Chapter 5
After Mitch slammed out, Dylan stood rooted to the floor, too stunned to move. A full minute later when her silenced phone vibrated, she was still in the same spot, trying to think past what had just happened. Better yet, to convince herself that it hadn’t happened at all.
She took the phone from the pocket of her blazer and clicked it on, hoping that her voice wasn’t as tremulous as she felt. “Yes, Ellie?”
“Mrs. Trent has arrived for her appointment.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m running a bit behind.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, of course. I was just making some notes. Mr. Haskell declined to use the private exit. Did he manage to duck out before Mrs. Trent got here?”
“No. In fact, he very politely held the door open for her as she was coming in. He humbly apologized to both of us for coming through the waiting room.”
Dylan envisioned him turning on the charm, capping off the apology with a self-deprecating remark, and leaving the two ladies all aflutter with his devilish smile. It made her want to throw something. “Give me a few minutes for a bathroom break, then I’ll come out and escort Mrs. Trent in.”
She went into her inner office, where she had converted a closet into a powder room.
She wet a hand towel with cold water and applied the makeshift compress to her neck and cheeks.
They felt aflame, and the mirror above the sink confirmed they were abnormally rosy.
The blush extended down into the open collar of her shirt.
Which, by the way, was tailored, as was her blazer. There was nothing flashy or flirtatious about either. Her skirt was knee length, and the heels of her pumps were moderate. Not a single article of her clothing was provocative. How dare he suggest…
What was the matter with her? Why was she defending her wardrobe?
His sexist remarks had been classically manipulative, intended to make her uncomfortable, to seize control of a situation he did not want to be in, and establish a power shift from her to him.
She knew better than to let such transparent manipulation from a patient affect her.
She had even told him the tactic wouldn’t work.
But it had. It had, and she was shaky all over because that had never happened before. In all her years of practice, not even her most truculent, snide, and uncooperative patients had ever gotten to her the way he had.
Because the session had been mandated, she had expected him to go on the offensive, precisely as he’d done. From the start, he’d tried to devalue her opinion and certify his immunity to it.
But obvious to her was that his charm, rudeness, and joking were all defense mechanisms used to detract from the pain behind his eyes. It had been apparent to her immediately. Mitch Haskell was in pain, and John Bowie had told her that this unrelenting emotional anguish had overtaken his life.
But it doesn’t have to, Mitch.
That’s what she’d wanted to impress upon him, but it would have been way too premature to approach that today. He would have denied having any pain, or would have deflected her by making a joke of it.
During her interview with Bowie, he had cautioned her not to be taken in by Mitch’s wily avoidance tactics.
“He’s got a smart mouth and a naughty-boy grin, but don’t let them fool you.
Mitch is a serious guy. I’ve seen him cry over lost comrades, lost causes, and the rejected trees on the Christmas tree lots.
He takes everything to heart, Dr. Reede, and his heart was put through a shredder when he lost his wife.
“I can relate. But he can’t go on like this, or I’m afraid that one of these times he falls down, he won’t get back up. If you take him on, he’ll be a wiseass and probably offensive. Knowing that, are you still interested in counseling him?”
She had been very interested. Furthermore, she was qualified. She hadn’t merely detected the degree of pain that had a stranglehold on Mitch Haskell, she had recognized it from a personal perspective. She had suffered similarly.
In the years since her life had been turned inside out by tragedy, she had fervently wished for enlightenment on the why of it. Why? Had there been a sanctified reason for it that was beyond her comprehension? Had she simply not grasped the higher purpose that had been served by her calamity?
Perhaps saving Mitch Haskell from himself could be that purpose.
But he’d robbed her of that opportunity, hadn’t he? Damn him! That kiss, a violation of the code of ethics, hadn’t been a minor setback. It had been a death knell… as he had known it would be.
From the medical office building, Mitch walked across the street to EATS, a landmark diner in downtown Auclair. It was especially popular with cops because they got a 10 percent discount.
The bell above the door announced his arrival. The floor was sticky, the red vinyl seats in the booths had tears from which padding sprouted, and the wall-mounted TV behind the counter was constantly on during operating hours.
Presently, a flamboyant personal injury lawyer, who called himself the King of Cash, was selling his services with evangelical zeal, promising thousands of dollars in reparation to anyone who turned their lawsuit over to him.
It was a little early for the lunch crowd, so there were plenty of unoccupied stools at the counter. Mitch claimed one and was greeted by Dodi, the waitress who’d been there almost as long as the building’s cornerstone.
“Hey, Mitch. Don’t you ever get tired of being so good-looking?”
He placed his hand over his heart. “Yes, but it’s a cross I must bear.”
She laughed. “How’s your day goin’?”
“Just swell.”
“That bad? How ’bout a muffuletta?”
“With everything.”
“Cold beer to wash it down?”
“Iced tea.”
“Sweetened?”
“Till it makes my teeth ache.”
She grinned, revealing a gap where one of her own teeth had been. “Comin’ up.”
While she was filling his order, Mitch swiveled on his stool.
Through the café’s front windows he studied the building he’d just left.
It had seven floors and few aesthetic attributes.
It was at least a century old, but many notable doctors in the community had their offices in it, including Andrew’s pediatrician.
He didn’t have a private exit door that Mitch knew of.
He counted up six floors and picked out the window with the half-closed blinds. He wondered how her session was going with the patient who’d followed him.
He wondered who in her gene pool had gifted her with those legs, and a long ponytail that was straight and sleek and the color of polished mahogany, and eyes that had a damn near inescapable magnetic field.
“Here you go.” Dodi slid a plate onto the counter, then used a treacherously long butcher knife to quarter the generous sandwich for him.
Glancing up at the TV, she reached for the remote and turned down the volume, muttering, “I wouldn’t let that loudmouth handle a citation for not picking up dog poop.
” She reached for a plastic jug and poured strong tea into a glass of ice.
As she thumped it down in front of him, she asked, “Where’s your buddy? ”
“Bowie?” He shrugged. “Haven’t seen him today.” Dodi eyed him knowingly. He took a sip of tea, then said, “You’ve heard.”
“Heard? Every cop who’s darkened that door in the last two days has related a version of y’all’s falling out.”
“Well, all the versions you’ve heard probably have at least one grain of truth.”
“Hate to hear that, Mitch. Is he gonna fire you?”
“Not if I keep my nose clean.”
“Do your best.”
“I’m playing it by the book.” With the notable exception of kissing the therapist. On the mouth.
“How’s your boy?”
“He’s great. Actually, I need to call him. Mind if I take this to a booth?”
She motioned him toward the row of them along the windows.
He carried his meal over and made the call.
Andrew was having a “gwilled cheese samish” for lunch.
They ate together. Mitch kept the dialogue upbeat, but, as always after talking to his son, he felt despondent when they said goodbye.
He stared vacantly out the window, calculating when he would be able to work in his next visit to Lafayette.
He was distracted from his thoughts when he saw a woman emerge from an unmarked side door of the medical building. He recognized her as the lady he’d held the door for as she’d entered Dylan Reede’s reception room. She must have used the private exit.
“All done?” Dodi was standing at the end of the booth. “Want a refill on tea?”
“No thanks.” As he scooted out of the booth, he pressed a twenty-dollar bill into her hand.
“I’m free if you want to run away together,” she said.
He grinned. “You know I love you, but I can’t today. I’m due at a meeting.”
After seeing Mrs. Trent out, Dylan went into the waiting room where Ellie was preparing to leave for lunch. “Lock the door behind you, please. I’m going to stay in and snack out of the mini fridge.”
“I could bring you something.”
“No thanks. Any messages?”
“Lieutenant Bowie called.”
Her heart bumped. “About Mr. Haskell?”
“He didn’t say. Just asked that you call him back at your earliest convenience.”
“I’ll get right to it.” Forcing a smile, she said, “Enjoy your lunch.”
Once Ellie had left, she returned to her private office and sat down behind her desk. As she picked up her phone, she noticed that her palms had turned damp in anticipation of what she would tell Bowie. Before she could overthink it, she punched in the number she had saved in her contacts.
He answered with, “This is Bowie.”
“Dr. Reede.”
“Yes, I saw your name. Thanks for returning my call.”
“Of course. Are you checking with everyone on the list of potentials, or did you know Mitch had been to see me?” She had a horrifying visualization of him bragging to Bowie about the manner with which he’d sabotaged future sessions.
“Mitch texted me at nine forty-two this morning saying that he was on his way up to your office. He included a selfie where he was pointing to your name on the roster in the lobby.”
“A subtle way of giving you the finger, I think.”
“Undoubtedly. Did he say why he chose you?”
“I believe he picked me at random.”
“Luck of the draw.”
She wondered if Bowie meant good luck or bad luck, but she didn’t ask. There was a lengthy pause before he spoke again. “I’m sure you can guess why I wanted to speak with you.”
“You know that I can’t disclose anything confidential.”
“I’m not asking you to. But I need to confirm if Mitch is taking this seriously. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the session, and when is his next appointment?”
She sighed. “Well, Lieutenant Bowie…”