ she said, finding the conversation odd and surprisingly easy, ‘although I think the rules are different for men and women.’
‘Don’t be so certain,’ he said. ‘People think you’re dumb and they like to do things for you …’
‘They want to get you in the sack,’ she said, wishing she’d kept that thought to herself.
; ‘There is that,’ he agreed, as their waiter came with menus. ‘Kind of puts a sour spin on the whole thing. You know, somebody is nice to you, helps you out, and then you realize they’d like something in return … even if they don’t say it. Anyway, enough of poor pretty us.’ He reached under the table and retrieved his briefcase. ‘I can’t imagine how many rules this is breaking.’ He pulled out a Manila folder that was a good five inches thick. ‘Believe it or not I actually thinned this puppy down.’
‘The stuff on Jerod,’ she said, having forgotten Chase’s earlier offer to go into his sealed records. And right there she knew that something was very wrong with Chase. Ever since she’d met him the evidence had trickled in, and part of her hated the way she couldn’t just enjoy the attention of this stunning man. She’d spent ten years evaluating criminals, most of whom also had mental illnesses. And she’d met more than her share of sociopaths, men and women with no morality, no sense of empathy, driven only by their wants and desires. The smart ones, like this Chase, knew how to hide it, how to put on the trappings of normalcy, which in his case came with movie-star looks. She looked at the folder as he slid it toward her. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, you know that everything you download can be traced.’
‘I thought you wanted it,’ he said, his gleaming eyes on hers.
Her brain kicked into overdrive as competing thoughts burst forward. He’d set this date up with some underlying purpose, and she didn’t yet know what it was. But now he was trying to turn her into an accomplice for a felony. He’d illegally removed sealed documents that belonged to the State of New York. And he’d broken federal regulations by copying privileged patient information, which he now intended to pass on to her. ‘I can’t take that, Chase. You shouldn’t have done that, it’s not what I wanted.’
The waiter returned with a steaming plate of assorted Indian breads, vegetable stuffed samosas, mango, chutney, and a cucumber and yogurt dip.
‘I guess I misunderstood,’ he said, a smile forming, as he pulled the folder off the table and dropped it back into his briefcase. ‘Well, no big deal. You think anyone really knows how to trace what goes on with those state computers? I’ll just shred it and end of story. You never saw it. Besides, by the time they do any kind of electronic audit, if they ever do, I’ll be long gone.’
‘Medical school,’ she said, keeping her mounting panic under wraps. He knows about computers, could he be the one who broke into my office? Chase wanted something from her, and she sensed now it had little to do with getting her in the sack, at least not just that. ‘You’re not going to miss working with the kids?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But you know that’s something else we’ll have in common. You’re a doctor, I’m going to be a doctor. Barrett,’ his tone dropped, ‘I don’t know what it is … but ever since we met this morning I cannot get you out of my mind. This is not usual for me, and I’m sorry if copying Jerod’s records freaked you out, but … Shit! I feel like an idiot.’
God, he’s quick, she thought, noting how he’d deftly stepped away from the crimes he’d just committed, covering them up with a facade of what she could only describe as the ‘love at first sight’ defense. But the first rule in dealing with a sociopath is to never let them know you’re on to them, so she played along. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got to admit that you’ve popped into my brain a few dozen times today. So let’s pretend none of this happened.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, pulling off a piece of steaming pouri bread and dipping it into the golden-brown tamarind sauce.
‘And seeing as you already know about Jerod,’ she said, ‘maybe you can help me with a few details. Not so much about him, but about some kids he was hanging out with.’
‘If I can, what’s this about?’
‘It’s a case I’ve been dealing with. A couple kids wound up dead in a shooting gallery and Jerod’s the one who found them, and then there’s this other girl, another sad case. What I can’t figure out is how someone like Jerod, who can get pretty crazy, hooked up with kids who are basically normal. A couple of them were recent graduates of DYFS – Bobby Dix and Carly Sloan.’ She looked across at him, trying to detect any hint of emotion or recognition.
He cocked his head slightly, and swallowed a bite of food. ‘No, sorry, not ringing bells.’
The date’s over, she thought, as her last thin thread of doubt about him vanished with his denial. He’d met with Carly Sloan on a weekly basis for over two years. He was the counselor who would have been responsible for helping her transition out of the department. Date’s over and time to go to work. As she thought through strategies the waiter reappeared with a tray of shiny covered-brass dishes. He placed them on the table, raising the lid on each. ‘Lamb kurma, chicken tandoori, vegetable curry.’
As the steam rose, she shifted her questioning into a style that was a blend of Hobbs’s interrogation and a forensic approach she’d ordinarily take when dealing with a sociopath and his many layers of lies. ‘The girl is particularly sad,’ she said, taking the lid off the creamy kurma.
‘Why’s that?’ he asked, putting a large spoonful of saffron rice in the middle of his plate.
‘On so many levels,’ she said, and thought of Jerod and his desperation to find his missing girlfriend, she couldn’t screw this up. If anyone knew where Carly Sloan was, or what had happened to her, it was Chase. Did he shoot that video, and if so, why? ‘I don’t know how much you know about the kids living in the park tents in Brooklyn, a few left in the Lower East Side, and these last hold outs in the East Village, but apparently they’re like little families. Many of them come from horrible backgrounds, either castoffs from DFYS or cast off for other reasons, a lot of runaways and some that just get kicked out of their houses.’
‘We get a lot of those,’ he commented, ‘but the problem is most of them don’t want what the department has to offer, so they run away … This restaurant is great. I’m glad you suggested it. It’s been a long time since I’ve had Indian.’
She listened to the sound of the voice, and how he tried to redirect the conversation. It had the feel of sparring at Sifu Henry’s dojo. OK, Chase, let’s see where we can spin this. ‘I do love Indian, and this is my favorite place. You’ve never been to this one?’
‘No … I had a friend who’d insist we go to the ones in Jackson Heights. He said they were the best.’
‘Had a friend?’ she’d asked.
‘He passed away.’
‘A good friend?’
‘Yes, very, someone who helped me out when I was leaving my last group home, gave me a place to stay in exchange for looking after him.’
Interesting, she thought, from ‘whatever happened to Carly Sloan’, to Chase the do-gooder. ‘He was ill?’ she offered, wanting to let Chase feel he was controlling the conversation.
‘AIDS. I took care of Dom for three years. I was with him at the very end.’
‘That’s commendable, what happened when he died? Were you suddenly out on the street?’
‘No,’ Chase said, and he motioned to the waiter. ‘I’d like a glass of Bombay Beer.’ He looked at her. ‘You?’
‘No, I’m good with tea,’ she replied, noting he was again trying to shift topics. ‘So, what happened after your friend Dom died?’
‘He was generous. He’d known the end was coming and he’d had the deed to his condo put in my name.’
‘Wow, generous is putting it mildly, where in the city?’
‘TriBeCa … but he’d purchased it long before TriBeCa became … TriBeCa.’
A string of questions formed in her head, but she thought better of firing them at Chase, like, Exactly how long after the change in the lease did your friend die? And, Was there an autopsy, or did people just assume, AIDS, dead, it was inevitable? ‘So you kind of lucked out.’
‘If you call losing your best friend lucking out.’
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, ‘I imagine he also left you enough to keep the place up,
because God knows the condo fees and taxes in this city can be outrageous.’
‘I’m sorry, Barrett, but this is kind of painful stuff to talk about, do you mind if we talk about something better … like you, and how the hell does someone wind up as a forensic psychiatrist?’
‘That’s easy,’ she said, giving him her best smile, ‘when I went through my rotations as a medical student, the one that was the most interesting was psychiatry; there’s something about people and their stories and trying to understand how lives get played out in certain ways. A bad childhood can lead here, a quirk in genetics pushes someone there. A girl watches her father beat up on her mother and when she becomes a teenager she runs into the arms of the football jock who does the same to her. Call me twisted, but I find it fascinating. The forensic part came later, when I was a resident and started working in the emergency room. One case in particular actually turned into something relatively high profile. A woman had come into the emergency room; she was psychotic and hearing voices. She’d said the devil was coming to take her children and she needed to get them to safety … get them to heaven. When I heard that my first thought was, Where are this woman’s children? Turned out she’d killed her one-year-old twins, smothered them with a pillow.’
‘Post-partum psychosis?’
‘This is where it got interesting, as I did her emergency-room evaluation I started to notice things. Like whenever I left the room and watched her on the closed-circuit monitor, she seemed less crazy. But the minute the nurse or I entered the room, suddenly she was in the presence of Jesus, and we caught it all on tape. End of the day it turned out she’d caught the babies’ father with another woman and had decided that the best punishment would be to kill his children. She didn’t have schizophrenia; she wasn’t psychotic at all.’ She made eye contact with Chase. ‘It was cold, calculated murder, and she was trying to swing a “not guilty by reason of insanity” defense.’
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