The Blue Journal (24 page)

When the session was over, after the other three women said their good-byes to Joan and made their way out, Randi asked her to stay behind for a moment.

They stood alone in the pale, harshly lit room, amidst the small circle of empty chairs, two players without an audience.

“So, your mind is made up?”

Joan nodded. Then she told Randi about the call from Mitchell. “After all of this,” she said in a weary voice, “after everything he's put me through, he's back with that whore in Miami.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I'm not sure,” Joan said. “There really isn't much to say, is there? I mean, the purpose of all this therapy is to work on our problems, right? Well I've finally decided I don't have any problems—with one major exception, of course—I'm married to an egocentric, immature man. And that's easily corrected, no?” She waited for a response, but Randi just stood there, watching her. “I sat home all morning, imagining what it would take to save my marriage. I actually tried to think of every good marriage I know, as if that might give me some sort of inspiration. You know what?”

Randi waited.

“There just aren't that many good marriages around. At least I don't see them.”

“That's not true, Joan.”

“Really? How would you know? No offense, but you only deal with the bad ones, right?” She didn't wait for a reply. “I'm so tired of it, Randi, I feel utterly worn out.” She sighed. “There's no excitement, no energy in my life, nothing new, just the same old stuff. Maybe Mitchell has the right idea.”

“Do you believe that?”

There was another pause as Joan struggled to remain composed. “No, I suppose not. But it appears I'm in the minority. People don't seem to care about their personal history, not the way I think they should. They don't give a damn for the value of shared experience. And commitment? My God, commitment is the biggest scam in the world. I see women willing to surrender their identities just to hold a marriage together. They fill their breasts with silicone, have their faces injected and lifted, they don't even live for themselves anymore. And where are their husbands, these wonderful men they're struggling to hold onto? Oh right, there they are, moping around, doing a lousy job of pretending not to be bored. Why do they pretend, you ask? Because they don't want to face a divorce they're afraid they can't afford. Or maybe they don't want to give up their comfortable little house and their familiar little life. Or maybe they're just too lazy to leave? So what do people do? They drink too much, lie too much, and cheat on each other in all sorts of ways. Not just sex. They cheat emotionally, deprive each other of their time, their attention—they even cheat on themselves. You know what I mean? So, where's the commitment?” She shook her head. “It's all pretty hopeless.”

“Hopeless? No, I don't think it is.”

Joan conjured up one of the saddest smiles Randi had ever seen. “Of course you don't. Your whole profession is about hope, isn't it? You sell the promise of a happy ending, right?”

“Not a promise,” Randi said.

“The hope of a happy ending then, that's what you sell.”

“Maybe I do.”

Joan nodded. “You know, I used to think you would really have an answer for Mitchell and me. That we would get to a point where we would say, yes, that's it, that's the solution. But yesterday, after I got his call, after I knew he lied to me again, I finally faced the reality that there is no answer. It's very disappointing, believe me.”

“That sounds incredibly familiar.”

“Something Mitchell said?” she asked anxiously. “That there really is no answer?”

“Let's just say that people often come here believing that I have the solution for their problems, when the truth is I only have questions. Probably the same questions I have for myself. You and Mitchell need to be willing to search for your own answers. That's how it works.”

Joan thought that over for a minute. “Sounds like psychobabble to me. What did Mitchell say?”

“Basically the same thing.”

Joan laughed, a light, staccato laugh. “What a strange business you're in. This therapy, the counseling you do, it's almost like a religious thing, isn't it? I mean, if you believe in it, then maybe it works. But if you don't believe, it all seems a silly charade. You see that, don't you?”

Randi nodded. “Sometimes I do. Not always,” she admitted. “Sometimes I get so caught up in what I do, I forget it's all based on that sort of faith.”

“That's the word.
Faith
. And Mitchell has no faith. He's just like Elizabeth was. They have nothing but their selfishness.” She nodded in silent affirmation of her own judgment. “More than anything, I'm just tired of the selfishness,” she said. Then she turned and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER 28

Walker stopped off in the squad room to tell Kovacevic about his discussions with Chief Gill, Robert Stratford, and Knoebel's lawyer, then left the junior officer to follow up on some leads while he headed to his car, intending to spend the rest of the unusually warm autumn day in New York City.

First, however, he was stopping off to visit with Nettie Sisson.

On his way, he wondered about Dr. Knoebel's initial indifference to the news that they had taken his wife's computer, then his change of mind about it. Not only did he change his mind, but he had his attorney call to threaten Walker and the entire Darien Police Department if the computer and all of the documents downloaded from it were not promptly returned. If that was not enough to raise Walker's level of suspicion a notch or two, there was that little matter of the good doctor's eagerness to have his wife's body cremated. For once the chief surprised Walker, unexpectedly backing him up by issuing an order that the body be held until all possible leads were fully developed. Walker doubted that the coroner's office had missed anything, but the delay in releasing her remains might at least create some emotional pressure while the department struggled to pull together whatever they could and try to make sense of it all.

The department consisting, in essence, of Anthony Walker.

If Knoebel knew about his wife's diary, why did he not issue an immediate protest and demand the computer back the first day? Why give the police as much time with it as he had before taking action? One possibility was that Knoebel wanted Walker to have a shot of piecing together some sort of puzzle that might lead to the identity of his wife's killer. But if that were so, why insist on having it returned now?

A more logical answer was that Knoebel knew nothing of
SEXUAL RITES
then, but he knew it now. Which begged the obvious question—who told him?

Walker therefore decided, before checking out Dr. Knoebel's alibi at the hospital in New York, to satisfy his curiosity about the housekeeper with the violent past. Among other things, he wanted to find out what she knew about Elizabeth's diary and—more important—what she knew about the authenticity of what had been depicted in such vivid detail by the murdered woman.

Nettie lived in a development of small units set in a series of nondescript, two-story buildings in Port Chester. The layout was not much different than the place where he lived, Walker observed with a wry smile. This was the real world, where the working class exists for the opportunity to serve the privileged class.

He shook off his cynicism by the time he found his way to her apartment. He knocked twice and waited.

When Nettie opened the door her face betrayed a mixture of concern and fear, a reasonable reaction to an unannounced appearance by a homicide detective. But there was something else in her eyes—she had been expecting him.

“Lieutenant Walker.”

“Mrs. Sisson.”

“Can I help you?”

“I think maybe you can.”

Without waiting for him to ask, Nettie showed him inside. There was no foyer, the apartment just opened into a small living room. She pointed to the couch, then sat across from him in an old club chair, her posture ramrod straight. She did not offer him coffee nor did she engage in the sort of nervous banter he was accustomed to when he intruded on someone this way. He accepted it as a tacit invitation for him to get right to the point.

“You've worked for the Knoebels for the past couple of years.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How would you characterize their marriage?”

“I wouldn't,” she replied, her unblinking gaze holding his. “As an experienced policeman, I'm sure you've done some sort of background check on me, or whatever it's called. I think it's fair to say that I'm in no position to make judgments about anyone else's marriage.”

Walker could not suppress a slight smile. “You are a blunt woman, Mrs. Sisson.”

Still staring into his gray-brown eyes, she said, “I think it saves time, don't you?”

Walker responded with an appreciative nod. “I've had the same thing said about me.”

“If that's so,” she said, “why not ask me what you came here to ask me.”

“Which would be what, exactly?”

“You obviously know what happened between me and my husband, which means I am capable of murder. Or attempted murder, at the very least. Don't you want to know if I had any reason to kill Elizabeth?”

Walker rubbed his chin, thinking it over. “I cannot tell a lie, I am familiar with your background, but my conclusion about the incident with your husband was that you acted in self-defense. Fact is, from what Sergeant Fitzgerald told me, I wonder what took you so long. He sends his regards, by the way.”

She said, “Thank you.”

“Given your history, I don't really see the psychological profile of a serial killer. Am I wrong about that?” It was apparent that Nettie Sisson was not easily amused, but Walker thought he saw the makings of a grateful smile playing around the edges of her mouth. His next question caused any trace of that smile to vanish. “But, since you've raised it, did you have any reason to want to see Mrs. Knoebel dead?”

“No,” she told him, her homely features now wearing a puzzled look. “That isn't really what you came here to ask me, is it?”

“No. Actually you're the one who brought it up.”

Her gaze finally released his and wandered around the small room for a moment. “Elizabeth was not a good person,” she said simply.

“You're obviously not the only one to feel that way. I mean, someone felt the need to put a bullet in her head.” The harsh description was given with purpose.

Nettie's calm reply told him she was having none of that. “And you want to know if I can tell you who might have done it?”

“Can you?”

She frowned. “It's all I've thought about these past few days.”

“Then tell me what you know about Elizabeth's diary.”

“I see. So that's why you're here.” She nodded, as if a riddle that had been gnawing at her was solved.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I really don't believe you had anything to do with her death.”

Nettie said nothing.

“I also believe that if you had any idea who the murderer might be, you would have said something by now. So my hope is that you'll tell me what you know about the diary. The people she wrote about. I'm guessing you had a pretty good idea of whether her stories were real or fantasy, or maybe a combination of the two.”

Nettie was already shaking her head. “Oh no, it was all very real. The men were real.” She hesitated. “And the women.” She looked down at her hands, which were now tightly clasped together in her lap. “It was all very real.”

Walker gave her a moment to compose herself. Then, in a gentle voice, he said, “Tell me.”

And so she did. Something in his manner made it easy for her to tell him the truth. Or perhaps she simply needed to tell someone what she knew about Elizabeth's infidelities. She told Walker that she had never discussed it with anyone, not even Randi Conway. When she discovered that Elizabeth was writing a diary, she knew what it was about, but had again remained silent.

“What about Doctor Knoebel? You never said anything at all to him?”

Nettie shook her head. “Especially not him.” She insisted that her loyalty had always been to Dr. Knoebel and his daughter, and that it still was. She even confessed that there were moments when she loathed Elizabeth, but she had still kept the faith.

“Why?” he asked.

“I could never be the cause of such heartache for her husband.”

“But Doctor Knoebel must have had some idea of what she was up to.”

Nettie could not deny it. “He did,” she admitted. “But it was his choice to stay with her, don't you see?”

Walker thought he did. “Then Doctor Knoebel knew about the diary?”

“No, I don't believe he knew.”

“You ever get the chance to read it?”

Nettie hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “Yes. Some of it.”

“With or without her permission?”

“Without.” When there was no follow-up question, she said, “There were times when I would be cleaning the den and she'd leave her computer on.”

“You snuck a peek.”

“Yes.”

“How much of it did you see?”

“Whatever was on the screen at the time. I don't know anything about computers. I was afraid to touch it.”

“I feel the same way,” Walker admitted with a grin.

“She would always have it off when he was home.”

Walker nodded, then moved on to other questions.

Nettie denied knowing the identity of any of Elizabeth's lovers, even those mentioned in the few snippets she had read. She said that Mrs. Knoebel was always careful not to have any witnesses to her trysts. Walker prodded Nettie on the issue, but she would not be moved. He suggested that she must have seen someone coming or going from the house, but she told him she had not.