Part 15 (1/2)
”What's the evidence?”
Barrett ran through her first meeting with Jimmy. She told him about the lack of a lithium tremor.
”A lot of people don't get a tremor,” Anton replied curtly.
”When he was at Croton, he had a marked tremor, Anton. And his prolactin level is now normal-it used to be sky high. I think I need to contact the review board, but I thought I'd run it by you first.”
”As part of the board, Barrett, I can tell you they're not going to do anything. What have you got to go on? He's not shaking? Maybe his body acclimated or maybe he's under a lot less stress so you can't see it anymore. Same thing goes for the prolactin, it can normalize in people who've been taking meds as long as he has; you know that.”
”Anton, Morris Kravitz never checked his lithium level. Were you aware of that?”
”I wasn't. But that just speaks to Kravitz's sloppiness, you can't hold that against Martin. It's not his fault his shrink wasn't doing his job. I hate to say it, Barrett, but this case has you scared. Jimmy Martin spent eighteen years in Croton and has only been out a few months-and he's been squeaky clean. The stuff you're rattling off seems more about you and less about him.”
Barrett held the phone to her ear, dumbfounded by Anton's stance. Was she overreacting?
”Have you considered that maybe you should get some clinical supervision?” he continued. ”Lord knows Martin's paying enough for you to get a few hours with somebody to get your head straight around this.”
”I don't know what to say,” Barrett commented, feeling betrayed and a little foolish. Why was he talking to her like this? Like she didn't know what she was doing.
”Well, I appreciate your call. But I'd caution you against contacting the board. You have to be careful that it doesn't appear like you're deliberately trying to come up with something to get Martin violated back to Croton.”
”That's not what I'm doing.”
”I didn't say that. But if you were to bring what you just told me to the rest of the board, it wouldn't look good.”
She thought of more she could bring up, but as she ticked through the pieces that didn't fit she imagined Anton batting each of them away as products of her over-active imagination.
”Was there anything else?” he asked.
”No ... it's just your response surprises me.”
”How's that?”
Barrett thought back to the inconsistency in Anton telling her that Jimmy's case was a gift as opposed to Jimmy having specifically asked for her. ”Never mind,” she said.
”You know, if you want to unload this case ... I could arrange that.”
”It's okay,” she forced a brightness into her voice, ”I'll be fine. This has been helpful.”
”I'm glad,” he said, but sounding wary, and then hung up.
Was he right? From the way he spoke, it was almost as though she were paranoid. He'd probably freak if he knew she'd just called Kravitz's widow, or if she'd gone into the coincidence around the accident that prevented Jimmy's one-and-only set of bloodwork from making it to the lab. Weird.
She pulled out her PDA and looked up Hobbs' cell number. When he picked up on the second ring, she felt a rush of relief at the sound of his voice. ”You busy?” she asked.
”Always. So what's up?”
”I need a favor.” And she felt like adding, and a friend.
”Shoot. If I can do it, I will.”
”It's very strange, and if you say no, I'll understand ... Any chance I could get you to tag along on a field trip to see the widow Kravitz.”
Ed hesitated, ”Kravitz ... Martin's shrink, the one who died. The one whose death certificate I was supposed to pull for you. Forgive me, but I totally blanked on that one.”
”No problem, I already got it. So, are you up for it?”
”Sure. I've got night duty, so as long as we're done by eight, just tell me where and when.”
FOURTEEN.
Jimmy drew the bow hard and fast across the cello. Throaty arpeggios leapt forth, his fingers landing with precision. He fought against the growing haze of the pills; he'd take them a bit longer. Still jazzed from last night's outing, he felt the pieces slip into place. Barrett's love, like a beacon, was calling him home.
The music soared, filling the s.p.a.ce with Bach's G.o.dly perfection. His breath deepened as he pictured the tall man with the trombone case, crossing the street, not looking-careless.
He pressed harder, pus.h.i.+ng the tempo faster, nudging the adagio into an allegro, and then a scherzo, the notes blurring, his fingers flying spider-like over the strings. He pictured the auditorium where they'd play, the beautiful and intimate setting where he'd often given recitals with Ellen. It was the smallest of the three rooms at Carnegie Hall-the Weill. Arthur had done as instructed, the hall was rented, and the date was set.
He reached the end of the movement, and without stopping, soared into the opening of the Brahms E minor. He could hear her playing in the background. She'd be dressed in black, pearls at her throat. And after, when the music stopped, he'd put down his cello and take her hand. Applause would engulf them as she'd gracefully rise from the bench. He'd turn to her, and she to him. In his mind's eye he saw her beautiful lips form the word, ”yes,” and then- ”Ain't going to happen, Jimbo.” Father's voice cackled.
Jimmy's head whipped around, his bow faltered and screeched as his fingers missed notes.
”She doesn't love you, Jimbo.”
He tried to ignore the heckling. Father was scared. She would save him, and he would love her always, they'd have children, and Ellen would be their aunt, and they'd spend endless nights playing music by the fire and Father would be forever banished.
”Fat chance. The only way you'll ever get her, Jimbo, is if you tie her up and drug her.”
”No!” Jimmy stopped playing, hearing the last sour note fade. Father was wrong, but sometimes there was truth in what he said. He c.o.c.ked his head to the side, wondering if the voice would say more.
”She doesn't love you.”
That wasn't true. It was just he had to complete the tests, like a knight or Prince Charming from Maylene's stories. Father was trying to distract him. To make him fail.
Jimmy caught a whiff of stale whisky and tobacco. Adrenalin surged and his pulse quickened. He put down the cello, and looked around the empty library.
”You're not here,” Jimmy said. ”You're dead.”
”You can't kill me.”
”You're dead. You're pathetic.”
”She'll never love you,” Father persisted, his voice high-pitched and whiny.