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Best regards,
B.C., Esq.’
Brady said, “Gloves, please.”
He handed out the brown envelopes saying, “So. We’ll read the letters while in this room. Make note of anything we should all know and return them to me in ten minutes. I’ll get them to the DA. By the way, Catton is being arraigned tomorrow.”
I opened the large brown envelope in front of me.
It held eight photocopied letters from Catton to Burke, and a newspaper article I knew by heart. The article was on the front page of theSan Francisco Chronicleposting a reward for information leading to the return of Cindy Thomas.
I said, “This is different.”
There was a note scribbled on the back of an A2 envelope in small, neat handwriting, and it was paper-clipped to the article.
I read it out loud. “Good job, my friend. I look forward to hearing more. To you from the hole at the Q., E.B.”
Up until the last few days, Burke was coaching Blackout, mentoring him. They were some kind of team. At least, that’s how it sounded to me.
CHAPTER 102
IT HAD ONLY been two weeks since I’d last seen Dr. Greene but it seemed like a year.
I was ten minutes early to our Monday appointment, so I used that time to make myself presentable. I tipped the rearview mirror toward my face and took note. My hair looked like a tumbleweed that had blown in from Texas. I finger combed the hay-colored mess as best I could, found a band in the console, and pulled my hair into a pony. I pulled a few strands of hair forward to soften the stress lines in my forehead. Next, I slicked on “burnished bronze” lipstick, pinched my cheeks, smoothed my brows.
I got out of my Explorer and stood for sixty seconds in the fair spring afternoon. I went to my happy place: a field of daisies and bluebonnets. My family was there along with my dog and a tennis ball. I locked up the car, crossed the street, and rang the bell next to Dr. Greene’s nameplate.
The buzzer sounded, unlocking the door.
I walked up two flights to Dr. Greene’s office, opened theouter door to his waiting room, and sank into a seat by the window. I stared at a piece of artwork that looked like a portrait of a woman who’d been through a car wash. What else could it be?
The door to Dr. Greene’s office opened and he stuck his head out and said, “Hi, Lindsay, come in.”
I returned the greeting and followed him into his cozy, pale-carpeted office and took a seat opposite his recliner.
He tucked a folded newspaper into a magazine stand and said, “How are you doing?”
“How do I look?”
“Like you’re trying hard to seem okay. What’s happening?”
“Start at the beginning, right?”
“Any place you like,” said my paid-for-by-the-city shrink, whom I actually liked quite a bit.
I said, “Ah, you usually ask, ‘How was your week?’”
“Fair enough. How was it?”
“I’m looking for a way to tell you about it, Doctor. I may need more than one session.”
“Of course, but see what you can do with this one. I’m a good listener.”
I exhaled loudly and leaned back in the chair. “Where did we leave off?”
He said, “You were telling me about the stress of your work, wondering if you should still be a homicide investigator and I asked you if you might be happier in a staff job. And I suggested that we should spend time talking about that. We can talk about anything that’s on your mind.”
“Well, Dr. Greene. In the two weeks since I last sat here, we—me, my partner, and the team—bagged a serial killer andrescued our friend Cindy Thomas, who’d been kidnapped and nearly murdered.”
