The Survivors (10 page)

She said, “You know Eric Russo's position, Acting US Attorney. The President is going to nominate him for the spot permanently. That means senate hearings, five-star spotlight in the press. Russo wants this all cleared up before then. That's what the masterminds around my office want, too.”

Masterminds—another odd choice of expression. “I take it you don't get along with those masterminds so well.”

She laughed. “I should be careful, talking to a psychologist. Let's just say my boss has tossed me in the doghouse. That's how I got partnered with Cade. He's got problems of his own. Clearing this case without a lot of fuss could help us both out, so we're putting some extra time in on it.”

She smiled at me again but kept the wattage down. “We answered each other's questions, where does that leave us?”

“I want to talk to Russo.”

She shook her head. “My boss won't go for that. He—”

I held my hand up to stop her. “If I call Russo, tell him why I want to see him, he'll probably hang up on me. But you could set it up. I'll meet with him, try to convince him that Scott is no threat, just a guy who's angry and sometimes rude. If I'm wrong about that, he'll be under my care. I promise I'll see him every day. At the first sign he's going off the deep end, I'll be on the phone to you.”

“Why not just have him come in for an interview? It'll only take a few hours. If he checks out, he'll be free to go—with a warning to stay away from Russo.”

“Could I be there, and a lawyer?”

“We'd prefer not,” she said. “Something like this, we need to get a clear read. That means unfiltered answers, a straight-up interview.”

The coffee shop was on the upscale side, with real ceramic mugs. I lifted mine and dangled it over the floor. “I don't know Scott Glass well, but my take on him is simple. If you lock him in a room and go at him too hard,” I let the mug slip a bit, “—he'll break.”

She grabbed it before it fell. That was what I wanted: to make her the rescuer. “That's pretty dramatic.”

“Not if it's true, and it is.”

She looked out the window, thinking. “Normally the Bureau would have full control over this, deciding where to take the case. With somebody in Russo's position, we need to keep him in the loop. That means he's going to have opinions on what we should do.” She drank the last of her coffee. “Maybe I'll give him a call, find out what he wants. I'll think it over. That's the best I can say.”

“Sounds fair.” I slid the ten-dollar bill closer to her. “Thanks for the coffee.”

She put it back in the middle of the table. “Let's leave that for the busboy. He looks like he could use it.”

I started to get up, but she put her hand on my arm to stop me. “I've got to ask. You made me curious the way you answered. Do you really like beaches?”

Almost as soon as she said it, her face colored. She'd gone a step too far into the personal. I had to believe that this was just awkwardness, not manipulation.

I let her off with a quick laugh and a mind reader's finger to my temple. “How about you? Lonely beach? Just you and a guy walking slowly. Maybe a little jasmine scent in the air. Am I close?”

She seemed startled, then gave me one of her full-on smiles. “You've got some imagination.”

NINE

W
hen I got to my office, Tori was putting the patient files for the day on my desk. She was wearing a new skirt. I was only a little embarrassed to realize I knew all the skirts she owned. “That looks nice,” I said. “It must be a bear at the water fountain.”

“It's all technique.” She stroked her thigh. “And good muscle tone.”

“I should have known.”

She handed me a message slip. “He called about five minutes ago.”

It was from Felix:
Refer Glass to Dr. Boyer. He's got a good touch with OCD.

Sean Boyer was the only other psychologist in my building. The day I moved in, he stopped by to introduce himself and give me a copy of his book,
The Therapy Bible
. His office was directly above mine, and I sometimes heard him yelling during his sessions:
No, no! How many times do we have to go over this!
Some patients responded well to that sort of hammering. Scottie, I didn't think so. I tossed the message in the trash.

“You mind explaining?” Tori said.

“Yes . . . I mind.”

She gave me the arched-eyebrow treatment.

“Scott Glass from yesterday—Edward Gaines—he was a friend of mine when we were kids. He's got a lot of problems. Felix doesn't think I should treat him because of the personal connection.”

“Can he pay?” she asked.

“I suppose so. He's got a job.”

She turned on her heel. “Then don't listen to Felix.”

I spent the next forty-five minutes reading the patient files and making notes for the day's sessions. At nine thirty, I heard the outer door open. That would be Beverly Johnson, one of my all-time favorite patients. Beverly had a loud voice. “Hey, Tori.” Tori's answer was muffled by my office door. Beverly laughed.

Beverly was a sergeant with the US Capitol Police. She picked me as a therapist because my office was close to her job. When I first met her she was one-hundred-fifty pounds overweight, clinically depressed, and furious at the world. Since then, she'd started college part-time at the University of Maryland, received a promotion at work, and connected with a steady boyfriend. I spent our entire first session trying to get her to smile, just a little. During our second session, I gave her an assignment: make friends with somebody. I never expected her to pick Tori.

Beverly's voice boomed through the door again. “C'mon—Doc isn't all bad. He lets you wear a doily for a skirt, doesn't he?” Tori gave a bleat of laughter.

Beverly rapped on the door and came straight in. “Doctor H, how's tricks?” She was still a big woman and had to inch behind the coffee table before she could plop down on the sofa.

“Guess what? I declared my major at UM. Psychology. What do you think?”

“Beats going to med school.” I waved at the walls. “You can have all this
and
never have to cut up a cadaver.” Actually, I was pleased. It was the same way I decided to go into psychology—watching as other people helped me.

We had a great session, darkened only by the fact that I knew she soon wouldn't need me anymore. I think Beverly was feeling the same thing, because she told me she was going to send her sister to see me. Danielle had man problems, or, as Beverly put it, “She's got a thing for dog-ass thugs.”

“Is she as funny as you?” I asked.

“Nobody is as funny as me,” Beverly said, swishing out the door.

The rest of the day went quickly: another stint of couples therapy, a small group session after lunch, a woman I was seeing three times a week to break her online shopping addiction. Nothing earth-­shattering, just people with troubles.

When the last patient left at four o'clock, I shut my door and called Felix. I asked him how things were going with Scottie. “Pretty good. I sent him out to weed the garden, and guess what he did?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure he didn't weed the garden.”

“He took a pad and pencil outside and took notes on every plant, made suggestions on what I should do to improve things. More water here, less fertilizer there, cut this one back in midsummer. He does know his plants, I've got to give him that. Knew the common and Latin names of things I'd long forgotten. He's sort of an idiot savant.”

“I hope he can't hear you.”

“He's sitting right here staring at me,” Felix said.

I didn't say anything for so long that Felix laughed. “No, Cal. He can't hear. He's outside playing with Coop. They've gotten to be quite the pair of buddies.”

“Would you mind keeping him a while longer? I'm still waiting to hear back from Tim Regis.”

“Sure, that's fine,” Felix said. “He's beaten me four straight games of chess. I'll whip him eventually, even if I have to get him drunk to do it.”

“Maybe not. Scottie's a little volatile around alcohol.”

“I figured as much, with all the control issues he has.”

“You noticed that too?” I said.

“I don't like running therapy anymore, but I'm still a pretty good diagnosis man.”

“Absolutely. And thanks for taking care of him.” We signed off.

I really wasn't expecting to hear from Tim Regis. When I phoned his office earlier in the day, his assistant told me he was in New York in a meeting and wouldn't be free until late. Late for him might be one or two in the morning. I told her tomorrow would be fine if that was the earliest he could get to me.

I was actually hoping to hear from Jamie Weston, that she had decided to help set up a meeting with Eric Russo. I could hear Tori humming in the outer office. Any day when Beverly came in was a good day for her. She finished straightening up and stuck her head in to say good night. “You look serious,” she said.

“Just waiting on a phone call.”

She picked at the doorframe with one of her perfect nails. “Got a date in the works?”

“Not quite,” I said.

She gave a faint smile and blew me a kiss. “'Night, Cal.”

The phone rang just after six thirty. Weston was in the middle of a yawn when I picked up. “. . . arw. Doctor Henderson, hi.”

“Hi yourself, and call me Cal. ‘Doctor' is just for my patients.”

“I guess I can do that.” She sounded dead tired.

“What did you decide about Russo?” I said. “Can you set up a meeting?”

“First, level with me. Do you know where Glass is?”

“I haven't talked to him.”

Did she notice I hadn't answered her question? She seemed to pass right over it.

“Anything you can give me would be appreciated. At least it would make it look like I'm doing my job. My boss wants Glass here yesterday—for an interview, a psych eval, the whole deal.” She stopped and laughed. “Sorry, my problem, not yours.”

“That's OK. It's always good to share. So what about Russo?”

“Let's stick with my problems for a minute. This afternoon I had a visit from two men from the Justice Department. They said they were political liaisons with Congress, greasing the wheels for Russo's confirmation hearings. They'd heard about Scott Glass and wanted to know how the investigation was going. All very low key—just give us the high points in case there's anything we need to backstop.”

She paused. In my mind's eye, I could see her nervously nipping at her fingernails.

“Something about them didn't seem right. Then I noticed the shoes. Don't ask how, but I know men's shoes. One guy was wearing Crockett & Jones, the other had Ferragamos. Fifteen hundred dollars of shoe leather on two DOJ flunkies. And they kept circling back to the same questions. Who are Mr. Glass's friends? Who might he have been talking to? Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“After they left, I decided to check them out. I called the DOJ, the office where they said they worked. The woman I spoke to said sure, they had two investigators with those names, but they were both on leave.”

“So who were they?” I said.

“You don't know?”

“No, I've got no idea.”

“Mr. Glass never mentioned anything about people interceding on his behalf over here at the Bureau?”

“Not at all,” I said. “From what he said, I thought I was the only person he'd talked to about Russo.”

“Terrific. Before I came to this office, I was stationed in San Francisco. Out there, everything's pretty much right in your face. Bank robberies, kidnappings, gun running—it is what it is. DC is a whole different universe. You think you're playing one game: Go Fish for this guy Scott Glass. Then you find out the game is really poker and the man holding all the cards is some senator or lobbyist you've never heard of.”

Another pause, and this time I imagined her smiling. “Sorry again,” she said. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this.”

Maybe because I'm a good listener, I thought. I do get paid for it. But that might not be the reason. This could be just another way to try to get me to open up and let something slip about Scottie. Then again, I wished I could let my guard drop. She was fun to talk to.

She'd been waiting for me to say something. Realizing I wasn't going to, she said, “Those two men flipped IDs at me, but it's easy to phony up something like that. They could be from the General Accounting Office or the Library of Congress or Ben & Jerry's for all I know. But I do know something is definitely in the wind. Think about it—do you have any idea who those two men were or what they wanted? Guesses even?”

“I swear, no. What do you think is going on?” I said.

“I don't know, but I will find out. In the meantime, I know you want to help Mr. Glass, but there might be quicksand under all this. Let Cade and me find him. We'll be as careful as we can with him. That's the bottom line here. Go back to your patients. Let Glass face the music, whatever it is.”