Loving Time (37 page)

“What did you find out?” she asked suddenly.

“We don’t believe at this time that Dr. Dickey’s death was an accident,” the detective said flatly.

Clara inhaled through clenched teeth. The sound she made was like the hiss of an angry cat. “The reason?”

“There were no containers of substances that killed Dr. Dickey in his office.”

Clara frowned, raking her thoughts back to the day Hal died. There had been a bottle of Johnnie Walker on his desk. She remembered thinking it was almost empty and Hal was drunk. She had concluded that he must have been drinking all afternoon. She had assumed the bottle was still there.

“Why don’t you tell me about that afternoon,” the detective suggested.

Clara opened and closed her hand around the scab that had formed over the cut on her hand. A few more days and the scab would peel off. By then she was certain the man responsible for it would be behind bars. She tried to concentrate on that as she spoke.

“I returned to my apartment around four on Sunday—I had been in Florida for the weekend. There was a message from Hal on my answering machine.” The tic that lived in Clara’s cheek began to dance. She tightened up, resisting it. “He asked me to come to his office right away.”

“Why?”

Clara fixed her gaze on the Chinese cop. “I’m being harassed. Hal was looking into it for me.”

“And that was what Dr. Dickey called you about?”

“Yes. He told me who it was. He wanted to show me—I don’t know—something that would prove it.”

“And …?”

“When I got to the office, I saw that Hal was drunk. Then, almost immediately, I realized he was having some kind of psychotic break. I didn’t have any idea of the cause, of course.
And then he collapsed. It was immediately clear to me something was wrong.” Clara clicked her tongue. “Obviously he was poisoned by the man who was threatening me.”

“Was it common knowledge that Dr. Dickey drank in his office?”

Clara traced the scab with two fingers, testing the skin around it as if for doneness. “I have no idea. I didn’t know myself.”

“Dr. Treadwell, the threats you were getting, the incidents with the scalpel and the condoms that Dr. Frank told us about”—the detective watched Clara play with her hands—“why didn’t you report them to us?”

Clara stilled her fingers. “It was stupid. I realize that now.”

“Dr. Treadwell, you’re the director of a mental hospital. Surely you’d be the first person to understand how dangerous troubled people can be.”

Clara smiled bitterly. “Sick people often get a bad rap, Detective. Sane people can be deadly, too.”

“In any case, you didn’t call the police.”

“No.”

“And a man died.”

“Yes.” Clara looked down at her hands. Now this stupid cop was accusing her of negligence. Her face blazed, but she kept her voice under control. “I said it was a mistake. I had no way of knowing this would happen.”

“What about Raymond Cowles? Did you have no way of knowing that would happen?”

“Detective, the Cowles death has nothing to do with this. If you carry on in this vein, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I think you messed up. I don’t believe Ray committed suicide.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened before?” The detective looked surprised. “No patient connected with your hospital has ever committed suicide? I thought a certain percentage of mental patients commit suicide no matter what you do to help them. Even in the hospital it happens.”

“Look, we work with very sick people. Of course it
happens
.”

“In fact, it happens fairly frequently.”

“It
happens
. I said it hasn’t happened
to me
.”

“But Dr. Dickey was familiar with such incidents. He dealt with them all the tipie. He was the chairman of the Quality Control Committee.”

“Assurance. Quality Assurance Committee. Yes. And that was how we knew the man who jumped off the terrace last year was
not
a suicide. That man had been poisoned, just as Dr. Dickey was. They’re not all suicides, Detective. Dickey was murdered by Robert Boudreau. We
know
that, so go arrest him before he kills someone else. That’s what you’re paid for.”

The detective appeared undaunted. “How do we know that? Did Dr. Dickey show you what he called you to his office to see?”

“No.” Clara took a breath and calmed down. “But there was a nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker on Dr. Dickey’s desk when I got there.”

“Where did it go?”

“I saw Boudreau outside of the emergency room when I left. Maybe he put the drug in the scotch bottle and then took the bottle after Hal was taken away. In the confusion, I didn’t stop to lock the office. But even if it had been locked—well, obviously he can get in.”

“Wasn’t the bottle there when you came back?”

Clara shook her head. “I never looked. I didn’t go in. I merely locked the door and left.”

“You didn’t go in for the materials Dr. Dickey wanted you to see?”

Clara’s face flared again. “A friend had just died. I wasn’t thinking of anything but that.”

“A friend?” the detective said with a small smile. “Wasn’t Dr. Dickey’s involvement with you causing you some embarrassment, both in the Cowles lawsuit and personally as well?”

“That’s enough.” Clara stood up. “You’re way out of line
here. I live by the Hippocratic oath,” she said coldly. “I would never harm another human being. It’s against everything I believe.” She pushed air through her nose, outraged at even the hint of suspicion against her.

“Think about what you’re implying, Detective. I called for the paramedics. I was the one who thought the death was suspicious.
I
requested the autopsy. Why would I do that if I wanted to get rid of Hal?”

The detective closed her notebook. “I’m not a psychiatrist, Dr. Treadwell. You’re the psychiatrist. It’s not for me to explain why people do the things they do. I just know people do the most unreasonable things all the time.” April stood and hitched her bag to her shoulder. “And who knows, maybe somebody put the stuff in the liquor bottle as a prank, to make Dr. Dickey act crazy, to make him sick so he wouldn’t be competent in his job anymore. Maybe the person didn’t know he’d down the whole bottle in one go …”

“Get
Boudreau
,” Clara snapped. “This isn’t a hard one. This guy has killed before. He’s threatened
me
.” Clara closed her eyes. She didn’t want to scream at this clever cop.

“I’m trying to help you,” she went on, her voice tight and angry. “I’ve given you the man’s name. Your job is to
go and get him
, not stand here fishing in my stream.”

“It’s my job to fish in all the streams,” April said softly. “Any old fish doesn’t count. I’m paid to catch the right fish.” She headed for the door, then suddenly turned back. “So you didn’t put the drug in the bottle and then take the bottle away after Dickey was dead?”

“No,” Clara said angrily. “I’m a doctor. I could never use a medication to hurt someone.”

“Well, thanks. It may have been painful, but I needed to know that. I appreciate your help.” The detective headed for the door with no further comment.

A
s Jason watched Special Agent Daveys chew on what was left of the ice in his third glass of water, nine clocks began to chime the half hour. Eight-thirty. Emma was not going to take this well. On his return from the office, just as she was regaling him with the happy story of her final call-back and offer of the role for which she’d come East, Special Agent Daveys of the FBI had shown up without warning for a home visit.

Standing in the hallway angular as a heron, Daveys said he was thirsty and politely requested a glass of water, preferably from a bottle that hadn’t been opened. Emma brought him a fresh bottle of Evian and disappeared. Then, unembarrassed at the prospect of being a nuisance, he asked for lots of ice. Jason went into the kitchen for the ice bucket and found Emma in there sulking. He had promised her he wouldn’t be long, and now the minutes were adding up.

For an hour and a half, Daveys had been chewing thoughtfully on cube after cube of ice as he asked about Jason’s history at the Centre, his knowledge of Clara Treadwell, his involvement with the Cowles investigation, Harold Dickey, the inpatient wards, the staff at the Centre, the condom with the scalpel that had pierced Clara’s hand, the used condom in the appointment book, and a dozen other things Jason didn’t want to talk about.

“Do you get paid for being a supervisor?” Daveys asked abruptly.

“No,” Jason said. He stared gloomily at the empty water bottle, dying for Daveys to go so he could have a real drink.

“You work for nothing?” the agent said as if he didn’t believe it.

“It’s considered an honor to be asked.”

“How does it work?”

“Oh, supervisors follow residents through their first psychoanalytic
cases—look over their shoulders, comment on what they’ve said and done with their patients in sessions, illuminate the process for them. It takes a lot of time, several hours a week.”

“So you teach them how to do it.”

“That’s about it.”

“You lead them, as it were.” Daveys pinched his hawk nose.

“We’re supposed to show them the way,” Jason conceded.

“And you can lead them astray.”

Jason coughed. “We try not to, of course.”

“But when they’re led astray, who would you say is responsible?”

Jason shook his head. “What case are we talking about, er, Special Agent?”

“Call me Steve. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. How often do supervisors have affairs with their residents?”

“I can’t answer that question. I don’t know. It’s unprofessional at best. It’s a big no-no.” Jason felt the clocks ticking like time bombs.

“What happened to the condoms Dr. Treadwell found?”

“I don’t know what happened to the first one. The police have the second one.”

Daveys’s eyebrows shot up. “The police?”

“As far as I know.”

“Dr. Frank, I hear you’re very tight with the NYPD.”

“I’ve worked on a few cases with them,” Jason replied modestly.

Daveys regarded the empty Evian bottle thoughtfully.

“You having cross-agency problems?” Jason asked with a smile.

Daveys’s thin lips came together. “I grew up in Boston, Doctor. My father was a cop. My little brother is a cop. I don’t have agency problems, or any other kind. We all do our jobs and try not to get in each other’s way.”

“I thought homicides were supposed to be handled locally.”

“We’re always available to help out when we’re asked.”
Finally Daveys put down his empty glass and rose. “You should have some of that water,” he said in parting. “Flushes the kidneys, don’t you know.”

As Jason closed the front door on the kidney-flushing federal agent, Emma emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne. She looked a little miffed as she moved a clock and some books on the coffee table to make a place for the glasses. “Well, how did it go?”

Jason brushed his hand over the face of a round clock, set in the top of a marble obelisk on a side table. He noticed it was fast and frowned.

“I guess you’re not in a celebrating mood anymore.” Emma put the bottle down and curled up in a corner of the sofa, nestling into her big white sweater, resigned to a change of plan.

“Yes. I’m in the mood. I’m thrilled and excited for you. Really.”

“You don’t look thrilled and excited.”

Jason pasted on an enthusiastic smile. “Well, I am. I’m proud, I’m impressed. I know you’ll be great. I have only one bit of advice to give you.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” She eyed the bottle of champagne hopefully.

“Don’t drool.”

“Don’t drool. That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He saw that counsel wasn’t enough. She wanted the toast, too. He lifted the bottle and unwrapped the foil, trying—at least for a few minutes—to push back the tidal wave of Clara Treadwell that was swallowing up his life.

“What kind of advice is that?” Emma demanded, disappointed that he didn’t have room for her even now.

Trouble brewed in her eyes. She was angry about Daveys’s visit. Jason could just imagine her sitting in the kitchen stewing about how she was always relegated to the background of his life. How she never had the support of a loving husband to cheer her on when she needed it. Which always seemed to be at
the most inconvenient of times—like now, when an FBI agent happened to show up out of the blue to spoil her party.

On the other hand, maybe Emma hadn’t been grumping around the kitchen counting her grievances. Maybe she was really scared because she got the part in her play and hadn’t thought she would. What if she had only used the audition as an excuse to reconsider the rotten marriage that gave her stability and the rotten husband who loved her? An ironic smile played around Jason’s mouth as he began grappling with the champagne cork. There was nothing in the world like the unforeseen consequences of answered prayers.

In a splash of foam, the cork jumped out of the bottle. Jason grabbed a glass to catch it.

“Congratulations, darling. To your great success. As long as you don’t spit too much, they’ll love you.”

“You’d probably rather have a beer,” Emma murmured, clinking glasses. “Maybe you’ll get what you want, too, my love. I hope someday you’ll know what it is.”

“Touché.” He sat on the sofa next to her, thinking he’d rather have a gin.

“So, what did the masked man want?” she asked, not exactly sipping like a lady.

“Take a guess.”

“This is nice champagne. We may need another bottle.” She paused to drink the last of the glass down and pour another. “Well, he was FBI, right?”

“Hmmm. What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. The slab face, lipless mouth, colorless hair. Gray suit … Evian, and lots of ice—give me a break.” She poured Jason some more champagne, too. “Or maybe it was the cute little snub-nosed .38 strapped to his ankle. He sure wasn’t a cop.”

“You noticed.”

“How could I miss it? He crossed his legs when he sat down. Has the FBI come to offer you a job, too?”