“So my taste in reading offended her feminist principles,“ I said. “Someone should have warned me.“
“I'm sorry,“ he said, patting my hand. “Sometimes Lorelei forgets that other people aren't as evolved as she is in these matters. She's very impatient with all the trappings of romance – she feels society uses them to indoctrinate women into the conventional roles that a paternalistic society attempts to impose upon them.“
Was it just my imagination, or did his words sound a little flat, as if he'd used them far too often. And did he look a little wistful? And what, pray tell, did he think of the outfit Dr. Lorelei had worn last night? Didn't last night's four-inch heels and slinky black dress count as “trappings of romance“? Not that she'd have waltzed out of the house wearing them, of course – even the most oblivious of husbands wouldn't have overlooked that. Obviously she'd have put on her usual sensible business attire to make the “Sorry, dear – I have a patient who's having a crisis“ announcement. But if he didn't even know her slinky outfit existed, that was a really bad sign, wasn't it?
While I was pondering, Dr. Lorelei's life partner sighed, checked his watch, and padded back toward his office. I flipped through Anna Floyd's book again. Tall blond heroines… mousy, bespectacled heroes.
What if either Dr. Lorelei or what's-his-name, her life partner, was secretly writing under the pseudonym of Anna Floyd?
I waited until Luis passed through again.
“Luis,“ I said.
“I'm working on it.“
“I have another job for you.“
“What now?“ he said, rolling his eyes.
“Do the therapists have a network, or just their personal PCs?“
He frowned. “They have a network,“ he said. “Separate from ours, but Roger administers it, too.“
“Great,“ I said. “Can you search our network and theirs for any occurrences of this name?“
I wrote “Anna Floyd“ on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
“Who's she?“ he asked.
I held up the book. He wrinkled his nose.
“This is connected with the murder?“
“Who knows?“ I said. “Just find out if anyone here has ever mentioned the name Anna Floyd in any of their documents.“
He stuffed the slip of paper into his pocket and headed toward his cube.
I had barely found my place in the book again when Doc returned, doing his Saint Francis act with the office dog pack trailing in his wake – eight of them today. Apart from Katy the wolfhound, I spotted a collie, a German shepherd, a Norwegian elkhound, a keeshond, and Keisha's two Saint Bernards. All friendly, easygoing creatures, individually, but when you put them all together, quite a lot of dog. More than the office needed, if you ask me; then again, I considered one Saint Bernard about half again as much dog as any reasonable person could ever need.
As usual, Spike went crazy when the pack loped in, which gave me the opening I needed to tackle Doc.
“Could you send them out?“ I called out over Spike's hysterical barking and the good-natured barks and yaps of the others. Doc complied, gently shooing out the other dogs.
“About this aggression reduction thing,“ I said when the reception room was quiet again, except for Spike's occasional triumphant bark at having caused his foes to flee.
“He isn't going to learn to interact peacefully with the other dogs as long as he's locked up like that,“ Doc said.
“If business is slow, I'd be happy to let him out,“ I said. “On one condition, though: you have to give the dog owners on staff a group discount on patching up any damage he inflicts.“
Doc chuckled as if he thought I were kidding. “Let me talk to him,“ he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small chunk of soy burger. He squatted down in front of Spike's cage and held it out in his right hand. “There's a good boy,“ he cooed.
Spike cowered in the back of his cage as if terrified by the sudden appearance of food-bearing fingers at the door of his prison. Doc waggled the soy burger enticingly until Spike condescended to creep forward far enough to sniff at the food. I noticed he wasn't in any hurry to gobble it up.
“You see,“ Doc said, looking up at me. “He's really a very – arrrrrrr!“
As soon as he realized Doc wasn't watching him, Spike lunged forward to snap, not at the food, but at Doc's left hand – he'd carelessly curled his fingers through the wire mesh to balance himself.
“Sorry about that,“ I said, opening the drawer where we kept one of the office first aid kits.
“He needs… a great deal of work,“ Doc said, holding out his hand so blood wouldn't drip on his clothes. Of course, this meant he was dripping on the carpet.
“Maybe you could hold it over the newspapers?“ I suggested.
“Blood can be washed out very easily,“ Doc said, frowning. “I'm sure whoever cleans your offices kncfws how.“
“Yes, but it would almost be easier to do it myself than to get them to do it,“ I said, offering him the Band- Aid selection. “Not to mention the fact that you're bleeding along the mail cart's path.“
“Given all that, maybe this isn't die best place to keep a dog with an aggression problem,“ he said. I noticed he wasn't calling Spike a poor little diing anymore.
“Speaking of aggression reduction,“ I said. “Your program sounds like a good idea to me, but I'm not the one who has to make the decision. Do you have any information I can send to his owner? A brochure, maybe some credentials?“
He opened his black bag and began pulling out papers, including a framed copy of his veterinary school diploma. Fifteen minutes and a trip to the copy room later, I had all the information I wanted about Doc's aggression-reduction program, and, more important, about Doc himself. Although he was either older than me or much more weathered, he'd graduated from veterinary school only two years ago. Definitely a midlife career change – and he was cagey about what he'd done before going to veterinary school.
“I'll get back to you after I check with Mrs. Waterston,“ I said as Doc hoisted his black bag.
“Wonderful,“ Doc said. “I'm sure the aggression-reduction therapy will be just the thing.“
With that, he exited.
“Aggression-reduction therapy? Who's that?“
I looked up to see one of the therapists looming over my desk: the assertiveness guru who was always feuding with Dr. Brown. Though perhaps they weren't feuding any longer; he was holding a pink Affirmation Bear in one large hamlike hand.
“Dr. Clarence Rutledge,“ I said. “He does aggression-reduction therapy for – “
“Nonsense!“ the therapist snapped. “I know everyone in the field, and I've never heard of him. What kind of credentials does he have?“
I handed over my photocopy of Doc's diploma.
“This man's not a psychotherapist!“ he shouted, ripping the diploma in quarters and throwing the pieces in my face. “He's a bloody horse doctor! He has no business tinkering with the human mind!“
“He's not,“ I said. “He's – “
“I'm going to report this! If he thinks he can – “
“Quiet!“ I shouted.
He stopped in mid-tirade.
“He's not tinkering with the human mind. He's going to tinker with him,“ I said, hoisting Spike's crate up and plunking it on the desk.
The therapist bunked, and Spike lifted one side of his lip and growled.
“Aggression-reduction therapy?“ the therapist said. “I'll show you aggression-reduction therapy!“
He mashed his face against the wire front of Spike's crate and growled. Or maybe “roared“ would be a better word; it sounded more like something you'd expect to hear when a lion was chasing you through the jungle than anything I'd heard come from even the largest of canine throats. And while both Spike and I were still startled into immobility, he opened the door latch, threw the Affirmation Bear inside the crate, slammed the door shut, and stormed out of the room.
“I take responsibility for my own destiny,“ the bear proclaimed, as Spike pounced.
The bear continued to squeak affirmations at intervals after Spike dragged him to the back of the crate and began dismembering him, the optimistic chirp contrasting strangely with Spike's savage snarls. I knew from seeing
