Me, Myself and Why? (22 page)

This felt good, starting a day without a whirlwind of sugar cubes. No new ThreeFer murders since George had almost been caught at Jeremy’s, no new batches of paperwork to fill out because Adrienne had done something ridiculous the night before, no scheduled talks with Dr. Nessman . . . and no George at the office! Sure, seeing no George meant that he could still kill again; but on the other hand . . . no George at the office!

By the time the appointments with our two witnesses came up, I was humming a tune. Something classical—perhaps I had heard it in the elevator. I wasn’t even sure at first . . .

“Hey, I know that one!” Tina was walking by with a copy of
EW
. “ ‘Nessun Dorma.’ ”

“Come again?”

“ ‘Nessun Dorma’? From Puccini’s
Turandot
? Famous stuff. I didn’t know you were an opera buff.”

“I’ve never been to the opera.”
Maybe Shiro has?

She shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t have to. You’d just need one of the best-selling classical recordings of all time:
The Three Tenors in Concert.
Remember them? Pavarotti, and Domingo, and . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, the other one.”
Huh. That is one of my favorite albums. . . . Did George know that? Is that why he stapled the poster to that victim’s face?

I was still ruminating on the possibilities when I entered the interview room. Conveniently enough, Jeremy and Tracy were in adjacent rooms. Each had a book of lay-downs, within which we had placed various photos of George with different configurations of facial hair and other disguising factors.

The tie and his flight from the law were probably enough to get and hold him; but we would need either a witness or DNA evidence to be sure we’d nail him. So far, Jeremy and Tracy looked like a far better bet than us finding a slipup by George. Good goat cheese, the guy’s lawyer could argue that anything we found at a crime scene was there because . . . George was investigating every crime scene! Ugh, he’d had this all figured out long ago. We needed these witnesses to come through!

I tried not to let impatience and exasperation get the best of me. What would Shiro say?

Stop talking to yourself and get to work.

Hmmm. Not exactly the inspiration I was looking for.

Only you like these people enough to do this.

Better, but . . .

Your sister and I believe in you. Please help us.

Awright, sis! You bet I will! And I believe in you, too!

Two hours later, I left the interviewing area with absolutely nothing useful. Jeremy couldn’t stop stuttering through nothing new, and Tracy was polite, distracted, and tapped out.

We were done. It was DNA or nothing.

Chapter Seventy-nine

I’d no sooner gotten back to my desk and picked my cell phone off my belt to call Lynn (did she still have a job?) when it buzzed in my hand like a big metal bee. I saw it was Cathie. “Hey. What’s up?”

“What did you do to him?”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? My brother, jerk!”

I clutched the phone. “What? Is he hurt? What’s wrong?”

“No, he’s not hurt; he’s moving here!”

“He’s what?”

“Cadence, will you
please
clean the shit out of your ears so I don’t have to keep repeating myself? My brother, the Emperor of Meringue, is house hunting in the Twin Cities. Never mind the location; the man’s never lived in a
house
; he’s a rental/hotel suite kind of guy.”

“Maybe he’s tired of all the traveling.” I flipped through my e-mail as nonchalantly as I could. Maybe he had written me an e-mail looking for real-estate advice. Hmm. No. I was excited and pleased to hear Cathie’s news, but cautioned myself that it likely had nothing to do with me.

“Patrick’s just tired of being a nomad,” I guessed.

“Did you give it up to him?”

I nearly dropped the cell. “Jeepers creepers’ peepers, Cathie!”

“Don’t fake swear at
me
. It was all I could think of. Either that, or you showed off the goods but wouldn’t give it up. So he’s buying a house to keep working you.” There was a malignant pause. “Did you—one of you—strip for him?”

This was hitting way too close to home. “Cathie, why are you so interested in your brother’s love life? Don’t tell me the Irish Catholics don’t frown on—”

“Yeah, okay, stop right there. My interest is one of sisterly love, for each of you. I’m not sure if you two dating is brilliant or ridiculous.”

“Can it be both?”

“No. Only in a novel could it be both. This is real life. You have to choose one.”

“Then it’s brilliant.”

“Damn it, Cadence, I was right. You let him see you naked. Did you strip? Did you put on ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’? Did you leave your hat on when you played it? And maybe his necktie?”

The mention of the word “necktie” jerked me back to reality. “Ugh, Cathie, there’s a killer on the loose.”

She sighed. “There always is.”

“My former partner.”

“George, right? I’ve met him. Awful guy.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“He’d never bake and frost cupcakes and have them delivered to your office. Or send you three dozen purple irises.”

“Correct, but irrelevant.”

“Patrick kicked me out of my own kitchen,” Cathie mused, “and obsessed over cupcakes. And buttercream frosting! He made
six batches
of buttercream frosting, one for each color.”

“They were delicious.”

“I don’t like where this is going one bit. I can’t see my brother as a wooing-lover type. I prefer him as a distant millionaire who uncomplainingly supports my parents and stays the hell out of my way.”

“Mmmm?”

“And now he’s moving here!”

“Yup.”

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I need lunch if I’m going to have the energy to stop the bad guy. I gotta go.”

“I hate you.” She didn’t sound convinced, or convincing. “Killer on the loose?
You’re
the killer on the loose. You keep those legs closed until you put a ring on my brother’s finger. Make him an honest man.”

“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to videotape our first time and send it to you. That’ll send you back to MIMH.”

I heard the unmistakable sound of a raspberry and then she was off the line.

Chapter Eighty

When I got back from lunch I got word to go straight to Dr. Nessman’s office. So much for my perfect day. I supposed I knew what was coming and had to admit I wasn’t looking forward to it. Not least because the good doctor was right. He had been proven right all week.

His assistant, Karen, was on the phone and waved me in. I tried to brace myself for the pony onslaught, rapped lightly, and walked in.

“Hello, Cadence.”

Ponies. Ponies
everywhere
. Posters. Pictures. Horse head bookends. And a horseshoe nailed to the top of the doorway! (Dr. Nessman thought it was lucky, which just goes to show that psychiatrists are perfectly capable of going crazy right along with their patients.)

“Hi, Dr. Nessman.”

“Hello. I don’t suppose they’ve found Special Agent Pinkman yet?”

“Not yet.” I plunked down into the chair opposite him. “The guy knows our tactics, so it may take a while.”

Dr. Nessman shook his head, smiling a little. “And you know
his
tactics. No, with you on the case, I wouldn’t want to be

George Pinkman right now.”

“No. You wouldn’t.”

“Fair enough.” Nessman stared down at what I assumed was my file, or possibly the Chicago Yellow Pages. “Cadence, let’s talk about all the shifting.”

Shifting. Losing time. Coming forward. Going back. All words that meant the same thing: Shiro and Adrienne were coming out much more often, and I had no control at all. Not that I ever did.

“Okay,” I said, except it wasn’t. “What about it?”

“I think the longer you resist facing what happened to you as a child, the more difficult it will be for you to get well.”

“But
I
won’t be well at all. I’ll just be an amalgam of Shiro and Adrienne and me. You can’t have it both ways, right?”

“As I said in our earlier session,” he said quietly, looking at me over the top of his glasses, “you were once a whole person. The state you are in now is a direct result of unendurable, inescapable stress placed on you during your formative years.”

“Dr. Nessman, I know all this.”

“And you’re quite right. If you can ever be a whole person again, there would be a blending. But consider the alternative—what if Shiro dedides to become the dominant personality? Or Adrienne? They both have the power to shunt you aside and drive your body wherever they wish. What if they put you aside permanently?”

“They wouldn’t, though,” I said, shifting uneasily.

“To save themselves? To put you out of their way? Of course they would.”

“Dr. Nessman, I’ve kind of got a lot on my plate right now.

Can’t we talk about this another time?”

“Cadence. Avoiding the discussion won’t make the issue itself go away.”

“I’ll bet you got that from a fortune cookie.”

“Teasing me won’t work, either.”

Maybe Tasering?
I squirmed in my chair, feeling cornered. Dr. Nessman had the patience of a rock, so I couldn’t outwait him. And he reported directly to Michaela, which meant he could recommend my suspension or even my termination, and chances were high that Michaela would take his advice. Well, on suspension, anyway. And I needed the money if I was going to buy a digital videocamera capable of holding and editing enough “brotherly love” sex scenes to send Cathie back to MIMH.

I was a worm on a hook, all right. And I could see that the only way to get out of this was to make a concession.

“You want to play
Let’s Make a Deal
?”

Nessman arched an eyebrow at me. “What did you have in mind?”

“We can talk about my parents right now. We can talk about them every session for the next month if you want. The next six months. But then you have to shelve this whole integration thing for the same six months.”

“Done,” Dr. Nessman said so quickly that I cursed under my breath. Clearly, I had lowballed myself.

Chapter Eighty-one

“All right, Cadence, you’re feeling relaxed. You’re not sleepy; you’re quite aware of what’s going on. You’re watching the light and you can hear me very well. Watching the light. All of your concentration is fixed on my voice and on the light. It’s very calm and restful. Watching the light.

“Now we’re going back, Cadence. We’re going back but we won’t really be there. We’re just looking at the last time you saw your mother and father. But we’re safe, Cadence. What we’re seeing can’t hurt us. It’s like you’re watching a movie. You can report what’s happening while being in no danger at all.

“From your house, you can see the grounds of the hospital where you were born. The big rolling grass hills. The hospital itself. You are three. Your father is doing his best to take care of you. You live with him in the small red house on the west edge of the property that is his home as the custodian.”

“He’s mean.”

“Yes. But he can’t hurt you. Any of you. You’re just watching a movie, Cadence.”

“Mama’s here.”

“Wait for me, Cadence. Yes. Your mother is there. She’s a patient. As we watch the film you remember that your father almost went to jail when the hospital administration realized your mother was pregnant by him.”

“He was mean. He made her.”

“Yes. But once you were born your mother adored you. She never blamed you for the details of your conception. By your first birthday she was very happy that she could see you every day.”

“He tricked them.”

“Yes, he did. He managed to fool almost everyone—he fooled them into thinking he could be a good man and a good father.”

“But not Mama.”

“No. Your mother never quite trusted him after you were conceived, but she was willing to set that aside to visit you.”

“She’s not taking the medicine.”

“That’s right, Cadence. She thought she could be a better mother if she went off her meds. She wanted to keep a close eye on your father. And your mother was a veteran of state hospitals. She knew how to make the staff think she was taking her meds. She was very, very smart and she was happy to risk her health and her sanity and her life if she thought it would make her a better mother.

“Cadence, it’s the day after your third birthday. The date is September 20, and the hospital grounds are covered with—”

“Rainbow leaves.”

“Yes, there are beautiful leaves all over the grounds. It’s your father’s job to clean them up. He’s—”

“No.”

“We’re just watching a movie. Nothing can hurt you while we watch the movie.

“Now your mother comes to the small red house you share with your father; she is bringing a small—”

“It’s pink.”

“Yes, a small cake with pink frosting. She’s bringing it to you but your father is angry.”

“He forgot. He was mad because he forgot my birthday, but she remembered.”

“Yes. And that’s when the geese come.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, Cadence. It’s autumn and they’re fattening themselves up for the long flight south. They are beautiful Canada geese. There are dozens roaming all over the grounds. They are nearly tame; you can walk right up to them and feed them.”

“He’s mad. But he’s pretending he’s not. He’s pretending to make a joke.”

“That’s right. And as your mother approaches—”

“Don’t come over here, Mama!”

“Shhhh, shhhh, we’re just watching. Your mother is coming and your father swerves his small tractor lawn mower. But he isn’t aiming for your mother, he’s—”

“The goose.”

“That’s right. And you can hear what he’s saying. He’s saying—”

“Watch this.”

“Yes. And the goose doesn’t have enough time to fly away. So—”

“He runned it over! It couldn’t get away and he runned right over it! And I’m—”

“You’re not there, Cadence. You are a grown woman, not that toddler. You’re only watching what the three-year-old is doing.”