“Then you must rack up a lot of minutes on your cell phone bill,” I said.
“I don’t understand the connection,” she said, her brow furrowing slightly.
“You just said that all of your patients get the same treatment regardless of who they are.”
“True.” She nodded.
“Then your phone must be ringing off the hook. You spoke to Tinsley a hundred and one times over the course of three months. Multiply that by your total patient load, and your phone’s battery must be hot enough to melt Lake Michigan in the middle of winter.”
Dr. Patel cocked her head to the side. Her expression changed to one of impending irritation.
“A hundred and one times,” she said. It was difficult to tell if she was smiling or smirking. “There’s no standard for how often patients consult with their therapist. It’s on a case-by-case basis.”
“But you would agree that a hundred and one times is outside of the norm,” I said.
Dr. Patel shook her head equivocally. “Depends on the patient and their needs,” she said.
“Which leads us back to my original question. It wouldn’t be too much of a reach to conclude that someone speaking to their psychiatrist a hundred and one times in ninety days was having serious problems.”
“You are certainly free to draw your own conclusions, Mr. Cayne.”
When you reach a dead end, make a U-turn and try another street. “Why did Tinsley start seeing you in the first place?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Cayne, while I’d like to help in your investigation, I really can’t discuss the details of Tinsley’s case. Patient-doctor confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.”
“I was wondering how long it would take before that shield came out,” I said, standing. I hadn’t gotten everything I had come for, but I had gotten enough. Dr. Patel knew a lot more than she was willing to let on, and she wasn’t going to make it easy.
She also stood. We shook hands. There was a sense of relief on her face.
I turned to her when I reached the door. “I’ve heard that your husband is a physician too,” I said. “Lots of brainpower in your home. Do you and your husband consult on patients together?”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Patel said. “Brad is an anesthesiologist. His practice has nothing to do with mine. Patient-doctor confidentiality supersedes marital relations.”
“That’s what I figured.” I smiled my most understanding smile.
I opened the door. “Oh, one more thing, Dr. Patel,” I said. “Do you ever give your husband’s number to your patients?”
She hesitated just slightly. “Never,” she said. “Why would they need his number?” But her jawline had tightened a little. These were tells. She knew the real purpose of my question. I decided to push her a little more but not too much.
“What if they wanted to contact you after office hours and couldn’t reach you through normal channels?”
“That’s why doctors have an answering service. The operators take the messages and get them to me in a timely fashion. That’s not my husband’s job.”
“Do you give patients your home number? You know, just in case there’s something really urgent.”
“That would be the purpose of 911. There needs to be some separation. I work very hard at keeping my homelife separate from my professional life. It’s as much for my own sanity as it is for the patient’s.”
I gave her a friendly nod and a smile, then walked out the door. I knew that wasn’t the last I’d be seeing of Dr. Gunjan Patel.
10
MECHANIC AND I WERE SITTING in my office not doing much of anything and saying even less. I had just finished telling him about my meeting with Dr. Patel. Now I was nursing a cold root beer, counting the boats sailing by on Lake Michigan. Mechanic was doing handstand push-ups in the corner. I lost count at two hundred.
“Uh-oh, looks like we’re gonna have some visitors,” I said. “Time to get out the Sunday china.”
A long black tinted-window Cadillac Escalade with shiny chrome rims parked confidently across the street in front of a fire hydrant. Four men got out. The smallest one was well over three hundred pounds. Black suits, white shirts, and black ties that looked like shoelaces against their massive chests. I could tell by the bulges on their hips that they were all carrying. A fifth man got out. He was much younger and not in uniform. He looked like a stick figure standing next to them. They huddled around him like the Secret Service does around the president and hustled across the street toward my door, indiscriminately moving other pedestrians out of the way.
Mechanic checked to make sure his Beretta 92 FS was loaded. He also checked his SIG P239. He put one on each hip, then took a position in the far corner where you couldn’t see him when the door opened. He had just gotten settled when there was a firm knock.
“Come in before you break it,” I called out. With my right hand I held the Ruger P57 on my lap. I left the Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum revolver sitting on the desk so that it was immediately visible when they entered.
The muscle entered first. They stood just inside the door and surveyed my palatial surroundings. Once they had deemed it safe, the principal stepped through. I recognized Chopper McNair immediately. The first thing to catch my attention was that he was exceedingly handsome. He wore slim-fit dark jeans and a blue long-sleeved rugby shirt that had a large polo horse logo stitched against the left chest. He walked confidently into my office. Two of the security guys stuffed into the office with him. The other two stayed in the anteroom, posted by my front door like twin sentries.
“Welcome to my castle,” I said, waving my free hand toward the chair in front of me for Chopper to take a seat. He
