“I’m sorry if I revved her up before leaving.”
“No, I’m sure that’s not it. I think she really likes her daddy time. I know I do.”
“What’s on your agenda today?” he asked.
“I wanted to go to this exhibit at the Met on Roman architecture that closes this week, but it just started snowing.”
“Go, Ella. Annie won’t freeze. Besides, it’s high time that baby got some culture.”
He heard Ella laugh. “Okay. Maybe. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
After the call ended, Gabriel put the phone into the cup holder. He was now close enough to their destination that he was checking which side of Madison Avenue had the even-numbered buildings so he’d know where to park.
“Congratulations on your new baby,” Asra said.
“Thanks.”
“What’s your little girl’s name again?”
“Annie. Anne, actually.”
“Old school. I like it.”
“She’s named after my wife’s mother.”
Asra smiled. “Me too. I mean, I’m named after my mother’s mother. I like the idea of family names. It ties the past and the future.”
Gabriel nodded. He liked that too.
The press vans were lined up one after another. They were all there: ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, FOX. Even NY1, the city’s local news station, had sent a camera crew. Gabriel pulled their vehicle beside a black-and-white cruiser parked in front of a fire hydrant.
“We just walk past the reporters,” he said. “Nothing for us to tell them yet.”
11
For once, Haley arrived on time for an appointment with Dr. Rubenstein. She took off her shoes, assumed the position on the couch, and immediately launched into the very serious problem on her mind.
Dr. Rubenstein didn’t let her get ten words out before stopping her.
“I’m sorry, Haley,” he said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “We can’t discuss this.”
She sat up so they were facing each other. One of the things that was so strange about the relationship Haley had with Dr. Rubenstein was that even though she saw him every week, and even though they had the most intimate relationship in her life at the moment, sometimes she doubted whether she could have picked the man out of a lineup. She saw his face only briefly, at the start and end of their sessions. Staring at him now, she was surprised to find that he was rather handsome. Strong-chinned with large dark eyes and a full head of chestnut curls.
Haley told him she didn’t understand. Not even a little bit. She was in extremis, and Dr. Rubenstein was her therapist.
“There are certain ethical rules that therapists need to follow,” he explained matter-of-factly without breaking eye contact. “Even regarding past acts, which this is, I prefer to err on the side of caution with my patients.”
She knew what he was saying. And why. But he had never before told her to stop talking about a subject.
“I don’t think that’s right. I mean as a legal matter, Dr. Rubenstein. I’m not talking about committing some crime in the future. This has already happened.”
She had googled this on her phone before today’s session and was confident that she was correct. After all, criminals always tell their lawyers about their guilt. Wasn’t that the whole point of attorney-client privilege? And she knew for a fact (or at least from TV) that murderers on death row were allowed to make confessions to clergy. Didn’t therapists operate under the same principles?
“I really don’t want to debate this with you, Haley,” he said, a trace of anger in his voice that contrasted sharply with the soothing way he normally addressed the issues in her life. “There are lines in the doctor-patient relationship that I will not cross. I’m sorry, but this is my call to make, based on my interpretation of my ethical obligations. I’m not going to be talked out of it by you. If you would like, I can refer you to another therapist, and perhaps he or she will have a different interpretation than I do.”
The last thing Haley wanted was a new therapist. It had taken so long for her to get to this point with Dr. Rubenstein. He knew her backstory and her secrets, at least most of them. The idea of reestablishing that intimacy with another person seemed impossible.
On the other hand, she knew that when a relationship was over, there was no point in pretending otherwise. At least the good doctor had been helpful in that regard.
“That’s what I’m going to do, then,” she said. “And I don’t expect to be billed for this session either.”
From Gabriel’s vantage point on the street, the eighteen stories of prewar limestone and brick before him looked like just another Upper East Side apartment building. The one difference was the lack of a doorman. A keyed door, which could be opened remotely by tenants to allow guests entry, was the only security.
The directory revealed that many of the residents used their units for business purposes. The apartment they were going to—7E—was listed under the name Prestige Art LLC.
Gabriel and Asra arrived to a flutter of activity. The crime scene unit techs in their windbreakers doing their thing, and half a dozen uniformed police officers milling around. A photographer was on his knees, memorializing it all.
The living room was set up like an office. A desk sat under the window on the opposite side from the front door but faced into the room, two guest chairs on the other side of it. A second seating area was in the corner, comprised of four leather club chairs surrounding a large square coffee table, which had seen better days. Its glass surface was completely shattered, and its many shards were stained with blood, as was the expensive Persian rug beneath it.
The walls were stark white, the furniture all dark. The room’s only splashes of color were provided by framed works of art on the walls. Gabriel was hardly a connoisseur, but he didn’t recognize any of the pieces. Ironically, that almost surely meant that they
