before he’d become paralyzed. He called it his kicking wall. Valentine gave the wall a good kick himself. Then he poured two steaming mugs and took them back to the living room.
“She has the decency to put a towel against the door sill, if that helps soften the image,” Sampson said, sipping from the mug Valentine held to his lips.
“Is she on drugs?”
Sampson frowned. “I thought this was a social visit, Tony.”
“I didn’t stop being a policeman when I stepped through your front door. If I think Bernard’s health is in jeopardy — either by his mother or because of something his mother is doing — I’ll take him out of here.”
Sampson acted wounded by his comments. “But you care for the boy,” he said.
“Of course I care for him.”
“Then how can you suggest putting him in an orphanage, or some rotten foster care situation? His mother loves him. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Valentine realized his hand was trembling. Fearful of spilling the hot drink, he took the mug away, and placed it on the floor. Sitting on the folding chair, he put his hands on the metal arm of the bed, and looked Sampson square in the eye. “If your daughter keeps whoring and doing drugs, Bernard will end up a criminal, maybe worse.”
“What’s worse than being a criminal?”
“Plenty of things.”
“Name one.”
“A drug addict, or a sociopath.”
“And you’re saying people like that come from environments like this?”
“They sure do.”
Sampson looked out the window, his jaw tightening. “The boy needs love. Take his mother away from him, and he loses that.”
“Can’t she straighten up?”
“I doubt it.”
Valentine shook his head in resignation. Bernard’s mother loved her son when she wasn’t doing drugs. But when she was doing drugs, she didn’t love Bernard at all.
“You’re not giving me any other choice,” Valentine said.
“Can’t you just leave things the way they are?”
He shook his head. “Not when a kid’s involved.”
“I see. I could use some more of that coffee.”
Valentine picked the mug up and brought it to the old man’s lips. Sampson drank until the cup was empty, and Valentine went into the kitchen and placed both cups into the sink, then stared out the window at the fire escape where he’d shot the Prince. His life had changed so much since that night, and for a few moments he found himself wishing there was some way to set the clock back, and return to his old life.
When he returned to the living room, Sampson had closed his eyes and was feigning sleep. He made sure the apartment door was locked as he went out.
“So what seems to be the problem,” the psychologist said.
“I have a friend who’s having mental problems,” Valentine replied.
He was sitting in the office of Dr. Stacy Crinklaw. She looked about thirty-five, with short blond hair, a square chin, and eyes that held your face, and didn’t let go. Her desk was filled with photographs of panting canines, which was usually a good sign. He had found her name in the phonebook. She was new to the island, which was why he’d chosen her. That, and the fact that she’d been willing to see him right away.
“Why didn’t your friend come here himself?” Crinklaw asked.
Valentine sat in a stiff chair that faced her desk, his hands folded in his lap. Her office faced due east, and was very sunny. It also smelled heavily of lavender.
“My friend is in law enforcement. He’s afraid of the stigma.”
“You mean he’s a policeman.”
“A detective.”
“Can you describe your friend’s problems?” She had picked up a pencil and was chewing on the eraser. Sensing that it bothered him, she put the pencil on her desk.
“Sorry,” he said.
“There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s a bad habit. Please go on.”
“My friend is involved in a multiple homicide case,” Valentine said. “He’s seeing connections in the case that his superiors don’t see.”
“What kind of connections?”
“To his childhood.”
“Is there one?”
“Not that he’s been able to find,” Valentine said.
