The Blue Journal Page 16

  I took a long hot shower, scrubbing myself, desperately trying to wash away the awful events of the night before. I dressed, then left the hotel, with a scarf around my discolored neck and face. I moved as if I were a fugitive, hurrying through the hotel lobby, relieved that there was almost no one around to witness my departure at six in the morning.

  As I drove home I felt angry and mortified and physically shattered. The only satisfaction I could muster was the belief that I knew who he was. I would have my revenge, and soon.

  It turned out he had given me a phony name—at least the name I recalled—and that was no surprise. But the hotel had records and I knew the room number. It took some effort, but I tracked him down.

  He was stunned to receive my call in his office the next day, even more astonished when I told him what I intended to do.

  I told him I had photographs of my injuries and the hotel record for that night, and I could easily retrieve copies of the restaurant and jazz-club receipts.

  I expected him to be contrite, to apologize, to beg my forgiveness. But instead he was incredibly arrogant. He said I was just a horny bitch he had picked up at a bar, a woman who wanted to be roughed up, who had willingly gone back to his room to be fucked. The bartender in the hotel saw us drinking together, the people in the jazz club saw us kissing. He told me I could do whatever I wanted, but in the end I was only going to be humiliated in the process.

  As you might expect, I could not prove he had placed drugs in my cocktail, nor that he had forced me to do any of the things he did to me. I never contacted him again, and it was the last time we saw each other.

  All that was left to me was to learn from the experience.

  When Randi finished reading the chapter she read it again, and then a third time.

  This was not one of Elizabeth’s memories, not something Elizabeth had experienced. This was an eerily precise description of what Randi had suffered, less than a year ago, when she attended a conference in New York City. Every detail, every nuance.

  Randi sat there, staring at the pages, her hands trembling as she relived the horror of that night. She had never shared this with anyone. She had certainly not divulged a single word of this to Elizabeth Knoebel.

  So how? Randi wondered. How could she have known?

  Unless, of course, Elizabeth had engineered the entire event. Unless Elizabeth had set her up.

  It was so unthinkable, so malicious, Randi could not even fathom the evil that could drive someone to this.

  But there it was on the printed page. There was no other possibility.

  And then she recalled how, a few days after the rape, when she returned to her office still bruised and enraged by the event, she found a single red rose taped to her door. Without a note. Without explanation.

  Until now.

  CHAPTER 25

  Monday morning, after an early session with a new patient, Randi Conway was seated at the desk in her office, the printed pages of Elizabeth Knoebel’s journal before her.

  The final chapter was so utterly different in tone than the rest of the diary it felt as if someone else had written the scene. For a moment Randi was tempted to go back to the beginning and read it through all over again, but she was still too shaken by what she had read the day before. Instead, she pushed the pages away and stared at them, wondering what to do next.

  Walker had been right. Elizabeth had made a pale effort to disguise the various players and, despite the coded names, Randi knew most of the people portrayed. The character traits, the descriptions, the intimate details Elizabeth revealed, it was all painfully clear. Elizabeth had used her, and had exploited the other women in her group. She took their secrets and then tracked down their husbands, attempting to seduce each of them for the sheer sport of the chase, for the mere experience of the conquest.

  And the women were not immune from the twisted game Elizabeth was playing. She tormented Fran Colello in ways that went far beyond what Randi had witnessed in group. She took advantage of Nettie Sisson’s weakness, something Randi had long suspected but now acknowledged as something she should have faced. Elizabeth manipulated Phyllis Wentworth and Joan Avery, encouraging fears about their failing marriages, pushing them to the limits of personal despair. Even Lisa Gorman came under her sway, forced to question the prospects for her young family.

  And then there was the pain of what Randi had been made to suffer.

  Not only was it now clear that Elizabeth was behind that brutal assault, but there were also the taunts she had leveled against Randi in their private sessions.

  As a therapist, Randi understood that patients play all sorts of games that are inspired by many different psychological forces. Transference. Role-playing. Fantasies. Egotism. Narcissism. Randi was trained to deflect these gambits in an effort to bring the patient in touch with his or her true feelings.

  But Elizabeth was motivated by sheer malice, and Randi had never broken through the veneer that hid the causes for her malevolence from view.

  Now she had to wonder—why had she failed, and why had she put up with it?

  At dinner on Saturday Walker had mentioned Randi’s book, The Cheating Heart, and she surprised herself by admitting that it had been written as a therapeutic exercise. It was never intended as a serious treatise, it was pop psychology, something she created to deal with the pain of her broken engagement. In some ways, it was payback for the way that miserable sonuvabitch had walked out on her.

  It became evident that Elizabeth had read the book, dissected it for use in her sessions, and turned many of their discussions into attacks on Randi rather than counseling for Elizabeth.

  Again, Randi was left to wonder why she did not take another approach, or resign as the woman’s therapist altogether.

  And then there was the issue of Elizabeth’s marriage.

  Randi asked Walker why he thought Knoebel allowed the police to see Elizabeth’s journal, but Walker had no reasonable explanation. While that remained unanswered, this much was obvious—Stanley was an intelligent man with a controlling personality—whatever he did, he did with purpose.

  Elizabeth had written the scene about Randi, disguising the incident as if it had happened to her. But Randi was the lynchpin around which Elizabeth’s entire scheme of seduction revolved. Her overtures to Randi, although rejected, should have made it into the diary, should they not? Were there things Elizabeth wrote about her that had been deleted? And if so, by whom? What might Elizabeth have written that did not survive?

  Randi slowly opened the desk drawer, took out the anonymous notes she had found in her office, then placed them atop Elizabeth’s manuscript. The first said:

  DR CONWAY

  YOU MUST NOT BETRAY HER.

  YOU MUST NOT BETRAY ME.

  The second typewritten note said:

  DR CONWAY

  I AM SORRY

  Walker was right again, she told herself. Elizabeth’s murderer lived in the pages of this journal. As the police sought to decipher the clues depicted in these torrid, angry scenes, Randi knew that she was better qualified than anyone else to make sense of it all— and the one person to whom the danger of that reality was the greatest.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Bob Stratford’s office.

  “You don’t sound like you’re having a very good morning,” he said.

  “I’m not,” she replied, making no effort to conceal her gloomy mood. “You have a few minutes to talk?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  She began by returning to the notes, then told him about her dinner with Walker and the threatening phone call she received while they were at the restaurant. She said that she had described the call to Walker but, for reasons she could not explain, had not told him about the notes.

  “We’ll figure out how to handle that,” Stratford assured her.

  “After I told him about the call, he said he wanted to take my phone and have it traced.”

  “Understandable.”

  Randi
took a deep breath.

  “I take it there’s more?”

  “There is,” she said. “The main thing I wanted to talk with you about is something that Walker gave me, something Elizabeth Knoebel had written. A diary of some kind. A book, really.”

  “What sort of book?”

  Stratford listened silently as Randi described SEXUAL RITES, recounting some of the scenes, explaining that the people were identified only by a single initial, but she was certain some of them were her patients. For now she said nothing about the chapter describing her own date rape. When she was finished, Stratford remained quiet. “Bob?”

  “I’m here. Just trying to get my mind around it, that’s all.”

  “Me too. Walker told me not to show it to anyone, to keep it strictly confidential. But obviously I had to tell you.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, then thought it over for a moment. “You say that you recognize some of the people this woman wrote about. How real do you think her stories are?”

  “I think they’re very real.”

  “But you had no idea she was keeping a journal like this?”

  “Of course not. How would I?”

  “She might’ve said something about it.”

  “She didn’t. I told that to Detective Walker.”

  “And he believed you?”

  “I can’t see why he wouldn’t, it’s the truth. Why would that matter anyway?”

  “It might bear on their decision to get an order to compel you to divulge what she disclosed to you in therapy.”

  “God, I didn’t even think of that.”

  Stratford became quiet again. Then he said, “Forget what she was writing. Did you know she was seeing these men?”

  Randi paused. “I, uh, I didn’t know, not for certain.”

  “But you did suspect that she was?”

  Randi took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Fear would be a better word than suspect. Looking back I should have seen more. But nothing like this,” she added.

  “What else did Detective Walker say about her diary?”

  “That was it. He wanted me to read it and give it back to him.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Stratford said, “Her murderer must have known about this diary.”

  “I don’t think so,” Randi disagreed. “She was murdered in her own home. Walker says if the murderer knew about it, the computer would never have been left behind.”

  “Right, right” he agreed, “I see his point.”

  “But if it comes out that she kept this sort of diary . . .”

  When she hesitated, Stratford finished the thought for her. “That would put you front and center in helping to identify the people in the book.”

  “Walker thinks it’s even worse than that.”

  “It puts you directly in harm’s way.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Assuming the murderer never knew of the diary but finds out about it now, you become a real threat. You’re the person most likely to unravel the truth in whatever this woman had written.”

  “Exactly.”

  “All the more reason to honor Walker’s request that you keep this strictly confidential.”

  “I know. But something like this, I mean, how long is it going to remain a secret?”

  Stratford thought that over. “Good question. I’ll put a call in to Walker. I phoned him the other day, left a message to let him know I was keeping an eye on you.”

  “He told me. Thanks.”

  “I’ll make sure I speak with him today.”

  “Okay. But remember, you can’t say anything about the diary.”

  Stratford said he didn’t like that. After all, they had an attorney-client privilege, and she was entitled to confide in him.

  “Just for now, Bob, please.”

  “I’ll call Gill first, ask him about the investigation. He’ll tell me about it, that way the information didn’t come from you.” He hesitated. “You going to be all right?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  It was Monday morning, and Fred Wentworth was sitting at his small desk in the modest gray cubicle he was assigned in the company’s Manhattan showroom. It was the first day of market week, and outside the fabric-lined panel dividers that defined his tiny work space he heard the voices of his coworkers as they made their pitches to buyers and then confirmed their sales. Their schedules were crammed with appointment after appointment, but Fred was not busy.

  Fred was the husband of the matronly Phyllis, each of them participants in Randi Conway’s groups. He was a large, oafish man with coarse features and suspicious eyes, a garment-center salesman with a million stories to tell and the need to share every one of them. His artificially darkened hair, combed straight back, was a touch too long for his fifty-five years. He wore Italian suits and loud ties that were typical of an industry where current styles often prevail over good taste. His overall appearance was that of a man struggling for a youthful look when he was well past the point where the effort was reasonable.

  Wentworth fought back his anger as he sat quietly at his small desk.

  It was not all that long ago that he was one of his company’s top producers. He was well liked. Respected. Known throughout the industry.

  Now he was little more than a relic from another era.

  His large frame filled the swivel chair, his elbows resting on the black plastic arms. He was waiting for Sam to call back. Sam was an old customer. He could always count on Sam to place an order. If they wanted to know how Fred Wentworth was doing in market week, they would find out as soon as Sam called in a large order.

  Wentworth rearranged his desk, moving the position of the telephone and his diary and his pen set, the one Phyllis had given him years ago with the engraved silver plaque that read fred wentworth in block letters, and World’s Greatest Salesman underneath. He shifted everything around until he was satisfied that each item was in its proper place. Then he stared down at his blank order pad. He knew he would be filling out several pages of the printed forms, just as soon as Sam called.

  Hell, it’s market week, he told himself. Sam was probably at appointments elsewhere. Wentworth understood that. He had called Sam several times last week to set something up. But Sam was in conference. Or on the other line. Or out of the office. But his assistant said Sam would be sure to call back. Just this morning Wentworth was told that Sam was with a group of wholesalers and reps from Hong Kong. As soon as that meeting was concluded, Sam would call back.

  So Fred waited, knowing that however the day went, at least that evening he was going to meet Thomas Colello for drinks. That would be interesting.

  He smoothed back his thinning black hair with the palms of his hands and had another look at the pad of order forms. Then he decided the telephone would be better situated off to his left, so he began to rearrange the things on his desk again.

  CHAPTER 26

  Walker was in his office, and his Monday morning was not feeling any more productive than Fred Wentworth’s. He was poring through the Knoebel file again when Chief Gill summoned him on the intercom.

  Walker marched down the hall and stood in the chief’s doorway.

  “Shut the door and sit down,” Gill said.

  “What gives?”

  “Lawyers,” Gill said as he handed Walker two message slips.

  One was from Bob Stratford, the other from a Roger Bennett, counsel to Dr. Knoebel, with a New York City phone number.

  “They want to talk to me?”

  “Both of them. I already had a brief conversation with Knoebel’s lawyer.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Says his client had a change of heart about you and Blasko snooping around his wife’s computer.”

  “A change of heart? Isn’t Knoebel missing the essential piece of equipment for that maneuver?”

  Gill frowned.

  “When did our friend Dr. Knoebel have this epiphany?”


  “Last night. Knoebel called the guy at home and told him to get his wife’s computer back, and pronto.”

  “Of course.” Walker made a note of the timing, but did not mention anything about his dinner with Randi Conway on Saturday, the phone call she received at the restaurant or—most important—that he had entrusted her with a copy of SEXUAL RITES. He knew that last item would send the chief into orbit.

  “These computer files, how important are they to your investigation?”

  “Nothing helpful in the e-mails, and Teddy went back quite a way.”

  “What about the diary?” Gill asked, enunciating the last word with all the distaste he could muster.

  “She didn’t mention anyone who wanted to kill her, if that’s what you’re asking, but I’m betting the name is in there.”

  Gill thought it over. “Do you think Knoebel’s lawyer had any idea how personal her writing was?”

  “Not sure,” Walker admitted.

  “I already spoke with town counsel. He says we should give it back. Unless you can demonstrate that the files bear directly on the case, he doesn’t want to risk a lawsuit.”

  “Now there’s a bold legal position.”

  Gill shook his head.

  “We got a warrant for it.”

  “This lawyer Bennett, he mentioned that. Claims it was obtained after the fact and without his client having any say in the matter.”

  “His client may become a suspect. I don’t think the judge needed his permission to issue the warrant.”

  “Fair point. Call Bennett and see what he has to say.”

  Walker stood to leave. “What about the other call?”

  “Bob Stratford? He just said he wanted to speak with you, is all.”

  “Right.”

  “You want me to get the State Police involved?” Gill’s voice made it clear how little he liked that idea.

  “I don’t think so,” Walker said, “but if I stumble into quicksand I’ll be sure to holler.”