Savannah slowly brought her head up. “I thought we were headed for less heated waters, Dr. Corriger.” When Lydia didn’t respond Savannah’s face softened. “I’m sorry. That sounded confrontational.”
“I’m not sure confrontational is the word. Maybe defensive,” Lydia said. “Tell me why such a routine question scares you.”
“It’s not that the question scares me. I’m not used to talking about myself.”
“You said at our last meeting you’d tell me lies but everything would be true. Are you wondering whether to be honest with me? Wondering if I’ve earned your confidence enough to be trusted with a minor detail like where you’ve been?”
Savannah smiled. “You remembered that? You’re really good.”
“Good enough to know you’re dodging the question. Let’s try again. What took you travelling for seven weeks?”
Savannah’s smile disappeared. Lydia could almost hear the decision process her beautiful and terrified patient was calculating. “Business,” she finally answered. “You could say it was a business trip.”
“Ah. Where did you go?”
A shorter hesitation this time. “Out of the country. Someplace warm. I needed a break.”
Lydia decided not to press for destination details. “What is it you do for a living? I don’t believe you ever mentioned it.”
Savannah concentrated on the tissue she was shredding. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.” Vague encouragement. No pressure. Keep the patient undefended and talking.
“You could call me a free-lancer and be accurate enough.” Savannah gathered the shreds of paper and wadded them into a ball. She glanced to the wastebasket, leaned back, and scored another two-point toss.
“What type?”
“Whatever needs doing.” Savannah’s voice had a clipped air of finality. She reached for her tote and stood. “Thanks for taking the time to see me. You’ve saved me again.” She pulled two hundred dollar bills from her hip pocket. “I looked up your webpage. I take it this is a follow-up session?”
“I’d code it as that,” Lydia answered as she stood. “But follow-up’s are typically forty-five minutes. We’ve barely taken half that time.”
Savannah placed the bills on the coffee table. “I’m well aware I’m cutting the session short. You should be paid for your services. I know I expect to be.” She pulled her tote over her shoulder and headed for the office door.
“Would you like another appointment? We could schedule something for next week.”
Savannah pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and stared at her moccasins. “I’d like that very much, Dr. Corriger. I’ll try to last longer.” Her voice was choked with tears. “Maybe next Wednesday?”
Lydia scanned her calendar. “Looks like I’m open at nine o’clock and again at six.”
“Can we say six? Last appointment of the day?”
“Six o’clock it is.” Lydia wrote her in. “And yes, it will be my last for the day. Are you okay to drive home?”
Savannah nodded her lovely head. “I’m much tougher than I look.”
Lydia arrived home just before seven. She poured herself the single glass of merlot she allowed herself every other day and walked out to her deck. She took a sip before tossing corn cobs to the squirrels and re-filling the bird feeders. Dusk was well underway. She felt a small stab of melancholy for the shortening days. She spent too much time in darkness. Lydia settled into a lawn chair and took in the mountains, the islands, and the water. She listened to the screech of the hawks and the call of the seagulls. She breathed in the scent of salt and pine until the last bird sounded and the majesty of her perfect world slipped into darkness.
Chapter Nine
Mort Grant tossed the sandpaper to the floor, brushed the sawdust off his hands and reached for the ringing phone.
“Hey, Dad. It’s me. Good time?”
“Good as any.” Mort held the cordless receiver in one hand and cleared a stool of old magazines with another. “I’m down in the shop. Thought I’d get back to those dollhouses I promised the girls. How are they? How are you?”
A soft chuckle came through the line. “They’re fine. They’re six years old, how do you think I’m doing?”
Mort matched his son’s laugh. “Twins. Double the fun.”
“Double the something. Hayden has decided she’s tired of dressing like Hadley and Hadley won’t leave the house if she can’t mirror what Hayden’s wearing. Imagine the hilarity in the morning.” Robbie’s voice softened. “Down in the shop, huh? About time you got back to your hobbies.”
Mort hated the calendar of recovery people expected. Did his son really think that lathes and saws could erase the pain of waking up every morning without Edie?
“How are things out in Denver? You running that paper yet?”
“Not yet, Dad. Crime beat keeps me busy enough. I’m working on a national story, though. That’s always good for the career. It’s why I’m calling. What’s the use of having a homicide detective for a dad if you can’t hit him up for help?”
Mort grimaced to the empty basement. “Homicide? I thought you were doing that white collar shit.”
“I am. I’m working the Gordon Halloway story. You know it?”
“Asshole with the Ponzi scheme? Ended up dead before the trial even started?”
“That’s the one. I’m working the local angle. Colorado investors who lost their shorts to that bozo. But I keep hearing your voice in my head.”
“Yeah? What’s my voice saying? Anything about bringing the girls out for a visit?”
“You’re coming here for Thanksgiving, remember? No. It’s about Halloway. Bastard makes like he’s available to the authorities. Assisting with their investigation. When the heat turns up and it looks like his house of cards is about to collapse, Halloway takes a powder. Winds up in Costa Rica, dead in some sicko sex game.”
“I read the papers, Robbie. Even articles you don’t write.” Mort wanted to get the dollhouses sanded and primed before supper. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“I keep remembering what you’d say every time you were putting a case together. About how there’s no such thing as coincidence. Dad, Halloway was in his mid-fifties. Fit as a fiddle. He was also a control freak. I don’t get him letting some bimbo tie him up.”
“People can get pretty kinky in the bedroom. You don’t wanna know what I’ve seen.”
“No one can find the girl, Dad. She checked in two days after Halloway lands in Costa Rica. Bellman says he’d never seen her before but swore she was a pro. I’ve tried to track her down. None of the locals know her.”
“You thinking she was there for a reason?” Mort forgot about the dollhouses.
“A lot of people lost everything they had investing with that shithead. Some deaths, even. If there was a chance Halloway could escape justice?” Robbie sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. The feds aren’t looking into it. But something’s nagging at me.”
“Well, if it was a hit you’re up the creek.”
“Why’s that?”
“A hired gun’s a detective’s worse nightmare. Takes our two aces out of the game.”
“What do you mean?” Robbie sounded disappointed.
“No personal connection to the victim and no motive other than a payday. You’ll never find the shooter, Son. If you’re right, you gotta start with who might have a motive to hire him. Or her.”
Robbie sighed. “That’s a cast of thousands, Dad.”
“Then maybe things are exactly as they seem. Maybe the sex killed him and the hooker got scared and bolted. Don’t go looking for trouble. No matter how juicy the story might be.” Mort knew his son would ignore his advice. “Tell Claire I send my love and kiss those kids for me.”
“Will do, Dad. I’ll call you next week. Sooner if I come up with anything.”
