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“I guess we should find out who Anna was sleeping with, then. Chances are, that will lead us to her killer.”
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“Who was Anna sleeping with, Dr. Mathers?” I take a seat in an ornate office, rich with tapestries and spilling over with bucketloads of money.
The wealth of its inhabitant can be seen in the quality of the rugs. The style of ornaments. The number of special edition books, and candlesticks made of what appears to be pure gold.
Doctor Ever Mathers is a therapist to the rich and famous. Accessible only by referral, and costly enough to scare off any regular John or Jane Doe who wants to talk about their feelings. She occupies an office up in the hills overlooking the city, with a front gate bigger than Anna’s, and staff almost as large as Michel Heenan.
We’re here today not because we’re cops, and not because we have a judge ready to sign a warrant. But because she lives next door to the mayor.
They’re friends, I guess.
How convenient.
“I cannot divulge that information, Detective Malone.” Ever sits back in a tall, wingback chair, and balances a delicate teacup on her knee. “I cannot disclose anything to you. Even in death, Ms. Switzer retains confidentiality.”
“The things she spoke to you about will lead us to her killer,” Fletch growls. “You knew her secrets, Dr. Mathers. Who she spent her time with, her body image issues, the state of her mental health. We need to know too, so we can find justice.”
“And no matter how much I wish otherwise, I cannot tell you anything without a warrant.” Ever is about sixty years old. Just over five feet tall, and weighing in at a tidy hundred and forty or so pounds. She wears her hair perfectly coiffed, and has enough glitter on her wrists that, if she dared venture down the hill and into regular civilization, she’d probably get mugged within minutes. “You know I cannot violate Ms. Switzer’s trust.”
“Ms. Switzer is dead,” I bite out. “Someone killed her. I’m sure that, if she was here, she’d tell you to help us help her. It’s what anyone would want.”
“And yet,” the woman pushes back, eternally patient, “without her express permission or a warrant from a judge, my hands are tied.”
“I’ll make the call.” Fletch snatches out his phone, retreats to a corner of the room, and starts the process of getting our warrant on its way.
Mathers knows it. I know it. So I let him do that, and watch her while I wait.
“Anna was prescribed alprazolam. By you.” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth, half-listening to Fletch’s request over my shoulder. “Can you explain that to me?”
She allows a small smile to cross her lips, but she shakes her head. “The second I have signed and sealed documentation, I become an open book. But until then…”
“Fletch?” Irritated, I turn in my seat. “Status?”
“On hold with Judge Ruth now. Ask your questions,” he waves me off. “We’ll have the warrant in a sec.”
So I turn to Mathers and raise a brow. “Why did you prescribe alprazolam?”
“Done!” Fletch spins on his heels and kills his call. “It’s on its way right now. You’re in the clear, Doctor. Now please help Anna.”
“Anna has always suffered with poor mental health, Detectives.” From a cold, stone wall to a fountain of information, Mathers’ entire disposition changes. “She was a child star, then the unwitting star of a sex tape she never consented to, and finally, a full-fledged sex symbol and adult performer. Not only that, but with the lightning-speed advancement of artificial intelligence over the last year, those who wished to harm her have gained the ability to insert her face into adult content videos. The results are alarmingly convincing, to anyone who wants to see what they’re being told they’re seeing.”
“Her likeness has been used in porn?” I ask.
“Without her consent. She never filmed those videos, nor had a hand in their production, but technology can be quite unfair. This was just one small facet of her reality as Anna Switzer.”
“So she was anxious about these tapes?” I press.
“She was anxious about a lot of things. She could hardly ride in a car anymore without breaking out in a sweat at the fear of collision. She was to attend physical therapy for the injuries she sustained in her infamous car incident.”
“She didn’t go?” Fletch wonders. “Why not?”
“Oh, she went. She was a rule follower and people-pleaser at heart, which means she did as her medical team ordered, often without question. But the sessions brought her pain, emotionally and physically. She was to perform too often, and many times, these shows meant acrobatic feats she was never comfortable executing. But it’s what the public wanted. Not just to see a woman sing. But she was to dance. To climb. To do tricks, like a monkey in a circus. These physical demands meant her injury has yet had a chance to properly heal.”
“Which is why she was prescribed Oxy,” I murmur. “Pain relief.”
Mathers lowers her head in acknowledgment. “Yes. I spoke with her weekly on the matter, in hopes she would not become reliant on the high these medications brought her. We all know how easily someone under pressure can seek that relief.” Whether she knows of Fletch’s marriage or not, Mathers looks to him anyway. “Stronger people have fallen harder.”
