All the Dark Places(23)

“You didn’t know about this either?”

“No.” She looks truly baffled.

“Why would your husband be talking to your boss?”

“Well, they’re friends too.”

“He wasn’t at the birthday party?”

She shakes her head. “He couldn’t make it. But we see him regularly.”

“But you don’t know why they were meeting last week two days before your husband was killed?”

“Maybe they were just having lunch, Detective.” Her voice rises an octave. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Tears gather in her eyes.

Chase heaves a deep breath. “It’s okay, Mrs. Bradley. We’re just trying to gather everything we can to help you.”

She grabs a paper napkin from a holder on the table and presses it to her nose. I slip both planners into my satchel, give her a minute.

“Just one more thing.”

She nods and grabs another napkin.

“Dr. Bradley see much of his dad?”

She clears her throat. “His father? No. He passed away last year. He was eighty-one. He and his wife had Jay when they were older.”

Shit. I was hoping Dr. Bradley might have confided in his dad. Maybe there would have been something to glean there. Oh well.

She glances up at me. “He was a detective.”

“We’ve heard that.” I collect my notes and stash them in my satchel. “If you need anything, Mrs. Bradley, please call.”

She stands and walks us to the foyer. “Thanks,” she says, as she closes the door behind us.

*

A frigid wind has picked up. The mild weather of a couple of days ago is gone, and we’re back to typical winter temperatures. I pull the lapels of my jacket up around my ears as we get into my van. The engine takes a minute or two to catch, and Chase throws me a look.

“We’re fine,” I say, as I rev the motor.

“Don’t you ever worry this old thing is going to go tits up, Rita, and leave you stranded someplace?”

“I’ve got triple A, son.”

He laughs and searches through his phone. My old van is my home away from home. I like being able to have the things I might need in the course of an investigation. Tools, waders, extra clothes. I drive it only on routine calls, knowing that if I need to chase a suspect, he’d leave me in the dust. Still, Chase has never been comfortable in my old vehicle. He’s a pretty tidy guy, and my van—well, keeping it spick-and-span isn’t a priority.

We stop at André’s Café for a late lunch. Neither André nor Collin is here today. The counter is manned by a teenage girl with jet-black hair and a colorful sleeve full of fairies on her bare left arm. We take our trays to a round table that sits by a plate-glass window.

“So what are you thinking so far?” I ask Chase. He and Lauren are still learning, and I enjoy pushing them along. After being the baby in a big family, I get a charge out of being the older, smarter one when I can.

He shrugs and rubs his chin. He’s let a little stubble grow. “Well, I don’t think it was a stranger since he left the laptop sitting on the desk and the doctor’s wallet was in his pocket. I think a lot depends on what his patients have to say, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. If it was a patient. But maybe it was someone he met doing research for his book. Someone his wife and friends don’t know about.”

“Are we going out to the prison he noted in his planner?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just waiting for them to get back to me. He met with an inmate.” I’d learned that much when I’d called.

“The perp couldn’t’ve been some guy who was locked up.”

“No, obviously. But maybe he knows something useful. Maybe he knows who else Dr. Bradley was talking to, someone on the outside.” Maybe the prison visit will be worthwhile, maybe not. But we’ve got nothing to go on so far.

I sip my Coke and watch a woman jaywalk across the street, her red scarf fluttering in the wind. “What do you think the perp was after in the office? That’s the key to this whole thing.”

“Don’t know.” Chase leans back, drums the table with his fingers. “But I was thinking . . .” His eyes meet mine. “What if one of Dr. Bradley’s patients told him that he’d committed a crime. Then he had second thoughts.”

“Could be.” I take a bite of my tuna on rye. Watch Chase ruminate over his clam chowder.

“Psychiatrists have to report criminal behavior, don’t they?” he asks.

“Dr. Bradley was a psychologist, but the same rules apply.” I shake chips onto my plate. “They have to report threats of criminal activity. Like, if I tell my shrink I’m going to shoot my annoying new neighbor with my service weapon, he’s legally bound to report it.”

“What if it’s an old crime. Somebody’s already dead?”

I tip my head. “That’s murkier territory. Doctor-client privilege still exists since no one is going to be hurt if the doc keeps it to himself.”

“You think someone might’ve confessed a crime to Dr. Bradley, but then worried he’d tell somebody?” Chase asks. “The perp might not have wanted to trust doctor-client privilege.”

“It’s possible. But what was he after in the home office?”