Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect (26 page)

“Are you going to work every day?” I asked him.

“Yes. But I’m distracted.”

“Are you sleeping at all?”

“A few hours. From midnight to about four.”

I nodded again. “That’s about the time anxiety wakes us up. Do you want me to recommend a psychiatrist you might see? Someone who could put you on medication? An antianxiety pill, or an antidepressant.”

“This isn’t some problem I have because my mother dragged me to church too many times every week. This is because the woman I am engaged to, the woman I want to marry,
is missing, and the only people who can really help not only won’t do anything, but are sure that if anyone is involved, it’s me.”

My cell phone rang. I picked it up and looked at it. “It’s my office,” I said to Elias. “Just one second.”

It was Belinda. “Hi. Your daughter just called. She only had two minutes and called here first. She said she didn’t have more time to call you on your cell, but she asked me to tell you that she has to cancel meeting with you later at the museum. She said the rehearsal won’t be over in time.”

“Damn.”

“At least she calls,” Belinda said. “Mine never even bothers.”

I laughed. Elias looked at me as though my making that kind of noise was blasphemous.

“Morgan, that man you’re with, do you know he’s one of Simon’s clients?”

I tried not to glance at Elias, not wanting to alert him that we were talking about him.

“As a patient?”

“Yes. A while ago. Maybe a month. Two months. I recognized him when I saw you with him. I thought it was weird that someone would see two therapists.”

“Okay. Thanks, Belinda. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I hung up.

Across the table, Elias was staring off into space, a frown creasing his forehead.

I was suddenly unsure of what was going on. Why hadn’t he told me? I felt a shiver of fear. Why had he not mentioned this just now when I’d suggested he see someone?

“Elias? Have you already been to see Simon Weiss? My associate?”

He nodded.

“When?”

“About five weeks ago. Maybe six weeks ago. Why?”

“When I asked you a minute ago if you wanted me to suggest someone so you could get some meds, why didn’t you tell me that you’d already seen someone? That you’d been up to our offices.”

His expression hardened. “Not you, too? I recognize the look, the suspicion. Christ. You all look so deep beneath the surface, you miss the surface itself. Yes, I saw him and he told me that he didn’t think he could help me. I didn’t bring it up with you because I didn’t want to say anything negative about one of your co-workers. Besides, none of it has anything to do with finding Cleo. But since you’re asking, I’m more than happy to tell you. I went to him to talk about Cleo’s problems. I thought I should know about them from a professional point of view. To see if there was anything I could do on my end to help. You don’t understand what it’s like to love someone with all your heart and not be able to help her. No, worse. To be part of her problem. To cause her pain because of your very existence.”

“What happened with Simon?” The suspicion I’d felt was dissipating. Elias was so earnest about his pain, his guilt about not being able to help his lover, that I was only feeling empathy. I did know what it was like to love someone who couldn’t love me back, at least not in a way that would have kept us together.

“He told me it would be better if I saw a therapist with Cleo. And as you know, I was open to that. In fact it was something Cleo and I had discussed and were planning to do…with you…but before…”

That pained look returned to his eyes, and he went on. “She has to be out there. And someone has to find her. Please. There must be something I can do to get the police to look for her. To get them to take her disappearance seriously. What if I had a note from a kidnapper?”

“Do you?”

“Would that make them take Cleo’s disappearance more seriously?”

“Of course, and if you have something like, that you need to tell them about it.”

A sudden excitement flashed in his eyes.

“Don’t,” I warned.

“Don’t what?”

“Try to fake it. It will only get you in serious trouble if they find out. It’s a felony. You’ll be arrested.”

“I don’t care. Not if it helps them find her. Not if it makes them start looking for her.”

E
ven though I had a month till Dulcie’s birthday, I didn’t like waiting till the last minute. Each year I gave her a music box. The search, at least for me, was half the joy of giving the gift, as was the collection that graced her room.

So far there were twelve—all but two were antiques—and ever since she’d been tiny, I’d trusted her to play with them. I hadn’t been wrong; she’d never broken one of the fabulous mechanical devices.

I got in a taxi and gave the driver an address on West Broadway near Spring Street. The antique dealer was on the second floor of a building that housed mostly art galleries. I’d first met Victor Messing at the large antique show at the Armory a few years before when I noticed that he had four music boxes on display.

As the cab made its way downtown I called Simon and asked him about his seeing Elias Beecher.

“I only saw him once,” Simon offered.

“What did you think?”

“Let me read my notes here. I don’t remember much about the consultation…” He was quiet on the other end of the phone. I heard him rustle through some papers.

“He was having problems with the woman he was seeing. A patient of yours. Right?”

“Right. He didn’t tell you her name?”

“No.”

“Cleo Thane.”

“Holy shit.”

“Anything about that session strike you as odd, Simon?”

“No. He seemed genuinely concerned about her. I suggested they see a couples’ therapist together. He was amenable to that and said he was planning to.”

I filled Simon in on my conversation with Elias, finishing up as the cab pulled in front of Messing’s building. I paid the driver, headed through the lobby, then entered a waiting elevator.

It opened on the second floor into a wonderland of antiques: an overcrowded hodgepodge of rugs piled one on top of the other, chairs sitting on chairs, small tables on top of larger tables. The air smelled of cinnamon, cardamom and Eastern oils.

Victor was a Frenchman whose store was open only seven months a year. The rest of the time he traveled, seeking his treasures.

He smiled when he saw me come in and greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks, European-style.

“Sit down, please, Morgan, sit. Let me go make us tea. You have time?”

I nodded. It was a relief to get away from patients and problems, from trying to solve Cleo’s disappearance and Elias’s morose pressure. When I had been with him, it was as though his fingers were gripping me and holding me in place, even
though he’d never touched me. His eyes, too, had pinned me to the spot, so that I was incapable of getting up, of walking away.

While Victor made the tea, my gaze wandered over the treasures and landed on an umbrella stand filled with elaborate and fanciful umbrellas. A French parasol with an ivory handle. Another with what looked like a solid gold, filigreeand-ruby handle. And then a simple, elegant black umbrella with a polished silver handle. Something about it was familiar, but I couldn’t figure out what. I touched its smooth, cool surface. Shut my eyes. And then I remembered. After one of Cleo’s appointments, I’d watched her leave my office and had seen a man across the street with an umbrella very much like this. He’d followed her. How could I have forgotten? It might be relevant. I’d have to call Noah and tell him. I tried to remember something else about the man. But it had been weeks ago. And I’d only seen him for ten or twenty seconds. A man in the street wearing a dark suit, with his back to me. There was nothing else to remember about him.

“I have so many things to show you,” Victor said as he returned and put two steaming cups of strong green tea on the table. I sat back down. The aroma, mixed with the exotic smells of the store, made me feel as if I’d been transported to a Middle Eastern bazaar.

“So many things? More than just the music box?”

“
Deux
. Two music boxes. And a piece of jewelry. What first?” he asked as the flecks of yellow in his brown eyes flashed. He enjoyed his business so much, and for a moment I envied him. Where was the tragedy in what he did? If he lost an antique at auction or didn’t make a sale, it was bad for business. But no one wound up in danger. No one’s life was affected in a serious way if he didn’t do his job well. He was not responsible for someone who did not get a grasp on reality
and threw themselves out of a window—still hoping their arms would turn to wings.

The first music box he showed me was made of mahogany and played “Lara’s Theme” from
Doctor Zhivago
. The tone was lovely. But what was so exceptional was what happened when you opened the lid. Inside was an ice palace made of crystal that rose from a frozen pond of mirror. And inside, deep within the glass structure, were a woman and a man. In long robes. Fur against the cold of Russia’s winter.

“It’s a gem,” I said.

He nodded. “I thought you would like it. Which makes the next one even harder to show you.”

Victor put an object on the table that gleamed in the light. It was birthday-girl pink, snowy white and gold. A fancy, ornate Easter egg of cloisonné enamel. The egg was about twice the size of a chicken egg and sat on a gold-filigree pedestal. All reminiscent of Fabergé. But, I assumed, nowhere near the price. Victor knew my budget.

“Open it. The key to the music is inside.”

Inside was a small white rabbit made of ivory, carved in exquisite detail and sitting atop a bronze key. I lifted it and placed it in the middle of a cabbage patch, where one bronze carrot was suspiciously shaped to suggest the key belonged there.

I wound the egg and the thin but lovely music tinkled in the air. It was from
Peter and the Wolf
. Altogether fanciful and beautiful.

“So, they are lovely,
mais non?
”

“They are lovely. Hard choice.”

He nodded. Smiled. Said nothing and got up to leave me with the two objets d’art. I knew that Dulcie would be enchanted by either. By both. But I couldn’t buy both.

“To take your mind off those, take a look at what I found
for you,” Victor said, interrupting my reverie—I was imagining Dulcie seeing the little ivory rabbit.

He put a suede pouch on a velvet pillow and pushed it in front of me. Opening it, I slid out a silver object and looked down at it. In my hand lay a butterfly, perfectly proportioned, expertly crafted, with vibrant fire-opal stones set in its wings. Four stones—the two larger ones in each wing on top, two smaller ones in each wing on the bottom.

The way the insect lay, it looked as if it might fly off any second, its wings trembling, the iridescent blue-purple-green color shimmering.

I was afraid to ask the price. It wasn’t even something that should cost money. It belonged in the Museum of Natural History alongside the specimens of butterflies preserved for as long as the museum was standing.

My cell phone rang, but I didn’t want to answer it, not then. I just wanted to sit and look at the butterfly while the music boxes continued playing and I breathed in the exotic smells. And after the music ended, I wanted to take the rest of the afternoon off and just walk around SoHo, then have a slow, quiet dinner in an old-fashioned Italian restaurant and maybe go to a movie.

But I couldn’t shut out reality.

“Hello?”

“Morgan, it’s Noah.” My heart skipped one beat and I think I shut my eyes. A phone call from the detective did not always bring the best news.

“Someone else?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“When? Who is it? Do you know?” I held my breath.

“Sometime last night. But it’s not Cleo.”

“I don’t know what I should say. If I tell you I’m relieved, it belittles whoever died.”

“That’s okay. I know how you feel.”

“Any leads this time?”

“Maybe. But nothing big. And we need something big. We’ve got everyone working overtime. But I keep thinking there’s some psychological aspect of this we’re missing.”

Victor was looking at me quizzically. I wasn’t sure he approved of my talking when there was still business to attend to.

“Is that a request?”

“Are you free?” Noah asked.

“Yes. Or I will be in half an hour. And I have something to tell you, too. Something I remembered.”

“Do want to come to the station?”

I hesitated. Noah didn’t let my pause last long.

“Do you want me to meet you at your office?”

“No. Actually, I have the afternoon off.” I looked down at the butterfly and touched the opal with my fingertip.

“Well, I’ve been working for the last twenty-four hours straight and I’m exhausted. I could use some air. I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“This is a crazy idea, but can you get to the Museum of Natural History? I was supposed to meet Dulcie there to see a special exhibit, but I got stood up for a rehearsal.”

“Any excuse to get out of the office even if it’s just for a short time.” We made plans to meet in the lobby in a half hour.

I snapped the phone shut and started haggling over the price of the egg music box—“Lara’s Theme” was haunting. Too haunting for a twelve-year-old.

“Maybe I’ll just put the other away for you till next year.” Victor’s eyes twinkled. “What about the butterfly pin?”

“You’ll have to put that away till my next visit, too. It’s too expensive.”

He took it and pinned it to my lapel, then held up a mirror for me to examine the effect.

I looked at the winged insect, poised as if it had just
alighted. And while I was watching, it started to take flight. Fell straight into my lap, the pin end sticking me through my slacks. It stung.

Victor must not have attached the clasp tightly enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

I rubbed at the spot with my forefinger. Butterflies didn’t sting. At least not usually.