The Blue Journal (22 page)

“What sort of book?”

Stratford listened silently as Randi described
SEXUAL RITES
, recounting some of the scenes, explaining that the people were identified only by a single initial, but she was certain some of them were her patients. For now she said nothing about the chapter describing her own date rape. When she was finished, Stratford remained quiet. “Bob?”

“I'm here. Just trying to get my mind around it, that's all.”

“Me too. Walker told me not to show it to anyone, to keep it strictly confidential. But obviously I had to tell you.”

“Of course,” he agreed, then thought it over for a moment. “You say that you recognize some of the people this woman wrote about. How real do you think her stories are?”

“I think they're very real.”

“But you had no idea she was keeping a journal like this?”

“Of course not. How would I?”

“She might've said something about it.”

“She didn't. I told that to Detective Walker.”

“And he believed you?”

“I can't see why he wouldn't, it's the truth. Why would that matter anyway?”

“It might bear on their decision to get an order to compel you to divulge what she disclosed to you in therapy.”

“God, I didn't even think of that.”

Stratford became quiet again. Then he said, “Forget what she was writing. Did you know she was seeing these men?”

Randi paused. “I, uh, I didn't know, not for certain.”

“But you did suspect that she was?”

Randi took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “
Fear
would be a better word than
suspect
. Looking back I should have seen more. But nothing like this,” she added.

“What else did Detective Walker say about her diary?”

“That was it. He wanted me to read it and give it back to him.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Stratford said, “Her murderer must have known about this diary.”

“I don't think so,” Randi disagreed. “She was murdered in her own home. Walker says if the murderer knew about it, the computer would never have been left behind.”

“Right, right” he agreed, “I see his point.”

“But if it comes out that she kept this sort of diary . . .”

When she hesitated, Stratford finished the thought for her. “That would put you front and center in helping to identify the people in the book.”

“Walker thinks it's even worse than that.”

“It puts you directly in harm's way.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Assuming the murderer never knew of the diary but finds out about it now, you become a real threat. You're the person most likely to unravel the truth in whatever this woman had written.”

“Exactly.”

“All the more reason to honor Walker's request that you keep this strictly confidential.”

“I know. But something like this, I mean, how long is it going to remain a secret?”

Stratford thought that over. “Good question. I'll put a call in to Walker. I phoned him the other day, left a message to let him know I was keeping an eye on you.”

“He told me. Thanks.”

“I'll make sure I speak with him today.”

“Okay. But remember, you can't say anything about the diary.”

Stratford said he didn't like that. After all, they had an attorney-client privilege, and she was entitled to confide in him.

“Just for now, Bob, please.”

“I'll call Gill first, ask him about the investigation. He'll tell me about it, that way the information didn't come from you.” He hesitated. “You going to be all right?”

“I'm not sure,” she admitted. “I guess we'll find out.”

It was Monday morning, and Fred Wentworth was sitting at his small desk in the modest gray cubicle he was assigned in the company's Manhattan showroom. It was the first day of market week, and outside the fabric-lined panel dividers that defined his tiny work space he heard the voices of his coworkers as they made their pitches to buyers and then confirmed their sales. Their schedules were crammed with appointment after appointment, but Fred was not busy.

Fred was the husband of the matronly Phyllis, each of them participants in Randi Conway's groups. He was a large, oafish man with coarse features and suspicious eyes, a garment-center salesman with a million stories to tell and the need to share every one of them. His artificially darkened hair, combed straight back, was a touch too long for his fifty-five years. He wore Italian suits and loud ties that were typical of an industry where current styles often prevail over good taste. His overall appearance was that of a man struggling for a youthful look when he was well past the point where the effort was reasonable.

Wentworth fought back his anger as he sat quietly at his small desk.

It was not all that long ago that he was one of his company's top producers. He was well liked. Respected. Known throughout the industry.

Now he was little more than a relic from another era.

His large frame filled the swivel chair, his elbows resting on the black plastic arms. He was waiting for Sam to call back. Sam was an old customer. He could always count on Sam to place an order. If they wanted to know how Fred Wentworth was doing in market week, they would find out as soon as Sam called in a large order.

Wentworth rearranged his desk, moving the position of the telephone and his diary and his pen set, the one Phyllis had given him years ago with the engraved silver plaque that read
fred wentworth
in block letters, and
World's Greatest Salesman
underneath. He shifted everything around until he was satisfied that each item was in its proper place. Then he stared down at his blank order pad. He knew he would be filling out several pages of the printed forms, just as soon as Sam called.

Hell, it's market week
, he told himself. Sam was probably at appointments elsewhere. Wentworth understood that. He had called Sam several times last week to set something up. But Sam was in conference. Or on the other line. Or out of the office. But his assistant said Sam would be sure to call back. Just this morning Wentworth was told that Sam was with a group of wholesalers and reps from Hong Kong. As soon as that meeting was concluded, Sam would call back.

So Fred waited, knowing that however the day went, at least that evening he was going to meet Thomas Colello for drinks. That would be interesting.

He smoothed back his thinning black hair with the palms of his hands and had another look at the pad of order forms. Then he decided the telephone would be better situated off to his left, so he began to rearrange the things on his desk again.

CHAPTER 26

Walker was in his office, and his Monday morning was not feeling any more productive than Fred Wentworth's. He was poring through the Knoebel file again when Chief Gill summoned him on the intercom.

Walker marched down the hall and stood in the chief's doorway.

“Shut the door and sit down,” Gill said.

“What gives?”

“Lawyers,” Gill said as he handed Walker two message slips.

One was from Bob Stratford, the other from a Roger Bennett, counsel to Dr. Knoebel, with a New York City phone number.

“They want to talk to me?”

“Both of them. I already had a brief conversation with Knoebel's lawyer.”

“Uh huh.”

“Says his client had a change of heart about you and Blasko snooping around his wife's computer.”

“A change of heart? Isn't Knoebel missing the essential piece of equipment for that maneuver?”

Gill frowned.

“When did our friend Dr. Knoebel have this epiphany?”

“Last night. Knoebel called the guy at home and told him to get his wife's computer back, and pronto.”

“Of course.” Walker made a note of the timing, but did not mention anything about his dinner with Randi Conway on Saturday, the phone call she received at the restaurant or—most important—that he had entrusted her with a copy of
SEXUAL RITES
. He knew that last item would send the chief into orbit.

“These computer files, how important are they to your investigation?”

“Nothing helpful in the e-mails, and Teddy went back quite a way.”

“What about the diary?” Gill asked, enunciating the last word with all the distaste he could muster.

“She didn't mention anyone who wanted to kill her, if that's what you're asking, but I'm betting the name is in there.”

Gill thought it over. “Do you think Knoebel's lawyer had any idea how personal her writing was?”

“Not sure,” Walker admitted.

“I already spoke with town counsel. He says we should give it back. Unless you can demonstrate that the files bear directly on the case, he doesn't want to risk a lawsuit.”

“Now there's a bold legal position.”

Gill shook his head.

“We got a warrant for it.”

“This lawyer Bennett, he mentioned that. Claims it was obtained after the fact and without his client having any say in the matter.”

“His client may become a suspect. I don't think the judge needed his permission to issue the warrant.”

“Fair point. Call Bennett and see what he has to say.”

Walker stood to leave. “What about the other call?”

“Bob Stratford? He just said he wanted to speak with you, is all.”

“Right.”

“You want me to get the State Police involved?” Gill's voice made it clear how little he liked that idea.

“I don't think so,” Walker said, “but if I stumble into quicksand I'll be sure to holler.”

As he turned away, the chief said, “Give me your best read on this. Are we going to bring someone in?”

Walker looked back, his lips pressed together, as if squeezing out the thought. “Yeah, I think we will. Problem is, right now I have too many suspects.”

Back at his desk, Walker decided to tackle the tougher call first. He punched in the number and said, “Detective Walker for Roger Bennett.”

Bennett got on the line, they exchanged the usual pleasantries, then the attorney went into the old soft shoe, speaking in that maddeningly verbose manner characteristic of a profession that charges by the minute rather than the result.

“So you see, Detective, my client feels great remorse in having shared his late wife's private computer. We believe it will be in the best interests of all concerned if you return the laptop and all of the information, and the less said about it the better.”

Walker grinned at the telephone. “I wonder if I might ask, Mr. Bennett, what was the sudden cause of his remorse?”

“Come now, Detective. My client has been extremely distraught. Anyone could understand how the circumstances of his wife's death might cloud his judgment. He has no idea what his wife kept in her computer, but he feels it only appropriate to protect her privacy, as well as his and his daughter's.”

“This case is still active, and some of the contents of Mrs. Knoebel's computer may be critical to our investigation.”

As the lawyer thought that over, Walker nodded to himself. Bennett's billing clock was running whether he was talking or not, like waiting time on a taxi meter, only spinning a lot faster. Finally the attorney said, “Have you found anything in these records that suggests the identity of someone who might have wanted to do Mrs. Knoebel harm?”

Up to now Bennett was proving to be fairly unshakeable, which annoyed Walker no end. “Depends how you read this stuff,” he replied. “But no, she didn't type the name of her killer after she was shot, if that's what you're asking.”

He could almost hear Bennett allowing himself a smug little nod as he said, “Then I daresay, a court might express its displeasure with your department entering my client's home, removing his wife's computer without proper, written authorization, and then refusing to return it when asked.”

You miserable shyster
, Walker thought. He said, “We obtained a warrant, as you are well aware.”

“Of course. However, as I understand the time line here, you removed the computer without a warrant, inspected its contents and then tried to cover your tracks by obtaining the court papers after the fact. As
you
are no doubt aware, Detective, that does not sanitize your actions.”

“This is a murder investigation, Counselor. I doubt a court would be outraged by that set of facts, especially since Dr. Knoebel gave his permission, as you say, after the fact. And, by the way, Elizabeth Knoebel is not a suspect here, she's the victim.”

“Indeed, indeed. And I'm sure you believed you were acting properly under the circumstances. Unfortunately, Dr. Knoebel was not in a state of mind where his knowing consent could have reasonably been given. And I don't believe you ever obtained any written release.” The lawyer paused, giving Walker just enough time to stand up and kick himself in the ass. “I should also add that Dr. Knoebel's bereaved condition has required him to begin counseling with a qualified psychiatrist in New York. And, of course, at the time he discussed the matter with you, he did not have the benefit of counsel's advice.”