“What about his mother?” Joanna asked. “Did you ever meet her? Her name’s Irma Sorenson.”
“Irma, oh yes,” Caroline Parker replied. “I believe I did meet her once, only her name was still Whipple back then. She came to Rob’s family-week program. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s also the one who paid for him to come here in the first place—as a client, that is.”
“You haven’t seen Irma Sorenson since then?”
“No.”
“How many patients do you have here at Pathway to Paradise, Ms. Parker?”
“Clients, not patients,” she corrected. “And not more than thirty at a time. That’s when we’re running at full capacity.”
“Generally speaking, how long do they stay?” Joanna asked.
“Two months. Sometimes longer than that, depending on what’s needed and the kind of progress they’re making.”
“That means that, in the course of a year, you see several hundred different ‘clients’ ?”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“You said Rob Whipple was a patient—excuse me—a ‘client’ here five or six years ago, but you still remember exactly who paid for his course of treatment. Do you remember the details of every client’s bill-paying arrangements so clearly?”
Caroline Parker looked uncomfortable. “Well, no,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose I do.”
“And yet, after all this time, you still remember clearly that Irma Sorenson paid for Rob Whipple’s stay here. Why is that, Ms. Parker?”
“The circumstances were unusual, but I’m not at liberty to disclose what they were since that would be a breach of Mr. Whipple’s presumption of confidentiality.”
“What would you say it I told you that someone’s life was at stake?” Joanna asked.
“My answer would still have to be the same, Sheriff Brady,” Caroline answered primly. “We don’t do situational ethics here at Pathway to Paradise. Ethics are ethics.”
“And murder is murder,” Joanna returned. She swung back to her chief deputy. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go.”
But Caroline stopped them. “Wait a minute. Are you implying that Rob Whipple had something to do with the murder of Ron Haskell’s wife?”
“I didn’t say that; you did,” Joanna told her. “How come?”
Realizing her error, Caroline Parker shook her head. “I can’t say,” she declared.
“But I can guess,” Joanna said. “What was the sickness that infected Rob Whipple’s soul, Ms. Parker, the one he came here to be cured of? It wasn’t day-trading or lotto fever, was it. I’d guess he liked to hurt women—hurt them first and kill them later. You and your father may be under the happy delusion that your ethical counseling program cured the man of his ailment, but I’m here to tell you it didn’t. I think Rob Whipple has just suffered a major relapse.”
The sharp corners of Caroline’s angular face seemed to blur and soften. She stepped over to the Crown Victoria and leaned against the roof, burying her head in her arms. “Dad fired him,” she said at last in a subdued voice, one that had had all the authority wrung out of it.
“When?” Joanna demanded.
“Last night. Right after you left here, Dad called Rob into the office. He asked Rob point-blank if he was involved in what had happened to Ron Haskell’s wife. Rob denied it, of course, and my father called him a liar. Dad may be blind, but he can see through people when they’re not telling him the truth. And so Dad fired him, just like that. He had me take away Rob’s name badge and weapon—”
“Those didn’t belong to him?”
“No. They’re ours—company-owned, that is. Alter that, Dad sent him packing; told Rob to go away and never come back.”
