suppose explained why she’d felt the need to hire somebody to listen to her. The hole in my stomach got deeper and colder.
“I don’t have to tell you how out of character this is for her.”
Long pause. “No, you don’t,” she said finally.
“Everybody seems to think that she and Brett are seeing somebody about it.”
“They are,” she said without hesitation.
“You know who they’re seeing?” I asked.
“She,” Monica corrected. “He only went twice.”
“Do you have a name?”
Longer pause as she tried to decide whether or not to tell me.
“Rachel Thoms,” she said finally. “She’s in one of those office buildings…”
“Right by the interstate,” I finished for her.
“If you already knew, Leo, why call me?” she asked disgustedly, and hung up.
East Tower, seventeenth floor, suite 1751. Rachel Thoms, MSW, ACSW, LICSW, Relationship Analysis. I eased the door open and took a seat in the waiting room. I could hear the dull mumble of voices in an adjoining room but made it a point not to listen.
The room was carefully designed to promote peace of mind. All muted browns and yellows. Fresh fall floral display on the central coffee table. Three small still lifes and a big painting of a suspension bridge arching into a distant, fog-shrouded shore. Either a transformation metaphor or an invitation to jump. I wasn’t sure which.
Thirty-five minutes later, the door on the opposite side of the room opened and an anorexic young woman in her midtwenties stepped into the room. She was strangling a hankie and dabbing at her bloodshot eyes. One look at me and she bolted across the room like an Olympic speed walker, snuffling a garbled curse in my direction as she streaked out into the hallway and slammed the door.
The next woman through the door was most everything the first one wasn’t and then some. She wasn’t skinny and she wasn’t crying. Like the first woman, however, she also wasn’t in the least pleased by my presence.
She was a handsome woman. Five-ten without the shoes. Big boned and big featured, with a thick head of chestnut hair pulled to the back of her head and pinned up. The kind of woman who looked you dead in the eye and challenged you to bring it on. The kind of woman you’d like toclimb up on the furniture and then dive into. I restrained myself but couldn’t help but notice that, despite that cold steel feeling in my gut, my blood had begun to redistribute in a rather unwelcome manner.
“You violated that woman’s privacy,” she said.
“I’m sorry. That certainly wasn’t my intention.”
“Didn’t the girl at the desk tell you to wait downstairs?”
“I skipped the desk and came straight up here.” I anticipated her next question. “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”
She blinked once and picked at her tweed skirt. “And why would I refuse to see you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Rebecca Duval,” I said.
I watched as the veins and tendons in her neck tightened. She cocked her head like the RCA dog and took a moment to look me over.
“You’d be Leo Waterman,” she said.
“Yes, I would.”
She folded her arms over her luxurious chest. “As you must know, Mr. Waterman, I can’t discuss my patients. Just admitting that she
was
a patient…” She let the self-admonition peter out.
“She’s missing,” I said.
She did that cocking of her head thing again, making me wonder whether the gesture might be shrink body language that showed the patient you were listening.
“Missing in what sense?” she wanted to know.
I gave her the
Reader’s Digest
version of the story. Not surprisingly, she was a good listener.
“That’s very worrisome,” she said when I finished.
“I’m scared to death,” I admitted.
“Perhaps you should contact the police.”
“Been there, done that,” I said, and then told her what Marty Gilbert had told me.
She checked her watch. “I’ve another patient in five minutes,” she said. “You’re
“I don’t have to tell you how out of character this is for her.”
Long pause. “No, you don’t,” she said finally.
“Everybody seems to think that she and Brett are seeing somebody about it.”
“They are,” she said without hesitation.
“You know who they’re seeing?” I asked.
“She,” Monica corrected. “He only went twice.”
“Do you have a name?”
Longer pause as she tried to decide whether or not to tell me.
“Rachel Thoms,” she said finally. “She’s in one of those office buildings…”
“Right by the interstate,” I finished for her.
“If you already knew, Leo, why call me?” she asked disgustedly, and hung up.
East Tower, seventeenth floor, suite 1751. Rachel Thoms, MSW, ACSW, LICSW, Relationship Analysis. I eased the door open and took a seat in the waiting room. I could hear the dull mumble of voices in an adjoining room but made it a point not to listen.
The room was carefully designed to promote peace of mind. All muted browns and yellows. Fresh fall floral display on the central coffee table. Three small still lifes and a big painting of a suspension bridge arching into a distant, fog-shrouded shore. Either a transformation metaphor or an invitation to jump. I wasn’t sure which.
Thirty-five minutes later, the door on the opposite side of the room opened and an anorexic young woman in her midtwenties stepped into the room. She was strangling a hankie and dabbing at her bloodshot eyes. One look at me and she bolted across the room like an Olympic speed walker, snuffling a garbled curse in my direction as she streaked out into the hallway and slammed the door.
The next woman through the door was most everything the first one wasn’t and then some. She wasn’t skinny and she wasn’t crying. Like the first woman, however, she also wasn’t in the least pleased by my presence.
She was a handsome woman. Five-ten without the shoes. Big boned and big featured, with a thick head of chestnut hair pulled to the back of her head and pinned up. The kind of woman who looked you dead in the eye and challenged you to bring it on. The kind of woman you’d like toclimb up on the furniture and then dive into. I restrained myself but couldn’t help but notice that, despite that cold steel feeling in my gut, my blood had begun to redistribute in a rather unwelcome manner.
“You violated that woman’s privacy,” she said.
“I’m sorry. That certainly wasn’t my intention.”
“Didn’t the girl at the desk tell you to wait downstairs?”
“I skipped the desk and came straight up here.” I anticipated her next question. “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”
She blinked once and picked at her tweed skirt. “And why would I refuse to see you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Rebecca Duval,” I said.
I watched as the veins and tendons in her neck tightened. She cocked her head like the RCA dog and took a moment to look me over.
“You’d be Leo Waterman,” she said.
“Yes, I would.”
She folded her arms over her luxurious chest. “As you must know, Mr. Waterman, I can’t discuss my patients. Just admitting that she
was
a patient…” She let the self-admonition peter out.
“She’s missing,” I said.
She did that cocking of her head thing again, making me wonder whether the gesture might be shrink body language that showed the patient you were listening.
“Missing in what sense?” she wanted to know.
I gave her the
Reader’s Digest
version of the story. Not surprisingly, she was a good listener.
“That’s very worrisome,” she said when I finished.
“I’m scared to death,” I admitted.
“Perhaps you should contact the police.”
“Been there, done that,” I said, and then told her what Marty Gilbert had told me.
She checked her watch. “I’ve another patient in five minutes,” she said. “You’re
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