Tracking Time

possible that Maslow didn't know her personally from there, but she might have seen or known him and been attracted to him for some reason or another of her own. Maybe she'd seen him treat a patient there with kindness.

It was very common for patients to contact each other when they were 'out,' why not a doctor? In any case, it was Maslow himself who had proposed Allegra to the Institute program. The file said what Jason already knew, that she'd come to him as a patient. What the file didn't say was how she'd come to him. Who had referred her?

Now it was clear his visit to the Institute had been noted, and there were people who wanted an explanation. He didn't call anyone back. Instead he watched his caller ID box. At eight-forty-five and eight-forty-nine he had hang-ups that the magic screen told him were from Jerome Atkins's private line. At nine-fifteen, the phone rang again from the same number. Jason picked up again and this time, Jerome Atkins spoke.

'Dr. Frank,' he said formally.

'Yes.'

'This is Mr. Atkins.'

'Yes.' Jason was in a session and couldn't reveal too much. He gave his one-word answers with his eyes on his patient, who, unluckily enough, happened to be the paranoid investment banker, Jergen Walsh, who had scheduled two extra sessions this week to work out the Sprite incident of yesterday (why had Jason insisted on offering him a soda when Jason knew Jergen only liked Sprite? Why had he been denied the Sprite, etc.?) Jergen's session this morning had already been interrupted by a ringing phone twice. He was audibly grinding his teeth.

'I need to talk with you,' Jerome Atkins said.

'Of course. That would be fine.'

'I will come to your office.' The man's voice was authoritarian. Yesterday, he'd insisted that Jason come to his home.

'Fine.' Jason's appointment book was open, secured by a rubber band on his schedule for that day. Last evening when he'd left his office for the night, he'd had a fully booked eleven hours of patients. Since then, on his office phone, he'd received a miraculous two cancellations in a row, starting at nine-thirty. Throughout his session with Jergen he'd been debating canceling the rest of the morning to continue his background check of Maslow. 'When did you have in mind?'

'I'll be there in twenty minutes,' Atkins said. 'Where are you located?'

'Fine. I'll see you then.'

'Very good.' Jerome sounded pleased. The dumb luck of two cancellations allowed him to think Jason had nothing else in the world to do but receive him.

Nonetheless Jason was pleased himself. He gave his Riverside Drive address and hung up. Immediately, Jergen turned on him. How dare he take a call on his time? This was the price Jason would have to pay. He braced in his chair for the attack. It came right on schedule.

Jerome Atkins arrived thirty-five minutes later, after

Jergen had verbalized all his violent fantasies about Jason and left feeling better. Jason used his few free moments between the two appointments to run through his messages again. There was still nothing from anyone he wanted to talk to. When the doorbell announced Atkins, he buzzed him in, then quickly dialed the cell phone number that April had given him last night so he could stop trying to reach her through the frustrating precinct phone system.

'Sergeant Woo.' She picked up after the first ring.

'April, this is Jason. Anything new?'

'I can't say on the phone.' April's voice had the flat tone that meant something was up.

Jason's heart rate spiked. 'Can we meet, then?' he asked.

'I'm working now, give me a call later.'

'That will be difficult.' He had patients. He needed to schedule his day. The phone made some noise and she was gone with no further comment. This alarmed Jason even more. With Maslow's father there, however, he didn't have time to call her back.

He hurried from his desk to his waiting room, where Jerome Atkins stood examining the display of three antique clocks on a table along with some fairly recent issues of nonthreatening magazines for activities that attracted Jason but he knew nothing about, like Yachting and Field and Stream and The Book of Everything, a tome that amused some people and irritated others because it didn't have anywhere near 'everything' in it.

Atkins wore a black suit, a white shirt, and an unexpectedly jaunty black-and-white polka-dot bow tie. The outfit made him look pale and gave something of a mixed message about his state of mind. When Jason opened the door, Atkins raised an accusing finger to the brass bull with a clock on its back. 'This clock is broken,' he announced angrily, demonstrating that he was a man who had his own view of things.

'Good morning, Mr. Atkins, please come in,' Jason replied.

Atkins hesitated, glancing around at the stylish wooden chairs and bench that were not very comfortable, the lovely Persian rug, the flowers that Jason had set out on Monday. He scowled at the clock that wasn't broken at all. It wasn't ticking because Jason had forgotten to wind it. Then slowly Atkins moved forward into Jason's office, where he was met with more upsetting obstacles.

'Where am I supposed to sit?' he demanded.

'Wherever you feel comfortable,' Jason replied.

There was a swiveling leather chair in front of the desk, an armchair beside the desk, an analytic couch next to that. Several other small armchairs were grouped against the wall for those occasions when Jason met with a couple or several members of a family. The obstacle for Maslow's father seemed to be the analytic couch. After some moments of tense deliberation, he sat in the armchair.

Jason sat in his desk chair. 'Thank you for coming,' he said gently. 'This must be very difficult for you.'

'Don't misunderstand. I'm not here for comfort. I hate psychiatrists.'

Jason gave him a sad smile. 'But we can be very helpful at times.'

'You think so because you get paid for it. But I don't think so. Let's get one thing straight. I'm not here for help, so don't expect to bill me.' Atkins's face was brittle. He was a man who liked to fight.

Jason did not react. He was used to people's being defensive about his specialty. 'If you hate psychiatrists so much, your son must be a disappointment to you.'

'He was very stubborn,' Atkins said tersely.

Again that 'was.' Jason pressed his lips together and made no reply.

'You have no idea how difficult this is.'

But Jason did. Only a second ago he had acknowledged the difficulty. 'What can I do for you?' he asked.

'I want to be clear about this. I don't need a psychiatrist personally. I'm here for my son.'

'I appreciate that.'

'It's a very complicated situation. I'm concerned about him-what happened to him, I mean.' Atkins pulled a snowy handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dabbed delicately at his top lip, then replaced it.

Jason nodded. 'Of course you are. Do you have something to tell me about it?'

'I don't want the police to know about this. I need your word as a doctor and a gentleman that you won't reveal what I'm about to tell you to anyone. Because if you can't guarantee confidentiality, I can't tell you anything.'

Jason didn't answer. He was struck with the disturbing idea that Atkins might have harmed his own child.

'It is my firm belief that this has nothing to do with Maslow's disappearance, that's the reason I must insist on confidentiality,' Atkins said pompously.

'Mr. Atkins, I can see your point, of course. Uh-huh-huh-huh.' Jason reached for the nearly empty cup of cold coffee on his desk to cover a sudden choking cough.

'Good,' Atkins said.

Jason raised a hand. 'Please let me finish. I certainly respect your wish for confidentiality, but…'

'This is a requirement, not a wish.'

'Let me tell you the problem here. Confidentiality does not apply in certain situations. In criminal cases if a person is going to be arrested, I have an obligation to-'

Atkins flushed a deep red and interrupted again. 'This is not criminal. It's a family matter.'