Doggone

by Herkert, Gabriella

  ‘‘I do not sashay.’’

  ‘‘You won’t have to in that skirt.’’

  ‘‘I can handle this.’’

  ‘‘I know you can, babe. Jack’s dead meat with you on the case. Shit. Let’s just do it then. If he lays a finger on you . . .’’

  ‘‘I scream. You rush in and clobber him.’’

  ‘‘I like that plan better,’’ Connor told me.

  ‘‘I know you do, honey. But knocking him senseless doesn’t help Siobhan or me. It also doesn’t get us any closer to figuring this out. You ready?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ he grumbled.

  ‘‘Well, here goes nothing.’’ I got out of the car.

  I could feel him watching me as I walked to the corner. I put a little more swagger in my step. More hips, more ass. In the little leather mini I felt dangerous. Jack ought to look out. I was coming for him. My high heels clicked against the pavement, the shoes slowing me down. It didn’t matter; I knew Connor would be in position before I got to the door. I pulled it open and stepped into the foyer.

  ‘‘Hello.’’ I adopted a Southern drawl for the mission, all honey and molasses. ‘‘My name is Alex French. I believe Dr. Reed is expecting me.’’

  ‘‘Have a seat.’’ The secretary’s tone was sergeant gruff. Either she wasn’t the warm fuzzy type or my outfit had set her off.

  ‘‘Thank you. That’s real kind of you.’’

  I laid it on thick, a walking, talking Stuckey’s pecan roll. I’d bet Connor was smiling. Under all that macho stuff, he really was a softy.

  ‘‘Ms. French?’’ Jack’s voice was surfer casual.

  It matched his look. Sort of. Blond hair, carefully styled with too-perfect-to-be-natural highlights, evenly bronzed skin I’d bet was sprayed on, and casual sailing clothes with a knife-edge crease in the leg. Acting California cool.

  ‘‘Dr. Reed? I am so happy to make your acquaintance. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for sharing some of your precious time with me.’’

  His smile widened. Caps.

  ‘‘It’s absolutely my pleasure.’’

  So much for the good doctor’s powers of observation. Professionalism didn’t seem to be his shtick either. He all but leered at the length of leg I showed in the leather skirt.

  ‘‘Why don’t we go into my office?’’

  I followed him back and pretended to take it all in with interest. I listened carefully to make sure he wasn’t locking us in. Just in case.

  ‘‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Iced tea? Something stronger?’’

  He was pouring doubles at the office? Loosen them up a little, maybe. Probably just the women. ‘‘No, thanks. Do you mind if I take a few notes while we talk?’’

  ‘‘No. Go ahead.’’

  Sitting down on the couch, I reached into my handbag and took out a notebook and pen. Flipping open the cover, I checked my notes. They were background, enough to fool Jack in case he glanced at the page while trying to look down my shirt. Overkill, but Connor was committed to the details.

  ‘‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your work, Alex.’’ Jack sat next to me on the couch, too close, and I regretted not taking the armchair.

  ‘‘That’s okay. I write romances.’’ I faked a giggle. ‘‘Most of my readers are women, although I can’t for the life of me figure out why more men don’t read romances. Everything they want to know about women can be found on those pages. Men would find meaningful relationships with women a lot easier if they just did their background work. That’s why I’m here. You see, I decided to put some real psychological elements in my next book. Broaden my readership. It’s sort of like a thriller but still romantic, you know? I just can’t stay away from romance.’’

  ‘‘Your husband must appreciate that. I couldn’t help but notice the ring.’’

  So he checked for a ring. Interesting. Especially since his marriage was more theory than application. How open-minded of him.

  ‘‘That.’’ I let an edge creep into my voice. ‘‘Well, actually we’re separated.’’ Connor wasn’t going to take that well, and I knew his hackles were rising on the other end of the cell phone. Don’t worry, baby. There’s no chance I’m throwing away a Connor for a Jack.

  ‘‘He never trusted me. He was always following me around. Acting like I couldn’t take care of myself. A real Neanderthal. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.’’ Might as well weave a story Jack would relate to. I was making it up on the fly, but Jack’s eyes lit up. Green. Connor’s were emerald. Jack’s were reptilian. ‘‘A divorced romance writer doesn’t sell many books. It’ll have to be our secret.’’

  Jack leaned in. ‘‘I’ll never tell,’’ he whispered.

  I shifted just slightly. I wanted him interested, but letting him gape at my breasts was making my skin crawl. There was only so much I was willing to do in the line of duty. ‘‘I knew as soon as I saw you that we were going to be confidantes.’’ I used a breathiness so campy a reasonable person would have heard it as a cross between Betty Boop and Darth Vader. Not a turn-on. Jack the Letch moved closer. What the heck had Siobhan seen in this sleazeball?

  ‘‘How can I help?’’ Jack asked.

  ‘‘Well, I’ve been wondering about amnesia. Lots of romances use amnesia, you understand. The hero has forgotten everything but his love for the heroine. Anyway, I’m wondering how something like that could happen. Do you just get hit on the head and forget everything?’’

  ‘‘Sometimes, although that’s rare. Usually amnesia affects only portions of the memory. It’s often the result of a trauma, either physical or psychological.’’

  ‘‘That is so fascinating.’’

  ‘‘The human mind, Ms. French, is an endlessly complex and enthralling subject.’’

  ‘‘Call me Alex, please, Doctor.’’

  ‘‘Only if you promise to call me Jack.’’

  I wanted to gag. ‘‘What happens to the blank spot, Doctor? I mean Jack. Say, just for an example, I can’t remember who my parents are. Do I know I don’t know or do I make something up? Some sort of explanation for how I came to be?’’ I fluttered my eyelashes. The old tricks were the most reliable. ‘‘Always figurin’ I wasn’t just dropped on the planet fully grown.’’

  Jack slid an arm along the back of the sofa. I wanted that hand someplace I could see it. Then again, it probably didn’t matter. If he touched me Connor would find out, and then Jack’s limbs would no longer be a problem. Nor would they match.

  ‘‘Now you’ve crossed the line to delusional disorders.’’

  ‘‘Goodness, I hope I never do that,’’ I said.

  ‘‘I’m sure you’re in perfect mental health,’’ Jack replied.

  Clearly you don’t know me, buddy. Then again, compared to you, I’m sure I seem in touch with reality. I’m not Narcissus. If anything, Siobhan had understated his ego problem. Connor’s sister definitely deserved better. ‘‘For the sake of argument, then, delusional disorders?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘They take many forms. Some variations are well-known even among laypeople, thanks mostly to television. Paranoia, for example, includes delusions of both persecution and grandeur.’’

  ‘‘That is so interesting.’’

  ‘‘Then there’s Capgras syndrome.’’

  ‘‘I never heard of that.’’

  ‘‘It’s rare. In fact, I’m considered something of the quintessential expert on the topic.’’

  Jack turned away. I glanced out the window and froze. Oh, shit. Connor. Over Jack’s shoulder on the other side of the glass. Not ten feet away. He did a brush-off gesture, then pointed at Jack’s arm along the couch. I fought a smile.

  ‘‘Really?’’ I gushed. ‘‘Tell me more.’’

  ‘‘When suffering from Capgras a person might believe that someone close to them has been replaced by a double. The double would be identical in looks and manner to the original, but different in a way that only the delusional person could recognize.’�
�

  ‘‘Body snatchers?’’

  ‘‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’’

  That wasn’t exactly John Doe. He thought he’d been the one replaced.

  ‘‘Or, in isolated cases, the delusional individual might think he—or more likely she—was himself replaced.’’

  Direct hit. ‘‘I would love to put a dramatic twist like that in my story. I don’t suppose you’ve got a case study you could share with me? For authenticity?’’

  ‘‘Patient matters are confidential, Alex.’’

  ‘‘Of course. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything unethical, Jack.’’ Like I’d have to ask. ‘‘I just thought you could tell me what could happen. Hypothetically. To anyone. We could call him, our mythical patient, John Doe.’’

  ‘‘Well, I don’t suppose I would be speaking out of school if I shared a hypothetical case with you.’’

  So much for ethics.

  ‘‘Our John,’’ Jack began in a condescending tone that put my teeth on edge, ‘‘could be a young man with a metabolic disorder, like diabetes.’’

  ‘‘Wait.’’ I held a hand up. ‘‘What does John look like?’’ A guy that busy dreaming about himself wouldn’t have enough room in his brain to make it up. He’d probably just describe the real deal.

  ‘‘It doesn’t matter,’’ Jack put me off.

  ‘‘Sure it does. I’m visual. If I can’t see my characters, they aren’t real to me. C’mon, Jack. I’m sure you can paint a picture for me.’’

  ‘‘You’re the writer.’’

  ‘‘And you’re the expert,’’ I cooed. I tugged a little on the collar of my shirt. I could see Connor point at me in my peripheral vision. Jack was too busy staring to notice.

  ‘‘He’s young. Mid to late teens. Five-foot-eight or -nine, maybe one hundred and sixty pounds.’’

  ‘‘Hair color? Eye color?’’

  Jack never hesitated. ‘‘Blond hair and green eyes.’’

  ‘‘Perfect. Identifying marks?’’

  ‘‘You really want detail, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘I’ve got to make him come alive, Jack.’’

  ‘‘He has a scar on his chin from a childhood fall.’’

  I touched my chin, marking the spot. ‘‘Wonderful. Now I can really see him. So, go on with the medical stuff.’’

  ‘‘John Doe’s diabetic chemical imbalance results in dementia, which manifests itself in the irrational belief that those closest to him—his parents, for example—have been replaced by their physical and behavioral identical doubles. He could believe that aliens or the government is behind the switch. After a period of time, the gap between reality and delusion widens, and John begins to believe that he himself has been switched as part of the conspiracy.’’

  ‘‘How would you treat John if he were your patient?’’

  ‘‘Well, if it were me, I would look for underlying physical or organic indicia.’’

  ‘‘Such as?’’

  My accent was slipping a little, and I kept losing touch with my romance-writer character. Jack didn’t seem to notice. While I’d guess he could accurately give my bra size, now that we were talking about his favorite subject, him, all other detail was flying straight past. Connor stepped closer to the glass and I caught my breath. It was so hard not to glance his way. I lost track of what Jack was saying.

  ‘‘I would look for cerebral lesions and electric disorders, ’’ Jack blathered on. ‘‘I’d run a CAT scan and electroencephalography.I’d also run a glucose tolerance test and a toxicology report.’’

  ‘‘That’s a plumb lotta tests.’’

  ‘‘It’s a serious disorder.’’ Jack leaned closer.

  He was looking straight down my shirt. Connor’s silhouette loomed closer and I propped my elbow on the back of the sofa, forcing Jack’s arm away. I played with my ring, turning it with my thumb, then leaned my head against my hand. The room brightened as Connor moved back away from the glass.

  ‘‘Perhaps we ought to have dinner tonight?’’ Jack suggested, touching my leg. ‘‘We could get to know each other better. Talk about the work.’’

  ‘‘Couldn’t it really happen, though?’’ I asked, moving my leg away.

  ‘‘What?’’ Jack sounded distracted.

  All that blood flow away from his brain. This is your brain. This is your brain on lust.

  ‘‘The body snatch. I mean, not technically, of course, but for my book. A little literary license.’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘But I’d bet it would be pretty hard to diagnose. It might even get missed.’’

  ‘‘Well’’—he stroked a lock of my hair, and I tried not to flinch—‘‘it might. It is a highly sophisticated disease, and most psychiatrists—all the medical doctors, certainly— wouldn’t have the skills to recognize it.’’

  ‘‘The patient, John Doe, well, he’d seem crazy to just about everyone, wouldn’t he? He’d say he was being replaced. That people were doubling him. That it was all a big conspiracy.’’

  Jack twisted my hair around his finger. ‘‘I suppose.’’

  I reached out and grabbed his wrist. I carefully unwound my hair. ‘‘And it would be, wouldn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Would be what?’’

  ‘‘A conspiracy.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  ‘‘No one hears crazy.’’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘‘That man and his ego in a confined space ... well, frankly, it defies the laws of physics,’’ I said, sliding into the passenger seat.

  Connor did a U-turn without looking away from my legs. It was just a look. Like Jack had looked. And yet one guy made me want to shower—with him—and the other made me need a shower.

  ‘‘Nice work, Watson. With the description, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Why am I Watson?’’ I asked, reaching for a duffel bag in the backseat.

  ‘‘Because Sherlock could never get away with that skirt.’’

  ‘‘Funny man.’’ I undid my seat belt, yanked my shirt over my head, and replaced it with a T-shirt. The car swerved.

  ‘‘Christ, Sara. It’s a convertible, you know.’’

  ‘‘No one saw anything.’’

  Two teenagers in a truck pulled beside us, honked their horn, and gave a thumbs-up out the passenger window.

  I waved.

  ‘‘Jesus.’’

  I kicked off the high heels and skimmed out of the skirt, pulling running shorts up in their place. The tires clicked against the highway reflectors.

  ‘‘Uh, road,’’ I said.

  We moved back into the lane.

  ‘‘Do you do that a lot?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Take your clothes off in public.’’

  ‘‘You haven’t struck me as a prude up to now, Con.’’ I jammed the discarded clothes and shoes in the duffel bag and tossed it into the backseat. I had plans for that skirt later.

  ‘‘I’m not objecting. I just wish you wouldn’t do it while I’m driving.’’

  ‘‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Connor.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Every woman—well, every woman who plays any kind of sport, anyway—has changed her clothes in public without anyone being the wiser.’’

  ‘‘Believe me, you strip, I notice.’’

  I patted his arm. ‘‘That’s sweet, honey.’’

  ‘‘Nothing sweet about it.’’

  ‘‘Okay, that’s horny, honey.’’

  He laughed. ‘‘Roger that. What did you think of Jack? Other than the monster ego.’’

  ‘‘Amoral. Immoral. Little dick, but that’s mostly just a guess.’’

  ‘‘That had better be all guess.’’

  ‘‘Did you catch his description of John Doe?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Could be hypothetical,’’ Connor mused.

  ‘‘It’s not. That man has no imagination. Sounds a lot like John Doe, doesn’t it? Wh
at are the chances the real Charles Smiths suffers from exactly the same symptoms we’ve seen in John Doe? Did you do the math?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. The time frame matches Charles Smiths and the symptoms match John Doe. Doe and Smiths are about the same age.’’

  ‘‘And physical description,’’ I added.

  ‘‘Which wouldn’t be necessary to steal an identity, Sara.’’

  ‘‘Unless you were planning on stealing the whole life. You said that, Connor. This guy, whoever he is, isn’t just some identity thief. He knows the details of Charles’s life. He wouldn’t blow off matching the physical descriptions.’’

  ‘‘That’s harder to do.’’

  ‘‘Unless you’re really the guy,’’ I said. ‘‘We need to find someone who goes far enough back with Charles Smiths to know if John Doe is really him.’’

  Connor started the car. ‘‘Want to go to a party?’’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ‘‘It’s red.’’ Fire-engine, pay-by-the-hour red, to be precise.

  ‘‘No flies on you.’’ He grinned.

  ‘‘I don’t do red.’’

  ‘‘Your, er, friend’’—the saleswoman in the Coronado boutique looked directly at Connor’s left hand—‘‘has excellent taste.’’

  ‘‘My, er, friend’’—my tone got the woman’s attention—‘‘doesn’t have to wear it. I thought we were going for inconspicuous.’’

  ‘‘It’s social camo.’’

  ‘‘What does that mean?’’

  ‘‘You’ll blend with the rubber-chicken crowd. You’re the one who wanted to meet someone who knew Charles Smiths back in the day. He’s been treated by Dreznik Reed for more than a decade. If John Doe is the real Charles Smiths, Gretchen Dreznik can identify him.’’

  ‘‘How do you know she ever met him? Smiths is Jack’s patient.’’

  ‘‘Gretchen is the commanding officer in that practice. Smiths is rich. Believe me, if he was treated by either of them for a day, Gretchen’s met him.’’

  ‘‘And you’re sure she’ll be at this thing?’’

  ‘‘My mom and sister have been working on it for a year. It’s the big group fund-raiser. A lot of the local charities participate. Gretchen’s woman of the year. She’ll be there.’’