Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(74)

Most people responded to a little ego stroking; Gershon appeared not to be an exception. “How did you hear of us . . . I mean, of her?”

Foster held his look, then told a lie. “I don’t know, Dr. Gershon. I go where I’m assigned to go. My task is to find out if Dr. Silva can assist us in running this dangerous person to ground.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then. We may be a smaller facility, but we employ only the best. Dr. Mariana Silva is highly regarded and has quite an impressive history with decades of clinical work under her belt. I should know; I vetted her myself.”

“Westhaven is lucky to have her,” Foster said.

A pompous smirk joined the beady-eyed stare. “I see it the other way around. She’s lucky to be here.”

“You vetted her yourself, and you obviously found nothing untoward. But Westhaven isn’t Johns Hopkins or the lecture circuit in Lucerne. So with all due respect, sir, either you punched up and won the lottery, or there’s some reason Silva punched down and landed here. Which is it?”

“Blunt,” Gershon said with a sneer. “Painfully.”

“No offense, Doctor, but things are moving fast. We need to know what we need to know, and we need to know it now.”

“All right. Standard procedure. We needed another staff psychiatrist and put the call out, and Dr. Silva expressed an interest. I could hardly believe our good fortune. I conducted my research, contacted her previous employers, thoroughly reviewed her resume. I knew her by reputation, of course. She’s authored numerous articles in all the top medical journals and magazines, consulted everywhere. Now we have her, and as a result, Westhaven has a deeper bench.”

“And the patients Silva treats?” Foster asked.

“They’re often classified as apex predators. Lions in the jungle, the top of the food chain. Though their disorder cannot be cured, per se—and there is no magic pill or long-term course of treatment—they can be taught skills to help manage their toxic tendencies. Here, though, we mostly treat depressives, mild personality disorders, PTSD. Actually, I had a fear that Dr. Silva would find us rather boring compared to the more dramatic cases she’s encountered over her long career, but she has tucked right in.”

“What was Dr. Silva doing just prior to joining Westhaven?”

“Why is that important?” he replied.

“Just getting a complete picture, Dr. Gershon.”

“She was on sabbatical, I believe. Working on a personal project. A book. She’s written several. We all step away on occasion to publish or teach. Psychoanalysis is a constantly evolving field. I’ll save you some time here, Detective. Shall I? Dr. Silva is the best there is. Period.”

Foster checked her watch, stood, and placed her card on Gershon’s desk. “Thanks for your time. I hope we can double back if there are other questions?”

Gershon beamed, a Cheshire Cat in herringbone. “Please do.”

The hall outside his office was empty except for her, but she could hear activity somewhere—murmured voices, feet shuffling along the floor, doors slamming shut. The soft soap PR pitch from Gershon felt a little suspicious. She’d met the woman. She’d sat across from her and looked into her eyes. She wasn’t as she seemed. There was something there, and she needed to know what that something was. Next move? A deeper dive. That missing year.

Maybe Li had already found it. Foster sent her a quick text for an update on her way to the car. As she passed the entrance to the outpatient clinic, she stopped and turned back, giving her watch a quick glance to check for time. If she hurried, if she got in and out, she would miss Silva.

The stout blonde woman sitting at the front desk paled when Foster presented her badge and identified herself; then she slowly rolled her chair away from the counter a few inches, as though Foster might lunge over and slap on cuffs. She read the nameplate on the desk. Ellen Vosk.

“Is there someone I can talk to about Dr. Silva, Ms. Vosk?”

“Dr. Silva?” Her brown eyes widened in surprise. “Is it about an appointment? Never mind. No, it wouldn’t be, would it? Or it could; I don’t know. I’m rambling. Sorry. It’s the badge and . . .” Vosk’s eyes landed on the gun at Foster’s side. “Not every day we get a visit from the police.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Foster readjusted her jacket to conceal her service weapon, hoping to put Vosk at ease. “It’s not a raid. I just need some information.”

“Right. Yes. Information. You’d have to talk to Dr. Norton, then. He’s in charge of the clinic. But unfortunately, he’s with a patient right now. Would you like to wait? I don’t think I can interrupt him. Sometimes sessions can get intense, and he—”

“How long?”

“He just started, so it’d be fifty minutes.”

Foster looked over the waiting area, finding three people sitting in cushioned chairs, a television mounted to the wall tuned to a game show with wheels and buzzers and excited contestants jumping up and down. No one was paying her the least bit of attention. She turned back to the receptionist and lowered her voice. “How’s Dr. Silva to work with? You like her?”

The questions seemed to catch Vosk off guard. “My impressions? Oh, um. Fine, I guess? She’s very serious. She doesn’t spend a lot of time out here in reception. Any, as a matter of fact.”