Confidential(15)

But I digress.

Maureen hadn’t wanted to talk about her complaint, either, whether it was true or false and why she rescinded. I couldn’t make her spill, given that alibi of hers. I just had to be grateful that she’d told me as much as she had, that she’d led me to three people of interest, the first one of whom has no alibi to speak of. Flora says she was home in her apartment, alone.

If that trio had been cooking up something, the dim sum restaurant was an inspired location. The staff didn’t speak much English, and the joint had apparently been jumping. No one working that day could describe the dynamics among the three women, whether they’d seemed friendly or not, whether they’d been upset or laughing or conspiratorial. They did know that the short, skinny one left before the tall, skinny one and the darker-skinned woman with the big nose (the latter presumably Flora, given her visage). I’m sure she’d love that description.

“Tell me how you knew these women,” I say.

“Why do you want to know? Because you’re curious?” She’s using my word against me, raising an eyebrow like she’s fucking adorable.

She’s annoying, but that doesn’t make her a murderer. Right now, all I’ve got them on is timing. Way too coincidental but also circumstantial. I need someone to give herself up or give someone else up. Either works for me.

“I’m trying to piece things together and find out who did this. I don’t have a lot to go on right now. I’m following down all the leads.”

“So I’m a lead?” That same eyebrow. “Or am I a suspect?”

“I’m hoping you’re someone who’s going to help me in this investigation. Am I right on that? This guy was your therapist.” Or more, based on her demeanor. This woman could sexualize panhandling. “Don’t you want to get the person who did this to him?”

“My therapy is my business.”

“We’ll see if the court agrees with you on that. The judge probably won’t uphold doctor-patient privilege.”

“But they might. I’ll take my chances.” She sits back in her seat, looking mildly self-satisfied.

She’s so confident. Is that because she knows there’s nothing to find? Because she knows she’s innocent?

Or she’s guilty and she’s a fucking psychopath. She enjoys the cat and mouse with me, maybe the same as she enjoyed it with her shrink, until she killed him.

She’s a former patient, so I don’t know how long ago her professional association with the doc ended and if/when a personal one began. How long she was batting him around.

“There were two other women at that restaurant,” I say. “Whoever talks first might be the winner.”

She looks at me with frank astonishment. “What are you saying? You think I conspired with Lucy and Greer to kill Michael?”

She called him “Michael.” Not “Dr. Baylor.” And she called Lucinda “Lucy.”

But I have to admit, her shock is convincing. “I’m not saying anything about conspiracies,” I say. “I’m just saying that if whatever you talked about that day is relevant to my investigation, you want to be the first to tell me.”

“Just because someone tells you what you want to hear doesn’t make it true. And just because someone doesn’t talk—that doesn’t mean they’re hiding something.”

What kind of a riddle is that? “Talk straight, please.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Okay, so this spitfire thing does have a certain charm. “Let’s get off the whole dim sum topic. Let’s talk about you and Michael.”

“He was my therapist. You know that. I saw him for couples therapy with my husband.”

“How’d that turn out?”

“We’re divorced.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Sometimes things need to end.”

I smile. “Is that really what you want to say to a homicide detective?” Wait, did she just get me to flirt with her?

“What I want to say is, I had nothing to do with Michael Baylor’s death. Dim sum had nothing to do with it.”

“So you weren’t talking about the one thing you had in common?”

“How do you know he’s the only thing we had in common?”

She is. She’s enjoying this. That doesn’t necessarily make her guilty. But I’ve got a strong feeling that she’s not sorry he’s dead.

What did this guy do to her?





BEFORE





CHAPTER 12





FLORA


“You’re where?” I said, hoping I’d heard wrong.

“The ER,” he said again. “But don’t worry, I’m fine. Everything’s under control.”

“What’s going on?”

“I can’t say much. I need to get back. It’s a client.”

“You’re having her committed to a mental hospital?”

I heard his impatience in the silence. His disapproval. He didn’t like when I asked too many questions about his other clients, though he sometimes volunteered their predicaments. No identifying information, just the general outlines. It felt unfair that he was allowed to bring them up, but if I asked further, I was prying. Sometimes it was like he made all the rules.