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“Go ahead,” Casey said. “Knock yourself out.”
Her eyes burned, an ice-blue flame holding pride and challenge. Inviting my hunger, my abandon, my need.
We were in her bedroom now, washed by pale lights. She arched her back against the cool white sheets, her naked body a leonine display of golden skin and taut, gym-toned muscle. My fingers traced the swell of her breasts, curved along the honeyed cavern of her inner thighs.
Her body moved beneath my touch as though snaked with fire. She drew me into her and laughed as I crested up once more, pulled into the vortex, lost, beyond all thought.
Now we were loving again, fucking, hard, sweat slick where our bodies slammed together, her blonde hair splayed against the pillows. Then she was astride me, her knees digging into my ribs, her neck curved like a smooth white sculpture as she reared back.
We found each other again and again the rest of the night, hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, desire slaked and then reborn…
As the hours melted away until dawn.
Her touch, her mouth, her fierceness.
She denied me nothing.
***
Casey came out of the shower still dripping wet and rolled onto the bed beside me. After a quick kiss, she turned her head toward the TV.
“Anything new?” she asked, pulling back her wet hair to lay her cheek against my chest.
“No. They all smell blood in the water. CNN ran the press conference with Sinclair and the Chief again.”
“Wingfield go on camera yet?”
“No. On
Good Morning, America,
one of his lawyers said he’s in seclusion. Unavailable for comment.”
She tilted her head up. Eyes narrowed with concern.
“They’re going to come after you again, Danny. The press. The cops. Kevin Wingfield is the Dead Celebrity of the Hour, and you were his therapist. And, Christ, if it leaks that he was
dressed
like you, that the killer…”
I said nothing. Her arms encircled my waist.
“I already know the answer to this,” she said flatly. “But any way I can talk you into laying low? Going into seclusion yourself till this whole mess burns itself out?”
“No way. I’m in it and I’m getting in deeper. Maybe I can come up with something. Go at it from a different angle than the cops.”
“Like with the office key,” she said. I’d told her how I thought the killer had gotten in to plant the knife.
Casey sat up on her elbows, watching archived footage of Wingfield shaking hands with the German Chancellor, doing
schtick
with the President at his vacation ranch.
Then pictures of Wingfield BioTech labs and corporate offices around the world. The last image was a college snapshot of Kevin Wingfield, the same one they’d run with the murder story when he was still just Kevin Merrick.
I stirred. “Listen, while we’re on the subject…”
Her smile was a tease. “I get it. You just slept with me so I’d keep you in the loop about the investigation.”
“You got me, Counselor.” I bent and kissed her softly. “But let’s face it, I’ve probably been cut from Sgt. Polk’s Christmas card list. And I bet Sinclair’s decided against inviting me to his country club.” I looked off. “So unless I can work something out with Eleanor Lowrey…”
Casey punched my arm. “Don’t push it, Doc.” Her eyes darkened. “And don’t get cocky. I don’t like that.”
I met her gaze. “Duly noted.”
Then, with the quickness of a summer storm, her face suddenly brightened.
“I
did
hear a couple things, though. Last night. The first was about the murder weapon.”
I stared at her. “Okay, you got my attention.”
“Forensics finally ID’d the knife. Only it’s not a knife. It’s kitchenware. A skewer, like for shish-ka-bob. Very upscale. You can get it from Williams-Sonoma.”
“Funny. Exotic and mundane at the same time.”
“But listen. The skewers are sold as a set of two.”
I let out a breath.
“Yeah, I know.” Her voice softened. “That’s why you gotta be cool, Danny. The bastard’s still walking around out there, waiting to use the other one.”
“Again, duly noted. The second piece of news?”
“Biegler finally sent Polk up to Cloverbrook to talk to James Stickey. He’s meeting him later today.”
“I don’t know. I think you were right about the break-in at Kevin’s apartment being just a coincidence. Besides, Stickey was already in prison when Kevin was killed.”
She shrugged. “Biegler’s desperate. He knows his job’s on the line. His clearance rate sucks lately, and nobody likes the little prick anyway. It’d serve him right to finish up his twenty in Parks and Recreation.”
“Sinclair’s got to be feeling the heat, too.”
“Or basking in it. He knows a conviction on Kevin’s murder pretty much lands him in the governor’s mansion.”
We channel-surfed the news for a few more minutes. The networks had already begun running a colorful graphic under their coverage of the story: “The Hunt for Kevin’s Killer.”
“Look,” I said reluctantly, “I’ve got some calls to make, and I have to be across town by one.”
“And I’m due in court in an hour. So we’ll have to make it fast.”
“What?”
She grinned. “You didn’t think you were getting out of here without feeding me breakfast?”
Then she put her head under the covers.
I was feeling all of my forty years as I headed downtown under a bright, cool sun. But despite whatever was happening between me and Casey—not to mention the accumulated effects of sleep deprivation—my mind was buzzing. There was a lot to do.
Traffic slowed as I neared the Fort Pitt Bridge, so I scanned the news stations. Nothing new, though I did learn that the police were releasing Kevin’s body to Wingfield tomorrow for a private service. Talk about slicing through red tape. The chief also promised—again—to spare no effort to bring a speedy resolution to the case.
Not surprisingly, Brooks Riley’s murder had a much lower profile. At this point there were few leads. However, patients and staff at Ten Oaks were still being questioned, as were the victim’s family and friends.
I shut off the radio and made the turn onto my street. Then I hit the brakes.
Quickly, I pulled around behind the Mobil station on the corner. Shielded by a towering maple, I peered at my house a hundred yards down the street.
It had begun. There were at least a dozen news vans parked at or near the house. Reporters paced the curb, lounged in my driveway, perched on my front porch rail.
I looked left at the corner, where a black sedan was parked at the curb. A disgruntled-looking guy with a briefcase leaned against the car, arms folded.
My new life,
I thought.
Cameras and subpoenas.
I got on my cell and checked the messages. The first was from Johnny Manella, who’d called last night.
“Hey, I just heard from Aunt Angie that now the cops are lookin’ at you for that
shrink’s
murder. Mother of God. Maybe now you’ll listen to your favorite cousin and get some legal. Try Ralph Puzzini, best criminal attorney in the biz. He got Manny Salerno off last year, remember? And not for nothin’, but you still owe me a dinner.”
The next message was from Paul Atwood. After assuring me that my none of my patients were in crisis, he went on to the reason he’d called.
“I just heard on the news about your patient’s real name. Damn, talk about deep pockets. But if Wingfield
is
going to sue, forget about those limp-dick APA lawyers. You need a cruise missile. I had a friend who hired some guy named Harvey Blalock. Specializes in clinical malpractice. My friend swears by him. Write down this number.”
I did, and immediately dialed Blalock’s office. To my surprise, his secretary put me right through.
“Dr. Rinaldi? Harvey Blalock.” His voice was rich, deep. Practiced in giving assurance.
“Sounds like you were expecting me.”
He chuckled. “Well, let’s just say I had a feeling. I saw the news like everybody else this morning.”
“So how bad’s this going to be?”
“My guess? As bad as it gets. You been home lately?”
“Funny you should ask. I happen to be hiding in my car around the corner. I see reporters. I see process-servers.”
“Okay, here’s the drill. Talk to no one. Check into a hotel. As soon as we hang up, I’ll contact Wingfield’s people and get the paperwork flowing in my direction. From now on, the only communication you have with Wingfield or his representatives will be through me. I’ll get all the necessary patient files, statute listings and opposition expert testimony from his lawyers. Any idea who they’re using to make you look like an incompetent piece of shit?”
“Dr. Phillip Camden.”
“Jesus H. We’re gonna have our work cut out for us. By the way, I assume you’re retaining me.”
“Well, you come highly recommended. Plus, as we speak, I’m watching my front lawn turn into a media circus. Given the circumstances, Mr. Blalock, I think I’ll go with my gut and sign on with you.”
“A wise decision. And call me Harvey. Now give me your cell number and let me go to work.”
“Before we hang up, you ever hear of a defense lawyer named Ralph Puzzini?”
Blalock gave another short laugh. “Man, you
are
having a helluva week. But, sure, if you need a criminal attorney, Puzzini’s at the top of the food chain. I also know a good forensics accountant, if you’re in trouble with the IRS.”
“Not yet, but the day’s young. Thanks.”
I hung up. Through the windshield, I saw one of the Mobil attendants pointing in my direction and talking excitedly to a guy wearing a press badge.
I turned the key in the ignition as the reporter started running toward the car.
“Hey! Dr. Rinaldi! Wait—!”
I almost side-swiped the guy peeling out of there, jumping the curb, and heading back toward the Incline.
Sam Weiss pointed to the thick, sloppy sandwich in his other hand. “Now
this
is a cheesesteak. With fries, slaw, and tomatoes.
In
the damn sandwich.”
We were crowded into a corner table at Primanti Brothers Deli, on the Strip. Packed as usual at lunchtime, the noise level was off the scale.
Sam had put on a few pounds since I’d last seen him, but still owned that same crooked smile and tousled jet-black hair. Maybe the same jeans. Though my age and the father of two, Sam always looked like he just came from the dorm.
He took a gulp of his Rolling Rock. “Funny I’m seeing you today. I’m doing a big new piece on Leland Sinclair.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “The Wingfield case is a DA’s dream. Unless he doesn’t nail it down.”
“Yeah, but he’s a tough interview. Never shows the cracks, know what I mean? Doesn’t mix it up.”
“He’s a WASP, Sam. All they want is Scotch and quiet.”
Sam drained his beer and signaled for another, then reached under his chair for his briefcase. I watched him, nursing my Iron City, as he flipped through some folders.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I said.
His glance up at me was sober. “Hey,” he said. Then he moved our plates aside and laid out some papers.
“Some of this I got from McMahon in Business. Some from an SEC guy who owes me. Plus a couple sources I can’t tell you about. How much do you want?”
“For now, just the highlights.”
He glanced up to acknowledge our young waitress as she put another beer down in front of him. He watched her saunter away for a long moment, then looked back at me.
“Well, first of all, what do you know about a guy named Terry Mavis?”
“Name sounds familiar. Some kind of scientist?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Won the Nobel-fucking-Prize, Danny. He was, like, ahead of everybody in gene mapping, or whatever. Real Brainiac, but with no head for business.”
“That’s important?”
“Hell, yeah. Let’s say you’re a genius when it comes to cutting-edge genetic technology. Your ideas about creating new, life-saving drugs will revolutionize the pharmaceutical industry. But you’re not interested in all that. You just wanna have fun. Do drugs and party on yachts and get laid till Mr. Happy falls off.”
He offered me a press photo of Mavis accepting his Nobel award. He was beefy, with a broad face framed by long, darkish blond hair. He looked a lot like Meat Loaf.
“Damn shame, too,” Sam went on. “’Cause Mavis was in the same league with Salk. Watson and Crick. Those guys.”
“
Was
?”
Sam smiled. “I’m getting to that.”
I waited impatiently while he glanced through some color-coded folders. Apparently, he had a system.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Here’s where we jump ahead in our story. Now this is in the public record. What everybody knows. Miles Wingfield lives in Banford, Pennsylvania, a widower with two kids. Pillar of the community. Vice-president of the Sunshine Savings and Loan. Then, according to his official bio, a business opportunity enables him to quit his job and move to Palo Alto, California.”
I held up my hand.
“Wait a minute. That’s a pretty big gap there. Any ‘official’ reference to what happened to his kids?”
“Nope. Not that I could find.”
I sipped my beer. There had to be Social Services or family court documents detailing the incest allegations, since they led to mandated separation of Kevin and his sister. However, given the ages of the children, the records had probably been sealed. I did wonder if there were documents regarding their placement in separate foster homes following Wingfield’s sudden departure from town.
Sam was studying me intently. “’Course, since Wingfield’s son ended up as your patient years later, I guess
you
know more about what happened back there than I do.”
“Nice try. Nothing I can talk about.”
“But
something
weird happened in Banford, right? All my research keeps turning up rumors that Wingfield
had
to leave. That whatever this ‘business opportunity’ was, he leaped at the chance to skip town.”
I shrugged. He shook his head.
“Anyway, speaking of gaps, when Wingfield
did
show up in Palo Alto, he had over two million million bucks in his pocket. And nobody knows how he got it. His official line is that it came from investments. But my Wall Street buddy says the rumor is, he’d embezzled it from Sunshine Savings and Loan. Nothing was ever proven, but…”
“Wait. Back up a minute. What exactly happened to his wife? I mean, how did she die?”
Sam shuffled some papers, pulled out a Xerox of a faded newspaper article from the
Banford Messenger.
“I had one of their people fax me the story this morning. Goes back fifteen, sixteen years.”
He pointed to the photo accompanying the article. It was a posed shot of a slim, pale woman in a print dress standing next to a younger, sober-faced Miles Wingfield. “That was his wife. The former Dorothy Louise Carlyle.”
It looked like they’d been photographed at some sort of Christmas party, perhaps for the bank. Other couples in conservative suits and dresses were arrayed behind them.
But, as I would have guessed, Wingfield stood out. Not only because his suit looked new and tailored. It was the way his eyes looked almost challengingly at the camera. Chin stiff, he’d refused to smile. To be “caught” among these people. Everything about him seemed to proclaim
“I don’t belong here…”
“Miles and Dorothy were married for nearly eighteen years,” Sam went on. “Then, about six months after this photo was taken, Wingfield takes the kids to the movies. When they get home, they find Mom lying dead in the bathtub. She’s swallowed a bottle of pills.”
“Any suspicion of foul play?”
“None. She did leave a note, though. It just said, ‘I can’t take it anymore.’ Whatever the hell that meant.”
Maybe Wingfield’s wife knew what was going on between her two children and couldn’t cope with it. Blamed herself in some way. Or maybe it was something else. Some private torment having nothing to do with any of this.
Sam put the article and some other papers in a manila envelope. “Anyway, here’s all the Banford stuff I have. As much local color as I could scare up.”
“This is more than I expected, Sam. Thanks. But getting back to Wingfield…”
Sam took a long pull of his beer. “Like I was saying, he shows up in California with serious money and starts looking around for something to do with it. Besides buying clothes and cars. I mean,
really
giving his life a total up-grade. Which is when he hooks up with Terry Mavis.”
He grinned. “Maybe they met on one of those yachts I mentioned, ’cause Wingfield turns out to be a real party animal once he hits the West Coast. Anyway, Wingfield starts bank-rolling Terry’s genetic research in exchange for the lion’s share of the patent ownership.”
“Smart move,” I said. “Wingfield gets in on the gravy train just as it’s leaving the station.”
“Classic Horatio Alger story, except with a nice twist.” Sam’s smile was more crooked than usual. “Just as they’re about to go public, Terry Mavis conveniently OD’s. Cocaine cocktail. The company’s thrown into turmoil, legal battles ensue. But when the smoke clears, Miles Wingfield is sole owner of the patents and launches his new venture, Wingfield BioTech. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
Sam spread out some additional folders.
“Check this out. Last couple years, the company diversified like crazy. Hit the Triple Crown of corporate greed—research, production,
and
distribution.”
I began flipping through the folders. “With all that diversification,” I said, “I’m betting that includes health-related franchises. Insurance groups, hospitals.”
Then I found it. UniHealth.
Sam tipped the folder toward him, reading upside-down. “Yeah. Wingfield BioTech is the principal shareholder in UniHealth. They’ve been buying up high-end mental health facilities and nursing homes. Nowadays, babyboomers with big portfolios need somewhere to stash their crazy kids and elderly parents. UniHealth saw a vacuum in the market and started filling it.”
I nodded. “They just bought out Ten Oaks.”
Sam whistled. “Where that shrink turned up murdered?”
“Yeah. Brooks Riley.”
“Think there might be a connection?”
I gave him a look. “I’m listening.”
“Just spit-balling here, but what if this Riley guy objected to Ten Oaks selling out?”
I shook my head. “I know the clinical director, Bert Garman, well enough that if Brooks
was
putting up a stink about it he would’ve told me. Besides, even if Brooks
did
object, he had no power to stop it. Garman not only runs the place, he heads up the Board of Directors. And from what I’ve heard, the Board couldn’t wait to sell the place to UniHealth. Pretty big pay-day for all concerned.”
Sam frowned. “Still…I mean, the guy
did
get shot. You think it has anything to do with Miles Wingfield, too?”
I leaned back in my seat, stretched. “Hell, Sam. I don’t know. At this point, I’m just trying to—”
Suddenly, my cell phone rang. It was Casey.
“You need to take that?” Sam asked.
I nodded, and answered the phone. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Danny. You’re not gonna believe this.” Her voice was breathless. “I just talked to Biegler. Remember I told you he sent Polk up to Cloverbrook to talk to Stickey?”
“Yeah. What did Stickey have to say?”
“Not much. They found him this morning in the prison laundry. With a shiv stuck in his throat.”