The Blue Journal Page 12
Her husband shook his head. “Not necessarily, Miss Butthead.”
“That’s right,” Stratford agreed. “Although we can include you if you like, dorkface.”
“Grow up,” Linda Stratford said.
Her tone turned the table quiet for a moment, but then Bill Reilly said, “You know what they say in my business, Linda? Husbands are like long-term bonds, they never seem to mature.”
That won him a couple of laughs, but not from his own wife, who said, “It’s too true to be funny.”
Linda Stratford turned to her husband. “What about the ritual of introducing your single friends to the unattached women you know? Surely, Robert, you must know some eligible bachelor for Randi. This way she wouldn’t have to come to these dinners alone.” She turned her sharp gaze to Randi and offered a smile that was as warm as the ice in her husband’s glass. “That is, unless it’s one of those nights you’re filling in for me, dear.”
Randi managed a smile of her own but did not reply, expecting Stratford to answer his wife.
He said nothing.
“Okay then,” Bill Reilly barged in again, “what about some of that female stuff you all do?”
“What stuff?” his wife asked.
“You know, the way women are so catty about other women. Men may joke and make funny insults face-to-face, but women are really evil.”
“Evil? We’re evil?” Jeannine demanded of her husband.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure that I do, Bill,” somehow managing to wring three syllables from her husband’s name.
“Come on, Jeannine, you’re always talking about your friends behind their backs.”
“I see,” she replied, her face making it clear how she felt about the accusation, particularly in front of Linda Stratford. “As if men don’t do the same thing.”
Bob Stratford and Bill Reilly exchanged a guilty look.
“What about it, Randi?” Jeannine continued. “You are the professional here. Aren’t men more ritualistic than women?”
Randi slowly shook her head. “Generalizations can be dangerous.”
“Fine,” Jeannine said. “Give us a specific then.”
“Sex, for instance,” Stratford suggested as he turned to Randi. “That’s the main event, and your area of expertise, so to speak.”
Bill Reilly lifted his glass and did his drunken best to focus his uneven gaze on Randi. “I would like to take a moment to congratulate you for choosing sex as your area of expertise.”
After all of the cocktails and wine, three of them thought that was funny. Linda and Randi did not.
“If you want a serious answer, I can tell you that in my experience, men and women aren’t so different,” Randi said. “Basically they all behave the same way when it comes to sex.”
“What does that mean?” Jeannine asked.
Randi slowly looked around the table, then said, “Men and women all have habits and patterns, no matter how dull or outlandish. And in our society, the truth being told, men and women spend much more time talking about sex than having sex.”
“That’s for sure,” Jeannine Reilly said in her throaty voice, earning some approving laughter from both sides of the debate.
“I will admit,” Randi went on, “when it comes to sex, it seems to me that men and women do share one basic ritual.”
When she paused, Jeannine demanded impatiently, “What? What ritual?”
Randi took a long swallow of her fresh drink, then looked directly at Linda Stratford. “They lie,” she said.
CHAPTER 18
Anthony Walker arrived at the station house early on Saturday morning. The Knoebel file was sitting atop a stack of papers on the steel cabinet in his office. He grabbed it, dropped into his chair, and began looking through the folder, trying to determine what, if anything, he might be missing.
After a brief but frustrating review he finally leaned forward, tossed the file on his desk, and grabbed the phone. He dialed up voice mail and retrieved his messages. The first call he returned was to Teddy Blasko.
“Hey, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Blasko told him.
“What’ve you got?”
“For starters, there’s no evidence anyone tampered with her computer. It also doesn’t appear any of the files have been edited lately, except what we read together. Someone worked on that one the day she died.”
“When you say ‘someone’ . . .”
“I mean anyone who had access to her computer. Could’ve been her, could’ve been someone else. No way of knowing that.”
“The fingerprints lifted off the keyboard were all hers. She had to be the last one to use it.”
“Right,” Blasko said. “Forgot about that. Kovie went through her e-mails?”
“He did. Nothing helpful there, coming or going. If her stories are real, she wasn’t communicating with these people by e-mail.”
“Agreed. I checked for deleted messages, the trash bin on her hard drive, nothing useful there either.”
“Okay. What about the file names?”
“Turns out to be a variation on a Caesarian code with a real first initial and a progression starting with the second letter.”
“Simple English would be helpful.”
“Right, right. She used real first initials, added four letters to the second letter, three to the next, then two, then one. Kept all the names to five letters.”
“Names, Teddy. What are the names?”
“Right, right. Using those names you gave me as possible matches, that made some of them easy as pie. Others don’t fit at all. I mean they don’t match the pattern. Got your list handy?”
“Hold on,” Walker said as he grabbed the sheet from the file. “Okay, go.”
“In order, I’ll spell out what we’ve got. Remember, the first initials remain the same. I get BRIAN. CHARL. DRCON. FINAL—that one appears to be uncoded. FRANC. FREDW. INTRO—another one that’s uncoded. JOANA. JAMES. LISAG. MITCH. NETIE. PAULG. PHYLS. REGNA. ROBRT. SHAKE is another one that does not seem to follow the code. STNLY. THOMS. That’s it.”
Walker sat there and stared at the list he had just made. BRIAN, JAMES, REGNA, and ROBRT were new. He would have to look at the file called SHAKE, see what that was about. The other names were becoming increasingly familiar. He riffled through the pages for what he now knew were the DRCON and the STNLY files. They were blank. “What about the backup you mentioned?”
“Nothing different there.”
“Tell me about the two empty files.”
“Whatever they might have had in them, they were wiped clean a week before her murder.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want me to do with the laptop?”
“Drop it off here today.”
“Done,” Blasko said, then hung up.
Walker’s next call was to Kovacevic.
“Still sleeping?”
“It’s Saturday, sir.”
“Right. Here’s what you’re going to do on Saturday.”
Walker told him about the results of Blasko’s work and explained what he wanted him to do with the names they had matched between Elizabeth’s computer and Randi Conway’s patients. He hung up, pulled another number from the file, and punched it in. When he got an answering machine he ended the call and dialed a second number, the one for her office.
She picked up the phone and said, “Doctor Conway.”
“This is Anthony Walker.”
“Good morning, Detective Walker.”
“Working early on a Saturday?”
“Catching up on some paperwork.”
“Yeah, me too. Look, I think I might have been a little heavy-handed the other day.”
“A little?”
“Let’s just say that you and I have gotten off to a bad start, how’s that?”
“I’m not sure what you think we’re starting,” she said in an unfriendly monotone, “but, yes, I agree that we’ve given bad starts a new meaning.”<
br />
“So what do you say to a truce?”
“A truce?”
“Is that what you therapists do, you answer every question with another question?”
“Someone else just accused me of that. Is that what everyone thinks?”
“See, that’s another question. I’m catching on.”
“Is there a point to this call, Detective Walker?”
“I think we should talk.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m actually calling to ask if you’ll have dinner with me.”
“Dinner?”
“There you go again.”
Randi allowed herself a brief laugh. “Maybe I can’t help myself, but I do have another question. Why would we want to have dinner together?”
“Let’s just say I have some new information you might find interesting, and I could use your help. You pick the spot, I’ll buy.”
“When would we be having this dinner?”
“How about tonight, at seven?”
“I can’t do it tonight, I’m busy,” she lied reflexively. It was a Saturday night, after all, and she was not about to admit she had no plans.
“Something you can change?”
She paused. “Is this like you’re calling me in for questioning?”
Walker laughed. “Not exactly, no. But it is important.”
He waited through a long silence. Then Randi said. “Can I call you back?”
“You can, but it’d be a whole lot easier if you just said yes and named the place.”
“All right,” she said, her tone making it sound very much like ‘Why not’? “Seven o’clock.”
“Good,” he said. “How about Roberto’s, in Stamford?”
“I thought I got to pick the place.”
“You can, sure, I was just trying to move things along. I know them, a table won’t be a problem.”
“Your regular hangout?”
“No, but I once did the owner a favor.”
“And it’ll be better for us to meet in another town, rather than here in Darien, am I right?”
“That was my thought. Figured it might be more comfortable for you.”
“Roberto’s is fine,” she said.
“Can I pick you up?”
“That’s all right. I know the place. I’ll meet you there.”
He felt a bit uncomfortable about that—he was old-school about such things—but he decided not to push it. It wasn’t a date, after all, it was a dinner meeting. “Okay,” he said. “See you there.”
After Randi hung up, the first thing she thought about was the typewritten notes she had found in her office. She took them out of the drawer and looked at them again.
She had not mentioned them to Bob Stratford and she already knew she was not going to tell Walker about it, at least not yet.
But why? she asked herself. What was she afraid they would discover? What was she afraid she might discover? The notes were anonymous, after all.
She leaned back, her gaze unfocused, recalling a private session with Elizabeth Knoebel, nearly a year ago.
It was near the end of the hour, and Elizabeth’s face wore the sardonic smile that had become so familiar to Randi.
“Doctor,” Elizabeth said, “I don’t think you realize that you may actually be the one in need of help.”
Randi did not respond.
“It’s obvious to all of us.”
“All of you?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Of course,” she said. “You may be the analyst, but you’re as needy as any of the rest of them in that pitiful group.”
Randi stared at her without speaking.
Then, in a whisper, Elizabeth said, “I know what you need.”
Randi looked away, which caused Elizabeth to laugh. “You see how tense you are, Doctor? You need a release for that tension.”
“You believe I’m tense?”
“I believe you’re tight, yes. Are you tight, Doctor? I believe you’re tight.”
Randi resisted the urge to say what she really thought. Instead she said, “What I believe, Elizabeth, is that we should be talking about you.”
“But we are talking about me, don’t you see? We’re talking about us.”
Randi remained silent.
“Fear is a disabling emotion, Doctor. What are so you afraid of?”
When Randi gave no answer, Elizabeth leaned forward, the low cut of her blouse offering a view of her fleshy breasts. She was not wearing a bra. “What are you so afraid of?” she asked again.
Randi lowered her gaze. She could not bring herself to answer. Elizabeth was so close they seemed to be sharing the fragrance of her musky perfume. Randi could almost feel the warmth of Elizabeth’s breath as she spoke.
“Ah, Doctor, what a pity that you live your life this way, allowing opportunities to pass. It’s true, isn’t it? You lead a life of lost opportunities.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Randi answered, feeling foolish for having said it.
“Don’t you? Isn’t this an opportunity for you? For both of us?”
Randi began to stand up, but Elizabeth reached out and touched her arm. “Don’t run away,” she said teasingly. “Stay with me.”
Randi sat down, slowly pulling her arm back, now looking directly at Elizabeth. She said, “Whatever you think you’re playing at, Elizabeth, this is not a game. This is not a game,” she repeated.
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “No,” she said, displaying as warm a smile as Randi had ever seen her manage. “It’s not a game, Doctor.” Then Elizabeth stood up and, without another word, left the office.
Randi rubbed her eyes, picked up the phone, and called Stratford.
CHAPTER 19
Elizabeth’s murderer was faced with a problem, and her name was Randi Conway.
It had always been an issue, the existence of a psychologist with intimate knowledge of Elizabeth Knoebel, as well as some of the critical players involved in the drama Elizabeth had created. The detective in charge of the investigation would conclude the same thing, and it was inevitable that he would begin pressuring Randi Conway for information.
The built-in firewall was Dr. Conway’s obligation to protect the confidences of her patients, especially those who were most troubled, those most in need of her care. Leaving the anonymous notes was intended to reinforce the therapist’s commitment to her patients and to send her in the wrong direction.
Now it was time to intensify the effort, to add a measure of fear to the equation.
It would be a shame to have to kill her, but whatever needed to be done, it was a decision that would have to be made soon.
That Saturday afternoon, as Elizabeth’s murderer pondered the next move, Walker and Kovacevic were alone in the squad room, mulling over the various notes, papers and photographs on the case. Walker tossed a folder on the desk, looked up, and asked, “So, what have we got here?”
“Sir?”
“We’ve got this coded list of names from her computer, some of which seem to match the names of the women in her therapy group and their husbands. The contents are a lot of sexy stories about men. And women.”
Kovacevic nodded.
“One of the unidentified files is probably about the Sisson woman. A couple of the others are wild cards, at least so far. And the files that appear to be named for the good Doctor Knoebel and our friend Randi Conway are blank.”
“What about those?”
“Teddy says if anything had been erased since her death, he would have found it,” Walker said. “Something about checking the backup and the hard drive and all that other cyber-talk.”
“That’s right,” Kovacevic said. “Even if they were erased, he could go back and see when they were last edited.”
“Okay, so we’ve got a murdered woman who was some sort of sexual predator, at least according to what’s in here.” He pointed to the pages of the journal. “And the way she manipulated these people, any one of them who read this might
have wanted to blow her brains out.”
“Even if they hadn’t read it. Maybe even if they just knew she was writing it.”
“Good point. Or if they knew what she was up to.”
“Especially her husband?”
Walker grinned. “The thought has crossed my mind. But it raises another question.”
Kovacevic waited.
“What if the murderer had no idea about her journal? I mean, whoever shot her was right there, inside her house. They could have taken the laptop. Or Teddy would have found evidence that someone tampered with it.”
The young officer nodded again.
“Or there would have been some indication the house was searched for a hard copy, a printed version.”
“Good point.”
“If I’m going to kill her because her memoirs are going to embarrass me, why wouldn’t I try and find the damn thing and take it with me?”
“So you think the murderer had no idea she was writing about all of this.”
“That’s my best guess. There was no indication in the house of any kind of search. No one’s fingerprints on the computer except the victim’s.”
Kovacevic nodded. “So we’re back to the question of motive.”
“The murderer might have figured out what she was up to. Could have been jealous. Or angry over being played. Or concerned she might start talking.”
“Assuming it was not her husband.”
“Even if it was,” Walker sighed. “We’ll have to start by checking out Knoebel’s alibi in New York. I’ll handle that. And we’ll need to speak with Nettie Sisson again.”
“Want me to set that up?”
“No, let’s surprise her.”
“Right.”
“Then there’s this list of people we need to check out.” He shook his head. “We have to run down every one of these leads without ruining a dozen lives and disrupting the whole community in the process.”
“You sound like the chief.”
“Heaven forbid. I just don’t want to kick up a lot of dirt unnecessarily.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
Walker thought it over. “We’ve got to figure a way to determine which of these people knew what Elizabeth Knoebel was doing, and that’s going to be tricky. Let me meet with Randi first, see what she has to say.”