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“And it wasn’t when she spoke about Karen,” Angie said. “It wasn’t when she spoke about Miles. Do you remember, Diane?”
Diane Bourne raised her eyes and they were pink, angry.
“It was when you spoke about Wesley Dawe.”
Diane Bourne cleared her throat. “Get the fuck out of my home.”
Angie smiled. “Wesley Dawe, who killed his little sister. Who-”
“He didn’t kill her,” she said. “You get that. Wesley wasn’t anywhere near her. But he was blamed. He was-”
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Angie’s smile broadened. “That’s who you’re protecting. That was the blond man on the bog. Wesley Dawe.”
She said nothing, just stared at the smoke as it flowed from her mouth.
“Why did he want to destroy Karen?”
She shook her head. “You’ve gotten the name, Mr. Kenzie. That’s all you get. And he already knows who you are.” She turned her head, gave me her pale, desolate eyes. “And he doesn’t like you, Patrick. He thinks you’re a meddler. He thinks you should have walked away from this when it was proven Karen’s death was by her own hand.” She held out her hand. “My tape, please.”
“No.”
She dropped her hand. “I gave you what you wanted.”
Angie shook her head. “I drew it out of you. Not the same thing.”
I said, “You’re the master of the psyche, Doctor, so turn your gaze inward for a moment. Which is more important to you-your reputation or your career?”
“I don’t see-”
“Pick,” I said sharply.
Her jaw set as if it were on steel pins, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “My reputation.”
I nodded. “You can keep it.”
Her jaw loosened and her eyes were bewildered behind her glowing cigarette coal as she took another long haul of smoke into her lungs. “What’s the catch?”
“Your career is over.”
“You can’t end my career.”
“I’m not going to. You’re going to.”
She laughed, but it was a nervous one. “Don’t overestimate yourself, Mr. Kenzie. I have no intention of-”
“You’ll close your office tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll refer all your clients to other doctors, and you’ll never practice in this state again.”
Her “Ha!” was louder, but sounded even less sure.
“You’ll do this, Doctor, and you’ll keep your reputation. Maybe you can write books, line up a talk show. But you’ll never work one-on-one with a patient again.”
“Or?” she said.
I held up the videocassette. “Or this thing starts playing cocktail parties.”
We left her there and as we opened the door, Angie said, “Tell Wesley we’re coming for him.”
“He already knows,” she said. “He already knows.”
20
Rain fell softly on sun-drenched streets the afternoon I met Vanessa Moore at a sidewalk cafe in Back Bay. She’d called and asked to meet so we could discuss Tony Traverna’s case. Vanessa was Tony T’s attorney; we’d first met the last time Tony jumped bail, and I had appeared as a witness for the prosecution. Vanessa had cross-examined me the same way she made love-with a cool hunger and sharpened nails.
I could have declined Vanessa’s invite, I suppose, but it had been a week since the night we’d cooked for Diane Bourne, and in that week, we seemed to have taken four steps back. Wesley Dawe did not exist. He wasn’t listed in census records or with the Registry of Motor Vehicles. He did not own a credit card. He had no bank account in the city of Boston or the state of Massachusetts, and after getting slightly desperate, Angie discovered no one by that name existed in New Hampshire, Maine, or Vermont.
We’d gone back to Diane Bourne’s office, but apparently she’d taken our advice to heart. The office was closed. Her town house, we soon discovered, was abandoned. In a week, she hadn’t shown up there, and a cursory search of the place revealed only that she may have taken enough clothing to get by for a week before she had to either do laundry or shop for more.
The Dawes went fishing. Literally, I found out, after I’d impersonated a patient of the doctor’s and learned they were at their summer home in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.
We lost Angie’s help when she was assigned by Sallis & Salk to join a team of bodyguards watching an oily South African diamond merchant around the clock as he did whatever it was oily diamond merchants do when they come to our little hamlet.
And Bubba went back to doing whatever it is Bubba does when he isn’t out of the country buying things that could blow up the Eastern Seaboard.
So I was a bit adrift, and caseless, it seemed, when I found Vanessa sitting outdoors under a large Cinzano umbrella, the gentle drizzle bouncing off the cobblestone and spraying her ankles, but leaving the wrought-iron table and rest of Vanessa untouched.
“Hey.” I leaned in to kiss her cheek and she slid a hand along my rib cage as she accepted it.
“Hi.” She watched me take my seat with the amusement that lived in her eyes like twin birthmarks, a lusty vivacity that said just about anything was hers for the taking. It was just a matter of her choosing.
“How you doing?”
“I’m good, Patrick. You’re damp.” She patted a napkin to dry her palm.
I rolled my eyes and raised a hand to the heavens. The shower had come suddenly as I’d walked from my car, broke from a tear in a lone cloud that floated through an otherwise glossy sky.
“I’m not complaining,” she said. “Nothing looks better on a handsome man in a white shirt than a little rain.”
I chuckled. The thing with Vanessa was that even if you saw her coming, she kept coming. Ran right at you and then through you, made you wonder why you’d even tried to ward her off in the first place.
We may have agreed months ago that the sexual component of our relationship was over, but today Vanessa seemed to have changed her mind. And when Vanessa changed her mind, the rest of the world changed theirs with her.
Either that, or she was just trying to work me into a lather, leave me standing alone after I’d made my move so she’d have something even better than sex to get her off that night. With her, you never knew. And I’d learned in the past that the only way to play it safe with her was not to play at all.
“So,” I said, “why do you think I can help you with Tony T?”
