The Delilah Complex

Forty-Nine

Nina must have been waiting for the group to leave because she came to my office within five minutes of the last woman going. “Can we talk?” she asked.

I nodded. “But not now. I have to get home for Dulcie.”

“Do the two of you have plans for dinner?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I go home with you? We can walk. Talk on the way. Then the three of us can get a bite.”

She didn’t wait until we reached the street but started in as we descended the staircase from the second floor to the lobby. “We have to work this out,” she said. “It’s not good for you or me. And it’s not good for the institute.”

It had been several days since our argument, and that was a first for us. In all the years since my mother had died, Nina and I hadn’t ever had an argument that had lasted longer than a few hours.

“It’s even worse for the four men who are dead,” I said.

She opened the heavy door that led to the street. It was evening already, but like so many other days that fall, the weather was relatively warm. I was wearing a blazer with a sweater thrown over my shoulders and knotted around my neck. Nina had on a camel-colored shawl, theatrically draped around her.

The stores were well lit, and as we passed boutique after boutique I saw the two of us mirrored in the glass. I was so used to seeing our reflections, side by side.

“Are you going to change your mind about how I’ve been handling the Scarlet Society?”

“It’s the police I have the problem with,” Nina said. “That and why, knowing how I felt, you brought the issue up in our weekly meeting.”

“I didn’t know I was being censored.”

“Can you stop acting like a chastised teenager and lay off the sarcastic tone?”

“Will that help? I’m still not going to agree with you about this. Things are only getting worse,” I said, and told her what had happened in the group.

That took us to Seventy-fourth Street, where we stopped and waited for the light to turn so we could cross. “We’ve fought before, but we’ve never been on such opposite sides of the argument. I want advice from someone who’s willing to help me explore my options, and you are rigidly holding to your own position.”

Her eyebrows came together and her eyes narrowed. “You are still doubting my judgment?”

“You taught me to look at every side of an argument when dealing with patients. To assume nothing. But you’re being stubborn about this.”

“Morgan, do you know the name of any person who is going to be targeted?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Do you know the name of anyone who is targeting members of this society?”

“I don’t. One of the women in the group thinks she might. But that isn’t the point.”

The light changed and we crossed together, still in step.

“It is. What you should be doing is working with these women to help them deal with their grief and counseling them about how they feel about their activities. And while you are doing that, you should be working on your paper about the changing level of sexually aggressive behavior among women who have assumed high levels of power.”

“Do you care that four men have been killed by some madman?”

“You’re insulting me, Morgan.”

“I can’t believe you are being so stubborn.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not as black and white as you are making it out to be. These men are being killed. The only thing they have in common is the Scarlet Society. One of the members of that society is a reporter who is breaking the stories, who shows manic tendencies and exhibits signs of stress and guilt. And who has hidden her profession from the other group members and hidden her knowledge of what ties the men together from the police and the New York Times. Add to that another member who told me tonight about some guy who was paranoid and possibly bipolar, who had left the group before the killings started, and who seemed to have a lot of anger toward several of the other male members. So that’s two possible suspects. And the police don’t know about either of them.”

“The police know the reporter. You told me they do. And I’m sure they think she’s a suspect.”

“Based on the fact that she’s breaking the stories. Yes, possibly. But they’d take that much more seriously if they also knew she’d had sex, for God’s sake, with every one of those men, is feeling completely unattractive and is jealous of the younger women in the group.”

We’d stopped for another light. The wind blew and a crimson leaf fell off a tree and across Nina’s face. She brushed it away and it drifted to the pavement.

“We have a job to do, Morgan. That job does not include doing the work of the New York Police Department.”

“We are doctors. Our job includes saving people’s lives.”

“That’s very naive. We just do the best we can. We’re not superheroes.”

“I agree with you. That’s why we can’t make decisions like the one you are making. In other words, we have to remain silent at any cost?”

But the light had changed and Nina had started crossing the street. She hadn’t heard my question. Or she hadn’t known how to answer it.