One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (9 page)

This poor kid, who probably wanted to be anonymous, wore black leather everything with a metal something hanging from every place where a hole could be punched.

Anonymous? I don't think so.

Without looking at me, Jagger said, “Come on.”

“Come on? Where?” But before I could get an answer to my question, he was already up the front porch stairs.

I hesitated, knowing—just knowing—that Jagger was going to get me into some kind of mess, once again.

The waiting room had no receptionist and two doors. I figured one was for patients to come into and one to go out of so that they couldn't see each other—this because the doors were set off by a long hallway. The décor bordered on French provincial invaded by modern.

I plopped down into a black brocade high-back chair and set my feet on a leather-and-chrome footstool. If this doctor did her own decorating, she might need some mental health counseling herself.

An air cleaner, very common in psychiatrists' offices since so many patients smoked before going there, hummed in the background. Jagger had seated himself in a matching chair and was looking at
Time.
I wondered if he was reading about politics, religion or celebrities. Couldn't be the last. Jagger would not be impressed with anyone's celebrity. I assumed he was a political reader.

Suddenly a door clicked in the hallway, which we could no longer see from there, and another one shut. I looked at Jagger, who didn't move.

“What the hell are we going to say or do here?”

“I'm going to try to help you, Ms. Knight.”

I spun sideways to see a woman standing a few feet away. Yowza. Not just any woman. Her features were smoothly covered in flawless skin the color of a not-yet ripe peach, highlighting cheekbones worthy of nobility. Her eyes, which I noted were focused on Jagger, were a brilliant oceanic blue. I decided they were contacts, as I looked around to see whom she was talking to.

We were the only ones there.

“Your brother, Colin, has told me a lot about you, Alice. I am Dr. Pia De Jong. Please come in.” She held out a perfectly manicured hand, like that of someone who modeled real diamond jewelry and had been insured by Lloyd's of London.

I looked around again. None of my brothers were here. What the heck was she—

Jagger took me by the arm. “Go ahead, Alice. The doctor is going to try to help you.”

“I will help,” the movie star/doctor said.

Suddenly I was being whisked off to the Cortona Institute again. Not physically, mind you, but all in all, it felt the same. Confusing. I was losing control and had to gain it back again. It was all a job. A weird job.

I pulled away in protest, but not before I dug my nails into “Colin's” arm.

“Ouch! Stop that, Alice.” He said my “name” with his teeth clenched, and he gave me a Jagger look.

That yanked my confusion back to normal. To my case. That's what we were doing here. Against my better judgment, I had to trust Jagger where insurance fraud was concerned.

He knew his stuff. I'd give him that.

And I had plans to use him, learn from him and suck his brain, to become the best investigator that I could be.

Then I'd work alone.

I sighed and walked past the doctor, refusing to inhale. She had to smell wonderful. I knew it just as I guessed she wore Armani, walked in Prada and carried Gucci.

This doc made pretty damn good money.

But was it all legal?

I eyed the couch, done in pale yellows, whites and rose, as I headed into her room. The room offered a feeling of comfort, much like four walls of sunshine. I decided I'd better not lie down on the couch with Jagger in the room. Nope. I needed to stay upright and keep a clear head. I'd been so confused lately being around all the mentally ill, who knew what I'd say.

Suddenly, it dawned on me.

How would I know
what
to say?

What in the hell had Jagger/Colin made up? What had he said about me? What was this doctor going to do to “help” me when she couldn't take her eyes off my “brother”?

I sat on a floral high-back chair and leaned forward just enough so that I partially blocked her view of him.

She got up, sat on the edge of her desk.

“Do you have your insurance card, Alice?”

My heart stopped. My eyes widened, and my hands froze.

Shit.

Jagger lifted out his wallet and took out a little white card. All I could see was Alice Knight and Blue Shield.

Damn, he was good.

Even had a fake insurance card. I only hoped he wasn't committing any fraud.

Then I reminded myself who I was working with.

The doctor took the card, made a copy on her machine and handed me a clipboard. “Please fill out both sides, Alice. Then we'll talk.”

I took it and the pen she had tucked in the metal holder
and looked at the questions. Damn. I had to make up a lot of information. Had Jagger already told her some of this? I looked at him, but his attention was on the good ol' doc.

Make that on a certain part of her anatomy.

She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs. Legs to die for. Legs any Rockette in her right mind would envy. Sure, I was proud of my Maciejko legs that I'd inherited from my mother and grandmother, but truthfully, they weren't De Jong's.

I cleared my throat in order to get Jagger's attention.

Nothing.

So, I leaned over and jabbed him with the doctor's pen.

“Ouch!” He finally turned and glared at me. “What is it, Alice?”

I had to hand it to the guy. He always stayed in character. I, however, had a hard time remembering what character I was supposed to be. Since leaving nursing, I'd gone from, well, a nurse to a seventy-something to a nutcase, to, well, apparently another nutcase. Pauline Sokol was getting fuzzier and fuzzier in my mind.

“I need help with this,
Colin.
” I put a lot of emphasis on his name, hoping that he'd get the hint.

Then again, this was Jagger I was talking to.

He gave the doctor a warm smile. “I'm sure you want to speak to Alice alone.” Before he could stand, my hand was on his jeans, just below the knee, not some place good, yanking him back into his seat. But he managed to brush me off and stood. “Calm down, Alice. The doctor is only going to talk to you.” He turned toward Dr. De Jong. “I'll be filling the paperwork out for her in the waiting room.” He looked at me. “In the waiting room, Alice.” He reached into his pocket and took out his glasses.

His words had come out in a comforting tone, as if “Alice” would freak out once her brother left the room. Was I supposed to? I sat still for a few seconds, watched him take the clipboard from my hands, nod at the doc, and go toward the door.

I opened my mouth, and then shut it just as fast.

Jagger left.

The doctor turned to me and said, “Well, Alice, it's just you and me. You can feel free to discuss your problem.”

My problem? What the hell was my problem? I wanted to scream Jagger's name, but figured the doc would call 911 and have me locked up.
That
problem I would deal with later.

I smiled at her and then realized . . . Jagger had put on his
glasses
!

Jagger had put on his glasses.

Jagger didn't
wear
glasses.

I finally realized that they were the ones he'd used on a case before. There was a tiny camera in the frame. He had gone out of the room, knowing full well there was no receptionist, planning to “investigate” the files of one Dr. Pia De Jong with the fabulous legs.

I hoped he wasn't thinking of her legs.

Then I hoped he got the goods on her, so my case could end soon and I'd get paid. Money issues had been pushed into the back of my mind since being incarcerated. But then again, there was my share of the rent to pay, food to buy, and a car payment due soon—for a Lexus I didn't even own but had cosigned the loan on, for a “good” friend.

“Alice? Alice, I am speaking to you.”

I looked up to see an annoyed look on the doc's face. Yet she still looked damn fetching.

“Sorry. My mind wanders. I . . . I don't know where to start. Maybe if you tell me what my brother said before bringing me here, I can start from there.” Yes! That was a
great idea. I was getting better and better at these investigation/undercover/fake patient things.

Then I thought of Vito Doran's dead body.

I shivered.

“Are you okay?” She leaned back in her chair, not really looking as if she cared if I was all right or not. I actually think she looked at the clock.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.”
I'm fine except for worrying that Margaret or I might be killed soon.
And it never left my thoughts that the real Mary Louise was missing too.

“Colin said you were not sleeping well . . . ”

I know she was talking, but suddenly I had a vision of Jagger standing next to my bed, me with Spanky curled up under my arm, and me wearing my slinkiest, thinnest nightie and his scent overpowering the room.

How the hell could anyone sleep with him there?

“Alice, have you ever been diagnosed with ADD?”

I looked at her. ADD? What the hell? “No. Why?”

“You seem very preoccupied, even distracted, or is it a reluctance to talk about your depression?”

Depression? I was one of the most carefree, happy people I knew other than Miles and Goldie who had it over everyone where happy was concerned. Depressed indeed. “I don't have ADD, and I am
not
depressed.” I put her straight.

Her look said she didn't buy it.

What the hell had Jagger told her?

“Are you going to tell me what my brother said or not?” It came out much angrier than it needed to, but seemed to get the point out.

“He said you've suffered a loss of appetite lately—”

You've never eaten the food at the Cortona Institute, lady.

“—Have difficulty with relationships—”

Okay, so one of my boyfriends tried to kill me, and my infatuation with Jagger borders on psychotic sometimes, but who wouldn't have difficulty with that
?

“And,” she continued as she used one of her lovely fingers to push aside a strand of hair that had fallen on her forehead, “you have threatened to run away.”

From a mental institution that I don't belong in
!

Jagger was a pip. At least he related true life to his lies. Guess that made them seem more real. I could easily explain all of this to her if I leaked my cover. It was tempting, because I knew a psychiatrist had to keep info confidential, but then again, this broad seemed as if she wouldn't believe a word I'd say. She believed Jagger though.

And my being here, telling her lie after lie, would give him time to get some pictures of her files.

So, I began my elaborate story. I told her that my brother was the cause of it all. Ha. Ha. She never once looked as if she bought it. Before I knew it, she was shoving three boxes of pills at me.

“One in the morning, and one at night.”

Knock. Knock.

Jagger stuck his head in the door as I took the medication samples from her.

“Colin, I don't want any medication,” I said.

He looked at the doctor and then at me. “You need to do what Dr. De Jong says, Alice.” He turned away from me. “Shall we make another appointment?”

“Most definitely,” she said and gave him a sexy smile.

“Most definitely,” I mumbled, cursed under my breath, and stuffed the pills she'd given me into the couch below the cushions.

I looked up to see both of them staring at me and realized my cursing was getting way too ripe and grabbed the damn pills from under the cushions.

Once outside, I turned to Jagger. Not only turned to him, but slammed my fist into his arm. “What the hell were you thinking? First you lock me up in a hospital, and now I'm also going for outpatient treatment. If I'm not crazy for working with you, I will be soon.”

“Pipe down until we get into the car.”

That was it. Ever the consummate investigator. Damn, but he was right. Since we couldn't see the waiting room on our way out, we didn't know if there were other patients there. The doctor could be coming out behind us any minute. Jagger would have seen if there were more patients when he'd left her office. I remained silent until we got into his SUV.

Then I punched him again.

This time he grabbed my arm. “Stop it, Sherlock. You know of a better way to get into her office to investigate?”

“I . . . well . . . I could have gotten a job as a nurse—”

“You see any nurses, receptionists or other staff around?”

“Damn it. You didn't have to say I was depressed. Why couldn't
you
have been the patient?”

He looked at me, stuck his key in the ignition and turned it. When he looked back, he started to drive out of the parking lot.

“Okay. Okay. Big deal. You have more experience in this field than I do.” I folded my arms across my chest before I clocked him again, causing us to drive off the road. “So, what did you find?”

“Every teen she sees is treated for depression. Not an easy diagnosis to prove or disprove.”

“Obviously.”

He shook his head . . . once.

“But if I could get a look at the files, I may be able to determine more with my background,” I said.

He nodded.

Before I could ask any more questions, he'd pulled into our Dunkin Donuts. I liked to call it “ours” even though it really wasn't, and I'm quite positive Jagger wouldn't look at it as ours. At the drive-thru window, he ordered our usual. When he handed me my extra light, extra sweet hazelnut decaf and French cruller, I said, “I have no appetite.”

He curled his lip. “I had to come up with something.”

I took the coffee and donut and only wished I didn't have an appetite. The truth was, after the days in the mental hospital, I felt as if I could eat nonstop. If I kept that up though, I'd really be depressed.