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  They had not been touched.

  She knew she would have to call the police. She would have to call Anthony Walker. But first she telephoned Bob Stratford. She told him what happened and asked him to come by.

  “All right, but be sure not to touch anything,” he warned, “they’re going to have to look for fingerprints.”

  “Oh God. They’ll be looking through every confidential file in my office.”

  “I’ll call Walker right now and have him meet me there. I’ll explain our concerns.” He hesitated. “You okay in the meantime?”

  “I’m fine. Whatever they wanted to do is already done, right?”

  “I don’t mean to alarm you, but are you certain they’re gone?”

  Randi instinctively got to her feet. “I just assumed,” she said, her head turning quickly back and forth as if she might find someone standing there.

  “Yes, yes,” he reassured her, “they wouldn’t stay around, it makes no sense. I’ll make the call and be there straight away.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And Randi,” he said, “lock the door.”

  She hung up and slowly, quietly moved to the door to her group therapy room. She pulled it open with a sudden jerk.

  No one was there.

  She hung her head, clutching the doorknob as if she might fall down without the support. At least she was satisfied she was alone. She went to the front door, shut it and turned the latch. Then she made her way back to the desk where she again faced the typewritten notes.

  She turned away from them, having another look at her ransacked office and, as she pondered the clutter of open folders and scattered papers, she became increasingly angry. Strange, she thought, how that had not been her first reaction. Now, however, rage was replacing upset and fear.

  Her private file cabinets had been invaded, her professional confidences desecrated. Who would have the nerve? she wondered. She became aware of her own breathing as it became uneven and labored. She clenched her teeth. She wanted very much to punch someone in the nose.

  She stood again and walked around, not touching any other files, conducting a random survey. Somehow she became overcome with the suspicion that nothing had been removed. She didn’t know why she believed that, it was just a feeling.

  She stood amidst this clutter, slowly turning, trying to take it all in, making a mental photograph as if that would help her regain a sense of order. Perhaps it would help her understand what they were after as they searched through these papers. Randi wondered whether they really wanted anything at all, or if this was just some sort of warning.

  A short time later Walker knocked on the door and Randi let him in. Kovacevic and the forensic team were right behind.

  “You all right?” Walker asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” Walker quickly reviewed the scene. “You touch anything?”

  “Nothing but the doorknob,” she said. “Uh, except my chair. I moved it back to the desk. And the one file I picked up from the floor.”

  “Good,” he repeated, then barked some orders to his men. They immediately set about dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs and marking various papers for identification. When Walker turned back to Randi, he saw the concern in her soft brown eyes. “Stratford called, he told me you had some letters to show me.”

  Randi nodded, then led him to her desk and the two typewritten pages. “Here they are. Maybe I shouldn’t touch them again?”

  “Too late now. You had to pick them up to read them the first time, right?” Walker pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and lifted the letters off the desk. “No sense in putting my prints on there too.” He looked them over, then directed Kovacevic to place each in a separate clear cover.

  As the other officers pulled on their latex gloves and went about their work, Stratford arrived. Walker watched with some interest as he hugged Randi and she teared up, for a moment seeming as if she might cry.

  “It’ll be all right,” Stratford assured her, giving her a pat on the back and then turning to Walker. “I’m Bob Stratford,” he said. “I had other ideas about how we would meet for the first time.”

  “So did I,” Walker agreed.

  Stratford said, “I’m curious to see these notes.”

  Walker pointed to them. They were on the desk, now encased in plastic.

  Stratford read them, then turned to Randi. “Tell the detective whatever you know about these.”

  Randi explained how she discovered the letters under her door. Remembering the envelopes, Randi pointed to them and Walker also had those placed in a clear sleeve. “I got this first note Wednesday morning. I found the second on Thursday morning,” she admitted with a hint of embarrassment, refusing to meet Walker’s disapproving gaze. He remembered picking it up when he came to meet her that day.

  “I guess you’ll find my fingerprints on the envelope,” he told Kovacevic, then added, “I’ll explain later.” Turning back to Randi, he said, “Go on.”

  “You asked if I touched anything. This one file was right there,” she said, pointing down, “there on the floor. I picked it up and put it back together, sorry. That’s all I touched, I think. Except for the telephone.”

  “And the doorknob and the chair,” Walker reminded her.

  “Right.”

  “Are you sure that’s it?”

  Randi nodded.

  “Can I see that?” Walker gestured to the Gorman file.

  Randi looked to Stratford, then said, “I don’t mind if you want to look for fingerprints or something. Reading a patient file is another matter.”

  “Let him see it,” Stratford said.

  She reluctantly passed the manila folder to Walker, who accepted it with handkerchief in hand. He and Stratford sat down, side by side in the two armchairs, and began skimming the information together, page by page.

  “The data sheet is on the left,” Randi said. “Why do you need to read my notes?”

  Walker looked up at her. “We have a murder, two anonymous letters, a threatening phone call and now a burglary.” He saw her expression and said, “Breaking into your office and vandalizing it is a felony.”

  “How can reading that file help?” Randi asked.

  “Maybe Paul Gorman knew Elizabeth Knoebel and you have a note in here about that.”

  Randi shook her head.

  “Okay, maybe not, but you get the idea.”

  “Paul Gorman had no connection to Elizabeth. Not that I know of, anyway, so there couldn’t be anything in my notes.”

  “Wasn’t his wife in the group with Elizabeth Knoebel?” Walker reminded her.

  Randi nodded. “And he’s in the group with Doctor Knoebel.”

  “There may be something else they were looking for, something less obvious.”

  “Whatever,” she replied helplessly as the two men returned their attention to Gorman’s records.

  When he finished his preliminary read-through, Walker looked up. “Since we’re speaking of your patients, it might interest you two to know that Doctor Knoebel hired a high-priced lawyer in New York, not to mention a fancy Park Avenue psychiatrist.” He leaned back and had a good look at Randi. “Any comment?”

  Randi turned from Walker to Stratford, then back to the detective. She said nothing.

  “Who’s the lawyer?” Stratford asked.

  “Roger Bennett. Know him?”

  “Rings a bell,” Stratford said. “I can check him out if you like.”

  “That’d be helpful.” Walker turned back to Randi. “I know you haven’t had much of a chance to look, but does it appear anything is missing? Something obvious maybe?”

  “No,” she said. “Not that I can tell.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What a nightmare,” she said.

  Stratford nodded. “You’re right, Randi, it is. But if the woman’s murderer is the same person who left you these notes and burglarized your office, Detective Walker needs to know what information the killer has taken.
” He paused, then had a serious look at his friend. “Your safety has just become a major issue.”

  Before she could respond, Walker looked up from Paul Gorman’s file. “I couldn’t agree more,” he told her.

  CHAPTER 35

  The police spent most of the morning scouring Randi’s office, looking for anything that might help them determine who broke in and trashed her records. They dusted for prints throughout her office and looked for anything that might be helpful in and out of the building. They searched for marks on the carpet in the corridor and surveyed the parking lot out back.

  But they found nothing.

  Randi watched the technicians who went through her papers. As she told Stratford and Walker, it was one thing to search for evidence, but quite another to allow them to read through confidential patient files. She hovered over them like an eagle protecting her flock.

  When the forensic team was finally done they told her she could begin the thankless task of putting her records back together. They had snapped enough photographs and collected a sufficient number of exhibits. Now it was up to her to make sense of things and determine what, if anything, was missing.

  By the time Stanley Knoebel arrived at her office for their late-morning appointment, she had just begun the reconstruction. When he knocked at her door, Randi did not let him see the disaster her private office had become, instead steering him into the room where her groups met. When he sat down she had a fleeting thought that his rigid bearing was actually better suited to these straight-backed chairs of cane and chrome than the comfortable sofa inside.

  For his part, Knoebel did not ask why he had been relegated to this antiseptic meeting place. It was clear from the start that he had little interest in being here and wanted to have done with this meeting as quickly as possible. “When you called yesterday and asked to see me, I felt I owed you the professional courtesy of this final visit,” Knoebel announced with his customary formality. “I should tell you that I won’t be coming to see you or your group again. I have begun seeing a psychiatrist affiliated with my hospital in New York.”

  “So I understand.”

  This appeared to amuse him. “And how might you have come to learn confidential information about my medical treatment, Doctor Conway?”

  Randi could not believe her blunder at revealing what Walker had just told her that morning. A very rough day was becoming worse. “It’s not important.”

  “Indeed. Well let me hazard a guess. Could it be that you learned it from our local constable, Detective Walker?”

  Randi folded her arms across her chest and clutched her elbows in her hands. “It’s not important.”

  Knoebel’s chilly smile remained frozen on his lips. “Was it also your friend Detective Walker who suggested that you call me to arrange this meeting?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Of course not,” he repeated with an extravagant show of skepticism.

  “You’re my patient,” Randi said. “At least you have been up to now.”

  “Of course.” His Eastern European affect seemed more imperious than usual today. “My attorney advised the police that they are no longer authorized to contact me without him being present. Are you aware of that?”

  “What?”

  “Is this meeting an attempt to circumvent that directive by having you interview me on their behalf?”

  “I have no idea what your attorney said to the police. I asked you here because I’ve been your therapist and I felt, under the circumstances, we should meet.”

  Knoebel leveled his cold stare at her again. “But you admit you have been speaking with the police.”

  “Naturally. Detective Walker wants to find Elizabeth’s murderer and he wants my help. I’ve told him that the discussions I have with my patients are confidential.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Knoebel said. “Apparently we all want the same thing. We all want our rights protected.”

  Now it was Randi’s turn to stare at him. “Shouldn’t we also want the truth?”

  “Do you, Doctor Conway?”

  “I do.”

  Knoebel nodded his head slowly, watching her. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “There is much about Elizabeth none of us ever wanted to know.” He paused before adding, “She inspired such hatred,” then seemed to let the thought go.

  “She inspired enough hatred for someone to murder her.”

  The statement roused him from his brief melancholy. “I’ve met Detective Walker and I must say, you’re beginning to sound a bit like him.” Knoebel folded his arms across his chest, showing that he, too, was capable of striking a pose. “So, who hated Elizabeth enough to murder her?” He sighed, as if the matter were too troublesome to consider. “Everyone and no one, I suppose. My wife had a great facility for drawing out the worst in people, as you well know. Homicide is quite another matter, and far beyond my comprehension.” He paused. “Perhaps you’re in a position to guess the identity of her murderer.”

  The suggestion caused her an imperceptible shudder. “I’m not sure that I can. But I think I can guess at your frustration and upset.”

  “Really? I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “What do you believe?”

  He thought it over. “I believe you had a reasonable appreciation of how miserable our marriage was.”

  “I’m not sure I ever understood your marriage, certainly not from your perspective. To be candid, I really don’t think I ever came to know you at all.” Randi allowed herself a smile. “I think you’re the only patient I’ve ever addressed by last name after spending so much time together. It’s probably best that you’ll be seeing someone else.”

  Knoebel nodded. “That may be,” he said, appearing to think it over. “Unfortunately, whomever I see will not have had the benefit of knowing Elizabeth.” That thought quieted him for a moment. Then he said, “My wife and I loved each other in a totally destructive way. We actually hated each other more effectively than we loved each other. Surely you saw that.”

  “I saw two people who were more comfortable with bitterness than with tenderness.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is that what kept you together?”

  “A bond of hatred, you mean?”

  “I’m not sure what I mean,” Randi admitted. “There was so much hostility between the two of you, yet neither of you ever wanted to deal with it.”

  Knoebel rubbed the inside corners of his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “Did you know my wife was sleeping with some of your other patients?” He posed the question as if this were some tiresome piece of business he simply had to get out of the way.

  “Whether I knew such a thing or not,” Randi replied evenly, “I would not be at liberty to say.”

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, but your wife’s confidences survive her death. Even in speaking with you.”

  “Were you sleeping with her?”

  Randi drew a deep breath. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “I didn’t say I thought it, I was merely asking.”

  Randi offered a blank look in response.

  “Did she ever ask you?”

  Randi hesitated, then said, “Your wife was an extremely flirtatious woman. When she wasn’t dealing with her anger, she traded on her beauty and her sensuality to manipulate men. And women. There’s no reason to believe she amended her behavior in a clinical setting.”

  The immediacy of that concept hit Knoebel hard, knowing that Elizabeth had talked with Randi, revealing things about him, herself, perhaps her other lovers. “Did you know she was keeping a diary of her exploits?”

  This time Randi was determined not to betray Walker. “Again, whether I knew such a thing or not is of no consequence. I think you are the person we should be talking about, not Elizabeth.”

  With a sudden flash of anger, Knoebel said, “We are talking about me, don’t y
ou see?” It was the first time Randi had ever heard him raise his voice. “She was the biggest part of me, everything she did, all the pain we inflicted upon one another, every moment we lived, whether separate or apart. What else is there for me to speak of? My medical practice? My own infidelity? Is that what you want to hear about, Doctor Conway?” He shook his head. “It’s too late for that. The game is over.”

  “The game?” It was Elizabeth’s word.

  Knoebel rose from his chair and Randi flinched as he stood, realizing in that instant that she was not really sure who he was or what he might be capable of doing. “You simply did not understand Elizabeth,” he said angrily as he glared down at her.

  “I suppose not,” she replied, trying not to reveal her anxiety as he stood over her.

  Knoebel took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. “Probably because she never meant you to,” he said, then nodded to himself. “Or perhaps you simply never fell into her trap, not completely, and that is very much to your credit.”

  It was clear that Knoebel was not about to sit down again, so Randi got to her feet. “It appears that you and I are left to protect her secrets,” she said.

  “Are we?”

  “You said so yourself,” Randi told him.

  He responded with a sad nod, as if this came as a relief. “Perhaps you are right.”

  Randi drew a deep breath. “Is that why you wrote those notes to me? Was that part of the ‘game,’ as you call it?”

  His blank look in response seemed as genuine as anything he had ever said to her. “What notes?”

  “Never mind,” she said, shaking away the thought of the two typewritten slips of paper the police had taken with them. Instead she found herself wanting to ask him about the diary, but she knew she must not.

  Knoebel saw the conflict in her eyes. He said, “This part of the drama is not done. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “What isn’t done?”

  She waited for an answer, but Knoebel gave none. He formally offered his hand and she took it. “Good-bye,” was all he said. They shook, his grip firm, but his hand was much colder than she had expected. Then he turned and was gone.