The Blue Journal (32 page)

Rubenfeld scowled at her. “Of course I see, what am I now, a moron?” He thought it over for a moment. “But you said the diary is not public knowledge. We don't know that the murderer is even aware it exists.”

She shook her head.

“Well hopefully he never does. Or she, eh?” Rubenfeld studied his protégé for a moment, then picked up his pipe and looked inside the bowl. There was still some tobacco remaining, which he tamped down with his forefinger. He lit another match and fired it up. “In the meantime it sounds to me like this policeman is protecting you. That's a good thing.”

“Yes,” she said. “I've come to realize that.”

“Look, I know this has you worried about your future as a practitioner, but you shouldn't be, it will all work out.” He smiled at her. “You always worried too much, you know that? You're bright. You're capable. You care. Maybe you care too much. I hope it's your worst sin as a therapist.”

“You're right,” she agreed as she watched him inhale some smoke and then blow it out slowly.

“You said you wanted to discuss your love life. What about it?”

“I wish I had an answer for you.”

“An answer for me? How about an answer for yourself?” He gave a wistful shrug of his shoulders. “Still playing hide-and-seek with your emotions, just like when you were a student.” He took another pull at the pipe, which was still yielding some smoke. “You're a beautiful woman, full of intelligence and life and compassion. And how do you live? Like you're trapped inside yourself, waiting to be rescued.”

She nodded slowly, her soft brown eyes sad, yet willing to hear what he had to say.

“This detective. He's interested in you, surely you see that.”

“I think so. At least I believe he's trying to protect me.”

“Well that stands for something, doesn't it?”

“We're so completely different, he and I. He's difficult and he's tough and he's got issues.”

“Ah, how terrible that must be for a young woman in search of perfection.” He chuckled, emitting a small gray cloud in the process. “Perfection is a death wish, Randi, a guaranty of failure. People are not perfect. Love is not perfect. And, if you ever stopped to think about it, perfect is boring. People are always looking for something new, something better, something different, something that will make things
oh so perfect
.” He raised his eyebrows and gawked at her once more from above the rim of his glasses. “Then again, most people are nincompoops.” He laughed again. “Life can never be perfect, that's what makes it wonderful. It's a landscape that never stays the same, with beautiful sunrises and sunsets and everything that can possibly happen in between. So what do people do? They look for the never-changing horizon. Eternal youth. Young skin, hard bodies, images from fashion magazines and pin-up posters. Photographs of models. False idols. They want immediate gratification, as if that's where they'll find romance and excitement. They don't want to deal with truth, with history, with the realities of life. Sadness, pain, love, hurt, joy, all of the wonderful passions that make life worth living. No, they'd rather be lied to,” he said, his voice rising. “What complete rubbish! All they end up with is disappointment, and then they want to know why they're miserable. They don't understand, and obviously neither do you.”

“Maybe I don't.”

“Well then, I'll tell you the secret. But you remember what I'm saying now, and I hope for your sake I never have to say it again.” He leaned forward and looked at Randi with an intense gaze that for this one time did not waver. “Life is about taking risks. Risks of the heart, risks of the mind, risks of the soul. You take chances and you find relationships, you find yourself, you find the truth. All the rest of it is false, and the people who refuse to take those chances are cowards. They deserve the small, pathetic, unfulfilled lives they earn for themselves.” He sat back. “You should know all this by now, but I realize sometimes you have to hear it again because sometimes you're a nitwit, so I have to remind you. Like I have to remind you to call me more often, eh? So come on, let's go through your laundry list of problems again. If I can't straighten out your personal life in one afternoon, maybe I can help you solve a murder.”

CHAPTER 38

When Walker and Stratford parted ways at Randi Conway's office that morning, they agreed to keep their date to meet at the end of the day for drinks. The forensics team would have some time to study whatever they gathered from the invasion into Randi's files, and they would have an opportunity, as Walker suggested, to kick some theories around.

They met at Stratford's country club. It was an exclusive place, and Walker admitted to his host that he had never seen the inside before.

“A lot of things in this town are simply a function of how long you've been here,” Stratford said, even though both men knew the truth was more complicated than that.

Walker responded with a knowing grin.

They were seated at a small table in the far corner of the dark grill room, overlooking the golf course. It was a quiet weekday night, giving them an opportunity for a private discussion.

After Stratford ordered their drinks he began tossing out some ideas. Walker listened politely, then offered his own view.

“Let's say I discover someone was having an affair with Elizabeth Knoebel and I figure out who it was. Let's also say I do this without Doctor Conway's help.” He took a sip of his Jack Daniel's. “Now, what if this guy wasn't the murderer, but he's concerned that the world might find out he was doing the dirty deed with the late Mrs. Knoebel?”

Stratford nodded thoughtfully. “Based on what Gill told me about this journal, it's a fair assumption that Mrs. Knoebel was having at least one affair. Maybe more. But that doesn't get us any closer to the murderer, assuming your hypothetical adulterer was not the killer.”

“Agreed,” Walker said. “But what if this guy knows something about her death? And what if he's keeping quiet to maintain the peace on his own home front? Now I come along with enough information to finger him as the dead woman's lover. Not a very happy result for him.”

“Makes sense.”

“And what does this mystery man know about the murder?”

“Not important, let's just stay with the theory.”

Stratford was listening.

“The closer I get to identifying this guy with the information, the more dangerous this guy becomes for the killer. And,” Walker added as he stared at the lawyer, “the more dangerous it becomes for Randi Conway.” He waited for a reaction, but Stratford gave none. “So, let's take the boyfriend first. The shooter has no way to be certain this guy actually knows anything that might help us solve the case. Still, the more I push, the more anxious the killer becomes. Then there's Doctor Conway, who remains the X factor. Who can be certain what she knows about Elizabeth, or what she's willing to say? It might make sense to get her out of the way. Or maybe it's worth it for the killer to take them both out. He pulled the trigger once, maybe he can do it again.”

“You keep referring to the killer as ‘he.'”

Walker smiled. “Point taken. It's just a theory, at least for now.”

Stratford sipped his martini as he thought it over. “The theory's a bit far-fetched, don't you think? For starters, how does the killer even know about the boyfriend? And suppose he does, why would the murderer think they can identify him? Or her.”

“Remember—it's likely our murderer was the one who went through Randi Conway's files last night, maybe made a guess who Mrs. Knoebel's boyfriend was, then spread the rest of the papers around so we wouldn't know what or who he was looking for. I should also admit to you, strictly off the record, we may have a lead that supports my theory.”

Stratford leaned forward. “Now that is interesting.”

“Let's stay with the danger to Doctor Conway, a more obvious issue. The murderer has no way of knowing whether she had information from the Knoebel woman that could help solve the case, or if she may start spilling it to the police.”

Stratford swallowed some more of his gin. “Anyone ever tell you that you sound like an Alan Ladd movie?”

“I love those old flicks.”

“Me too.”

“I thought I was more in the Dick Powell style.”

“Maybe. Definitely not Bogart, though.”

“I agree. Anybody tries to do Bogie, they wind up sounding like an asshole.”

Stratford picked a piece of white lint off his navy blazer. “What if it turns out that the boyfriend
was
the killer, have you considered that?”

“Sure, but so far the facts don't fit that result. A timing issue.”

“A timing issue?”

“Strictly off the record again?”

Stratford held up three fingers. “Scout's honor.”

“Okay.” Walker paused for proper effect. “We can place a car at the Knoebel house on the afternoon of the murder.”

“What does that mean?”

“Not sure yet.”

“I assume this car is not owned by the Knoebels.”

Walker nodded. “Correct. But we may have figured out who did own it.”

“That so?”

“Uh huh,” Walker said. “Here's another interesting tidbit. We found scratch marks on Elizabeth Knoebel's neck. The coroner says they were made only a day or so before she was killed, consistent with some sort of scuffle. We're trying to determine who Mrs. Knoebel might have tangled with.”

“That could be extremely interesting.”

“We may also have another angle. Someone with a troubled past might come into play here.”

“A troubled past?”

“As in violent,” Walker said, then had another drink of his whisky.

“Again, interesting. But you haven't even mentioned Elizabeth Knoebel's husband.”

“The most obvious candidate.”

“What do you think about him?”

“Not sure what I think about him, to be honest. At the moment he has an alibi.”

“At the moment?”

“Something we're still checking out.”

“I see.”

“So, let's get to the real point of this cozy little get-together. Is your friend going to get into this with us, or is she going to keep floating out there like a sitting duck on a deep pond?”

“Somehow I don't see those as her only two options.”

“You do recognize the risk she faces?”

“I do,” Stratford said.

“That's a start.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Stratford said, “I understand you're not married.”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“Totally.” Walker waited, but there weren't any other questions coming along that line. “You're married.”

“I am.”

“But you didn't say happily.”

Stratford smiled. “Blissfully.”

“Blissfully is good.”

“It is. My wife is an extraordinary person.”

“You're a lucky man, then.”

“I take it you weren't.”

“Let's just say I hope to do better next time.”

There was another pause, then Stratford said, “Let's get back to this someone with the violent past.”

Walker shook his head. “Not yet.” He took one more swallow of whisky. “First I want to know what you're going to do to get Randi Conway talking. Then you and I can really get to work on this jigsaw puzzle.”

CHAPTER 39

Randi Conway arrived at her building early Wednesday morning, walked upstairs, unlocked the door to her small suite and found the office in the same awful condition she left it the day before.

She realized, with a sense of bemused disappointment, she had an irrational hope her papers might have been miraculously replaced, or that the intrusion was no more than a passing nightmare. Instead she was obliged to spend another frustrating hour organizing things into several neat piles before she met her first patient of the day.

As she worked to put her files back together, she considered everything she had been forced to confront yesterday under Professor Rubenfeld's relentless inquisition. He helped her see past some of the emotional barricades she relied on, the obstacles she placed in the way of awareness, understanding, and even passion. In some ways he made her feel like she was once again his undergraduate student, and there was nothing flattering in that.

All the same, he had somehow filled her with the sense that—as he told her more than once—things were going to work out.

This morning, after she had enough of collating documents, she went to her desk and prepared to meet with Phyllis Wentworth. These private sessions with Phyllis were usually painful excursions into frustration and sorrow, but this morning Randi was glad to get back to work. She also felt some satisfaction from the knowledge that Phyllis relished the chance to complain, to become irate and to sometimes simply cry her heart out. This was a place where she could indulge the emotions she would never allow herself at home.

“‘Having sex,' Fred calls it. ‘People have sex,' he says. He makes it sound so antiseptic.” Phyllis shook her head. “He makes it sound like a fast-food order. ‘I'll have a cheeseburger, some sex and large fries.' I want to make love, Doctor Conway. Do you see?” The level of her anger was already rising. “There, I said it. And you know what the worst of it is?”

Dr. Conway offered a suitably curious look.

“At this point, even if he said he just wanted to have sex I'd say yes. Yes, I'll have sex. I'll have plenty of sex. But he won't let me touch him. He doesn't touch me and he won't let me near him. There's no affection, there's no love at all.” And then she began to cry. “Women like me, we were brought up without any real goals.” She took the tissue Randi held out for her. “Today it's different,” she said between sobs. “Women today are smarter. They grow up with ideas and dreams. They have careers. Ambitions. But that's not how I was raised. Girls today are raised like men. It was different for us. We had no life plan. We were taught to live day-to-day. See that the kids are happy. See that your husband is happy.” She looked up. “Was there something wrong with that? Did I waste my life?” she asked, but she was not waiting for an answer. “What are we supposed to do, all of us discarded, used-up women? Wither and die? Have plastic surgery and pretend we're twenty-five years old?” She suddenly looked as though she wanted to hit something, or someone.