City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(75)

I had nothing to offer him.

I drove home trying not to think about that and ready to focus on my ten o’clock the following morning.



* * *



—

Even with being abused as a child and spending a good deal of my life trying to patch up other people’s misery, I tend to be trusting and optimistic, willing to be disappointed rather than concede my life to suspicion and dread.

Why? Who knows? If I could claim some sort of psychological magic bullet, I’d write a book and get my own talk show. But I suspect it’s just good luck: the temperament I was born with. Maybe even something I got from my father. Unlike my mother who was invariably dour and pessimistic, when Dad wasn’t drunk and enraged and beating me, he could be a jolly guy.

Working as a child psychologist synced with my positive attitude, starting with a belief that people can change. That’s especially so for kids. They want to get better and don’t play resistance games the way adults do. If you know what you’re doing, you can guide them there.

Child psych’s a high-success endeavor. A friend who’s a pediatric psychiatrist once told me, “Let’s face it, Alex. We do it because we want to feel like heroes.”

Yet I’d given up doing therapy with kids long-term, substituting short-term consults and relying upon injury cases to bring quick, positive results. Why? In the beginning, it was burnout. Years later, I’m not sure.

Even working with Milo and seeing the worst of humanity meshed with my temperament. Homicide detectives speak for the voiceless and when everything falls into place, they achieve justice or something close to it. Playing a role in that process—seeing bad people held accountable—was immensely satisfying.

Then there was child custody work.

Innocent until proven guilty is a great principle, worthy of being sanctified. But when I embark on a custody consult, optimism falls by the wayside and I assume everyone’s going to lie to me.

I don’t think about that much anymore, it’s just there, flavoring my perception, like a movie soundtrack.

And I keep editing scripts.



* * *



—

By nine forty-five the morning after Milo hit a wall on Gannett/Delage, I was open to being surprised by Conrad Deeb but not prepared to bet on it. Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Ten minutes early. I’m not one of those shrinks who interprets everything. Waste of time. Maybe he’d hit light traffic.

I opened the door to find a man on the entry terrace, facing me, hands at his sides, smiling with obvious effort. A black Toyota Celica was parked down below. In need of a wash but he wasn’t. Quite the opposite: freshly shaved and rosy, spotless clothing, shiny shoes.

“Professor Deeb?”

He said, “Conrad’s fine. My friends actually call me Con but I don’t imagine that would be a good start.”

I smiled. He smiled back. Then he looked me over from head to toe.

I was wearing a pale-blue button shirt, jeans, and brown loafers. But for Nikes on his feet, his clothes were a match.

We saw it at the same time and our smiles widened.

Conrad Deeb said, “Guess I got the uniform right,” and followed me to my office.



* * *



—

In custody evals, I’m the director and I set things up with a reason. The battered leather couch was the only place for Deeb to sit and he perched close to the edge. Not as relaxed as he was trying to project.

He said, “Nice place—am I allowed to say that?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t know…I guess I wouldn’t want to be construed as trying to influence you unduly.”

“No?” I said. “Everyone else tries it.”

He stared at me. Broke into laughter. “Okay, this is the greatest office I’ve ever seen and your awesome house should be in a design magazine.”

“There you go.” I turned to my computer, typed a bit, let him settle. And stew. When I faced him again, I held my pad and pen and his hands rested on his knees and he’d edged back a bit.

He was forty, around six feet tall, with a solid, broad-shouldered build running slightly to paunch. Sandy hair was thinning but his jawline was holding up well. Clean-shaven but for a gingery soul patch. His eyes were light brown, beginning to crinkle. As he crossed his feet, I saw that the soles of his sneakers were crisp. New shoes. Box creases on the shirt, immaculate denim.

More than good grooming: dressing for the occasion. Motivated. That could go either way.

He said, “Old school—pen and paper? I like that, refreshing.” He blinked. “Sorry if that sounded like kissing up. I really do mean it.”

I said, “Tell me about yourself, Con.”

“It’s about me, not Philomena, huh? Yes, of course it is. It would have to be…I’m prattling, aren’t I? I have to say, this is a little bit nerve racking.”

“Being here.”

“Being judged. I suppose that makes me no different from all the other people you evaluate. I guess the closest I’ve come is student ratings. And before that, of course, school grades. But this? It’s…a bit disorienting.”

“Take your time.”

“Thanks, Professor Delaware.”

He’d researched me. My eyebrows rose and Con Deeb colored a bit.