Lying on the Couch (53 page)

Marshal stomped into the house and, as always, dropped his brief-

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case in the doorway and rushed to his new phone Hne to check messages. Voila! Sow and ye shall reap! There was a voice mail message.

"Hello, I saw your ad in the APA monitor—well, not your ad, your warning. I'm a psychiatrist in New York City and I'd like more information about the patient you describe. Sounds like someone I'm treating. Please call me at home at 212-555-7082 this evening. Very late is okay."

Marshal dialed the number and heard a "hello" on the phone, a "hello" that, God willing, would lead him directly to Peter. "Yes," Marshal replied, "I got your message. You say you're treating someone like the person I describe in the ad. Can you describe him to me?"

"Just a minute, please," said the caller. "Let's back up. Who are you? Before I tell you anything, I need to know who you are."

"I'm a psychiatrist and an analyst in San Francisco. And you?"

"A psychiatrist in practice in Manhattan. I need more information about your ad. You use the term danger.'"

"And I mean danger. This man is a swindler, and if you're treating him, you're in danger. Does he sound like your patient?"

"I'm not at liberty—professional rules of confidentiality—simply to talk to a stranger about my patient."

"Trust me, forget the rules—this is an emergency," said Marshal.

"I'd prefer that first you tell me what you can about this patient."

"No problem with that," said Marshal. "About forty, good-looking, mustache, went by the name of Peter Macondo—"

""Peter Macondo!" the voice on the phone interrupted. "That's my patient's name!"

"That's incredible!" Marshal fell into a chair, astounded. "Using the same name! That I never expected. The same name? Well, I saw this guy, Macondo, in brief individual therapy for eight hours. Typical problems of the mega-wealthy: estate issues with his two children and ex-wife, everyone wanted a piece of him, generous to a fault, wife alcoholic. You got the same script?" said Marshal.

"Yep, he told me he sent her to the Betty Ford Center too," Marshal replied. "And then I saw him and his fiancee together . . . That's right, tall, elegant woman. Name Adriana . . . She used the same name, too? . . . Yeah, that's right, to work on a prenuptial agreement. . . sounds like a carbon copy. You know the rest. . . successful therapy, wanted to reward me, complained about my low fee, endowed lectureship at University of Mexico—"

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"Oh, Buenos Aires? Well, nice to hear he is still improvising. He's brought up his new investment? Bicycle helmet factory?

"That's right—the chance of a lifetime—you're absolutely guaranteed against loss. No doubt you got the great moral dilemma? How he gave a bad financial tip to the surgeon who saved his father's life? How he flagellated himself for that? Couldn't deal with the guilt of injuring a benefactor. How he would never again allow that to happen?

"That's right ... a heart surgeon ... he spent a whole hour with me, too, working that through. A detective I saw ... a pain in the ass . . . really got off on that part—called it an inspired ploy.

"So, how far along are you? Given him a check for the investment yet?"

"Lunch next week at the Jockey Club—just before he leaves for Zurich? Sounds familiar. Well, you saw my ad just in time. The rest of the story will be short and bitter. He sent me a Rolex watch, which of course I refused to accept, and I suspect he'll do the same with you. Then he'll ask you to treat Adriana and pay you generously in advance for her therapy. You may see her a time or two. And then—poof—gone. Both will vanish from the face of the globe.

"Ninety thousand. And believe me I can't afford it. How about you? How much were you planning to invest?

"Yeah, only forty thousand? I know what you mean about your wife—I had the same problem with mine. Wants to bury gold coins under the mattress. In this case she was right—first time. But I'm surprised he didn't push for more.

"Oh, he offered to lend you another forty, interest-free, while you freed up more money over the next few weeks? Cute twist."

"I can't thank you enough for your warning," replied the caller. "In the nick of time. I'm in your debt."

"Yes—in the nick of time, all right. You're very welcome. Glad to be of help to a fellow professional. How I wish someone had done that for me.

"Whoa, whoa, wait, don't hang up. I can't tell you how glad I am to have saved you from a swindle. But that's not why ... or only why ... I placed the notice. This bastard's a menace. He's got to be stopped. He'll just go on to another psychiatrist. We've got to get this guy put away."

"APA? Well, I agree: Getting the APA lawyers involved would be one way to go. But we don't have the time. This guy only surfaces

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briefly and then vanishes. I've had a private investigator working on it and, let me tell you, when Peter Macondo disappears, he disappears. Untraceable. You have any information, any clues, that might lead to his real identity? A permanent address? Ever seen a passport? Credit cards? Checking account?

"Yeah, cash for everything? Did that with me too. How about car license plates?

"Great—if you can get the car plates—great. So, that's how you met him? He rented the house down the street from your summer house on Long Island and gave you a ride in his new Jaguar? I know who paid for that Jag. But yes, yes, get that license number, any way you can. Or the dealer's name if it's still on the car. No reason at all we shouldn't be able to trap him."

"I agree completely. You should see a private investigator—or maybe a criminal attorney. Everyone I've consulted has gone out of their way to let me know what a pro this guy is. We need professional help. . . .

"Yes, much better to let the detective gather the information, not you. If Macondo sees you snooping around his house or car, he's off."

"Fees? My detective charged five hundred a day—the attorney two hundred-fifty an hour. In New York they'll rip you off for more.

"I don't follow you," said Marshal. "Why should / should pay the fees?"

"Neither do I have anything to gain. We're in the same boat— everyone has guaranteed me that I will never get a penny of my money back—that when Macondo's caught he'll have no assets and a mile-long string of claims against him. Believe me—my motives here are the same as yours: justice and the protection of others in our field. . . . Revenge? Well, yes, there's some of that—I'll own up to it. Okay, well, how about this? Let's go fifty-fifty with any expenses you run up. Remember, it's tax-deductible."

After a bit of a haggle. Marshal said, "Sixty-forty? I can live with it. So we're agreed? Next step is to see a detective. Ask your attorney for a recommendation. Then let the detective help us develop a plan to trap him. One suggestion, though: Macondo will offer to give you a secured note of your choice—ask him for a bank-guaranteed note; he'll produce one with a forged signature. And then we can nail him for bank fraud—a more serious offense. That can get the FBI involved No, I didn't. Not with the FBI. Not with the police. I'll

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square with you; I was too scared of bad publicity, of censure for boundary violations—for investing with a patient, or an ex-patient. A mistake—I should have gone after him with everything I had. But, see, you're not in that quandary. You have not yet invested, and when you do it will be only in order to trap Macondo."

"Not sure you want to get involved?" Marshal began pacing as he talked. He realized he could easily lose this precious opportunity and chose his words carefully.

"What do you mean? You are involved! What are you going to feel when you hear about other psychiatrists, maybe buddies of yours, getting stung and you know you could have stopped it? And how will they feel when they learn you were a victim and remained silent? Don't we tell our patients that? About consequences for actions—or inactions?

"What do you mean—'you're going to think about it'? We've no time. Please Dr. . . . you know, I don't know your name.

"That's true, you don't know mine. We're in the same predicament—we're both afraid of exposure. We need to confide in one another. My name is Marshal Streider—I'm a training analyst in practice in San Francisco—psychiatric training at Rochester, Golden Gate Analytic Institute. That's right—when John Romano was chairman at Rochester. You?

"Arthur Randal—sounds familiar—St. Elizabeth's in Washington? No, don't know anyone there. So you've got mainly a psy-chopharm practice?"

"Well I'm starting to do more brief therapy, too, and a little couples work. . . . But please, Dr. Randal, back to what we were saying—there's no time for you to think about it—are you willing to participate?

"Are you kidding? Of course, I'll fly to New York. I wouldn't miss it. I can't come for the whole week—I've got a full schedule. But when the crunch time comes, I'll be there. Call me after you've seen the detective—I want to be involved with every part of this. You calling from home? What's the best number to reach you at?"

Marshal wrote down several numbers—home, office, and weekend number on Long Island. "Yeah, I'll call about this time at home. It's pretty impossible to reach me at my office, too. You break on the half hour? I usually break ten till the hour—we'll never connect during the day."

He hung up the phone feeling a mixture of relief, exhilaration, and

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triumph. Peter behind bars. Peter's drooped head. Adriana, downcast, in prison grays. The new Jag, good resale value, parked in his garage. Vindication at last! No one fucks over Marshal Streider.

Then he reached for the APA directory and turned to the picture of Arthur Randal—good features, blond hair combed straight back, no part, age forty-two, trained at Rutgers and St. Elizabeth's, research on lithium levels and bipolar illness, two kids. The office number checked. Thank God for Dr. Randal.

Cheap bastard, though. Marshal thought. Someone saves me forty thousand, I wouldn't nickel-and-dime him about the detective's fees. Still, from his point of view, why should he lay out moneyf He's not been hurt. Peter's paid his fees. Why should he invest money to trap someone who has done him no wrongf

Marshal's thoughts turned to Peter. Why would he use the same name in another scam? Maybe Macondo's starting to self-destruct. Everyone knows that sooner or later sociopaths do themselves in. Or did he just think that this clod Streider was so stupid that it wasn't worth the trouble of adopting an alias? Well, we will see!

Once set into motion by Marshal, Arthur moved quickly. By the next evening he had already consulted a detective who, unlike Bat Thomas, made himself useful. He recommended putting Macondo under surveillance for twenty-four hours (at seventy-five dollars an hour). He'd get the license plates and run a check on them. If circumstances permitted, he might enter Macondo's car in search of fingerprints and other identifying material.

There was no way, the detective had told Arthur Randal, to apprehend Macondo until he committed a crime in New York. Therefore he advised that they proceed with an entrapment plan, keeping careful records of every conversation, and contacting the New York Police Department Fraud Squad immediately.

The following night Marshal learned of more progress. Arthur had contacted the Midtown Manhattan Fraud Squad and was turned over to a Detective Darnel Collins who, having investigated a case with a similar M.O. six months before, expressed interest in Peter Macondo. He asked Arthur to wear a wire and to meet Peter, as planned, for lunch at the Jockey Club, hand the cashier's check over to him, and receive in return the forged bank guarantee. The fraud squad, having witnessed and televised the transaction, would move in for the arrest on the spot.

But the NYPD required good cause for such an extensive opera-

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tion. Marshal would have to cooperate. He would have to fly to New York, file an official complaint about Peter with the fraud squad, and personally identify him. Marshal shuddered at the thought of the publicity but, with his prey so close at hand, reconsidered his position. True, his name might make some of the New York smaller tabloids, but how likely was it that word would get back to San Francisco?

The Rolex watch? What Rolexf Marshal said aloud, as if in rehearsal. Oh, the watch Macondo sent at the end of therapy f The watch I refused to accept and returned to Adrianaf As he spoke, Marshal slipped the watch off his wrist and buried it in his dresser drawer. Who would challenge him? Anyone going to believe Macondo? Only his wife and Melvin knew about the Rolex. Shirley's silence was secure. And Marshal was the guardian of so many of Melvin's bizarre hypochondriacal secrets that he had no concerns there.

Marshal and Arthur spoke for twenty minutes each night. What a relief for Marshal to have, finally, a real confidant and collaborator, perhaps eventually a friend. Arthur even referred one of his patients to Marshal, an IBM software engineer who was going to be transferred to the San Francisco Bay Area.

Their one disagreement concerned the money to be given Peter for the investment. Arthur and Peter had arranged to meet for lunch in four days. Peter had agreed to draw up a bank-guaranteed note, and Arthur would have a forty-thousand-dollar cashier's check. But Arthur wanted Marshal to put up the entire forty thousand dollars. Having just bought a summer home, Arthur had no available cash. His only recourse was money in his wife's estate left her by her mother who had died the previous winter. But his wife, a member of a family prominent in New York society for over two hundred years, was exquisitely sensitive to social appearance and placed extreme pressure on Arthur to have nothing whatsoever to do with this entire sordid mess.

Marshal, offended by the unfairness of the situation, had a long negotiation session with Arthur, during the course of which he lost all respect for his pusillanimous colleague. Ultimately Marshal, rather than risk Arthur's capitulation to his wife and total withdrawal, agreed again to a sixty-forty split. Arthur needed to present a single cashier's check, drawn on a New York bank. Marshal agreed to have twenty-four thousand dollars in Arthur's account the