Part 9 (1/2)
”For killing people?”
”For anything violent.”
”No. He's a gentle person.” She turned slowly to survey the disarray. ”I have to move.” She sounded annoyed at the inconvenience. She kicked an empty box out of her way and went into her private office.
Stacy watched her from the open doorway. ”Leave this building, or leave town?”
”I gave my receptionist two weeks' severance pay. That's the best I could do. She's been with me four years. I hated to let her go.” She sat heavily at her desk, almost hidden behind the stacks. ”My husband is probably going to jail for a very long long time. How can I stay here? My . . . lapse of moral judgement cost a man his life.”
”They'll want you here for the trial.”
”Oh yes. I'll be stuck here for a while. Removing myself from this town, from this life, won't happen overnight. I have patients. Some of them have cancelled, but some rely on me.”
”What about Anya Daniel? Does she rely on you?”
”I don't know. Yes. Certainly.”
”She is why Detective Delisle came to see you. Can you tell me what he was asking? That wouldn't violate anything, would it?”
”We talked about jazz. He told me he played piano. I told him I once met Oscar Peterson. That was about it. We arranged to meet. After that we didn't talk all that much.”
”Did he mention a Russian man who was found dead in Toronto last week?”
”No, I'm sorry. We didn't talk about his cases. Except for questions about my patient, which I couldn't answer.”
”And the questions about your patient? What did he want to know?”
”He wanted to know if she was delusional.”
”Why didn't you stay at the restaurant? Was there someone you knew?”
”There's always someone. I was an idiot to think we'd be invisible.” She wiped her hand across her mouth as if to remove a lingering taste of something bitter. ”I just wanted a little romantic interlude. The first time I'd ever done anything remotely like that.”
”I was just wondering if it was someone who might have told your husband.”
”No. Just some people who could have recognized me.” She opened another drawer. Closed it sharply. ”I was very stupid. Very stupid.”
”Can you tell me anything about Mr. Delisle's weapon? Did he take it off at any point?”
”I told him I hated guns. He put it in his suitcase. Is it important?”
”Probably not.” Stacy made a note. ”Your patient, Anya Daniel, I know you can't tell me anything about your private communication, and I wouldn't want you to, but I'm trying to determine if there is any connection between Ms. Daniel and the dead Russian. I don't suppose there's anything you could help me with there, without breaking the doctor/patient restriction?”
”Not really. She talks about Russia in very general terms. Her years with the ballet. Evidently she was destined to be a big star back there, but for some reason she had to defect. She won't go into that.”
”What year are we talking about? That she had to defect?”
”In 1981. She was touring in the United States and Canada.”
”Did something bad happen at home?”
”As far as I can make out, there was some political upheaval going on. New people coming into power. I'm afraid I don't know much about Russian political history.”
”That makes two of us.”
”She does say that they were all thieves back there. The big shots. She seems to have a special hate for someone named Chernenko. Do you know who that is?”
”I think he's dead,” Stacy said.
”Not to hear her talk about him.”
”I see. I'll let you get back to your packing then.”
”I feel a deep sense of responsibility for what happened. If I hadn't been so stupid that man would be alive.”
Stacy couldn't argue that point. ”Try not to beat yourself up too much, Doctor,” she said.
No, she wouldn't be beating herself up. Not over something so completely preposterous. Harold in the role of killer, of jealous vengeful murderer, was beyond preposterous - it was inconceivable, it went against anything rational. What happened to the red-haired detective was a horrible mistake, a grotesque aberration. She had other things to beat herself up over, sloppy session work, taking too long to do what she should have done a long time ago. But not this. This was not her fault. But it was a catastrophe. This could ruin all her good work.
There was the knocking again. That woman was back.
”Ms. Daniel? Dockerty Police. I'm Detective Crean. Like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
She'll go away after a while. Just sit still. There's no need to open the door. If she wants in badly enough she can kick it down the way they like to do.
”Ms. Daniel. I know you're in there, I can smell the cigarette smoke. I'm not here to arrest you. I just have a few questions. Please open the door.”
”What do you think?” she asked the cat. ”Should we talk to her?” She raised her voice. ”What questions?”
”Please open the door.”
”Why do you not kick it down?”
”I don't think that's necessary, do you?”
”Do police need a reason?” Anya found herself crossing the room to the door. ”Are you alone, or do you have an armed escort?”
”It's just me.”
”Because I am a dangerous fugitive, you know? Were you aware of that?”
”No, ma'am. I wasn't aware.”
”Oh yes,” Anya said. ”Most dangerous.” She opened the door. The woman in the hall looked the way she sounded, strong, self-a.s.sured, intelligent. ”You do not look like the police.” She left the door open and went back to the settee where her cigarette waited in an ashtray. A big orange tomcat looked up briefly. Stacy closed the door.
”How do police look?”
”Ha!” Anya's laugh was harsh. ”Ugly men with ugly ties and bad breath from too many hamburgers.”
Much of the room was bare wood floor. Windows met mirrors at one corner. At the other side was a screened changing area, a small upright piano with a CD player perched on top, and the spa.r.s.ely furnished corner where the woman and the cat waited.