Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (164 page)

A memory sprang up, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. It took her breath away.

“But I don’t want to go, mama. I don’t like her.”

“Could you behave for once, Michaela? I don’t know why you insist on making things hard for me.”

She needed sleep. Things would look different in the morning.

No, they wouldn’t.

Hank.

She glanced down at the phone, snatched it up and texted her friend.

Are you up?

He responded immediately. “Angels never sleep, just in case.”

They had a running joke about him being her guardian angel. If tonight was any indication, it wasn’t a joke. “Can I come over? I need to talk.”

“Putting coffee on now.”

***

Hank had been working on the Nova. She smelled the solvent on his hands; the night air clung to his denim jacket. She should scold him, but how could she? She was so thankful he was still up.

He stuck a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. “It’s decaf. You should be sleeping.”

She forced a smile. “Takes an insomniac to know one.”

He snorted and sat. “Heard you cleared two cases in twenty-four hours. Congratulations.”

“News travels fast.”

He laughed and sipped his coffee. “I have connections, you know.”

She eyed him over the rim of her cup, realization hitting her. “You’re the one, aren’t you?”

“The one what?”

“Who put a good word in for me with someone high up in the force. The one who recommended me for a spot in the Eighth.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I suppose I should be pissed.”

“Only if you were stupid, which you are not. Besides, your transfer to the Eighth isn’t what you’ve come to talk about.”

“No, it’s not.” She paused, sipped the coffee, thoughts racing. After a moment, she lowered the cup and met his eyes. “Did you ever have a case that didn’t feel right? After you’d closed it?”

“Sure. Lots of ‘em.”

“Even after a dead-to-rights video and confession?”

“Maybe you’d better give me the details.”

She did, explaining about the coincidences between the two murders and about having uncovered that both suspects were clients of the same psychiatrist.

“I know I should move on,” she said, “but I know there’s more to this story. I know it.”

“What’s the shrink’s name?” Hank asked.

“Renee Blackwood. That mean anything to you?”

His eyebrows drew together a moment, then he shook his head. “Nope.”

“What should I do?”

“What do you think you should do?”

“That’s no help.”

He leaned forward. “What’s a cop’s most valuable tool?”

“I don’t know. Intellect? Training?”

“Instinct, Michaela.” He searched her gaze. “Yours is telling you there’s more to this story than what dropped into your lap. You have to act on it.”

“But—” She laced her fingers. “I’m the junior officer.”

“So?”

“Shouldn’t I defer to Angelo’s—”

“Respect, yes. Never defer. Not from what you know is right. Fight for it.” He held her gaze. “You’re a good cop now. I think you could be a great one.”

“Why?” The word came out thick.

“Because you’ve got heart, Micki. You care about doing the right thing. Don’t lose that.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “What would I do without you, Hank?”

His expression changed, grew sad. “You’d be fine, girl. You’re made of some pretty tough stuff.”

She put her head on his shoulder, imagining a world without him and feeling anything but tough.

Chapter Thirteen

9:45 A.M.

Dr. Renee Blackwood agreed to see them between appointments. Major Nichols had sanctioned the interview, but had warned them it was strictly to fill in the blanks. If Blackwood balked at the line of questioning, they were to back off.

Renee Blackwood’s practice was located on Magazine Street at Jackson Avenue, uptown. The trendy area was home to coffee shops and cafes, antique stores and boutiques. And, apparently, the offices of high-priced shrinks.

Micki climbed out of the Taurus and went around the vehicle to meet Carmine.

“Pretty nice digs,” he said.

Micki moved her gaze over the cottage with its lacy Victorian trim and deep, shaded front porch. Nestled between nearly identical cottages, one that housed an antique shop, the other an upscale women’s clothing boutique, the yellow and white structure was as welcoming as a spring day.

“You ever been to a shrink, Dare?”

“Yeah.”

“Always wondered what it’d be like. You know, if I’d come out less screwed up.”

“You wouldn’t. Trust me.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t come from that kind of a family anyway.”

“What kind’s that?” she asked as they started up the walk. “Crazy?”

He laughed again. “Mine was certifiable, no doubt. But what I meant was we were a bootstraps or beating kind of clan.”

“Pull yourself up by them or get a beating?”

“That’s the one.” He changed the subject. “Love this area,” he went on. “Great little pizza place just up the block. Big Easy Slices.”

Micki was only half listening. She was planning what she would say to Renee Blackwood, how she would say it. Neutral, she reminded herself. They were interviewing the woman to fill in blanks.

Officially anyway.

They crossed the porch and entered the cottage. It smelled of fresh flowers. A tabletop fountain created a melodic, soothing sound track. Micki stopped, a strange sensation coming over her. A tingling at her wrists and back of her neck.

Weird. She rolled her shoulders and looked at Carmine. “Do you feel that?”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” She alternately rubbed her wrists. “Like static electricity.”

“Nope.”

A thirty-something woman manned the receptionist desk. Attractive with a nice smile.

“Good morning,” Carmine said. “I’m Detective Angelo, this is Detective Dare. We’re here to see Dr. Blackwood.”

“Of course,” she said, smile over-bright. “I’ll just let her know you’ve arrived.”

Her voice shook slightly and as she reached for the phone, she nearly knocked over her bottle of water.

A moment later, she replaced the receiver. “Dr. Blackwood will be out directly. Could I get you a cup of coffee or a bottle of water while you’re waiting?”

Before they could answer, the double doors to the right of the receptionist’s desk opened and a handsome woman stepped out. Forty-something, trim and elegant, smile as perfect as her blond bob.

“Detectives,” she said crossing to them, hand out. “Welcome.”

Micki clasped her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Dr. Blackwood. I’m Detective Dare, this is my partner, Detective Angelo.”

Introductions and greetings complete, she motioned them into her office, closing the doors behind them. “Please, have a seat.”

Micki would have preferred to stand but sat anyway, hoping to appear more relaxed than she was. Although, she decided, something about the woman’s intent, brown gaze suggested she would see right through that.

Blackwood folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “You said you wanted to ask me some questions about two of my clients?”

“Yes. Bitty Vanderlund and Cherry Chablis.”

Not a flicker in those almost liquid brown eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you aware that both Vanderlund and Chablis have been arrested and charged in separate and unrelated murders?”

“Yes, I am.”

Micki cocked an eyebrow. “That’s it? All you have to say?”

The shrink moved her gaze between them. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Detective. It was a shocking turn of events.”

Something about the woman, her tone of voice, the way she held herself, grated. Like Jack from Club Me-Oh-My, Micki decided she didn’t like Renee Blackwood. “Was it? Shocking?”

Angelo cleared his throat. Blackwood’s eyebrows rose ever-so-slightly. “Of course it was. And extremely distressing. I worked with them both for several years.”

Angelo stepped in before Micki could point out to the woman that she looked anything but distressed. “Did either of them give you any indication they were—”

“Planning to commit murder? Of course not. I’m required by law to report viable threats to the authorities.”

“What constitutes a
viable
threat?” Micki asked.

The psychiatrist bristled. “Excuse me?”

“It’d be
your
call, right? Isn’t that rather subjective for something so urgent? And considering the intimate nature of your relationship with your clients, what does it take to separate real from fictional?”

The corners of Blackwood’s lips lifted slightly. “In any relationship there’s an element of subjectivity, Detective. Did I miss something with Bitty and Cherry? I don’t know.”

“You must have. They both snapped. Their word, not mine.”

“We all have a ‘snapping’ point, Detective. It’s like an emotional fault line. The right circumstances, amount of pressure, internal or external, and a break occurs.”

“You’re talking about a psychotic break.”

“Yes.” Her lips shifted into a small, condescending smile. “We all have the capacity for violence. You’re in law enforcement; you, more than most, should understand that.”

“Can I ask you a question, Dr. Blackwood?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Within twenty-four hours, two of your patients snapped and killed a rival—who also happened to hold a title of queen. Don’t you think that’s a bizarre coincidence?”

“Absolutely.”

“Here’s the deal—” Mickie leaned forward, gaze fixed on the other woman’s. “—I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“What are you getting at, Detective Dare?”

“Nothing,” Angelo said, standing. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Blackwood.”

Micki ignored him. “What did you and Bitty Vanderlund discuss that last morning she was here?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Did she talk about Vivianne Stanley?”

“Once again, that’s confidential.”

“What was her state of mind? Was she agitated? Angry?”

The therapist narrowed her gaze. “My next appointment is due to arrive any—”

“Her family painted a portrait of a sweet-natured woman. One who was in fine spirits the morning of the murder.”

“Part of what makes a psychotic break so shocking to those who know the affected individual, is how contrary to their nature it can appear. Easy going, sweet-natured, happy. This is the way they’re often described. Inside, they’re volcanos of emotion. Thoughts and feelings they ignore are stuffed away, down in the deep recesses alongside all the things they’ve wanted to say over the years, but swallowed.”

There was something mesmerizing about the psychiatrist’s gaze. Micki couldn’t make herself look away.

“And volcanos sometimes erupt,” she finished. “A psychotic break. They lose control—” She snapped her fingers.  “—they snap.”

“But a volcano’s eruption isn’t unexpected. There are signs.”

“Steam and rumbles, Detective. Similar to what we all display at various times.”

“So, you’re saying she stuffed her true feelings. That’s why she was seeing you.”

“No,” she corrected, tone careful, “I was speaking generally about psychotic breaks. The underlying cause and why family is often taken by surprise when it happens.”

“You saw her the morning of the murder, correct?”

“I believe we already established that.”

“And seeing how agitated she was, you just let her walk out?”

“I didn’t say she was agitated. But nice try, Detective.” She stood. “I’m so sorry, but I’m out of time.”

Micki followed her to her feet. “Did you just write her a prescription and send her on her way? Out of sight, out of mind?”

“You’re so angry, Detective. Why is that?”

She was, Micki realized. And she wasn’t sure why. Something about the other woman, her steady gaze that seemed to say:
You’re like Bitty and Cherry. Stuffing your true feelings. Your anger and hurt. Deep down. Where they grow and fester.

Micki worked to get ahold of her runaway thoughts. To control the emotion bubbling up inside.

“Not angry, Dr. Blackwood. Just not a fan of pill-happy shrinks. Vanderlund and Chablis came to you for help. Now, both are in jail facing murder charges. I don’t know about you, but to me that seems really fucked up.”

Angelo cleared his throat and stepped between them. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Blackwood.”

Her lips curved up. Superior. Controlled. The kind of woman who would never, ever snap.

“You’re very welcome, Detective Angelo. I truly wish this had ended differently.”

She walked them to the door. Micki stepped through, then stopped and turned back. “One final thing, Dr. Blackwood, do you practice hypnotherapy?”

The woman looked as surprised by the question as Micki felt at having asked it.

Her eyes narrowed slightly; the brown irises seemed to become darker. “That’s not my area, Detective.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question.”

“No,” she said, “I do not.”

Without another word, she turned and walked back to her office, shutting the door behind her.

Micki glanced from the closed door to the receptionist. She had gone white. She realized Micki was looking at her and pasted on the same bright smile as earlier. The curving of her mouth looked odd against her pale cheeks.

“Have a good day, Detectives!”

As they exited the building, Micki sucked in a lungful of fresh, cold air. It cleared her head.

“What happened in there, Dare?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, you know what I mean. You were starting to lose it.”

Starting? He was being generous. “She rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Obviously.”

“You didn’t pick up something
off
about her?”

“Not really. A little creepy the way her voice didn’t change, no matter what she was talking about.”

Creepy, Micki thought. That was it. She rubbed her arms, as if doing so would rub the feeling off of her. “There’s something not quite right about that woman.”