The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(41)

“This guy says he saw one of your patients being tortured?”

She nodded. “I didn’t believe it when he talked to me. It sounded too wild, like someone who was making up stories just to get attention. But now—”

“If it’s him, why would he come to you and admit it? Why would he play these games and then simply tell you what he’s doing?”

“I don’t know. He could be schizophrenic, but I didn’t get that sense from him in treatment.”

“Did he say that he was the one torturing these women?” Jason asked.

“No, he said he was a witness. He saw it.”

“You should talk to the police about this.”

“Don’t you think I want to? I can’t. Unless he says or does something that lets me break privilege, my hands are tied.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Frankie crossed the treatment room to the door that led to her office. She went behind her desk and used her keys to unlock her filing cabinet. That was where she kept all her patient records. She hunted in the second drawer and found the slim folder for Todd Ferris.

“I need to reach out to him,” she said. “Meet him. Talk to him.”

“Alone? No way. Take me with you.”

“I already told you that I can’t break privilege. I can’t let you find out who he is.” Jason didn’t answer, and she added, “I’m sorry.”

“This is the way it always is between us,” he snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s you on your own, Frankie. It’s never you and me.”

“That’s not true. It’s not my choice.”

“Of course it is. You don’t need me. You don’t need Pam. You don’t need anybody.”

“Jason—”

“Do what you want,” he snapped. “I’ll see you at home.”

He turned around and stalked out of the office. The first door slammed, and then she heard the outer door slam, too. She was alone again.

He’s wrong, she thought.

She didn’t need to keep the rest of the world off her island. Or maybe she was just kidding herself. She’d learned her lessons from her father growing up. Don’t ask for help. Don’t need anyone else, because they won’t be there for you.

Frankie opened Todd Ferris’s file and found the patient information sheet that every new patient completed. Hesitating, she keyed the number of his cell phone. She tried to think about what she would tell him. When she heard the phone ringing, she held her breath.

“Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice.

Frankie was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, I was trying to reach Todd.”

“Who?”

“Todd Ferris.”

“You got the wrong number,” the woman replied.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Frankie rattled off the number she’d dialed, thinking she’d made a mistake, but the woman said, “That’s the number, but no Todd here. Good-bye.”

“Wait, sorry. Can you just tell me, did you recently acquire this phone number?”

“I’ve had it for six years. Now good-bye, okay?”

The woman on the other end of the line hung up. Frankie stared at the patient information form. It was handwritten, not typed. Each patient filled in the details personally.

Todd Ferris had given her a fake phone number.





21


The only evidence Frost found at Christie Parke’s apartment in Millbrae was a ticket from a downtown parking ramp in the cup holder of her Honda Civic. It was stamped on Friday morning at 7:36 a.m. As far as Frost could tell, no one had seen Christie again until her date with Noah on Saturday night.

The parking ramp was on California Street, where the financial district bled into Chinatown. The ramp attendant was a dark-skinned Filipino kid with black hair that sprouted from his head like wheatgrass. Frost guessed that he was no older than nineteen. His long legs were propped on the office desk as he watched the Giants on television and ate cold lumpia from a plastic container. The name tag on his shirt said Arne.

Frost introduced himself, and Arne sprang to his feet.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?”

He dangled a plastic evidence bag in front of the kid’s face. “This ticket came from your ramp, right?”

Arne leaned closer and studied it. “Yes, sure did.”

“The date stamp shows a car entering this ramp on Friday morning. The bank where the owner worked is just a couple blocks away, but she never showed up. Is there a way to look up when she left?”

“Sure, sure, come on over.”

Arne rolled his wheely chair to a flat-screen monitor and keyboard. When he nudged the mouse, the screen awakened and revealed a series of camera angles on different levels of the underground ramp. He clicked on an app that showed daily ticketing activity.

“What’s the number on the end of the ticket?” Arne asked.

Frost rattled it off, and the kid’s fingers flew on the keyboard.

“Here you go. In on Friday at seven thirty-six a.m., just like you said. She didn’t stay long. Ticket stamped back out on Friday at seven forty-nine a.m.”

“Less than fifteen minutes?” Frost asked.