The Deep End (21 page)

“It’s not a crime to be sick.”

“I’m not saying that it is.”

“Then why aren’t you helping her?”

“I’m trying. She won’t accept the kind of help I’m offering.”

“Which is?”

“I want her to see a psychiatrist.”

“Why? Because one doctor suggested her problems were psychosomatic.”

“Not just
one
doctor. Joanne, please hear me out. You may be the only one who can convince her to get the help she needs. You’re the only one she listens to.” He waited as
if he expected Joanne to say something, but she said nothing, only waited for him to continue. “Like I said,” he began again, “it’s a combination of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like whenever we go to the theater, she has to have an aisle seat.”

“What!” Joanne was incredulous. What was this man talking about? “What’s the matter with that? Lots of people like to sit on the aisle.”

“But do they refuse to go to the theater if they can’t?” He paused. “Do they walk out of a movie they’ve stood in line for an hour to see because they can’t get the seat they want? She won’t use an elevator,” he continued in the same breath, as if fearful Joanne might interrupt again. “She’ll walk up and down twenty flights of stairs rather than set foot in a goddamn elevator.” Joanne was about to object. “And don’t tell me that lots of people have phobias about elevators. I know that. I’m not crazy about them myself. But that doesn’t mean I won’t accept dinner invitations because the people live in a high-rise, or that I won’t go somewhere where an elevator can’t be avoided.”

“I’m sure Eve wouldn’t let those things stop her.”

“You don’t live with her, Joanne. I do. I know exactly what ‘those things’ have stopped her from doing. We hardly go anywhere anymore. It’s gotten worse over the years. When was the last time you remember Eve and me going away on vacation?”

“You can’t blame that on Eve. You’re the one who’s always working.”

“Is that what she told you?” He stood up, running an oversized hand through his curly brown hair, peppered increasingly these days with gray. “Look, it’s true, I work
hard and I work a lot. Why not? To be very frank, there’s not a whole lot to come home to these days.” He paused, looking down at the table. Joanne was surprised at how vulnerable this very large, very tough man seemed just now. His next words were an obvious struggle to formulate, more painful still to voice. “Eve doesn’t love me,” he said slowly, as if admitting this fact to himself for the first time. “If I’m being completely honest with myself, I’d have to say that I don’t think she ever really did. I think she married me because she knew it would enrage her mother, if you really want to know what I think,” he went on, wound up now. “But that’s beside the point. The point is that we have no relationship to speak of. As far as Eve is concerned, she made a bad mistake seven years ago, and now she wants as little to do with me and my world as possible.”

“Brian, how can that be true? She was going to have your baby, for God’s sake!”

“For her mother’s sake, you mean!” He held up his hands. “Okay, okay, maybe I’m going overboard a bit, maybe I’m wrong, maybe she
does
love me …”

“I’m sure she does. She’s always talking about you. She’s very proud of you, I know she is.”

“How do you know? What does she say?”

Joanne fought hard to remember anything positive Eve had ever told her about Brian. She stared into Brian’s surprisingly kind face. (“Trust me, his face is not his best feature,” she heard Eve say.) “Well, of course she never went into any details,” Joanne stammered with some embarrassment, “but I know she … found your work very interesting,” she said, unable to bring herself to discuss their sex life.

“My work?” he hooted. “Eve likes blood and guts! Most of my work is boring as hell. She couldn’t care less about my work. What has she told you about our sex life?” he asked, as if he could read her mind.

“Just that it’s a good deal more than satisfactory,” Joanne said quietly, then quickly added, “Terrific, actually.”

“Our sex life is nonexistent,” he spat out.

“Well, I guess since the miscarriage …” Joanne stumbled, once again caught off guard.

“It has nothing to do with the miscarriage. We haven’t had a good sex life in years!” He spun around, allowing himself to fall back wearily into his chair. There was a long silence. “Look, I don’t know how or why I got into all this. As I said, it’s beside the point.” He laughed bitterly. “My life is beside the point.” Joanne felt tears springing to her eyes. For the first time since he had started speaking, she understood exactly what he was saying. (“I mean, I know it’s your life and everything,” her sister-in-law had stated, “but try not to take it too seriously.”)

“I was telling you about the fact that Eve and I haven’t taken a vacation together in years. And not because I’m too busy. Because she won’t fly.”

“Lots of people don’t like to fly,” Joanne maintained stubbornly.

“They don’t like it, but they do it. I only get two weeks, Joanne. I don’t have time to take a boat to Europe. But okay, forget about flying, I’ll give you flying, but the fact is that even if I suggest we drive somewhere, Boston, for Christ’s sake, or Toronto,
anywhere
, the answer’s no. And do you want to know why?” Joanne was quite convinced she didn’t want to know but equally convinced he was going to tell her. “Because she won’t leave her mother!”

“What? Brian, that’s ridiculous. Eve can barely stand being in the same room with her mother for more than two minutes.”

“I know that. I also know that, for some reason, she feels responsible for her and that she won’t leave her. It’s a very complex relationship. There’s a lot of guilt involved. Hell, I’m a cop, not a psychiatrist. But I’m telling you that there’s a lot going on in Eve’s head that you don’t know about, and that her mother has a great deal to do with it.”

“Okay,” Joanne said, trying to sift through the confused layers of her thoughts. “Maybe Eve has some problems. I admit that I wasn’t aware of the depth of some of her phobias, but I still don’t think they mean that the pains she’s been having …”

“I’ve spoken to all the doctors, some more than once. They all say the same thing—that there is nothing physically wrong with Eve, that the tests indicate nothing out of the ordinary. Joanne, nobody falls apart all over their whole body. Eve has pains everywhere. Take her to one doctor, it’s pains in her chest. Take her to another, they’re in her groin. Her stomach isn’t working properly, she complains, her weight’s down, her temperature is up. We’re talking half a pound, half a degree! I threw away the damn scale; she bought another one. I tell her to stop taking her damn temperature, she just glares at me. She’s obsessed.”

“She’s in pain!”

“I don’t doubt that. Believe me, I don’t doubt that for a minute. What can I say?” He looked around the room helplessly. “I spoke to the police psychiatrist. I asked her what she thought.”

“And?”

“She said that it sounded to her like a fairly typical case of postpartum depression brought on by the miscarriage, the same thing that the other doctors have concluded. She said that I shouldn’t allow myself to be manipulated, that I shouldn’t cater to Eve’s illness because I’d only be reinforcing it, that I should suggest strongly that Eve talk to someone on a professional basis, but, of course, Eve won’t hear of it. She says she knows enough about psychiatrists to know that she wants nothing to do with them. She says that she shouldn’t have to defend herself to me or apologize because she’s having pains. She’s furious with me for even suggesting she see someone. Joanne, is it so wrong? This has been going on for almost two months now. She’s already seen half the specialists in New York; she has appointments with the other half. She’ll see all those doctors, why won’t she see a psychiatrist? I mean, even if I’m wrong and it
is
something physical, something that all the tests have missed, what harm could it do to talk to somebody about it, to learn to cope with it? If you were in horrendous pain, wouldn’t you do everything you could to get rid of it, even if it meant talking to a shrink?” Joanne stared into his eyes but said nothing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump this all on you.”

“Eve is my closest friend. I want to help her if I can.”

“Then convince her to see a psychiatrist,” Brian urged. “Sorry, there I go again. Police training, I guess. I’m sorry, you obviously have enough to worry about right now. What was that about some phone calls you’ve been getting?”

The sudden switch in gears took Joanne by surprise. “What?”

“Before Eve had her attack, you were saying something about feeling safer with the alarm on since the phone calls.”

“Yes,” Joanne agreed, her adrenaline level rising, her mind furiously backtracking. “I’ve been getting these threatening calls. Eve didn’t tell you about them?” she asked, watching him shake his head from side to side. “Well, maybe she said they were obscene calls.”

“She never said anything about any calls, period.”

“Are you sure?” Joanne felt suddenly queasy. “She promised me that she was going to. She said she had.”

“The only thing that Eve and I have discussed over the past few months are her assorted aches and pains. What kind of threatening calls?”

Joanne told him about the series of phone calls, the late-night threats, the newspaper left on her car window, the fact that she had changed her number and still the calls continued. “Eve never mentioned any of this?” she asked again though she already knew the answer.

He shook his head. “Would you like a drink?” he offered, moving to the liquor cabinet.

“No, thank you.” She watched while he poured himself a healthy snifter of brandy. “Paul thinks I’m overreacting,” she said. “So does Eve,” she added. “That’s probably why she didn’t say anything.”

Brian laughed out loud, taking a quick sip of his drink. “Eve’s a fine one to talk about overreacting.” He took another, longer swallow. “But she’s probably right about there not being anything to worry about. Loonies like the Suburban Strangler bring all the other nuts out of the woodwork. We must have seen a thousand guys who’ve already confessed to the killings.” He downed the remaining contents of his glass. “And I couldn’t begin to count the number of women who have reported calls like the ones you’ve been getting, although …”

“Although what?”

“Do you still have the newspaper that was left on your car?” Joanne shook her head. She’d thrown it away long ago. Brian shrugged. “We probably wouldn’t have gotten anything from it anyway.” His hand reached for the bottle of brandy and then moved away. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Joanne,” he was quick to assure her again, noting the look of concern in her eyes. “It’s probably some stupid prank, and unfortunately, as the police have already told you, our hands are tied. The best advice I can give you is what Eve has already told you—be extra cautious, change your number again, and in the meantime, keep hanging up on the guy.”

“I’m not even sure it
is
a guy,” Joanne heard herself reply, almost a reflex action, she realized, wondering why she bothered.

Brian regarded her with a subtle yet unmistakable interest. “What makes you say that?”

“Some quality in the voice. Neither here nor there. Although,” she added, trying to laugh, not quite sure what he was getting at, “the Suburban Strangler could hardly be a woman.”

“You know something we don’t?” he asked, and Joanne wondered if he was serious.

“I don’t understand,” Joanne stammered. “I read that the Suburban Strangler’s victims were raped.”

“You read that they were sexually assaulted. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t understand,” Joanne repeated.

“I’m afraid I can’t be more explicit.”

“You’re saying that the killer could be a woman?”

“It’s a very remote possibility, I grant you; she’d have
to be exceptionally strong. But a lot of women are into body building and weight training these days. Who knows? Anything’s possible. Besides, whoever’s phoning you isn’t necessarily the killer. It’s probably just some sickie who’s gone off the deep end and could very possibly be a woman.”

“Eve says women don’t make obscene calls to other women.”

“Eve says a lot of things,” Brian replied cryptically, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her shoulders in what was intended as a comforting gesture. “Look, try not to worry. I’ll talk to my lieutenant about it, see if we can’t get someone to drive by your house on a regular basis. And of course, I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thank you,” Joanne said gratefully, feeling she should probably go home but liking the security of masculine arms around her. She patted the hairy tops of his hands. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Just be careful,” he told her moments later as he walked her to the front door.

“Tell Eve that dinner was lovely and that I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Will do,” he said, watching her as she cut across his front lawn to her own and ran up her front steps.

She waved goodbye, fishing in her purse for her keys. “Where are they?” she muttered out loud, unable to find them. “Damn it, I must have left them at Eve’s.” She looked back to where Brian had been standing, but he’d already retreated inside his house and closed the front door. She debated running back. “Oh hell, I’ll get them tomorrow,” she decided, ringing her doorbell and waiting, her eyes carefully searching up and down the dark
street. “Some eye he’s keeping out,” she muttered, looking back at Eve’s house, catching sight of a quick movement in the window of the smaller front bedroom. “Come on, Lulu, where are you?” She pressed the doorbell again, hearing it chime.

A loud voice suddenly blasted into the darkness. “Who is it?” the voice boomed and Joanne felt the muscles in her neck painfully contract as she recoiled in fright.

“My God!” she cried, realizing that the voice was Lulu’s and that it was coming from the small box next to the doorbell, part of the new intercom system that had been installed.

“It’s Mommy,” she answered, her heart pounding wildly.

“Where’s your key?” the child asked as she pulled open the door and backed away, her eyes resolutely downcast.