Obsession

Days later, he claimed to be healed and threw away his sling, against medical advice. Rick was on call and not there to argue. I didn’t enter the debate, even after I caught Milo wincing when lifting a coffee cup.

My shovel weighed a ton.

I met with Tanya daily, sometimes for hours at a time. When called for, Kyle attended.

Getting therapy off on the right foot meant starting with a lie: Patty had never killed anyone, had merely been referring to the death of a drug-dealing friend of De Paine, at De Paine’s hand. The “terrible thing” was her guilt at not reporting the crime.

I built up Patty’s justification for keeping quiet. Others had already notified the police, with poor results; she’d felt compelled to escape so she could ensure Tanya’s safety. Years later, she’d run into De Paine and he’d smirked, threatened Tanya. Before Patty could do anything about it, she’d fallen ill, had been forced to “get her ducks in a row.”

The deathbed pronouncement, muddled by terminal disease, had been aimed at warning Tanya.

“I’m sure,” I said, “that had she lived she would’ve tried to fill in more details.”

Tanya sat there.

“She loved you so much,” I said. “It all traces back to that.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know. Thank you.”

Next topic: the fact that she’d killed a man.

The crime reconstruction confirmed the scene I’d imagined.

De Paine’s first blast at Milo had been taken from the top of the stairs. Milo, hit, had run backward into darkness, clutching his arm and groping for his service gun.

De Paine had descended several stairs, straining to locate his prey. He’d heard something behind him, or imagined he had. Wheeling, he’d shot through the door from a now-lowered vantage point, destroying wood but leaving the upper window intact.

Tanya, hearing the noise, grabbed up the nine-shot Walther semi-automatic she’d borrowed from Colonel Bedard’s gun room and, ignoring Kyle’s pleas, ran into the kitchen.

Hearing De Paine’s third blast and Milo’s return fire, she’d aimed wobbily through the shattered door and squeezed off all nine shots.

One bullet embedded in the doorjamb and was dug out by the reconstruction crew. Five others sailed clear of De Paine, hit concrete steps, and rolled, defaced, to the bottom of the stairway.

One hit De Paine in his left hand, a nonfatal flesh wound.

Two pierced his gut, demolished his spleen and liver.

Clear case of self-defense. Tanya said she was fine with what she’d done. Maybe she’d eventually believe that.

Kyle Bedard moved into the duplex on Canfield. Iona Bedard protested and was ignored. Myron Bedard remained in Europe but called twice to “make sure Kyle was okay.” When informed of his ex-wife’s resentment of “that girl,” Myron wired Kyle fifty thousand dollars and instructed him to “take your cutie on a nice vacation and don’t tell your mother where you’re going.”

Kyle banked the money and returned to work on his doctoral dissertation.

Tanya told me she loved him, but it took a bit of adjustment to have someone in her bed. Since the shooting, Kyle dozed restlessly.

“He sits up, asleep, but looking terrified, Dr. Delaware. I hug him and tell him everything’s okay and the next morning he doesn’t remember a thing. What is that, a deep-stage night terror?”

“Could be,” I said.

“If it doesn’t clear up, maybe he can come to you.”

“How’re you sleeping, Tanya?”

“Me? Great.”

Further questioning revealed she completed at least an hour of compulsive ritual before bedtime. Sometimes the routine stretched to ninety minutes.

“But that was an exception, Dr. Delaware. Mostly I clock in at sixty or just below.”

“You time yourself.”

“To get a handle on it,” she said. “Of course it’s possible that the timing itself has become part of the routine. But I can live with that-oh, by the way did I tell you I changed my mind about psychiatry? Too ambiguous, I’m thinking about E.R. medicine.”

Over the next month, her compulsive habits intensified. I concentrated on the big issues until, three weeks later, she was ready to work on the symptoms. Hypnosis and cognitive behavior therapy proved useful, but not completely. I contemplated medication. Perhaps she sensed that because she devoted half of one session to a paper she’d written on the side effects of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. Opining that she’d never “mess with my brain, unless I was truly psychotic.”

I said, “In the end, it’s up to you.”

“Because I’m an adult?”

I smiled.

She said, “Adulthood’s kind of a foolish concept, isn’t it? People grow up in all kinds of different ways.”

CHAPTER 45

Just about the time Milo’s arm returned to full function, a woman named Barb Smith called my service and asked for an appointment for her child. I take very few therapy cases and because of Tanya, half a dozen court consults, and my desire to spend more time with Robin, I’d instructed the service to deliver that message routinely.

Lorraine, the operator, said, “I tried, Doctor. She wouldn’t take no for an answer-called back three times.”

“Pushy?”

“No, she was actually kind of nice.”

“Meaning I should stop being a hard case and return her call.”

“You’re the doctor, Doctor.”

“Give me the number.”

“I’m proud of you,” said Lorraine.

One of those meaningless cellular prefixes. Barb Smith picked up on the first ring. Young voice, radio-sultry. “Thanks so much for calling, Dr. Delaware.”

I gave my little speech.

She said, “I appreciate all that, but maybe you’ll change your mind when I tell you my former married name.”

“What’s that?”

“Fortuno.”

“Oh,” I said. “Philip.”

“Felipe,” she said. “That’s his legal name but Mario won’t use it, just to needle me. You’ve met Mario.”

“Dominant.”

“Tries to be,” she said, softly. “He ordered me to call you months ago. I think Felipe’s a wonderful boy, the problem’s all in Mario’s-let’s talk about that in person. I know you get paid for your time, and I don’t want to mooch. Would it be okay if I came by myself, without Felipe? Then, if you think there’s a problem, you can see Felipe?”

“Sure. You live in Santa Barbara.”

Hesitation. “I used to.”

“Moving around,” I said.

Another pause. “This call-you don’t record anything, right?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s not always relevant-what people think they know. How about we meet halfway. Between L.A. and Santa Barbara.”

“Sure. Where?”

“Oxnard,” she said. “There’s a winery there, away from the beach, in an industrial park off Rice Avenue. Nice little café and they make a great Zinfandel, if wine’s your thing.”

“Not when I work.”

“You can always take some home. I probably will.”

I met her the next day at noon.

The winery was a two-story mock-adobe structure set on a couple acres of landscaped lawns and spotless parking lot fifteen miles above the upper reaches of Malibu. Grapes trucked in from Napa and Sonoma and the Alexander Valley, pressed and bottled in an antiseptic setting, freeway-close for shipping. Far cry from the fragrant earth of Wine Country, but the tasting room was busy, as was the ten-table restaurant near the back.

Barb Smith had reserved a corner booth. She was young and bronze-maybe thirty-with long, wavy black hair, searching brown Eurasian eyes, a wide soft mouth. A baby-blue pantsuit covered skin but couldn’t conceal curves. Brown Kate Spade bag, high-heeled sandals to match, discreet emerald earrings, delicate gold-link necklace.

A glass of red wine sat in front of her. Her handshake was firm, moist around the edges.