Holden narrows his eyes at him. ‘In what way?’
‘I found something on the computer. A diary.’
Holden is clearly interested now. ‘Go on.’
‘When Cindy broke up with her boyfriend she went to see a shrink. A friend of a friend. He came on to her. She rejected him. This was last October. A month later he tracked her down. In the bookstore, no less. He tried it on again. This time she slapped him.’
There are questions written all over Holden’s face.
‘Hold up. The shrink tried to hit on her? During a consultation? And then he went to see her at her place of work?’
Doyle frowns. When you put it like that. .
‘Yeah. Crazy, huh? But worth a look, wouldn’t you say?’
Holden stares again. Doyle imagines that there are all sorts of doubts and queries jockeying for position in his brain.
Finally, Holden shakes his head, turns away, and takes the few short paces across the room. At the door, he pauses and faces Doyle again.
‘You coming, or what?’
Vasey’s practice is situated on the twentieth floor of an office building on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-second Street. Doyle finds himself comparing it with the office of Travis Repp. It’s like comparing a prize Arabian stallion with a three-legged mule.
Instead of an indifferent girl with a nail fixation, the receptionist here is a model of clinical efficiency and professionalism. She smiles appreciatively at the two hunky policemen in front of her, offers them a seat and coffee while she puts through a call announcing their presence. The cops relax on a tan leather sofa and leaf through magazines that are crisp and current instead of the curled specimens dating from the previous century that are normally on display in waiting rooms. When they’re done with the magazines, the detectives while away their time observing the tropical fish in the tank set into the wall. Cynic that he is, Doyle wonders if all this is designed to lull clients into a false sense of security and calm before the shrink pounces on their brains and dissects their thoughts.
As if timing everything to perfection, the glossy-haired receptionist waits until Doyle drains his coffee cup before crooning that they can enter the inner sanctum. Doyle is almost reluctant to abandon the comfort and service that would better that of most hotels.
Vasey’s office is as big as the Eighth Precinct squadroom. It has a small seating area with comfy-looking chairs and a coffee table, a long bookcase housing weighty tomes on psychology, and a display cabinet exhibiting a softly lit collection of fossils. At the far end of the room, framed by the vast window behind him, Vasey sits at a pale wooden desk. As his visitors enter, he finishes typing at his computer and stands to greet them. He appears to Doyle to be over six feet tall and in his early forties. He also looks tanned, well-groomed, healthy, self-assured, and not short of a few bucks. Some people always end up grabbing the shitty end of the stick, thinks Doyle.
‘Gentlemen,’ says Vasey. ‘Come on in.’
He shakes their hands, waves them into chairs, then retakes his own seat behind the vast desk.
‘What can I do for you?’
Doyle is happy to let Holden lead the questioning. Partly as an acknowledgement of Holden’s role as primary investigator on this case, but also because he hates talking to psychologists, psychotherapists, psychoanalysts and anybody else who has ‘psycho’ as the first part of their profession. They make him feel uncomfortable. He always thinks they are capable of seeing meaning beyond what he actually intends to impart — that every word he utters reveals clues to his psyche, rendering him transparent. He finds himself being overly cautious in what he says, for fear that he is being analyzed and labeled as exhibiting all kinds of neuroses and psychoses. He doesn’t know where this unease originated. Perhaps a traumatic event in his childhood. He should probably ask a shrink.
‘Just some routine questions,’ says Holden. ‘Your name came up in a case we’re investigating, so we have to check it out.’
Vasey glances at Doyle, who gives him nothing, then back to Holden.
‘May I ask what the case is?’
‘Do you know the name Cindy Mellish?’
Vasey thinks for a moment. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells. Should it
‘She was the girl murdered in the East Village bookstore on Saturday.’
‘Her? God! Then this is serious.’
‘It’s serious, all right.’
‘And my name came up? How?’
‘Miss Mellish kept a diary. Your name was in it. She said she came to see you. Here, at your office.’
‘Really? Just a minute.’ Vasey’s fingers fly over his keyboard.
‘No. I’ve never had a client by that name. Are you sure about this?’
Holden looks across to Doyle, who takes the reins. ‘It’s possible she was never an official client. According to the diary, Cindy’s appointment with you was made by a student friend of hers. Apparently, you’re a close buddy of the friend’s father.’
‘What’s the man’s name?’
‘We don’t know. The student friend is only referred to in the diary by the letter M.’
‘M? And I’m a friend of her father’s? And a consultation was arranged with me because of this relationship? I’m sorry, fellas, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. When was this session with me supposed to have taken place?’
‘At the beginning of last October.’
Vasey thinks some more. ‘No. I don’t recall anything like that. Not in October or any other month last year for that matter.’
‘Do you ever do consultations for friends and people they pass on to you?’
‘Sometimes. But I prefer not to work that way.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because it can be difficult to remain detached. Sometimes it’s hard to reveal painful truths to friends. They might not remain friends very long.’
Holden speaks up again. ‘Dr Vasey, how did you hear about the murder of Cindy Mellish?’
‘I can’t remember. I think it was on the radio.’
‘So you haven’t seen a picture of her?’
‘No. At least I don’t think so. Maybe there was something in the newspaper, but I don’t recall it.’
Holden reaches into his pocket and takes out a photograph.
‘Take a look, please, Dr Vasey. Do you recognize her?’
Vasey picks up the photograph, studies it for several seconds, then slides it back across the desk.
‘I’ve never seen this girl in my life.’
‘Are you sure? Take another look.’
‘I don’t need another look. I have never seen this girl before, and certainly not as a client. Now, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but-’
‘Why would she lie?’ says Doyle.
Vasey turns on him. ‘What?’
‘This is a young woman’s private diary. Nobody else is likely to see it except her. Why would she make something up like that?’
‘And why would
‘Who says it was inconsequential?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘According to Cindy Mellish, her session with you wasn’t all that innocent. She says you came on to her.’
Vasey’s eyes are blazing now. ‘I did
‘She says you asked her inappropriate questions. Questions of a sexual nature.’
