Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(8)
“In your case, the break-in was the catalyst for your initial panic attack,” Dr. Metzel said. “And as you said, that’s not a wholly atypical physiological response, given the extreme stress you were under at the time. But as for why that incident has now brought on your fear of having additional panic attacks . . . well, that’s something we’ll want to explore in therapy.”
Therapy.
Aw, criminy.
Once upon a time, after The Incident, Victoria had gone through therapy at her mother’s insistence. Two years of it, in fact, “just in case” there was anything she wanted to talk about. So she had a pretty good idea what to expect: all the talking, and the dissecting of her every thought and emotion.
Going through that ordeal again sounded about as much fun as stapling her tongue to the carpet.
“Can’t you just patch me up with some breathing techniques and send me on my way?” she asked, trying to charm her way out of this.
Dr. Metzel returned the smile and clicked his pen. “Are weekends better for you? I have an opening for Saturdays at one P.M.”
She took that as a no.
Three
“IT’S ME—YOU know what to do at the beep.”
At the sound of the familiar greeting, Ford grumbled under his breath. Per the promise he’d made to his mother, this was the second time in three days that he’d called to check up on his sister and Zoe. Both times, his call had gone straight to voice mail.
“Hey, Nic. Just checking in to see how everything’s going. I thought I might swing by sometime this weekend—maybe take you and Zoe out to lunch. Call me.” After hanging up, he looked at the phone for a moment, and then turned back to his computer.
A week had passed since his father’s funeral and at times, it felt a little surreal how most things just went back to normal. He’d taken a couple of days off from work to help his mother go through his father’s things, a process that had hit him harder than he’d expected. But he’d buried his emotions down deep and had stayed focused on the tasks at hand—both for his mother’s sake and, admittedly, his own. He felt better when he stayed busy. Doing something, anything, felt good and productive.
Especially when the alternative—sitting around his loft and ruminating—resulted in an eight-inch hole in his bedroom wall.
Not his finest moment.
Fortunately, right then, he had work to distract him. It was a typical Friday afternoon in the Chicago Tribune newsroom, mostly quiet except for the sound of clicking keyboards and occasional conversation as people got up to get coffee. The newsroom was large and open, with no walls separating the desks, and the air pulsed with a feverish beat as everyone raced against the clock to make their deadlines.
Today, he was finishing up a piece that was part of a series in which he’d exposed a multimillion-dollar bribery scheme involving a city transportation official and the company that had won a contract to supply Chicago with its red-light cameras. He’d worked for over a year on this particular series, and the corruption scandal was now the subject of an FBI investigation. He took particular pride in that—like many investigative journalists, he enjoyed seeing that his work had actual impact, and contributed to rectifying a wrongdoing or injustice.
After wrapping up the red-light piece and e-mailing it off, he met with his managing editor, Marty, to discuss an idea for a new story he’d been developing over the last couple of weeks.
“The April Johnson murder? You’re a little late to the party, Dixon. We covered that three weeks ago.”
“Not from this angle,” Ford said. Last month, April Johnson, a seventeen-year-old honors student and artist, had been shot and killed by a gang member a block away from her high school grounds. Because the girl had recently visited the White House and met the First Lady as part of her school’s successful participation in the Department of Education’s “Turnaround Arts” program, her killing had been widely covered in all the Chicago media.
Mostly, the press coverage had focused on the victim—rightfully so, given the tragic circumstances. But Ford had done a little digging, and wanted to explore another aspect of the crime. “Everyone’s focused on how Johnson’s death is a symbol of this city’s problem with gang violence, or using it as a platform to discuss gun control. But I’ve been looking into the nineteen-year-old shooter, Darryl Moore. Apparently, a year ago, he’d been arrested and sentenced to two years probation for illegally carrying a firearm. And get this—a criminal records check shows that the guy got arrested three more times after that. Did the probation department even know about the arrests? Did they know, but fail to take any action? I’m thinking somebody dropped the ball there.”
Marty considered this. “Might be worth checking out what’s in the probation department’s records on Moore.”
“Glad you think so.” Ford grinned. “Especially since I requested the file yesterday.”
Marty shook his head. “Of course you did. All right, run with it.”
Ford worked on the new story for the rest of the afternoon, getting lost in his research. He called it quits for the day at five thirty, and then took a cab from the Tribune building to Home Depot, where he picked up the remaining supplies he needed for his weekend project. He planned to patch the hole in his bedroom wall, and also had decided to mount some bookshelves. Working with his hands would hopefully burn off some of the restless energy he’d been feeling since the funeral.