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“Yes, you’re right. All of us are capable under certain circumstances of extreme and violent behavior. We control it, channel it—in some cases medicate it. Justin’s a doctor, dedicated to healing, a scientist and man of reason. The person who did this rejects reason and humanity. He’s given himself a monster’s face. Humanity means little to him.”
“Okay. How about Eton Billingsly?”
“A skilled therapist, and an enormous pain in the ass.”
Eve had to grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call anybody a pain in the ass.”
“I don’t like him so it’s hard to be objective. He’s a pompous snob who sees himself as perfect. He’s rude, annoying, and full of himself.”
“A god complex?”
Mira’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I’d say. You wonder if he’s capable. I don’t know him well enough. He’s skilled—he has an MD, and would have done some time with a scalpel before he focused on his specialty.”
“Hypno-voodoo.”
Mira let out a quick, exasperated laugh. “I know you’re suspicious of the technique, but it’s valid, and can be very effective. Billingsly certainly wants to be noticed and rewarded and praised. But . . .” She studied the sketch again. “It’s very difficult for me to envision a man like him deliberately making himself hideous. He’s also vain.”
“Something to think about, though. I appreciate the time.”
“I’m happy to give it. Tell me how you are.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t been back long. How’s your arm?”
Eve started to dismiss it, then settled on the truth. “A little sore in the morning, and by the end of the day. Mostly good, though.”
“That’s to be expected with that kind of injury. Nightmares?”
“No. Maybe just being back in New York’s enough. At least right now. Isaac McQueen’s back in a cage where he belongs. That doesn’t suck. I’m not thinking about my mother, what happened there,” she said before Mira could ask. “Not yet. It’s done, and right now I’m okay with it.”
“When and if it’s not, you’ll talk to me?”
“I know I can. That’s a pretty big start, right?”
“Yes, it is.”
Eve got up, started for the door. “Is she like you?” she asked. “Arianna Whitwood?”
“Like me?”
“That’s the sense I got from her. She made me think of you. Not just because she’s an attractive female shrink. It was . . . I don’t know, a sense. If she is like you, then she’s got no part in this. And thinking that, I hope to hell Justin Rosenthall doesn’t, because you believe she loves him. I hope he’s clear.”
“So do I.”
“I’ll let you know,” Eve said, and left.
SIX
Eve glanced over at Peabody as she walked back into the bullpen, got a shake of the head.
So no luck, yet, on masks or makeup. She went into her office, got coffee, then sat at her desk, put her boots up, and studied the board.
Everybody liked Rosenthall; nobody liked Billingsly. Instinct dictated a push on Billingsly—and she intended to listen. But she’d give a little push on the good doctor as well.
Arianna Whitwood. Beautiful, rich, smart, dedicated, caring. The good daughter, and again, the good doctor.
Didn’t that make an interesting triangle? Billingsly wanted her—and didn’t bother to (ha-ha) disguise it. Rosenthall had her.
