Darker Than Night

25

New York, 2004.

Dr. Rita Maxwell sat in her leather-upholstered swivel chair and studied the open file on her desk. Her office was almost soundproof; the raucous noises of traffic ten stories below on Park Avenue barely penetrated the thick walls and were almost completely absorbed by the heavy drapes and plush carpeting.

The office was furnished in earth tones that were almost a monotone brown, but with green accents, like the throw pillows on the sofa, a leaded glass lampshade, a Chinese vase, the green desk pad, a vine cascading from its planter on a top corner of a bookcase. It all had an ordered, restful effect that seemed very professional, which was important to Dr. Maxwell. Psychoanalysis was most effective in surroundings that lent confidence.

Rita had been in her Park Avenue office for six years now, after practicing for ten years in Brooklyn. She’d gained a solid reputation and, she was sure, helped a good many of her patients. Her fee had risen to $300 per hour—an “hour” being forty-five minutes actual office time. Her patients were happy to pay it, because almost anyone in Manhattan who wanted to undergo analysis, if they were careful about whom they chose as their analyst and asked for references, would hear of Dr. Rita Maxwell. Her business depended on word-of-mouth advertising, and she received plenty of it and knew why. She got results.

Was she arrogant? She didn’t think so. Not in the usual meaning of the word, anyway. She was tall, handsome rather than cute, with close-cropped blond hair and knowing green eyes. At forty-five, she was a jogger and sometimes marathon runner. She was fit and strong and appeared healthy in every way. Her broad-shouldered, almost masculine figure was made for well-cut clothes. Successful, rich enough, and as beautiful as she wanted to be, she thought she had a right to be satisfied with her personal life, but only that—satisfied.

Professional arrogance—that was something else. That kind of arrogance she possessed and even nurtured. And it worked to her advantage. Whatever the conflicts of her patients, they soon sensed in her a confidence that she could identify their problems and solve them. Something about her suggested that a violent sea might break over her calmness and reason, and as rocks they would remain.

Rita seldom disappointed.

And she wouldn’t disappoint this patient, she thought, as she scanned the David Blank file on her desk.

Not that David Blank was his real name.

The questions were, who was he, really? And why was he using a false identity?

The questionnaire Blank had filled out when he arrived was either vague or unverifiable. His address was patently false, and he always paid her receptionist, Hannah, with a cashier’s check. Rita never called his bluff on these falsifications. Blank’s lack of confidentiality, of trust, intrigued her. What was its genesis?

Certainly, there were good reasons for many of her patients to use false names, or ascribe embarrassing problems to “friends.” But that didn’t seem to be the case with Blank. In fact, Rita was sure she hadn’t yet touched on the reason he’d become one of her patients.

She’d made some assessments. He was fastidious, perhaps compulsive, and obviously quite secretive. He’d refused even to give his age, and had one of those faces that made it difficult to determine how old he was. Anywhere between thirty and fifty, with a shock of what was supposed to be prematurely gray hair but was unmistakably a wig. He was obviously well educated—or at least well read—and had the bearing of a professional.

And he was smart; she was sure of that.

But if he thought he was smarter than Rita Maxwell, especially playing at her game, he was doomed to disappointment. Already she was sure she could get to his core conflict, to the real reason why he came to see her, that he couldn’t yet bear to talk about. She simply needed something more to grab hold of, to use as gentle leverage to get at the truth. There were layers and layers to David Blank, she was sure. And it would be her challenge to discover what lay beneath them.

Hannah was at lunch, so it was Rita who buzzed Blank up ten minutes later, precisely on time, as usual, for his appointment.

He was wearing a light tan sport jacket today, dark brown slacks, and a pale blue shirt open at the collar. There was a diamond ring that might be expensive on the middle finger of his left hand. His watch was gold, but looked antique and was of a make unfamiliar to Rita. There was no way for her to hazard an intelligent guess at David Blank’s wealth, but he must be comfortably fixed or he couldn’t afford her.

He gave her his warm smile and nodded. “How are you, Dr. Maxwell?”

“Fine, David. Shall we begin?”

His smile became a wide grin. “The clock is running, Doctor.”

He settled into the leather recliner while she came out from around her desk and took her usual place in a nearby wing chair. Though there was a comfortable sofa in the office, Blank declined to use it, saying he didn’t feel like being a stereotypical patient lying down alongside his shrink. So he used the reclining lounge chair, setting it back halfway so he was half sitting, half lying.

“Where were we,” he asked, “when we were so rudely interrupted by the rush of time?”

“Montana,” Rita said. She switched on her tape recorder. She taped all her sessions, with her patients’ knowledge and approval. It was easier and more beneficial than taking notes.

She recited all the pertinent information, along with time and date, to catalog the tape, then began the session.

“Ah, Montana…,” Blank said.

Rita waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “At the end of our last session,” she reminded him, “you were twelve and had been sexually molested by the wife of the rancher who hired you to learn to herd cattle.”

“The state agency got me away from there,” Blank said, “only to place me a month later in a foster home where my guardians had the idea that any infraction of their rules meant severe punishment.”

“What kind of punishment?” Rita asked dutifully. She had a notepad and pen and pretended to take notes to supplement the tapes. The note taking seemed to comfort her patients. Actually, it gave her something to do and allowed for a certain detachment that kept her patients talking.

“They denied us solid food.”

“Us?”

“There were three other foster children besides myself.”

“Where was this, David? You didn’t mention.”

“A farm in Illinois.”

“What did they grow there?”

“Corn, soybeans, alfalfa.”

Rita made some meaningless squiggles on her notepad.

“One time, just for skipping school, I was denied solid food for three days.” Blank sounded justifiably outraged.

“Didn’t you have a chance to complain to your caseworker?”

“Hah! My so-called caseworker was more interested in getting into my pants than anything else.”

Ho, boy! Rita thought. And began taking her mock notes faster, feigning interest.

“Can you tell me why some women are like that?” Blank asked. “I mean, I was only thirteen at the time.”

“Were you big for your age, David?”

“Jesus, Doctor!”

Rita blushed. He’d managed to embarrass her, which didn’t happen often. “You know that wasn’t what I meant, David.”

“Do you know the answer to my question,” he persisted, “about why some women are interested in young boys?”

“There are different reasons. Why don’t you tell me about this caseworker, and maybe I can shine some light on her particular motivation. She might be a very important person in your life. You didn’t mention her name.”

“No, I didn’t. And I wouldn’t describe her as having motivation. It was more like a compulsion.”

“True. You’re right. It was probably a compulsion.” If it ever happened. She locked gazes with him. “Are you interested in compulsive behavior, David?”

“Sure. You might say that’s one reason I’m here.”

“So tell me the other reasons.”

“Let me tell you what it’s like to be twelve years old and go three days living on nothing but water.”

“I thought you wanted to talk about the amorous caseworker.”

“This was a year before that. You can swell your stomach with water, but it isn’t like food.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Sure what?”

“The amorous caseworker.”

For a few seconds he was in control of the session, and he handed control back to me.

Which means he’s really in charge.

He did tell her about his relationship with the caseworker. About trysts in the barn, in the woman’s car, in the farmhouse when there was no one else home. The caseworker had been interested in sadomasochism and bestiality, and forced all sorts of aberrant behavior on the young David Blank. “If it was abnormal sex, she was into it,” he said bitterly.

“I don’t know if there is such a thing as abnormal sex,” Rita said. “There’s a wide spectrum of human behavior.”

He sat up slightly and gave her a sharp look. “I guess you’re right, but this kind of stuff was really over the edge.”

He continued telling her in minute detail about what he and the caseworker had done all those years ago in the quiet farmhouse or in the hot, buzzing barn that smelled of hay and manure. He had a great imagination.

Rita let him talk, barely listening. The recorder would pick it all up and preserve it for later contemplation. It was lies, anyway, she was sure. Camouflage for…something. And eventually she’d discover what.

He stayed on the subject for the rest of his appointment, playing his game with her, rambling on at $300 per hour.

Making me earn my money.

She smiled slightly. He couldn’t verbally dance and dart and dodge forever. She was patient and wily. She would beat him at this nimble game of deception.

But one thing bothered her a great deal: she was sure he knew she knew he was lying, and he didn’t seem to care. That made it more difficult for her to figure out his reasons for coming into analysis. If he were simply going through a charade that even he knew was too obvious, why would he waste his time and hers?

Rita did know that David Blank, whoever he was, wasn’t the sort to waste time or anything else.

Between appointments, or in the early-morning hours when she couldn’t sleep, she found herself wondering about her mysterious patient, worrying the puzzle and getting nowhere. Sometimes it seemed he was the analyst and she the patient, though the reasons for this were just beyond her comprehension.

But Rita’s confidence was unwavering.

Sooner or later she’d meet the real David Blank.

And know his reason for coming to her.

Mary Navarre and Donald Baines had just seen Hail to the Chef on Broadway and then had a late-night snack at a diner on West Forty-fourth Street. They were still in a good mood from the hit musical comedy when Donald keyed the apartment door, reached in, and flipped the light switch. Then he stood aside to let Mary enter first.

It was still one of her great pleasures to enter the recently decorated apartment, to see the expensive neutral leather furniture, the art on the walls, the retro slat-blinds window treatments. She would pause inside the door and let her glance take it all in before continuing her entrance.

But this time her gaze didn’t stray but went directly to the white box on the sofa cushion. Not only didn’t she know what it was, she was sure it hadn’t been there when they left for the theater.

Donald must have somehow arranged for this; it was the only explanation.

She moved toward the large, rectangular box. Its lid was lifted on one corner and a fold of white tissue paper protruded as if testing the air.

“What the hell is that?” she heard Donald say behind her.

An act? It wasn’t her birthday or their anniversary. She couldn’t think of any reason she should receive a gift from her husband except for pure impulsiveness, which wasn’t entirely beyond Donald.

“One way to find out,” Mary said, and lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was more white tissue paper. She unfolded it and recognized the crimson silk kimono she’d admired two days ago in Bloomingdale’s.

But Donald hadn’t been with her. Had she mentioned the kimono?

“It’s beautiful,” she said, pulling the kimono from the box and holding it up so they could both admire it. “But how did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I wanted it and decided it was too frivolous for the money.”

“Why would I know?”

“Because you ordered it from Bloomingdale’s.”

He came over to stand next to her and reached out and touched the smooth material. “Much as I’m tempted to take credit, Mary, this isn’t a gift from me.”

She looked up at him. He seemed to be telling the truth. And why would he deny buying the kimono now that she’d accepted it?

“It must be from a secret admirer,” he said. He didn’t seem to be kidding.

“An admirer with a key?”

“Obviously. Or maybe he bribed the super to let him in.” Spurred to action by that possibility, he went to the phone.

Mary laid the kimono over the box and stared at it, listening to Donald in the background as he questioned the super.

When he came back, he said, “Nobody was let into our apartment.”

“If the super was bribed,” Mary said, “maybe he’s lying.”

“He didn’t sound like he was lying,” Donald said. He looked hard at Mary, his brow furrowed so his eyes were squinted. “You sure you didn’t order this and forget about it?”

“I wouldn’t forget, Donald. Besides, that would explain the kimono, but not how it got inside the apartment.” Maybe you ordered it and forgot, like with the bouquet. Everyone had their little mental glitches; maybe this was one of Donald’s—mystery gifts. Maybe he’d instructed the super to admit the deliveryman and had only pretended to phone downstairs. Maybe the flowers had been from him, too. Roses, a silk kimono…There could be worse faults in a husband. “Even if you didn’t give this to me,” she said, “thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for what I didn’t do.” He seemed genuinely irritated. “The kimono isn’t from me any more than the roses you found in here before we moved in.”

“Do you think we should change the locks?”

“We should consider it.” While I bide my time and see if more mysterious gifts turn up after your shopping expeditions. He thought he’d known everything about Mary, though they’d only been together a little over a year. Maybe he was learning something new. Maybe she was having a secret affair.

He immediately rejected the idea. After all, she’d told him about the roses.

If she had bought the kimono, or if she was some kind of kleptomaniac, sick, that could be dealt with medically.

But he had to know.

What if he hired a private detective to follow her and find out if she behaved in any way peculiar during her shopping? It was something to consider.

If Mary was ill, he wanted to help her. And if there was some other reason for the unexplained gifts—first the flowers, now the kimono—he sure as hell wanted to know what it was.

Either way, he was afraid of what he might learn.

Renz sat on the sagging sofa, opposite Quinn in Quinn’s apartment, glancing about while gnawing his lower lip.

“You’ve certainly done wonders with the place,” he said. “With each visit I see improvement. Is that a new bent lampshade? Was that wall always a mossy green? And is it my imagination or are the roaches smaller?”

“You said you had something important to discuss,” Quinn said, marveling that this was his friend and protector in the NYPD and not his enemy. What kind of dung had he gotten himself into?

“Is this what they call shabby cheap?” Renz asked, refusing to let go of his own cleverness. Then he looked sheepish, wilting beneath Quinn’s baleful stare. “Oh, all right. It’s this.” He held up the folded newspaper he’d brought with him.

“That the Times?”

“The Voice.”

“You’ve always struck me as a typical subscriber.”

Renz shrugged. “The poetry in my soul.” He dropped the paper on the glass-ringed coffee table. “What’s interesting in this edition is another installment of the saga of Anna Caruso.”

“The papers like her story,” Quinn said. “I can understand that.”

“Then you should also understand this. The more they like her story, the less they like yours. In this particular piece you are the villain. There’s an old photo of you coming out of the precinct house just after your hearing. You look angry, and about to unzip your pants.”

Quinn knew the shot. The photographer had caught him coming down the concrete steps and swinging his arms. His right hand, which was about two feet away from his body when the photo was taken, appeared in only two dimensions to be adjusting his fly.

For a few seconds he felt again the injustice of his situation, the old futility and rage. I’ve become the victim of my own good intentions—can’t the fools see that? He’d never been naive enough to think something would inevitably right the wrong done to him, but he hadn’t counted on self-pity enveloping and smothering him.

He became aware of Renz smiling at the expression on his face.

“I thought that was your end of the bargain,” Quinn said. “To get me out from under the rape charge that was never filed.”

“And so can’t be disproved,” Renz pointed out.

And Quinn knew the accusation wouldn’t have been disproved if charges had been filed, even though he was innocent. Every cop knows truth is usually one of the early victims in the legal process. For a while he’d forgotten that, and it had cost him. He was still paying and, as Renz knew, was almost tapped out and dealing from desperation.

What Quinn didn’t know was that Renz thought he was guilty. That was why he’d come to him. To catch a sicko like the Night Prowler, you had to think like him, get into his mind, and be him. And who better to do that than his spiritual brother?

Set a sicko to catch a sicko.

“I’ve been watching the media on this one,” Renz said. “If I might brag a bit, I’m something of an expert when it comes to media in this town.”

“I give you that,” Quinn told him.

“What I see happening, even though it’s still in the beginning stages, is you gradually morphing from heroic and beleaguered ex-cop, getting his second chance, to lecherous bully with a badge, getting a few more free whacks at the public. And all at the cost of a sweet young thing who withers at the thought of you, and is, to boot, very photogenic.”

“She’s withering at the thought of somebody else.”

“Don’t we both know it?” Renz shook his head sadly. “And don’t we both know it doesn’t make any difference unless you step it up and catch this loony who’s offing happy couples in their prime?”

“That’s why you came here? To light a fire under my ass?”

“Something like. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

Quinn gave him a progress report. Though even to him it didn’t sound much like progress.

“You’ve got shit,” Renz said.

“We’ve got pieces—”

“Pieces of—”

“All right, all right!” Quinn waved his fist in a gesture that was threatening enough that Renz quieted down and settled back on the sofa.

“We’ve got pieces,” Quinn continued, “that haven’t yet been put together. The beginnings of a pattern. Of a picture. It’s how these cases always shape up in the beginning. You’re the one who knows media, Renz. I’m the one who knows police work.”

Renz sighed. Made a big show of it, in fact. He picked up his Voice and stood up from the sofa, stretching and working one shoulder, moving his arm in a slow circle as if he were a big-league pitcher worrying about his rotator cuff.

“I’m gonna leave you with the thought that you don’t have much time,” he said. “Once your image is fucked, so are you. And what’s happened is, your image’s asshole is all greased and ready.” He dropped the folded paper back on the table. “You don’t believe me, read about it in the Voice. It’ll tear your heart out. It’ll make you wanna send money and flowers to little Anna Caruso.”

“I already want to,” Quinn said to Renz’s back as he walked out the door.

He seemed not to have heard.

Or to have noticed the tears in Quinn’s eyes.