The Delilah Complex

Fifteen

Officers Tana Butler and Steve Fisher sat in an unmarked car parked on East Sixty-fifth Street between Madison and Park Avenues, across the street and four doors down from a turn-of-the-century limestone building.

“You wouldn’t think to look at it that it’s a sex clinic,” Fisher said.

For the first time, Butler paid attention to the building’s architecture: the elegant facade and decorative wroughtiron door.

“I guess not.”

“And if you didn’t know, nothing about the name on that nice little brass plaque would give it away. The Butterfield Institute could be anything, you know? A high-level think tank. An art school.”

Butler looked at her watch. They’d been sitting in the car since 6:45 p.m. and it was almost eight. “You sure there’s no back door to this place?”

“Nope.”

“Well this doesn’t make sense. She’s been in there for more than an hour. And why was she wearing a wig?”

“Maybe she’s doing some undercover investigation with one of the therapists. Pretending to be a patient instead of a reporter. Makes sense. The case has a sexual component. Why wouldn’t she do some follow-up with a sex therapist?”

“I guess. But how do you explain all the other women who went in there along with her?”

“It is a clinic, Tana. I’d bet most people go after work. Or maybe there’s some group thing going and they all wound up going in at the same time.”

Butler’s cell phone rang. It was Jordain, and she gave him an update on where they were, how long they’d been there, and the odd detail of Betsy Young wearing the wig.

When she got off the phone, she filled Fisher in on Jordain’s call. While they talked, they watched the Butterfield’s front door. A young couple came out; the woman looked visibly upset.

“Have you ever been to a therapist?” Butler asked.

Fisher shook his head. “You?”

“For a few weeks after I-” She broke off. The door to the institute had opened again and Young walked out. She turned left, in the opposite direction of the car, and started walking toward Park Avenue.

Fisher turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking space. The one easy thing about tailing someone in Manhattan was the traffic. Even at night, there were always a few cars on the street.

Even so, Betsy noticed the sedan trailing her.