by K. L. Murphy
The glare of the sun had made him squint and Sarah had started to cry.
“You hurt me.” She rubbed her arms and hips where purple and yellow bruises already marked her olive skin. He hurt, too, his knees and elbows hitting the hard wooden floor when they had fallen together, bodies joined in battle. “George, let go of me.” She pushed him away.
His hands fell away and he stood, looking down at her. Tears slipped down his cheeks. How had it gotten this bad, this awful? He loved this woman and she didn’t want him anymore. She didn’t trust him, and he could hardly blame her. The perfection, the purity of their love had imploded, leaving only ugliness and hurt. Hanging his head, he wiped at his tears.
“Help me up.” She held out her hand. Sniffling, he reached down and pulled the young woman to her feet. She stood in front of him, bruised and beautiful. Her slender fingers traced his lips and wet cheeks. Her chocolate eyes glowed, shining and wet. “George, you have to let me go. It’s for your own good. Please, trust me that I’m doing the right thing.”
He couldn’t face her, couldn’t face the end. How could the brightest time in his life come to such an abrupt and unnecessary conclusion? Everything before seemed so gray, until this gorgeous and captivating creature appeared before him in a smoky and sour-smelling bar. How could she ask him to forget? How could she expect him to go back to his boring and predictable life? Was that what she thought was best for him?
“I can’t.”
Sarah’s hand dropped. “You don’t have any choice, George. I’m ending this relationship. It’s over.”
“No.”
“It’s over,” she said again, louder, firmer.
In a flash, he saw his future, the dull life his father had laid out for him. Before Sarah, he’d resented it, hated it, but hadn’t bothered to find his own way, his own alternative. Young and spoiled, it hadn’t seemed urgent. Now, after Sarah, he could say with conviction what he did and didn’t want.
“I need you,” he begged.
“Jesus,” she said. “You’re going to make me do it, aren’t you?” George stared, his arms hanging limp at his sides. “I didn’t want to do this.” She gazed past him up at the house and the drive. “Dammit. This is not going to be easy.” Sarah breathed and raised her chin. “I won’t ruin your life, George. I won’t do it.”
“You’re not going to ruin my—”
She cut him off, a steely edge to her voice. “There’s something I have to tell you. The truth is, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
A loud, insistent banging snapped him from the fitful dream. He sat up and blinked. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The banging came again. There was someone pounding at the front door. He rose, joints stiff, and leaned over to look out the front window. Parked in the gravel driveway was a black and white car. The police.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
CANCINI RUBBED HIS bloodshot eyes. The phone calls, interviews, and random bits of information swirled around his brain, giving him a raging headache. He opened his drawer and fumbled for the bottle of ibuprofen. Three empty coffee cups littered his desk. A greasy sandwich wrapper sat crumpled on top of his notebook, the one filled with more questions than answers. A million thoughts raced through his head.
Who bought the surveillance tape? Who was the woman? A vague description—dark wig, oversized sunglasses, and khaki-colored coat—wasn’t much to go on. The manager thought she might have been tall, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t notice her shoes. Why would the anonymous woman go to so much trouble? What was her connection to Vandenberg? To Michael? Just a good citizen? Highly unlikely.
The two women connected to the investigation and with the most to lose sprang to mind. Closest to Vandenberg, of course, was his wife. It wouldn’t be the first time a wife had turned on her husband, but her involvement with the surveillance tape seemed improbable, although not impossible. Still, to buy the tape, she would have to know about its existence in the first place. How could she unless she was in Washington the night of the murder and had followed her husband? Cancini made a note to confirm her alibi.
Nora Michael had also drawn his suspicion, but her involvement seemed less likely. Even if Dr. Michael had revealed the troublesome patient’s name, the widow couldn’t know Vandenberg had been in a convenience mart just before midnight. She was in Chicago. Again, he wondered if she had a partner but dismissed the thought. There was no evidence of a connection between Mrs. Michael and Vandenberg.
As a person of interest, however, Nora Michael remained a case of smoke and mirrors. A subpoena of her cell phone records turned up little, but did reinforce his suspicion someone other than Mrs. Michael carried the second phone. Discovering who was far more difficult. The more they dug, the cloudier her past seemed. Friends and acquaintances from Boston couldn’t enlighten them, admitting she maintained a distance and aloofness that most had given up trying to penetrate. The late Dr. Michael appeared to be the one person who knew her well, and he, of course, could tell them nothing. More than once, the detectives heard how Michael revered his wife, fond of telling everyone how lucky he was to have her. She, by all accounts, kept to herself. A talented tax attorney, she took long leaves of absence and extended vacations for weeks at a time. No one seemed to know why. Furthermore, they could find no additional verification she’d been a patient of her husband’s or whether she had sought additional treatment since. He was stymied.
Martin brought in the precinct shrink to listen to Vandenberg’s sessions and work up a profile on their suspect. His report sat on Cancini’s desk, unread and untouched. He slurped the cold coffee, eyeing the folder. How close would the report be to his own analysis of the man? Would it be an affirmation of Vandenberg as a man who had reached the end of his rope, no longer able to withstand the doctor’s pressure, a hatred festering and growing, ending in a cold-blooded murder? Would the shrink paint George as a killer? He picked up the report, fingering the corners of the pages. Tossing the coffee, he skimmed the report, flipped back to the middle and reread the parts that caught his interest.
Vandenberg is prone to fits of temper. Alcoholic tendencies combined with periodic doses of antidepressants do not help the patient exhibit self-control. There is a lack of forethought to many of his actions and little evidence he considers the consequences. The blackouts are a major concern and the patient should seek additional treatment in a substance-abuse facility.
Suffering from mild bouts of depression, the patient wants to change his life but lacks belief it can be done.
The one thing that is consistent about the patient is his fear of the truth being known regarding the incident with the girl and her death. Most of his fear seems to originate with his wife. His loyalty to her wishes and demands does not waver in spite of his deep resentment toward her.
The guilt the patient feels about the dead girl is the source of his depression; however, it is the years since that have fed his sadness. The doctor’s insistence that revealing the truth would relieve the depression seems naive and unfounded. How could he know that it would work and not plunge the patient into a deeper depression if his family were to abandon him after the fact?
Vandenberg was not an innocent man. He had done things that were wrong—how criminal was debatable—but clearly wrong. Was he a bad man? The detective couldn’t decide. He’d lied. He’d exhibited a volatile temper and a propensity toward violence. Black and white. Right and wrong. So, why did he have questions? “Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath and dropped the report back on his desk. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“You bet you are,” Smitty said, smiling broadly. He handed Cancini a fresh cup of coffee. “Why don’t you retire and give the rest of us a break?”
Cancini tried to smile, but his head ached and the exhaustion born of nonstop work had seeped into his bones. “Damn, that sounds good about now.”
S
mitty’s smile faded. “I was kidding.”
“Yeah,” Cancini told the younger man. “Me too.”
“Is that the shrink’s report?” Smitty pointed at the papers on Cancini’s desk. “Anything we can use?”
Cancini nodded. “Have at it.” He leaned back and rested his hands on his chest.
Smitty read, turning page after page until he’d finished the report. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think our shrink liked Dr. Michael much.”
Cancini unfolded his hands. “Why do you say that?”
“Something he wrote that seemed like a slam to me. I don’t think he liked the way Michael was treating Vandenberg, didn’t agree with him about what the guy should do.”
“I saw that, too. How could Michael be sure it was right? What about the family? Blah, blah, blah. It’s shrink bullshit.”
“I meant the other part, about getting too personal.”
Cancini sat up. Maybe he had skimmed too many parts. “What about getting too personal?”
Smitty turned to the back page. “Here it is: ‘After listening to many samplings of tapes, it is my opinion that the patient was becoming increasingly dependent on the therapist, placing all hope in the treatment. This was counterproductive, however, considering his reticence to take the doctor’s advice to come forward about the girl’s death. Most troubling though was not the patient’s dependence, but the therapist’s.’ See what I mean?”
“Wait. Did you say the therapist’s?” Cancini asked, twin lines between his dark brows. “As in Dr. Michael was dependent on Vandenberg?”
“Yeah, listen. ‘Reviewing the doctor’s written notes, it appears the therapist was becoming more personally involved in the patient’s decision-making process, even trying to steer him in a particular direction. This is, of course, borderline unprofessional, but of more concern should be the consequences. Too involved with the patient, acting as though he had an almost personal stake in the man’s treatment, he may have inadvertently pushed the patient to a violent act by forcing him into a life-changing decision he was not ready to make. It is not clear why Dr. Michael was so adamant it was the only solution for the patient or why he would not accept the patient’s reluctance.’ ”
When Smitty stopped reading, neither man said anything for a moment. The shrink’s words further incriminated Vandenberg and gave the police reasonable motive, but they meant something else to the detective. Shrinks weren’t supposed to get personal. Not that he cared one whit whether Dr. Michael behaved unprofessionally, but it mattered if it led his death. Why was Michael so adamant? For what reason? Cancini jumped up, knocking his chair backward. “I’m going over to Michael’s office.” Smitty stood, too, a quizzical look on his face. Cancini shoved his notebook into his pocket and moved toward the door. Over his shoulder, he said with a grin, “You can cancel the retirement party, wise ass.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
THE HAIR ON the back of his neck stood up and goose bumps rose on his arms. He drove slowly, unable to shake the feeling he was being watched. George’s eyes darted between the rearview and side mirrors, but he saw nothing. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel. The police visit had left him spooked. Dispatched after a terse call from Mary Helen, the young policeman at his door did not inspire confidence. Possessing more pimples on his cheeks than hairs on his chin, he brought to mind a kid playing cops and robbers. George doubted the boy would be much use stopping a trespasser, especially as he didn’t appear to carry a gun.
George wanted a drink so badly his stomach hurt and his hands still got the occasional shakes. He felt like shit and he couldn’t avoid the glazed eyes and sallow complexion that greeted him in the mirror. George took several deep breaths and concentrated on the road. He uncurled his fingers and let them rest lightly on the wheel. At least the car was still under his control.
George checked the time on the digital display. Larry had agreed to meet with him on short notice. “I took the liberty of contacting Washington yesterday at Mary Helen’s request, and I think you were right to call me. It’s fair to say you’ve been elevated to more than a ‘person of interest,’ ” Larry had said. “I’ll need to know everything, George. Otherwise, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” George knew he did not misread the warning, but it didn’t matter. He would cooperate. Larry was his best chance to learn what was going on with the investigation into Dr. Michael’s murder.
He pulled off the twisty road and stopped at a dusty convenience store. Since giving up drinking, he’d found himself chain-smoking at an alarming rate, substituting one addiction for another. At least his head was clear, he told himself—sort of, anyway. A small dark sedan pulled in behind him. Inside, he bought cigarettes, Coke, and a candy bar.
The old man behind the counter grinned, dark tobacco stains on his teeth. “Helluva breakfast, buddy.”
George shrugged and smiled. The guy was right, but he’d eaten nothing that morning and not much the day before, either. “You know how it is. A little caffeine, a little nicotine, a little chocolate. The three basic food groups.”
The old man cackled and shoved the items in a paper bag. “Come on back anytime,” he called after George.
Driving away, George lit up, inhaled and exhaled, white wisps of smoke curling from his nose and mouth. He relaxed against the seat. He finished the cigarette and pulled another from the pack. Checking his rearview mirror, he frowned. The dark sedan followed a few yards back. Had he seen the driver go into the store? Had he not been paying attention? He stubbed out the burning cigarette, his fingers trembling again. Could the car be following him? He thought it through and dismissed the idea. Surely it would hang back and try not to be seen.
He sped up, his thoughts returning to the dream of the night before. It usually didn’t get that far. Yet now that Dr. Michael was gone, the dreams and recollections had taken on a more foreboding tone. Worse, the dreams were haunting him long after he was awake. He’d never relived the entire fight before, not the worst part anyway, and certainly never the life-altering event itself. He sensed it would happen now. The memory was there, always threatening to break through, floating just on the edge of his conscious state. The nausea returned and he swallowed hard. George glanced up and saw the sedan was closer, almost on his bumper. He considered waving the driver around him, but passing was difficult on these curvy, one-lane roads. He sped up again and gave the car some space.
He dreaded the meeting with Larry. Things were moving fast. He felt trapped on a railroad track, his foot stuck in the tie, the rails vibrating with the power of an oncoming train. Larry needed to hear everything and George knew that was right, but he was afraid. Giving the tapes to the police had been easy. That hadn’t required him to do anything. The knowledge he’d been labeled a suspect in Dr. Michael’s murder changed everything. He sensed the locomotive barreling toward him at full speed.
The sedan tapped his bumper. George’s eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. The car followed closely, no more than a foot or two behind him. What was the hurry? The car hit him again, this time harder, and his head bobbed forward. He looked ahead, to the left and to the right. Dense trees and heavy overgrowth lined both sides of the old road, dirt shoulders practically nonexistent. Although he’d never minded, his wife had always complained about these roads, too narrow for two cars, one going east and the other west.
He checked the rearview mirror again. He would pull over into the oncoming lane as far as he could and let the driver pass. Flipping his blinker on, he slowed and moved his car to the left, careful to keep an eye out for oncoming traffic. He breathed a sigh of relief as the sedan moved to pass. When the other car came parallel, he slowed further. The sedan slowed, too. He strained to see the other driver, but the car’s opaque windows made it impossible. The sedan matched his speed, turned toward him, and forced him farther onto the shoulder. Pine branches scraped the side of his car. Something was wrong. He ja
mmed his foot on the gas pedal and jerked his car out in front of the sedan. He turned the wheel to the right, taking him back to his lane. The sedan sped up, too, instantly regaining its position on his rear bumper. George increased his speed, watching the needle creep higher and higher on the speedometer. His eyes shot back and forth between the car behind him and the road ahead. His tires squealed when he took the turns at crazy speeds and he clutched the steering wheel now as though it were a lifeline. Sweat dripped from his temples and wet moons appeared under his armpits. There were no sounds other than the pounding in his chest and his own raspy, labored breathing.
He drove on, his fingers cramped and aching. Coming out of the last turn before the one-lane bridge, George spotted a pickup truck barreling toward him. The driver flashed his headlights and blared his horn. The truck slowed, waving his arm for George to get out of the way. Behind him, the sedan gained speed. Trapped between the two vehicles, George slammed on his brakes. His car spun once, the rear end catching the trees. The pickup, screeching to a stop, crashed into the side of his car, throwing George’s body against the steering wheel and the driver-side door. George heard glass smash and the crunch of metal. An airbag punched him in the face. Eyes fluttering, he lost consciousness, vaguely aware the sedan had slowed and inched by the two wrecked vehicles before speeding away and out of sight.
Chapter Forty
CANCINI SLIPPED INTO Father Joe’s office late in the day.
“Michael. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The priest waved his arm at an empty chair.
“Thanks, Father,” Cancini said. He remained standing. “I only have a minute.”