Mirror Image (17 page)
An hour later, I was checked into a room at the mid-town Hyatt. On Sam’s insistence, I’d borrowed one of his credit cards and registered under his name. He said any seasoned reporter would routinely canvas all the hotels in the area, promising a healthy finder’s fee to the desk employee who coughed up my room number.
“You just have to lay low for the next couple news cycles,” Sam had said. “They’ll lose interest in you as soon as there’s a break in the case.”
“
If
there’s a break.” We shook hands. “Thanks again.”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t get killed. There might be another book in this when it’s all over, and I’ll need you as a source.”
“I’ll try not to let you down.”
My hotel room was on the top floor, with a view toward the Three Rivers. Cathedrals of clouds rose over the far hills, presaging another storm coming in from the west.
I’d turned on the news as soon as I got in the room, but didn’t hear anything about the death of an inmate at Cloverbrook. No surprise. The cops were probably keeping it under wraps. Then I surfed the cable channels, but they were just rehashing the known facts about Kevin’s case.
I shut off the TV and began sorting out on the bed all the info Sam had given me. I knew it’d be slow going. Maybe later tonight, after I’d taken care of some other things.
I took fifteen minutes to shave and shower, and then I pulled up a chair at the small varnished desk. I looked at my watch. I had two hours.
***
“Sylvia?”
“Yes? Who—? Is this Dr. Rinaldi?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
I let a long silence hang in the air, watching the blinking light on the hotel phone console.
Sylvia Lange’s voice changed during that silence, came across the line now flooded with feeling. “Oh, Doctor…”
I could hear the tears. Her crying was hushed, choked, as though parceled out in careful patches of breath.
“I was hoping you’d call,” she said finally. “I mean, with everything in the news…I was so worried—”
“I know, Sylvia. And I appreciate it.” I also knew what she needed to hear. “But I’m fine. Really.”
“That’s good. I’ve been praying for you, you know.”
“Couldn’t hurt either. But I was wondering about
you
. With this latest appeal for Dowd, and now the movie…”
“I don’t know which upsets me more, the thought of him getting away with it, or that damned movie.” She sniffed. “And I know it’s silly, but I don’t look anything like Susan Sarandon. Though God knows I wish I did.”
“Dowd isn’t getting away with anything, Sylvia. His lawyer’s just trying to get around the death penalty. But the Handyman’s locked up tight. Forever. He won’t be able to hurt you or anyone else again.”
“Uh-huh.”
I paused. “Are you still seeing the psychiatrist?”
“Yes. Dr. Fukanaga. He’s upped my Zoloft. What a surprise. Plus I have a new therapist, who’s pretty good, even though she’s half my age. And I’m in a local trauma survivor’s group. So I guess I’m covered, therapy-wise.”
“I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”
“Yeah. But I miss you, Dr. Rinaldi. I wish I hadn’t moved so far away.”
“You said yourself, you needed a change of scenery. Some anonymity. And I hear Bucks County’s beautiful.”
“Sure. If you like clean air and mountains and lakes.”
I smiled, visualizing her round, matronly face. That sturdy, wry humor. She probably owed her sanity to it.
I spoke softly. “Listen, Sylvia. I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“I…Thanks for saying that. Just knowing you’re out there…thinking about me sometimes…it helps.”
After we hung up, I stared out the hotel window, at the approaching darkness. In all the ways that matter, Sylvia was still my patient.
It’s a lesson they don’t teach in school. About what really happens between a therapist and patient. That when the therapy works, something intangible, indelible, is exchanged, so that a felt trace of the other is imprinted, forever, on the soul.
***
I figured I’d better check in on Noah, too, so I phoned the bar.
“Noah’s Ark, Noah speaking.”
“Me. Just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”
“Where’d I go?”
I laughed. “Last time we spoke, you were in a phone booth at the Penn Hotel.”
“Oh, yeah. No worries, Charlene sent a cab for me. Made the guy’s day. I’m a big tipper, as you know.”
“Well, try to stay put tonight, okay?”
“Will do. Besides, my band’s playin’ tonight, and I was gonna invite you to come check it out.”
“I don’t know…”
“We got a guy sittin’ in on sax, some blues freak from Jersey. I think he’s bipolar. Anyway, wait’ll you hear us. Man, we put the funk in dysfunction.”
Before I could answer, my cell phone rang. It was in the pocket of my jacket, which was thrown over a chair.
“Hold on, will ya, Noah? That’s my cell.”
I reached over and slipped the cell out of my pocket.
“Dr. Rinaldi? Harvey Blalock.”
“Hey, I was going to call you. I’ve gotten a room at the Hyatt.” I gave him the room number.
“Good boy. I just wanted to let you know I spoke to the District Attorney, and he assures me there’re no plans to charge you in the Riley murder. At least for now.”
“You know Leland Sinclair? How well?”
“We play golf once in a while. Besides, I’m president of the Pittsburgh Black Attorneys Association. He and I both know he’ll need our endorsement when he runs for governor. Anyway, unless you like paying lawyer’s fees, I wouldn’t rush out and retain Ralph Puzzini just yet.”
“Okay. Speaking of fees, we never discussed yours.”
He laughed. “Why ruin what looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”
I managed a laugh, too. After talking about finding a time to meet in his office in the next day or two, I clicked off and checked back with Noah on the land-line.
“Sorry, Noah, you still there?”
The line was dead.
I called right back, feeling an inexplicable, mounting anxiety as it rang six or seven times.
Finally, Charlene picked up.
“Charlene, it’s Dan. I was just talking to Noah.”
She sounded harried, distracted. “You were? He was just here…maybe he’s—shit, I don’t know where he is…”
“Look, if he—”
“Sorry, Doc, another customer’s come in. Gotta go.”
She hung up.
I stared at the receiver. Then at the wall print of a Turner landscape just above the desk. Then at the scattered papers and files waiting for my attention on the bed.
Strange, this feeling twisting inside my stomach about Noah. That something was about to happen. That something was…wrong.
A blustery wind whipped the flaps of my overcoat as I pushed open the door of the Spent Cartridge. The cop bar was a dark, wood-paneled anachronism wedged between two recent high-rises on Liberty Avenue. As always during shift changes, the place was packed.
A haze of cigarette smoke veiled the room. I made my way through the throng of off-duty plainclothes, past the noisy bar where the evening news played on a wide-screen TV nobody was watching, and reached the booths at the back.
Sgt. Polk and Det. Lowrey sat across from each other, over burgers and beer. Without preamble, I slid in next to Lowrey. I smiled at her.
Her violet eyes narrowed for just a moment, then softened with what seemed like bemusement.
“Dr. Rinaldi. Nice to see you again.”
Polk, working over a mouthful of burger, swallowed noisily. “What the hell are
you
doin’ here?”
“Just checking in with the team. Casey Walters told me about Stickey. She also said you guys mentioned coming here after work.”
“She did, huh?” Polk looked across at his partner. “Can you believe the balls on this guy?
You
wanna toss his ass, or should I?”
“Chill, Harry. Besides, with all the shit goin’ on in your life, maybe the Doc here can give you some advice.” She turned to me. “He sure as hell doesn’t listen to
me
.”
“Yeah, right.” Polk pointed a ketchup-smudged finger at me. “One thing, man. You better pray that Lt. Biegler don’t come waltzin’ in here right about now. He wants your goddam head on a pole.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “Biegler wouldn’t set foot in this place. Figures he’d be slumming.”
Lowrey laughed. “You got
that
right.”
“Look,” I said, “just fill me in on what’s going on. I’m on the payroll, so I could probably find out through official channels, but I’d rather get it from the people who
don’t
have their heads up their asses.”
“Gimme a break,” Polk said irritably.
“C’mon, just tell me about James Stickey…”
Eleanor Lowrey enjoyed watching the slow burn coloring her partner’s face. Finally, Polk shrugged, but he made me wait until he’d finished off his burger.
“Nothin’ to tell,” he said. “I go up this morning to Cloverbrook—now
there’s
a fuckin’ garden spot, nothin’ but tractors and cow shit and this big, ugly-ass prison. Anyway, turns out Stickey ain’t in his cell. They call out the troops, and we find him stuffed in a clothes basket in the laundry room. Been dead at least a couple hours.”
“Any suspects?”
“Oh, yeah. About fourteen hundred of ’em.”
“Well, what’s your gut feeling? You think his death is connected to the Wingfield case?”
“Could be, but I doubt it. Could be anything. Drugs. Turf. Maybe he got tired of bein’ somebody’s bitch.”
“Aren’t you investigating?”
“Not our jurisdiction. The local cops are tryin’ to pick up some leads. Ain’t gonna come up with squat.”
Eleanor Lowrey nodded thoughtfully. “Part of me agrees with you, Dr. Rinaldi. Too damn coincidental. But…”
She took a sip of her beer. A black female cop didn’t make Detective First Grade by wasting time on dead leads.
Or
pissing off her veteran partner.
I turned to her. “By the way, I was talking to Nancy Mendors, and she told me you interviewed those two girls at the clinic. About the fight.”
“You sure get around, Doc. Yeah, I took a run at each of them. But I didn’t get much. Lucy’s family had a big-time lawyer there in about ten minutes, so that was that. The other one, Helen Frazier, just clamed up, except to call me a nigger cunt on my way out the door. All in all, a real fruitful afternoon.”
“Somebody put them up to it,” I said. “At least
one
of them. Maybe with money or drugs. Then the killer used the diversion to slip into Riley’s office and shoot him.”
Polk eyed me caustically. “Yeah. The killer. Whoever
that
might be.”
“Give that one a rest, will ya, Harry?” Lowrey said carefully. “Even
you
don’t believe it.”
Polk and Lowrey exchanged looks, and I saw something pass between them. Like a secret code. The thing that anchored their relationship: Regardless of rank, years on the job, even differences in race and gender, partners don’t bullshit each other. Simple as that.
Harry Polk got to his feet and announced, “I’m goin’ to the can. Let Freud here get the check.”
As he shuffled off, Lowrey shook her head and reached for the bill. But I snatched it up.
“My pleasure,” I said, to her surprised face. “Harry seems pretty stressed-out. Even for him.”
Her eyes softened. “I feel sorry for him. He just got served the divorce papers an hour ago. So it’s official.”
I considered this. “Hey, I know it’s not your job, but don’t let him crawl too far into a bottle tonight. He’s not looking so good.”
“We’re partners, Dr. Rinaldi. So I figure it
is
my job. But don’t worry. I’ll bring him home with me tonight. Luther won’t mind. I’ve done it before.”
“Luther?”
“My Doberman.” Again, that bemused smile.
As I flipped some bills onto the table, a chorus of angry voices rose from the bar area. I glanced up to see the bartender using the TV clicker to pump up the volume.
“Screw you guys,” he growled, “I wanna hear this.”
On the wide-screen, the graphic said “Breaking News,” under an image from a helicopter’s vantage point of a scarred, fire-blackened building. Obviously long-abandoned, it stood like a ghost amid rubble and scattered debris.
The TV picture was jerky, moving in and out of focus, as the camera swung in a high circle around the site. Surrounding the building were a half dozen police units, lights pluming up against the wintry darkness.
Lowrey and I stood, straining to see over the backs of a dozen heads now clustering at the bar. I just managed to get some of the news announcer’s words.
“…apparent hostage situation…police have confirmed the identity of the suspect…a photo has been released…”
A blurred head shot appeared in a corner of the TV screen. Institutional setting. Pale green hospital tunic. It was an old picture, but—
I threaded my way to the bar, getting a closer look at his face.
As I felt the blood drain from my own.