Part 25 (1/2)
Barrett clasped her hands beneath her chin and waited. She wanted to call Hobbs, and share the information from Housmann. And yes, she admitted to herself, she wanted the rea.s.surance of his physicality, his humor. But there was something else he had that she needed. It was a difference in logic that made him a brilliant detective. Prior to the catastrophe that had ruined his career, he'd rocketed through the bureau and achieved the rarely granted rank of Detective First Cla.s.s. His promotion to deputy chief was based on years of superb work that ran the gamut from high-profile serial killers to overseeing the investigation in a white-collar investment scam that could have left thousands of city employees robbed of their pensions.
While Barrett spent her days working with criminals, the mentally ill, and the sociopathic, her job didn't require setting traps-Ed's did. Typically the folks she worked with had already been caught. Any traps were merely a clarification of the perpetrator's thought process and motive. Jimmy, however, needed to be caught. She needed something concrete that could override the obstacles Anton might now erect.
Her hand hovered over the telephone.
A tentative knock came.
”Yes?” Barrett called out.
”Dr. Conyors,” the door cracked open and Marla Dean's little girl voice wafted across the office. ”You wanted to see me?”
Barrett stared at the six inches of s.p.a.ce in the doorway. All she could see of Marla were the tips of three nail-bitten fingers curled around the edge.
”Come in,” Barrett said, not certain how to proceed with the skittish secretary. ”If you could close the door and sit down.”
Marla did as instructed; her long dark hair shadowed her face as she sat expectantly.
Barrett smiled and looked at Marla, as the painfully thin woman sat tentative, her collar bones sharply visible through the neckline of her gray polyester blouse. ”You've done something different with your hair?”
”I got rid of the gray,” she admitted.
”It's good ... you've been here a long time,” Barrett commented as she slowly opened her top desk drawer.
”Yes,” the secretary looked around, as her hands struggled to find a position of comfort. They reminded Barrett of birds in search of a safe perch: should they land on her lap? The chair? Should they hold each other or would they continually flutter about at the end of her bony arms, never finding a place to rest?
”How long?” Barrett persisted as she pretended to hunt for a chart.
”Almost fourteen years,” she whispered.
Barrett paused, ”I bet you've seen a lot.”
”We don't see much out there.”
”Do you remember Dr. Housmann?” Barrett asked.
Marla nodded her head, ”I think I should go back out and help Violet.”
”I won't be much longer ... you know I saw him recently.”
”Dr. Housmann?”
”Yes, we talked about you.”
”Why would you do that?” Marla gasped.
Barrett tried to make eye contact; the secretary looked away. ”We talked about Gordon Mayfield, and your name came up.”
Marla Dean stood abruptly, turned, and reached for the doork.n.o.b.
”Don't!” Barrett said.
Marla froze.
Barrett persisted, ”I think you know why I'm bringing this up.”
With her hand on the door and her back into the room Marla spoke, ”It was a long time ago.”
”I know. Now please sit down; I won't keep you long.”
”I have work to do,” the secretary pleaded.
”It won't take long.” Barrett waited as Marla slowly turned around. She found herself guessing at the woman's age. An old forty or a young sixty? She wore an inexpensive gray blouse and dull-green cotton skirt, her synthetic-leather shoes looked as though they might have come from a 14th Street five-dollar bin. Marla clasped her hands together and with her eyes fixed on the floor, she waited.
”How long did you know Dr. Mayfield?” Barrett asked.
”Why do you have to bring this up?” Marla asked. ”It was a long time ago.”
”I know,” Barrett said, ”but it has bearing on a case I'm currently working on.”
”Jimmy Martin,” Marla whispered.
”Yes. So you know about the connection?” Barrett asked, while trying to reconcile Marla's wispy voice with that of her mystery caller. ”Tell me what you know about that.”
”I helped him.”
”Who?”
”Gordon. He couldn't type.” Marla dabbed at the corners of her down-turned eyes with the back of her sleeve.
”Are you okay?”
”I don't want to talk about this. I should have found another job after he ... died. But it's like I was frozen here and Dr. Housmann told me that it wouldn't be necessary, that it wasn't my fault; so I stayed.”
”So how did you know about Jimmy?”
”Gordon told me who they all were. I didn't know that was something he wasn't supposed to do. But Gordon didn't care a lot about other people's rules. If he had, he'd never have loved me.”
Barrett reached across her desk and retrieved a mostly empty box of tissues. ”Here,” she handed them to Marla. ”You loved him?”
”At first I thought he just wanted to have s.e.x with me. He made so many promises, but then I guess he must have fallen in love with me.” She said the last words slowly, testing them out like they were a piece of thin ice that might not hold her weight. ”He told me that he loved me, but men say that.”
”They do,” Barrett agreed. ”What made him different?”
”His actions. 'By their fruit you shall know them',” Marla answered. ”He got me out of that place, found me a job, never hit me, and if he was seeing other women I never found out about it.”
Barrett listened as Marla laid out her criteria for a good man. ”Did you love him?”
”I'm crying, aren't I?”
”Yes, but tears can mean different things.”