Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 14

"You always told me not to get attached to my clients," she said. "Remember? You said it was too easy to be blinded to them if you're emotionally involved."

He frowned and peered at her over his gla.s.ses. "I am not blinded by my emotions," he said coldly.

"Probably not. But she was a very good looking fifty-three-year-old who might have been flattered by attention from someone that much younger, and might have believed whatever he said. She might have had to work at believing him, but was working at it. It happens." Or, she thought but did not add, Hilde could have woven her own fantasy romance tale, complete with mad wife in the attic and happy ending.

"What would be in it for him?" he demanded.

"Oh, Dad, come on! He's a man, isn't he? What more do you need?"

"I remember that I also said more than once that if you start generalizing about people, you lose the individual," he said, even colder.

"Well, since I don't have him, I can't lose him, now can I? Peace, Dad. I'm grasping at straws. I'll check out that book, put in a book search for it. Probably Talbot Grady is long dead, but I'll give him a shot, too, while I'm at it. No doubt it's a waste of time if what our guy wanted was something scribbled on the inside cover."

The next morning she had just entered the kitchen, sniffing coffee, when the phone rang. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the kitchen wall phone when she heard Will's voice.

"Barbara, police are at Graham's with a search warrant. They want to question Alex. I'm on my way out."

"So am I," she said. "Stall them as much as you can."

"What the devil?" Frank said as she raced upstairs for her laptop, purse, briefcase, sandals. She raced back down.

"I have to leave," she said, running past Frank. "See you later."

The waiting was over.

19.

Graham Minick had awakened very early that morning, before six, before the birdsong had become a full chorus. In no hurry to get up, he had thought about the strange thing that happened when a member of the household left. Like now, the house had an almost eerie stillness. It wasn't that Alex was a noisy sleeper, filling the house with snores and grunts; he never made a sound that escaped his closed door. It was rather as if a vacuum had formed, and it tugged at Minick throughout the day, the way it had done when Sal died so many years before.

He understood the pull of that emptiness, that absence of anything human; he had nearly succ.u.mbed to it before, and only after the fact had come to realize its power; only after the fact had he recognized how deep into depression he had sunk. He knew very well that for many the only escape from the void, the deepening depression of despair, was the ultimate escape. Alex had said more than once that Minick had saved his life, but Graham Minick knew that salvation had worked both ways.

For many people work, a busy social life, a full schedule, all served to seal off that black void of emptiness; some people even thrived on a hermitlike existence. But Minick was not a hermit, not a recluse. Years ago, he had filled his days, hour after hour scheduled, more cases than he could properly manage, and then, when he paused, when he became still, he had been aware that just out of sight, waiting, growing ever more powerful, was the void.

Then he was thinking of the many young desperate people he had counseled, how he had come to dread the empty eyes, knowing that the void had claimed those youngsters. Some he had saved, some he had lost.

Yesterday, walking down to the road to collect any new hate posters tacked to his trees, he had heard something off to the side. The sound grew louder, and he realized that it was coming from the Marchand woods. It sounded as if someone was dragging something through the brush.

He worked his way closer, then came to a stop behind a tree. The girl, Rachel Marchand, was dragging a tree branch, grunting and panting with effort. She was dressed in jeans and boots, a T-s.h.i.+rt, with her hair tied up in a ponytail, and not a trace of makeup. She stopped to rest, then began to drag the branch again.

She was on the track where she and her boyfriend had parked, and he realized that she was blocking it off from the road. One branch was already across the track and, with the one she was pulling, it would be impa.s.sable. Minick did not move as he watched her close off lover's lane.

When she had the branch in place, she stood up and looked about, and he was struck by the change in her. Before, garishly painted, she had looked like a child who had gotten into her mother's makeup; now she looked like a young adult, thinner than he remembered, pale and drawn, and with empty eyes.

She turned and trudged back toward the Marchand house, and he did not move until she vanished among the trees.

That afternoon he went to a strawberry farm and bought half a flat of berries, then he drove to the Marchand house. Mrs. Dufault opened the door at his knock.

"I brought you some strawberries," he said. "For you and the youngsters." She looked fl.u.s.tered, unsure if she should invite him in, and he said, "I'll just get them from the car."

When he returned, carrying the berries, she opened the door wider and he walked into the kitchen. "They're so beautiful this year, I couldn't resist," he said, "and I thought maybe you folks would enjoy them, too." He put the box of berries on the table.

"That's so kind of you," Mrs. Dufault said. "Thank you." She hesitated, then said, "Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Don't go to any trouble," he said, but he sat down, and she was already taking cups from the cabinet. "How are the kids getting along?"

"Fine," she said. "Just fine." She brought coffee to the table and sat down. "Leona said you were a psychologist and a medical doctor. Is that right?"

"Well, I'm retired, you know. But that's what I was, what I did."

"She said you worked with troubled youngsters in New York for many years." She stirred her coffee, keeping her gaze on it. "Actually," she said then, "I'm a bit concerned for Rachel. Probably it's nothing, and she'll get over it. Kids are so resilient. But she's like a different girl. I don't really know what to do for her. I've tried talking to her about... you know. But she won't say anything."

"She's been deeply traumatized, Mrs. Dufault. They both have been. And she's at the most difficult age there is. Walking that tightrope between childhood and adulthood is a precarious time. And there's always a feeling of guilt if a child's parents die prematurely. They can't account for it and can't get rid of it without help in many instances, and it gnaws away at them. Have you considered counseling for her?"

"I brought it up, but she just ran up to her room crying."

"Probably she doesn't understand how it works. She would be the client and whatever she talked about would be held confidential, sacred even. The counselor wouldn't tell you or anyone else a thing, you see. Grief counseling can be a healing process, Mrs. Dufault. The child has been deeply hurt; she needs help to heal."

"I don't know where to begin," Mrs. Dufault said in a strained voice.

"Perhaps her family doctor could recommend someone, or a teacher Rachel trusts, or her minister."

She shook her head. "She won't even talk to the minister. He tried, but she just sat like a lump, and then went to her room."

"Her doctor then," Minick said.

"I'll try," Mrs. Dufault said. "G.o.d knows, the child needs something. She just cries and cries. Or else she sits and stares at nothing. It's scary to see her like this."

Minick nodded. Crying was all right; staring at nothing was not all right. "Ask her doctor for the name of a counselor," he said. "A counselor will know how to approach her, what to say, how to help." He stood up. "I'll be on my way now."

Lying in bed that Tuesday morning, he went over the incident in his mind once more; he had gone over it several times, and wished he had it to do over. But what more could he have said? Mrs. Dufault was an intelligent woman; she had understood what he meant. And she knew Rachel was in trouble. Those empty eyes, he thought bleakly.

His doorbell roused him out of bed; he pulled on his robe, thrust his feet into slippers, and went to see what idiot was calling at seven-thirty in the morning. Then, with a sense almost of relief, he saw that the waiting was over; the police had arrived.

Well, Barbara thought, pulling into the driveway, full house. There was a green sheriff's car, a black-and-white city police car, an unmarked black Ford, and Will's convertible. She parked behind the convertible and got out.

On the front porch a deputy stepped forward as she approached. "Stop," he said. "Police business. You can't go in there now." He was very young, blond, and nervous; his hand kept edging toward his holstered gun, then jerking away.

"Peace," Barbara said, advancing. "Mr. Feldman's attorney. I come in peace. Take me to your leader."

"You got some ID?"

"If I reach inside my purse for ID, you promise not to shoot?" He flushed brick red, and at the same moment the screen door was pushed open; a plainclothes detective stepped out to the porch and said, "Holloway. c.r.a.p, you shake a tree and the only nuts that fall out are lawyers. Where's Feldman?"

"And good morning to you, Detective c.u.mmins," she said pleasantly. She smiled at the deputy, whose hands were now clasped behind his back. He stared straight ahead as she entered the house.

"Good morning, Will, Dr. Minick," she said then. Dr. Minick, in his robe and slippers, looked pinched, both angry and frightened. "Is there any coffee?" she asked him. "Would you mind putting on some?" He nodded in relief and left the living room. A detective followed him. Barbara turned to Will. "Have they taken anything out yet?"

"No. We've been discussing the search warrant." He handed a copy to her. "I think they're tearing up Alex's bedroom."

She scanned the warrant quickly and nodded. "Will, please make a note of how many armed officers are present, what they're all doing, and their names." She pulled her camera from her briefcase and started toward Alex's bedroom. Detective c.u.mmins caught her arm.

"Not so fast, Holloway. We're here with a lawful warrant to search and seize certain materials. Just park it on a chair and wait until we're done."

She quickly aimed her camera and took his picture. He drew back. "Detective, that warrant says you're looking for p.o.r.nography, weapons, drugs, and/or materials a.s.sociated with related activities. I intend to see that it stops with that and that you don't leave this house looking like a tornado struck. Don't touch me again. I intend to get a pictorial record of what takes place here today."

For a moment he glared at her. He was forty-something, very muscular and trim, even good-looking, with close-cut brown hair and brown eyes. At the moment he looked carved from wood. He moved aside. "Don't get in the way," he said. "And I asked you before, where's Feldman? I have instructions to take him in for questioning."

"And I have a court order that says you can't do that." She pulled a copy of the restraining order from her briefcase, handed it to him, then walked on into the bedroom and began taking snapshots. Drawers had been dumped out onto the floor; two detectives had already torn the bed apart and appeared ready to start slitting the mattress.

"You can tell by close examination if it's been opened and resewn," she said clearly, taking another picture.

Behind her c.u.mmins said, "Pick up that stuff and leave the bed alone."

One of the detectives began to toss socks and underwear back into a drawer. Barbara did not say a word; better a mess in the drawer than on the floor. After that she simply followed them from room to room, watched and took pictures as they continued their search for illicit materials: they took pictures off the wall and examined the backs, searched through books more carefully than she had done in Hilde's house, inspected the bottoms and sides of drawers, the bottoms of chairs and tables....

Then c.u.mmins was back at her side. He handed her a cell phone. "For you."

"Holloway," she said, keeping her gaze on the detectives.

"Ms. Holloway, Lieutenant Kreiger here. We seem to have a bit of a misunderstanding. Our department requires a statement from Mr. Feldman."

"No objection," she said. "My office at a time convenient to all parties."

Smoothly, even persuasively, he explained why that was not an option and then, just as smoothly, she explained that it was the only option he had. "I am charged with his well-being, and it wouldn't be to his benefit to sit in an uncomfortable chair in a police station."

"You could be charged with obstruction of justice," he said, not quite so smoothly.

"And you could be charged with contempt of court if you interfere with an official court order."

There was a pause, then he said, "Two o'clock this afternoon. Where is your office?"

At eleven the officers were ready to leave. Barbara had a receipt for Alex's computer, one charcoal drawing pencil, several magazines, and a stack of newspapers. They wanted to take Dr. Minick's new laptop as well, and she had said no: the search warrant did not include any of his possessions. They settled for an on-site inspection by one of the officers.

As soon as the police were gone, Barbara said piteously, "Now, may I please have a cup of coffee?"

Will laughed, motioned her to a chair in the kitchen, and poured coffee for her. "You came on like gangbusters. Wow!"

"Got their attention, didn't I?" She sipped the coffee and closed her eyes. "Ah, I needed that. They'll be at my office at two to get a statement from Alex."

"Will I be allowed in?" Dr. Minick asked.

"Probably not. You can wait in Sh.e.l.ley's office, if you like, or just hang out here. It's a formality today. They ask questions, he answers, they present him with a typed copy, and he signs it. Done. Will and I will be at his elbow."

She drank more of the coffee. "At least now we know the approach they'll use. The stalking charge, endangering a child. Will, hasn't the Doughboy come up with a picture yet?"

He shook his head. "A couple, but she's as clean as little Miss Prim."

"Who?" Dr. Minick asked. "You mean Rachel?"

"Rachel," Barbara said. "I want a picture of her in her war paint."

"Let me tell you what I saw yesterday," Dr. Minick said. He told them how he had watched Rachel block off lover's lane. "She's deeply troubled, traumatized, consumed by guilt feelings."

"Guilt? Why? She had nothing to do with her father's death."

"No, no. I don't mean deserved guilt, earned guilt. I mean the guilt that sneaks in. Not just her father, but both parents. She must be going through all the little slights, the insignificant instances when she didn't take out the trash or make her bed, when she sa.s.sed or she daydreamed through church services. A thousand little things. Add them to the guilt she knows she deserves, sneaking behind her father's back to wear makeup, lying about Alex, going out with an older boy. The girl's in deep trouble, Barbara."

"All right," Barbara said sharply. "She's in trouble. But so is Alex. And she put him there. If she wants to untangle herself, she should start telling the truth, just for openers."

"I doubt she's capable of doing that right now," Dr. Minick said after a moment. "That might be too threatening to her."

Barbara stood up. "I have to get to the office, get in touch with Alex, prepare him. After today, he can come home."

Alex arrived at one, as Barbara had asked him to do, and he came in wearing a tan chamois beret. Sh.e.l.ley had been right; it was a vast improvement over the baseball cap, and it meant, Barbara added silently to herself, that Sh.e.l.ley must have seen him over the weekend to give him the berets.

Dr. Minick and Will arrived together at a quarter to two, and the detectives arrived promptly at two. Lieutenant Kreiger was a slightly built man with black hair a touch too long, and black eyes. His eyebrows were black, s.h.a.ggy and thick. His manner was crisp. He had a stenographer with him, and another detective who seemed to do nothing except keep his gaze on the lieutenant at all times. All three had taken one look at Alex. The stenographer, a young man who looked as if he belonged in high school, blanched and looked ill.

"Please remove your hat and gla.s.ses," Kreiger said as soon as they were all seated in Barbara's office.

"I prefer not to," Alex said. "If you don't mind."

The lieutenant nodded as if he had a new bit of information. It was a mannerism he was to repeat several times as he asked his questions and Alex answered them.

After covering the day of the murder, the lieutenant asked, "Where do you sell your paintings?"

"I send my art to my agent, and he sells it. Original paintings by unknown artists are placed in corporate offices, doctors' offices, some restaurants, not upper-echelon offices, CEOs and such, they get Miros and van Goghs, but mid-level management." He gave his agent's name and address.

The lieutenant took a drawing pencil from his briefcase and handed it to Alex. "Is that yours?"

"I don't know. It's like some of mine. I have several different kinds."

"Do you take a sketchbook and pencil out on your hikes?" Alex said yes. "Ever stop behind the Marchand house to sketch?"

"No. I don't go near his property if I can help it. Up in the woods it's hard to know where his starts; it's not posted or anything."

"They keep it mowed behind the house, a hundred feet or so, don't they?"

"I don't know."

"You ever sit up there, just behind the mowed part and sketch?"

"I said no. That's the only answer I can give you. No."