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“Yes. It’s common with most-”
“And is it your practice, Doctor, to then mail those notes to the patients they concern?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how,” Angie said, “did your notes for a session with Karen Nichols, dated April the sixth, 1994, end up in Miss Nichols’s possession?”
“I have no idea,” Dr. Bourne said with the barely patient air of a matron speaking to a child. “Possibly she took them herself during one of her visits.”
“You keep your files locked?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then how could Karen break into them?”
Her chiseled face slackened along the jawline and her lips parted. “She couldn’t,” she said eventually.
“Which would suggest,” Angie said, “that you or someone from your office gave confidential, potentially damaging information to a conceivably unbalanced client.”
Dr. Bourne closed her mouth and her jaw tightened. “Hardly, Ms. Gennaro. I seem to remember that we had a break-in here a few-”
“Excuse me?” Angie leaned forward. “You seem to remember a break-in?”
“Yes.”
“So there’d be a police report.”
“A what?”
“A police report,” I said.
“No. Nothing of value seemed to be missing.”
“Just confidential files,” I said.
“No. I never said-”
Angie said, “Because I would think your other clients would expect to be notified if-”
“Ms. Gennaro, I don’t think-”
“-confidential documents relating to the most personal aspects of their lives were in the hands of an unknown third party.” Angie looked over at me. “Don’t you agree?”
“We could let them know,” I said. “Purely as a public service.”
Dr. Bourne’s cigarette had turned to a curled finger of white ash in the crystal tray. As I watched, the finger collapsed.
“Logistically,” Angie said, “that would be tough.”
“Nah,” I said. “We just sit outside in our car. Every time we see someone rich who’s approaching the building and looks a little funny in the head, we assume they’re a client of Dr. Bourne’s and-”
“You will not.”
“-we approach and tell them about the break-in.”
“In the interest of the public good,” Angie said. “People’s right to know. Gosh, we’re kinda swell that way, aren’t we?”
I nodded. “No coal in our stockings this Christmas.”
Diane Bourne lit a second cigarette and watched us through the smoke, her pale eyes flat and seemingly nonplussed. “What do you want?” she said, and I detected just the hint of a throb in her vocal cords, a slight ticking not unlike the metronome.
“For starters,” I said, “we want to know how those session notes took flight from your office.”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
Angie lit her own cigarette. “Get the faintest, lady.”
Diane Bourne uncrossed her legs and tucked them to the side in that effortless way all women can and no man is remotely capable of. She held her cigarette up by her temple and gazed at Blake’s Los on the east wall, a painting that was about as calming as a plane crash.
“I had a temp secretary a couple of months ago. I sensed-no proof, mind you, just a sense-that she had been going through the files. She was only with me a week, so I didn’t give it much thought after she left.”
“Her name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But you have records.”
“Of course. I’ll have Miles get them for you on your way out.” Then she smiled. “Oh, I forgot, he’s not here today. Well, I’ll make a note to have him send that information to you.”
Angie was sitting two feet away, but I could feel her pulse quicken and her blood warm along with my own.
I indicated the outer office with a backward jerk of my thumb. “Miles would be who?”
She suddenly looked as if she regretted ever mentioning him. “He’s, ah, just someone who works for me part-time as a secretary.”
“Part-time,” I said. “So he has another job?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
“Why?”
“Curious,” I said. “It’s an occupational hazard. Humor me.”
She sighed. “He works at Evanton Hospital in Wellesley.”
“The psych hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?” Angie asked.
“He’s their records clerk.”
“And how long has he worked here?”
“Why do you ask?” Another small cock of the head.
“I’m trying to ascertain who has access to your files, Doctor.”
She leaned forward, tapped some ash into the tray. “Miles Lovell has been in my employ for three and a half years, Mr. Kenzie, and to answer your next question, No, he would have no reason to remove session notes from Karen Nichols’s file and mail them to her.”
Lovell, I thought. Not Brewster. Uses a false last name, but sticks to his first name out of comfort. Not a bad move if your name is John. Kind of dumb, though, if you name’s somewhat less common.
“Okay.” I smiled. Picture of the satisfied detective. No more questions here about ol’ Miles Lovell. He’s right as rain in my book, ma’am.
“He’s the most trustworthy assistant I’ve ever had.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Now,” she said, “have I answered all your questions?”
My smile widened. “Not even close.”
“Tell us about Karen Nichols,” Angie said.
“There’s very little to tell…”
Half an hour later she was still talking, ticking off the details of Karen Nichols’s psyche with all the consistency and emotion of that metronome of hers.
Karen, according to Dr. Diane Bourne, had been a classic bipolar manic depressive. She had over the years taken prescriptions for lithium, Depakote, and Tegretol, as well as the Prozac I’d found in Warren ’s barn. Whether hers was a condition mandated by genetics became largely irrelevant when her father died and his killer shot himself in front of Karen. Following textbook patterns, according to Dr. Bourne, Karen, far from acting out as a child or an adolescent, had been preternaturally well behaved, molding herself into the role of perfect daughter, sister, and eventually, girlfriend.
