The detective appeared undaunted. “How do we know that? Did Dr. Dickey show you what he called you to his office to see?”
“No.” Clara took a breath and calmed down. “But there was a nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker on Dr. Dickey’s desk when I got there.”
“Where did it go?”
“I saw Boudreau outside of the emergency room when I left. Maybe he put the drug in the scotch bottle and then took the bottle after Hal was taken away. In the confusion, I didn’t stop to lock the office. But even if it had been locked—well, obviously he can get in.”
“Wasn’t the bottle there when you came back?”
Clara shook her head. “I never looked. I didn’t go in. I merely locked the door and left.”
“You didn’t go in for the materials Dr. Dickey wanted you to see?”
Clara’s face flared again. “A friend had just died. I wasn’t thinking of anything but that.”
“A friend?” the detective said with a small smile. “Wasn’t Dr. Dickey’s involvement with you causing you some embarrassment, both in the Cowles lawsuit and personally as well?”
“That’s enough.” Clara stood up. “You’re way out of line here. I live by the Hippocratic oath,” she said coldly. “I would never harm another human being. It’s against everything I believe.” She pushed air through her nose, outraged at even the hint of suspicion against her.
“Think about what you’re implying, Detective. I called for the paramedics. I was the one who thought the death was suspicious.
The detective closed her notebook. “I’m not a psychiatrist, Dr. Treadwell. You’re the psychiatrist. It’s not for me to explain why people do the things they do. I just know people do the most unreasonable things all the time.” April stood and hitched her bag to her shoulder. “And who knows, maybe somebody put the stuff in the liquor bottle as a prank, to make Dr. Dickey act crazy, to make him sick so he wouldn’t be competent in his job anymore. Maybe the person didn’t know he’d down the whole bottle in one go …”
“Get
“I’m trying to help you,” she went on, her voice tight and angry. “I’ve given you the man’s name. Your job is to
“It’s my job to fish in all the streams,” April said softly. “Any old fish doesn’t count. I’m paid to catch the right fish.” She headed for the door, then suddenly turned back. “So you didn’t put the drug in the bottle and then take the bottle away after Dickey was dead?”
“No,” Clara said angrily. “I’m a doctor. I could never use a medication to hurt someone.”
“Well, thanks. It may have been painful, but I needed to know that. I appreciate your help.” The detective headed for the door with no further comment.
fifty-one
As Jason watched Special Agent Daveys chew on what was left of the ice in his third glass of water, nine clocks began to chime the half hour. Eight-thirty. Emma was not going to take this well. On his return from the office, just as she was regaling him with the happy story of her final call-back and offer of the role for which she’d come East, Special Agent Daveys of the FBI had shown up without warning for a home visit.
Standing in the hallway angular as a heron, Daveys said he was thirsty and politely requested a glass of water, preferably from a bottle that hadn’t been opened. Emma brought him a fresh bottle of Evian and disappeared. Then, unembarrassed at the prospect of being a nuisance, he asked for lots of ice. Jason went into the kitchen for the ice bucket and found Emma in there sulking. He had promised her he wouldn’t be long, and now the minutes were adding up.
For an hour and a half, Daveys had been chewing thoughtfully on cube after cube of ice as he asked about Jason’s history at the Centre, his knowledge of Clara Treadwell, his involvement with the Cowles investigation, Harold Dickey, the inpatient wards, the staff at the Centre, the condom with the scalpel that had pierced Clara’s hand, the used condom in the appointment book, and a dozen other things Jason didn’t want to talk about.
“Do you get paid for being a supervisor?” Daveys asked abruptly.
“No,” Jason said. He stared gloomily at the empty water bottle, dying for Daveys to go so he could have a real drink.
“You work for nothing?” the agent said as if he didn’t believe it.
“It’s considered an honor to be asked.”
“How does it work?”
“Oh, supervisors follow residents through their first psychoanalytic cases—look over their shoulders, comment on what they’ve said and done with their patients in sessions, illuminate the process for them. It takes a lot of time, several hours a week.”
“So you teach them how to do it.”
“That’s about it.”
“You lead them, as it were.” Daveys pinched his hawk nose.
“We’re supposed to show them the way,” Jason conceded.
“And you can lead them astray.”
Jason coughed. “We try not to, of course.”
“But when they’re led astray, who would you say is responsible?”
Jason shook his head. “What case are we talking about, er, Special Agent?”
“Call me Steve. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. How often do supervisors have affairs with their residents?”
“I can’t answer that question. I don’t know. It’s unprofessional at best. It’s a big no-no.” Jason felt the clocks ticking like time bombs.
“What happened to the condoms Dr. Treadwell found?”
“I don’t know what happened to the first one. The police have the second one.”
Daveys’s eyebrows shot up. “The police?”
“As far as I know.”
“Dr. Frank, I hear you’re very tight with the NYPD.”
“I’ve worked on a few cases with them,” Jason replied modestly.
Daveys regarded the empty Evian bottle thoughtfully.
“You having cross-agency problems?” Jason asked with a smile.
Daveys’s thin lips came together. “I grew up in Boston, Doctor. My father was a cop. My little brother is a cop. I don’t have agency problems, or any other kind. We all do our jobs and try not to get in each other’s way.”
“I thought homicides were supposed to be handled locally.”
“We’re always available to help out when we’re asked.” Finally Daveys put down his empty glass and rose. “You should have some of that water,” he said in parting. “Flushes the kidneys, don’t you know.”
As Jason closed the front door on the kidney-flushing federal agent, Emma emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne. She looked a little miffed as she moved a clock and some books on the coffee table to make a place for the glasses. “Well, how did it go?”
Jason brushed his hand over the face of a round clock, set in the top of a marble obelisk on a side table. He noticed it was fast and frowned.
“I guess you’re not in a celebrating mood anymore.” Emma put the bottle down and curled up in a corner of the sofa, nestling into her big white sweater, resigned to a change of plan.
“Yes. I’m in the mood. I’m thrilled and excited for you. Really.”
“You don’t look thrilled and excited.”
Jason pasted on an enthusiastic smile. “Well, I am. I’m proud, I’m impressed. I know you’ll be great. I have only one bit of advice to give you.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” She eyed the bottle of champagne hopefully.
