“She doesn’t know,” Kyle said.
“But—”
“I know what she implied. Your mother has been telling us a great deal.” He held up his hand to stop her from interrupting. “Whether it’s unfounded accusations and supposition, or not, we are investigating.”
“Who does she think murdered Hugh?” I was incredulous. This was so like my mother.
“That’s between your mother and the police.”
“You shouldn’t talk about me in third person,” my mother said. “It’s impolite.”
If the chief had been a teakettle, the whistle would have screeched. He took her arm, forced her to stand. She managed it gracefully—almost. He said to me, “If someone thinks your mother knows something, they may also think she’s told you. Lock all your doors, set your alarm, buy a dog, whatever. You might even stay with friends for a while.”
He tossed all this off rather casually as I followed them to the foyer. He pulled my mother’s coat off the rack and handed it to her. Without waiting for her to put it on, he escorted her out the door into a silver and white winter afternoon that didn’t have a chance of dousing the fire started here.
Chapter 7
Somehow I made it into the kitchen and found Richard in the press of people while managing to avoid Hetty, Drinken—who appeared to be on her second glass of wine already—Nod, and a half dozen others who wanted to be the first to know what Mother knew.
He shoved a plate of food into my hand and whispered, “What happened? You look like shit.”
“The chief was tactful but said she was blowing smoke up our asses.”
“What do you think? Does she know anything?”
I took a bite of shrimp. It tasted bitter and metallic, and I put it back on the plate. “How would I know?”
I’d said that phrase more in the past week than I’d said it in my entire life. “The chief thinks it may make whoever did do it come after me. He told me to get a dog. I hadn’t counted on being a target.”
Richard drew me over to the window and put his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s see if we can find a bathroom, maybe get you feeling a little better, a little more in control,” he said. “You don’t look so good.”
In the window’s reflection, his dark hair and black turtleneck disappeared into the darkness outside, leaving his pale face floating like something barely glimpsed under a wash of dark water.
“Are you sure? I mean, Paul…”
“I’ll stand watch,” he said.
I looked around for Paul, but he was listening to Drinken warble on about some party she’d been to last night. The next thing I knew we’d ducked under the police tape downstairs. Richard pulled his leather driving gloves out of his pocket and handed them to me. “I’ll wait here,” he said. “If I hear someone coming, I’ll get you out.”
I slid the door shut behind me. Hugh’s therapy suite was lit only by the displays from the digital clocks on various pieces of equipment, as well as the glow from a switch on a power strip. Light from the outdoor spots shone through the glass doors that led to a small patio. I allowed my eyes to adjust and tried not to feel creeped out by the slightly green cast these lights gave to the room.
Jammed bookcases shadowed the walls around the fireplace. I didn’t want to get too close to that part of the room anyway. I wondered if Maria had had the carpet cleaned yet, or if Hugh’s blood still stained it. I shuddered, looked away, tried not to conjure an image of Hugh with his head cracked open. Was that odd smell his blood—or was I imagining it?
His desk faced the windows, no computer. I suspected it was probably being abused by a computer forensics expert. I couldn’t see any filing cabinets, but he had to have paper notes, right? Doors opened to a bathroom, a hallway, and a small room with a copier, supplies, and file cabinets whose edges glinted like cat’s eyes. I pulled the door to the supply room shut behind me, hoping I would hear Richard if he sent a warning, and turned on the light.
My heart pounding, I pulled open the top drawer of the first cabinet. Perfect. Patient files. The third drawer down held the M’s. While the copier next to me suggested an alternative to “borrowing,” Mother’s file was too fat to copy, and someone would notice if I walked out with a huge envelope in my purse. Could I take part of it? What part would be most useful?
I suddenly felt seedy. How would I feel if someone read my file from that Swiss hospital? Even if their intention was to help me, I wouldn’t understand and neither would Mother. I stood paralyzed, then set the file down to check out the second file cabinet. It held a second set of patient files. I pulled out another file with Mother’s name on it and, puzzled, flipped the covers back to compare the contents.
The first file contained DSM diagnostic codes, session notes, a list of prescribed medications, behavioral changes and so on. The second contained pages of prose. Its dates corresponded with the first file. Why would there be two? Quickly, I put the first one back and kept the second. I’d deal with my ethics later. I shut the drawers, grabbed an envelope from the stacks of office supplies and shoved the file in. I snapped out the light and cracked open the door only to hear Richard say, “I was curious, Officer, but I haven’t touched anything. I didn’t even know the police had posted a guard. Is that only for the party?”
The cop’s response was muffled, but Richard’s message was clear. I tiptoed to the glass doors. Installed with metal tracks, they might scrape open, but I had to risk it or sleep where Hugh was killed, and I was already freaked out enough.
Richard, bless him, was still
