The Survivors (11 page)

“I can't let it go, at least not until I see Russo. I made a promise.”

“I was afraid you'd say something like that. I suppose arguing wouldn't do any good?”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“All right, I put in a phone call for you. That was this morning, before my two visitors showed up. If they'd gotten here first, there's no way I would have let you get in the middle of this. Turns out Russo is not only willing to talk to you, he wants to. He's curious to find out who this guy is who's sending him threatening messages.”

“Great,” I said.

“Not so fast—there are conditions.”

“What kind of conditions?” I asked.

“First of all, it's off the record. No tape recordings, no notes. Just a conversation.”

“No problem on my end. Why is Russo worried about that?”

“Same reason as the second condition. You can't meet at Russo's office, or yours. It's got to be kept quiet. Russo seeing a psychologist—that's just too juicy with his confirmation hearings only a couple of weeks away, no matter what you two have to talk about.”

A lot of people in Washington felt like that, including some of my patients. They'd rather be seen with somebody on the ten-most-wanted list than with me. Political people can get by with a lot of flaws, but not mental problems. Even a whisper of that can turn a career in Washington into a punch line.

“Wherever he wants,” I said. “Is that it?”

“No, I've got my own condition.”

“Which is?”

“As soon as you finish with Russo, you call and tell me what you two talked about. I don't want to get blindsided by this.”

“I guess I owe you that much,” I said.

“That much and a lot more. I'll be thinking of ways you can work off the rest.”

“As long as it doesn't involve plumbing or painting, I'm all yours.”

She laughed. “Russo is expecting you at eight thirty tonight, his home in Palisades.” She gave me the address.

I said, “All right, thanks. I'll call you when we're through.”

I waited for her to say good-bye, but she hesitated. “You know . . . when we had coffee this morning, that thing you did about walking on the beach. What was that all about?”

“That? That was—” There are turning points in the way people deal with each other. I saw it all the time with my patients. It usually comes when both sides decide to be honest. “You eavesdropped at my door the other day.”

“I told you I was sorry for that.”

“You did. But you also went through my patient calendar. That's about as private as anything can get.”

“You noticed that.”

“I did,” I said.

“I'm sorry about that, too,” she said quietly. “It's a problem I have with my job. Sometimes I go overboard.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I said. “And while we're into apologies, here's mine for putting you on the spot with that line about beaches. Maybe I just wanted to show that even a tough FBI agent couldn't push me around.”

“From what I see, you don't let yourself get pushed around much, Cal.”

So I wasn't Doctor Henderson anymore. “I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway—a fresh start?”

“Sure. That sounds good. Hey, one other thing—why did you call him ‘Scottie'?”

I almost answered. At that moment, it would have been so easy.
He's an old friend; we almost died the same night.
I fumbled and said, “What do you mean?”

“At your office, you called Mr. Glass ‘Scottie' instead of Scott—familiar, like you knew him somehow. Then your patient calendar listed him as Edward Gaines. I'm just wondering why is all.”

I fumbled again. This was a fresh start? “Well, I . . . all I can say, Agent Weston, is that Scott Glass is a complicated man.”

I waited for another question, something to really pin me to the wall. She only laughed and said, “You can call me Jamie.” And she hung up.

TEN

T
he Palisades neighborhood in northwest DC is only about a mile and a half from Felix's home in Spring Valley. It's also five or six rungs up the social ladder. The homes were little castles, built to look as if they had been there for a hundred years and would stand for a hundred more. The lawns were so perfect they might have been tended with barber scissors.

As I picked my way through the maze of streets, I thought about the meeting. I wanted to convince Eric Russo to call off the dogs on Scottie, but I was curious too. What were those phone calls my mother made all about? Did Russo remember her at all?

Russo's place was a wide brick Federal at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was set on a knoll so it looked down on the neighbors. There were four chimneys and a four-car garage. I came up the walk by a long row of rose bushes in full bloom. There wasn't a single flower past its prime.

There was no doorbell, so I used the nickel knocker. The door opened almost immediately, revealing a girl in her early teens. She had stick-straight dark hair and extra-heavy eyeliner, neon blue. “Hi,” I said, “I'm here to see Mr. Russo. Is he your father?”

“Cassie, I've got that,” someone called from behind her.

She rolled her eyes and shut the door most of the way in my face.

It opened again to reveal an old man with a narrow face and shovel-shaped jaw. His eyes were very pale gray, and he stared at me for a few seconds before he said, “Dr. Henderson?”

“That's right.”

“I'm Griffin O'Shea, Mr. Russo's assistant.” Scottie had mentioned O'Shea. He didn't look like what I'd expect for an assistant to a US Attorney, more like a butler.

I put out my right hand, and, after a moment of awkwardness, he shook it with his left. His own right hand was missing, and he smiled slightly, as if he'd put a joke over on me. “Don't worry. Happens all the time.” Then he recanted, pulling his sleeve up. “Snakebite when I was seven years old. A downside of being the son of a rancher.” He shut the door and led me down the hallway.

The room we entered was a study, banked on three walls by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The desk was antique, with dark wood and hand-carved legs. Three leather chairs were lined up in front of it, and O'Shea indicated I should take the one on the right.

Eric Russo had one of those broad, jowly faces that play so well among aging Hollywood actors. I put him in his mid-fifties. His hair was a little too long and dyed too dark for someone that old. He was shuffling through some papers and waited for me to get seated before he looked up. He seemed to like what he saw and smiled. “Dr. Henderson, welcome.” He came around to shake my hand. Instead of introducing himself, he passed me a business card. “Sorry about meeting here. I know it's kind of out of the way.”

“That's all right,” I said. I fished one of my cards out of my wallet and handed it to him. “Thanks for seeing me.”

He perched on the edge of the desk. “I hear from Jamie Weston at the FBI that you know something about this guy who's been pestering me. What's his name again?”

Griffin O'Shea was ready with the answer. “Scott Glass.”

“Right,” Russo said. He realized he had me at an uncomfortable angle, where I had to crane my neck to look up at him, so he shifted to the chair next to me.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Not much,” I said. “But I think he's harmless.”

O'Shea spoke up again. “You think or you know?”

Russo chuckled. “Let's not put the doctor on the spot, Griffin.” He turned back to me. “We just don't want this to turn into another John Hinckley situation.”

Hinckley, who shot Ronald Reagan. A healthy dose of ego was necessary to get ahead in politics, but comparing himself to a president—that was outside the normal arc.

“I don't see Jodie Foster anywhere,” I said.

Russo frowned, confused, but O'Shea laughed. “Jodie Foster, the actress,” O'Shea said. “Hinckley had a thing for her. Stalked her for a while. He thought killing Reagan would make her fall in love with him.”

If Russo was embarrassed that he didn't know this, he didn't show it. He made a face—eyes wide, mouth turned down at the corners—that said, “Imagine that.”

O'Shea pulled the other chair around and sat down. Now we could all see each other. “So about Glass—Agent Weston told us you're his psychotherapist. What's wrong with him?”

Again, Russo tried to rescue me. “Griffin puts it too bluntly. We're lawyers; we understand client confidentiality. Just tell us what you can.”

On the drive over, I'd prepared a little speech. “You know that Mr. Glass was injured when he was a child, a gunshot to the head. It's had a significant impact on his life. He's reached a point where he wants to know more about what happened to him, and he's been doing some research. Your name came up, so he wanted to talk to you about what you might know.”

“I don't know anything,” Russo said. “We've told him that.”

O'Shea said, “I spoke to Mr. Glass, and that's basically the story he gave me. Except he wasn't clear on why he thought Eric would know something.”

“The woman who shot him was named Denise Oakes.” I paused to see if there was any flicker of recognition. They both just stared at me. “She worked for Braeder Design Systems. Braeder was a client of yours.”

The problem with having a face like Russo's is that every emotion is magnified. Even a slight frown made him look completely exasperated. “Glass said something to Griffin about Braeder Design. I did work for them, sure, but so—”

O'Shea cut in. “So did a lot of other lawyers. Eric and I were partners with Chetworth & Dobbs then. We both handled things for Braeder, and so did others at the firm.”

“What kind of work did you do, Mr. Russo?” I said. It was my first real question, and I wondered if he'd go for it.

“Eric managed the account,” O'Shea said. “He knew Braeder's CEO—”

“Ned Bowles,” Russo put in. It was cute the way they finished each other's sentences, like an old married couple. “Ned and I went way back. Our parents belonged to the same country club outside Baltimore when we were kids. I brought Ned to Chetworth as a client, and Braeder came along with him. Since I ran the account, I had my hand in most of what they did, but other lawyers at the firm did the real work.” His smile came back. “That's the great thing about being a rainmaker: you don't really have to know anything.”

“What was Braeder's business then?” I asked.

“The same as it is now, only much smaller,” O'Shea said.

Russo nodded. “Bowles is an engineer. He started the company to make solar panels for satellites. It grew from there—parts for planes, tanks. All high-tech stuff, mostly military.”

“Besides Mr. Bowles, who did you know at Braeder?” I said.

Russo said, “The members of the board of directors, the chief financial officer—Carl Almann. Braeder went public about that time, sold new stock, so I did a lot of work with him. There was a tax manager . . . Bartley, I think. I knew a lot of people there.”

“Anyone in the patent department?” I said.

There was a window behind the desk, looking out on the roses. The girl I'd seen earlier walked into view. She stopped and bent as if sniffing the flowers, but it was obvious she was looking in at us.

Russo waved her on her way. That made him lose his train of thought. “Sorry. I, uh, patent department, no I don't think I knew anyone . . .”

“Eric never did any patent work,” O'Shea said. “That would have been passed off to our intellectual property group at Chetworth. Now you didn't ask—” He had a catlike smile, wide and aggressive. “—but I handled negotiations for Braeder, sales and acquisitions, bank loans and leases. I seem to remember a woman ran the patent department. Lois something. McGill, maybe? I could check for you.”

“That won't be necessary,” I said. Lois McGuin had been my mother's supervisor. They were good friends, and sometimes she came to our house. I probably wouldn't have remembered her, but every time she visited she brought my brothers and me a little gift, candy or a game.

“You're sure neither of you have ever heard of Denise Oakes?”

“Absolutely,” O'Shea said. “I told Glass that. And none of this gets us any closer to understanding why he's picking on Eric.”

I treated that as a joke. “Mr. Glass isn't picking on anyone. He just has this way about him. Abrasive. Actually, he can be a jerk sometimes.”

They laughed. I thought O'Shea's was calculated, but Russo really seemed to relax. “So why is Glass being a jerk to me when there are so many other people he could be interested in?”

“I told you he was doing some research. He found this.” I took a piece of paper from my pocket, a photocopy I'd made. “This is a telephone bill from the Oakes' home phone. You see the three calls that are marked. They were to your home telephone in Annapolis. The last call was made only an hour before Denise Oakes shot Mr. Glass and then killed herself.” My voice caught on that last bit, but they were too busy looking at the bill to notice.

“Eric lived in Annapolis at that time, but that doesn't mean this was his number,” O'Shea said.

“No, Griffin, he's right, I think,” Russo said. “It ended in six-nine-nine-six. That made it easy to remember.”

Russo stared at the floor while he thought it over. Obviously this wasn't something he'd expected.

“None of this changes the basic facts,” O'Shea said. “Eric doesn't remember this Denise Oakes person. So . . . maybe someone else used the phone on her end. Or maybe there was a mistake by the phone company.” His voice was gathering steam. “Or maybe this bill is a phony. Did you think of that?”

I shrugged. I didn't have any answers. I only wanted to see how they'd react.