for,” he says, referring to the shrink the Bureau keeps on retainer for agents who have gone around the bend.
“Harvey McGinnis wears a skirt,” I retort. He does, he puts on a kilt for Christmas and for funerals when he gets to play the bagpipes.
“I care about you and you are being a wise ass.” His cheeks are flushed, he is furious. “If you wig out again, I will have to notify Duane Carter that you should be evaluated as to your ability to carry a weapon.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I found out what I needed to know, so just lighten up.”
Finally he turns the engine and we drive. Neither of us says anything more all the way back to Westwood.
I am glad he doesn’t know about the locked cabinet. Now the only way to bust into it would be with a court order.
But I don’t need a court order. I don’t need to look inside the cabinet, I don’t even need the taped conversation to support the findings of my investigation.
Because I knew, from the moment he laid his doctor’s healing hands on me, that Randall Eberhardt is innocent.
EIGHTEEN
I PUT ON the navy blue suit and go to see Galloway.
“I have been unable to substantiate Jayne Mason’s claims against Dr. Randall Eberhardt.”
Galloway has the blinds closed against the early afternoon glare. He is sitting stock-still, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, two fingers propped up on the side of his head with a tense look as if he’s got a killer headache.
“Keep going.”
“A deep background check on the doctor turned up negative. A current investigation proved negative.”
“Keep going.”
His sullen passivity is unnerving.
“There is no evidence of illegal narcotics, of a Mexican connection, previous infractions, or other patients with the same complaint. All we have is Jayne Mason’s story, which remains unconfirmed. She has also been found to lie about facts concerning her own life, which casts doubts on her character. And”—I pause—“I have reason to believe she stole your belt buckle.”
“Now you’re blowing my mind.”
“Sorry.”
Galloway delicately shifts the heavy weight of his head to two fingers of the opposite hand. “What about that lady back in Boston?”
“She … didn’t turn out to be good.”
I am suddenly mumbling as if my lips were shot up with Novocain, so Galloway asks me to repeat what I said and I have to say it twice.
“Since Jayne Mason’s allegations against her physician have been investigated,” I continue, “and no evidence of criminality has been found, I recommend that we drop the case. I’m sorry. That’s not what you want to hear.”
“Stop being so sorry.”
“I took it as far as it goes.”
Then there is silence.
“Let me ask you something.” His eyelids lower like a drowsy crocodile. “If the doc is clean, why is Mason going after his balls?”
“I don’t know.”
“He fucking her?”
“I don’t think so. I think she’s just …”
“Nuts?”
“No, an actress and a known drug addict.”
He nods with understanding. He knows an addict is an addict and it doesn’t matter if she’s paid five million dollars a picture; like Dennis Hill on cocaine and Wild Bill Walker on booze and John Roth in bed, her existence is simply about feeding an insatiable maw.
“She needs the power.”
Galloway only grunts.
“I’m writing a report but I thought you’d want to know the results ASAP because of the … political situation.”
After a moment Galloway stands, smooths his hair with both hands, and tugs back and forth on the belt of his slacks like an old man trying to get his undershorts to lie right after a long sit.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He seems refreshed. Out of the uneasiness. Resolved.
He even tells me I did a good job.
When I relate the play-by-play of the meeting to Barbara she gives me a high five, certain I will be getting my promotion to the Kidnapping and Extortion Squad by the end of the month.
• • •
But an hour later I receive a phone call from Magda Stockman.
“I have just spoken with Mr. Galloway and I am quite upset. Why did you close this case?”
“There wasn’t a shred of evidence to indict the doctor.”
“Not enough evidence? We gave you times, dates, dosages—”
“I’m sure you know it takes more than one person’s accusations to make a case in court.”
“There is something here that is not right.”
“I was the chief investigator and I’m satisfied the case should be closed.”
“I am not satisfied in the least.”
“That’s your privilege.”
Stockman has refrained from raising her voice, still speaking in a deep monotone of authority, the Henry Kissinger of personal managers: “We feel enormously let down by you, Ana.”
“We do?”
“We believed that as a woman you would understand the deeper issues.”
“As a woman”—I am spitting mad and having a hard time censoring myself from being slanderous—“I think you and your client haven’t got a clue about the deeper issues.”
But she just rolls on in that smooth, inevitable tone:
“We must prevent Dr. Eberhardt from doing this again. Jayne wanted to keep everything quiet and discreet but the time has passed for discretion. I’m going to recommend that my client file a lawsuit against Dr. Eberhardt today and you can be certain the whole world will know about it tomorrow. I hope you don’t get caught in the crossfire, Ana. I wouldn’t want that to happen to someone as bright and promising as you.”
When I hang up, the Bank Dick’s Undercover Disguise gives Magda Stockman the finger. Hey, it wasn’t me.
• • •
The next day I am awakened at five a.m. by the beating of my own heart. I lie on my stomach, face in the
