Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(12)

“I'm not gonna have to sit there, am I?”

“You could take one of the wingback chairs.” Elizabeth's office contained two hunter green chairs, tucked back from the desk, and not easy to see in the dim light. Most patients spied the sofa first and had their various reactions. Elizabeth often considered rearranging her office to make the chairs more prominent, but then again, a girl had to have some fun.

Bobby took one of the chairs. He sat on the edge, knees apart, long fingers braced in front of him. He surveyed the mahogany-paneled room with his dark gray stare, absorbing all the details—the textbooks lining the shelves, the brass plaques on the wall, the Zen garden that drove the obsessive-compulsives nuts.

There was something about him that niggled at her brain, but she couldn't quite place it. He wasn't just uncommonly self-possessed, he was preternaturally . . . quiet. No undue noise, no undue movements. She imagined he'd do very well with long stretches of silence. When talking to this man, he didn't come to you, you came to him.

“Comfortable?” she asked finally.

“Not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Something . . . not quite this nice.” By “nice,” he meant wealthy. They both understood that. “You really work for the state?”

“I started working with the state police fifteen years ago. My father's a retired Chicago detective, so let's just say I have a personal interest in the field.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I've never changed my rates. Shall I explain to you how this works?”

“Okay.”

“I am working for the State Police of Massachusetts, not for you. As such, I have a duty to report back based upon our conversations, which limits the confidentiality of anything you tell me. On the one hand, I never report specific details. On the other hand, I am required to give my conclusions and opinions. Thus, for example, you can tell me you drink three pints of whiskey a night, and while I wouldn't necessarily repeat that, I would have to recommend that you not return to duty. Is that clear to you?”

“Watch what I say.” He grunted. “Interesting approach.”

“Honesty is still the best policy,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I'm here to help you, or if we decide that I can't, refer you to someone who can.”

Bobby just shrugged. “Fine, so what do you want me to tell you?”

Elizabeth smiled again. Opening with blatant hostility. She would've expected no less. “Let's begin with the basics.” She picked up her clipboard. “Name?”

“Robert G. Dodge.”

“What's the G stand for?”

“Given the limited confidentiality, I'm not saying.”

“Oooh, that good? Let's see, Geoffrey?”

“No.”

“Godfrey?”

“How the hell?”

“Let's just say I also don't give out my middle name. Godfrey. Family name?”

“That's what my father says.”

“And your parents are?”

“My father. His name's Larry. Lawrence, actually.”

“And your mother?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah, gone. Left. I was four or five. No, maybe six or seven. I don't know. She left.”

Elizabeth waited.

“I don't think marriage to my father was going so well,” Bobby added. He spread his hands as if to say, What can you do? Indeed, at that young age, what could he have done?

“Siblings?”

“One. Older. Name's George Chandler Dodge, so yeah, the whole family's cursed with rotten English names. Now, what does this have to do with the shooting?”

“I don't know. Does it have anything to do with the shooting?”

Bobby was on his feet. “No. None of that. That's why people don't like shrinks.”

Elizabeth held up her hands in surrender. “Point taken. Honestly, I'm simply filling in blanks on the form. And for the record, most people like to make a little small talk first.”

Bobby sat back down. He remained scowling, however, and those keen eyes of his were narrowed, assessing. She wondered how often he used that stare on people and found them wanting. She added to her mental list: Lots of acquaintances but very few friends. Does not forgive. Does not forget.

And he had lied about his mother's leaving.

“I'd like to keep this simple,” he said.

“Fair enough.”

“Ask what you gotta ask, I'll answer what I gotta answer, and we can both get on with our lives.”

“Admirable goal.”

“I'm not thinking of a lifetime plan.”

“Wouldn't dream of suggesting it to you,” she assured him. “Unfortunately, this isn't single-sitting work.”

“Why not?”

“For starters, you didn't make an appointment and we don't have enough time to cover everything in one night.”

“Oh.”

“So, I'm going to suggest that we talk a little bit tonight, then meet again on Monday.”

“Monday.” He had to think about it. “All right,” he begrudged the professional headshrinker. “I can do that.”