“Your husband told me he was having a hard time paying the bills for the church. Maybe he was selling them to help with that.”
“Maybe. But then wouldn’t they be in with the other church revenues? Along with cash donations?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But if the artwork had never been listed as an asset in the first place, it’s off the books anyway. Maybe he’s just being cagey to maximize the return for the church.” That’s a pretty generous interpretation, but plausible. “He might have just deposited it to the checking account without running it through the books.”
Claire doesn’t speak, but her breathing comes through loud and clear. “Is that legit?”
“I’m not an accountant or an auditor, but if the art belongs to the church, I don’t see any problem. It’s sloppy bookkeeping, but not illegal. Unless…” I pause. Do I want to go further? The woman has been battered about a lot recently. But. She’s my client. And maybe, sort of, my friend.
“Unless?”
“Unless he was taking the proceeds for himself.” I wait for the angry denial, even hold the phone away from my ear, but nothing comes, just the sound of sniffles.
“Claire? Do you know where the money went?”
“No.” Her voice is firm.
“Are you sure you don’t know where it might be? Any big expenditures?” I think about his car compared to hers.
A minuscule pause. “No.”
“Then leave it to the police. They’ll go through the accounts, looking for motive for his killer. Believe me, you want to stay away from that. If there is some skulduggery, they’ll dig and dig until they find something. If they ask — when they ask, be honest. Come clean, if there’s anything to be clean about.”
Her tone is bedrock, hard and unyielding despite the tears. “I’ve never stolen anything. Ever.”
“Good. Then you’re safe.”
Claire sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. “What are you going to do now? Honestly, a little action would be welcome.”
Ouch. Her tone makes me wince. But. Her husband is dead, her life a shambles. It’s amazing she’s as self-controlled as she is. “Shake the trees some more. Something will give. It always does.”
“If you say so, Audrey. But I can’t hang on forever.”
“You won’t have to. I promise.”
Talking to Claire gave me a rope to hold onto, snapping me back into professional mode. But after I hang up, I realize the knuckles on my right hand are dusted with tiny scuffs and cuts. My slip in the street comes back to haunt. Not like a creak or a crack you can put on the wind, but a full-on phantom with a scythe and a flaming skull.
I am losing my mind. Talking to myself. Smashing things. No other interpretation possible. Only the job, the facade of being a cop, gave me a strong enough mask to hold the pieces together. But it’s not working anymore. I won’t be able to keep my promise to Claire.
I walk out the door, up the steps, up the sidewalk, down the steps, to knock on Phoebe’s door. It’s only been a few hours since I was there. She’ll think I’m desperate, possibly unhinged. But there’s nowhere else to go.
It opens. Phoebe, not the judge. Thank all the goodness of the universe.
One look. “Let’s go downstairs, Audrey. You’ll be more comfortable in my office.”
When we arrive, I choose the hard chair. It has more structure.
“Audrey, talk to me. Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
Our discussion of the morning seems like year ago. Or a lifetime. Now, I’m afraid if I open my mouth the pieces that are my face will fall off. I can’t let that happen. I can only breathe, in and out. Then, “I can’t see the face of the man in the vision. Why can’t I see his face?”
Phoebe blinks, visibly recalibrating. “Are you sure you want to?”
“He’s a killer, Phoebe.”
“Is he?”
“I know it.”
“How do you know it?”
“I felt him do it. I felt him grab her. Push her under the water. He called her by name. He’s evil.”
“How do you know he’s evil?”
“He’s a murderer.”
“So?”
My voice rises in anger. “So, murderers are evil.” Why doesn’t she see that?
“Are they?”
It’s been a mistake to come here. If this stupid woman can’t understand that murder is evil, there’s nothing more I can say. I stand up.
“Sit down.” A doctor voice. Authority. She hasn’t moved from her chair.
I sit down.
She looks at me for what seems an eternity. Then she makes an unfamiliar gesture, and Delilah, who I hadn’t noticed was in the room, comes over and leans against my legs like she did before. Puts her big square head on my knee. Steady and warm and calm.
“Audrey, I’m worried we’re moving too fast.”
“Phoebe, please. Help me.” I stroke Delilah’s smooth head.
Phoebe purses her lips, nods once. “Are you facing the man in your vision?”
“I’m running from him. She is.” I’m confused. “We are.”
“Do you ever look directly at him?”
I squirm against the hard wood. “Yes. I — she — we look back. At him.”
“What do you see?”
“A shape. A shadow.”
“Does she know who it is?”
“Yes.” I’m positive of this. She knows and fears him.
“Then why don’t you?”
Blankness. “I don’t know.”
A wire of silence stretches between us. Humming, jangling.
Phoebe speaks again. “Do you know what an occluded memory is?”
“What?” Shrink jargon. Out of my depth. Hate that. I want to stand, but can’t seem to get my feet under me.
“It’s when you associate a particular memory with something that you don’t want to deal with, so you block it out.”
Absorption moment. “So?” Belligerent. She’s so irritating.
“There’s something you don’t want to see.”
“What’s that?”
“The face of the man in your vision.”
Silence. I’m struggling. She’s wrong. “You’re wrong. I do want to see.”
“Why?”
Patiently. “So I can catch him. Put him in jail.” Ye gods. This woman has advanced degrees.
