Tracking Time (19 page)

W
hen baby April opened her eyes with Thursday's dawn, her daddy was standing watch over her crib, wearing a T-shirt and purple briefs. Today, she didn't even have to look around for him or whimper for attention. He'd been awake, worrying for hours. He was actually waiting for her to wake up and keep him company.

"Hey, little sweetheart," Jason cooed at her.

"Aa aa." She smiled and reached up her arms.

Not quite Dada, but close enough. He picked her up, hugged and kissed her a little, changed her diaper, gave her a bottle, played with her for a few minutes, then went into the bedroom.

"Hi," Emma murmured.

Jason sat on the bed, kissed Emma for a while, then put April down beside her sleepy mother. Bolstered by the love of his family, he began his day. He had a seven a.m. patient, an eight o'clock patient, a nine o'clock patient, and a dozen messages, including calls from Ted Tushy, Bernie Zeiss, Miss Vialo, and three other prominent members of the Institute. They might all have innocent reasons for calling late last night, and again before he was even in the office this morning, but Jason thought it was more likely that he was in trouble. Last night he'd gone to the Institute in search of Maslow's and Allegra's files. Several events were going on when he got there. Dr. Cone's second Wednesday of the month discussion group, two committee meetings, and a supervisory group were enough activity to cover his unauthorized visits to the education office for Allegra's file and to the boardroom where, due to overcrowding at the Institute, some of the personnel and candidate files were kept.

He collected them with no trouble and left, thinking it was likely to be more difficult to obtain a list of all the patients with whom Maslow had come into contact at Manhattan East. After he got home and studied the files without learning very much that was new, he rolled around all night wondering if there was any possibility that Allegra could have been a patient and seen Maslow at Manhattan East. Allegra wasn't her real name, and it was possible that Maslow didn't know her personally from there, but she might have seen or known
him
and been attracted to him for some reason or another of her own. Maybe she'd seen him treat a patient there with kindness.

It was very common for patients to contact each other when they were "out," why not a doctor? In any case, it was Maslow himself who had proposed Allegra to the Institute program. The file said what Jason already knew, that she'd come to him as a patient. What the file didn't say was
how
she'd come to him. Who had referred her?

Now it was clear his visit to the Institute had been noted, and there were people who wanted an explanation. He didn't call anyone back. Instead he watched his caller ID box. At eight-forty-five and eight-forty-nine he had hang-ups that the magic screen told him were from Jerome Atkins's private line. At nine-fifteen, the phone rang again from the same number. Jason picked up again and this time, Jerome Atkins spoke.

"Dr. Frank," he said formally.

"Yes."

"This is Mr. Atkins."

"Yes." Jason was in a session and couldn't reveal too much. He gave his one-word answers with his eyes on his patient, who, unluckily enough, happened to be the paranoid investment banker, Jergen Walsh, who had scheduled two extra sessions this week to work out the Sprite incident of yesterday (why had Jason insisted on offering him a soda when Jason knew Jergen only liked Sprite? Why had he been denied the Sprite, etc.?) Jergen's session this morning had already been interrupted by a ringing phone twice. He was audibly grinding his teeth.

"I need to talk with you," Jerome Atkins said.

"Of course. That would be fine."

"I will come to your office." The man's voice was authoritarian. Yesterday, he'd insisted that Jason come to his home.

"Fine." Jason's appointment book was open, secured by a rubber band on his schedule for that day. Last evening when he'd left his office for the night, he'd had a fully booked eleven hours of patients. Since then, on his office phone, he'd received a miraculous two cancellations in a row, starting at nine-thirty. Throughout his session with Jergen he'd been debating canceling the rest of the morning to continue his background check of Maslow. "When did you have in mind?"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Atkins said. "Where are you located?"

"Fine. I'll see you then."

"Very good." Jerome sounded pleased. The dumb luck of two cancellations allowed him to think Jason had nothing else in the world to do but receive him.

Nonetheless Jason was pleased himself. He gave his Riverside Drive address and hung up. Immediately, Jergen turned on him. How dare he take a call on
his
time? This was the price Jason would have to pay. He braced in his chair for the attack. It came right on schedule.

Jerome Atkins arrived thirty-five minutes later, after

Jergen had verbalized all his violent fantasies about Jason and left feeling better. Jason used his few free moments between the two appointments to run through his messages again. There was still nothing from anyone he wanted to talk to. When the doorbell announced Atkins, he buzzed him in, then quickly dialed the cell phone number that April had given him last night so he could stop trying to reach her through the frustrating precinct phone system.

"Sergeant Woo." She picked up after the first ring.

"April, this is Jason. Anything new?"

"I can't say on the phone." April's voice had the flat tone that meant something was up.

Jason's heart rate spiked. "Can we meet, then?" he asked.

"I'm working now, give me a call later."

"That will be difficult." He had patients. He needed to schedule his day. The phone made some noise and she was gone with no further comment. This alarmed Jason even more. With Maslow's father there, however, he didn't have time to call her back.

He hurried from his desk to his waiting room, where Jerome Atkins stood examining the display of three antique clocks on a table along with some fairly recent issues of nonthreatening magazines for activities that attracted Jason but he knew nothing about, like
Yacht
ing
and
Field and Stream
and
The Book of Everything,
a tome that amused some people and irritated others because it didn't have anywhere near "everything" in it.

Atkins wore a black suit, a white shirt, and an unexpectedly jaunty black-and-white polka-dot bow tie. The outfit made him look pale and gave something of a mixed message about his state of mind. When Jason opened the door, Atkins raised an accusing finger to the brass bull with a clock on its back. "This clock is broken," he announced angrily, demonstrating that he was a man who had his own view of things.

"Good morning, Mr. Atkins, please come in," Jason replied.

Atkins hesitated, glancing around at the stylish wooden chairs and bench that were not very comfortable, the lovely Persian rug, the flowers that Jason had set out on Monday. He scowled at the clock that wasn't broken at all. It wasn't ticking because Jason had forgotten to wind it. Then slowly Atkins moved forward into Jason's office, where he was met with more upsetting obstacles.

"Where am I supposed to sit?" he demanded.

"Wherever you feel comfortable," Jason replied.

There was a swiveling leather chair in front of the desk, an armchair beside the desk, an analytic couch next to that. Several other small armchairs were grouped against the wall for those occasions when Jason met with a couple or several members of a family. The obstacle for Maslow's father seemed to be the analytic couch. After some moments of tense deliberation, he sat in the armchair.

Jason sat in his desk chair. "Thank you for coming," he said gently. "This must be very difficult for you."

"Don't misunderstand. I'm not here for comfort. I hate psychiatrists."

Jason gave him a sad smile. "But we can be very helpful at times."

"You think so because you get paid for it. But I don't think so. Let's get one thing straight. I'm not here for help, so don't expect to bill me." Atkins's face was brittle. He was a man who liked to fight.

Jason did not react. He was used to people's being defensive about his specialty. "If you hate psychiatrists so much, your son must be a disappointment to you."

"He was very stubborn," Atkins said tersely.

Again that "was." Jason pressed his lips together and made no reply.

"You have no idea how difficult this is."

But Jason did. Only a second ago he had acknowledged the difficulty. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I want to be clear about this. I don't need a psychiatrist personally. I'm here for my son."

"I appreciate that."

"It's a very complicated situation. I'm concerned about him-what happened to him, I mean." Atkins pulled a snowy handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dabbed delicately at his top lip, then replaced it.

Jason nodded. "Of course you are. Do you have something to tell me about it?"

"I don't want the police to know about this. I need your word as a doctor and a gentleman that you won't reveal what I'm about to tell you to anyone. Because if you can't guarantee confidentiality, I can't tell you anything."

Jason didn't answer. He was struck with the disturbing idea that Atkins might have harmed his own child.

"It is my firm belief that this has nothing to do with Maslow's disappearance, that's the reason I must insist on confidentiality," Atkins said pompously.

"Mr. Atkins, I can see your point, of course. Uh-huh-huh-huh." Jason reached for the nearly empty cup of cold coffee on his desk to cover a sudden choking cough.

"Good," Atkins said.

Jason raised a hand. "Please let me finish. I certainly respect your wish for confidentiality, but…"

"This is a requirement, not a wish."

"Let me tell you the problem here. Confidentiality does not apply in certain situations. In criminal cases if a person is going to be arrested, I have an obligation to-"

Atkins flushed a deep red and interrupted again. "This is not
criminal.
It's a
family
matter."

"I see. Does what you have to tell me regard Maslow's welfare?"

"I just told you I do not believe so."

"I may have to be the judge of that."

"You're a stubborn and arrogant young man. I'm only asking that you keep my private confidences. I'm not asking for the cover-up of any crime.". Jason hadn't been called "young man" in many years. He suppressed a smile. "If you want to tie my hands, I'm not sure what I can do for you."

"I'm not tying your hands," Atkins insisted.

"Then let me ask you again. What have you come to me for? How can I help you?" Jason glanced at his clock. His time was being wasted. He hated that.

Atkins shook his head angrily, then abruptly changed his tone. "You have met my wife," he said softly.

"Yes, she seems like a fine woman," Jason said.

"She and I have nothing in common."

"I see."

"I've had a-friend-for many years. A lovely woman." Atkins looked down at his manicured nails, then couldn't resist adding, "A younger woman, of course, very pretty, not like my wife, not materialistic at all, and very sweet. When the friendship began, I never intended anything personal-" Pause. Nose swipe. Out with the handkerchief. Dab at the lips. Back into the pocket with the handkerchief. Jerome's right eye twitched.

"She was the one who wanted a sexual relationship. I didn't even think of it. But-" He sighed and spread out his hands. "Sometimes things happen. My child was sick. My wife was distraught. She never recovered, of course, you could see that." Atkins glanced at Jason for a doctor's confirmation of that.

"Well, the fact is,
Adina
has never been the same since Chloe died. We've had no relations since then."

"The loss of a child is a catastrophe," Jason murmured. "Has she been treated for depression?"

Another long pause. Jerome's answer was a sniff. "My friend had a child."

"Your girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"What is her name?"

"How did you know it was a girl?"

"Your girlfriend's name?"

Atkins swallowed. "Her name is Grace. She has a daughter."

"I see. What is your daughter's name?"

Atkins shook his head, pursed his lips. "Her name is Dylan, Dylan Rodriguez."

"Dylan Rodriguez. How old is Dylan?"

Atkins's eyes filled with tears. "She's twenty."

Jason realized that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. "You have a twenty-year-old daughter?"

"She's Grace's daughter."

The clock on Jason's desk ticked off thirty seconds while he thought about this. Sometimes thirty seconds can be a very long time. "Does Maslow know he has a sister?" he asked finally.

"Of course not."

Jason scratched his head, astounded. Jerome Atkins was one of those perfectly ordinary-looking men who had a secret family. His son had a sister he didn't know about. "Do Grace and Dylan know about your wife and son?"

"Of course. Grace knew from the beginning that I was married with children. She was the one who wanted a relationship. I had nothing to do with it. It was her idea to have a baby."

Jason quickly did the math. If Maslow was thirty-one and his twin sister died when she was eleven, then Dylan was conceived twenty-one years ago, when Chloe was very ill and about nine months before she died. Twenty-one years ago when the family was in crisis, Jerome was having an affair. Twenty years ago his legitimate daughter died and his illegitimate daughter was born. To Jason, the juxtaposition of those two major events sounded more like calculation than coincidence. Jerome Atkins had a lot to do with the relationship. And the catastrophe to his wife was much greater than the loss of a child. She had lost her husband at the same time. Not only that, Maslow had to have been profoundly influenced. Well before he lost his sister he lost his father, too.

"I didn't abandon them, if that's what you're thinking," Jerome said. "I've always spent time with the Rodriguezes. Grace is a wonderful woman. Dylan is a lovely girl." He gave his nose another little wipe. In body language, that meant he didn't believe what he was saying. The Rodriguezes. He called his second family the Rodriguezes, as if they belonged in another category, another world.