The Halo Effect

20

Five minutes later I was still sitting at my desk, staring at the bottle of pills, feeling the pain throb behind my eyes, knowing it was not going to go away by itself, when there was a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

It was Belinda, and behind her was a tall man whose face was in shadow.

“Dr. Snow, there is someone here to see you.” Her voice was tight.

“I don’t have any sessions scheduled and I was just getting ready to leave. Is someone giving you a hard time?”

In the background I heard a male voice. “I don’t have an appointment, but I’d appreciate you just giving me a few minutes.” He had an accent that I couldn’t place, except that I knew it was Southern. Then he stepped into the doorway. He was tall and lanky, wearing blue jeans, a white shirt and a dark jacket.

“I’m sorry to barge in, Dr. Snow.” He stepped over the threshold. “I’m Detective Noah Jordain. And yes, this is official business.”

“Is my daughter all right?” My heart jolted and started pounding, adrenaline released in a nanosecond. The pain in my head stabbed me between the eyes.

He was fast. He knew. “This isn’t about your family. I’m here to see you in your professional capacity.”

I’ll see you as soon I recover from this fucking heart attack you just gave me, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Instead, my response was polite and professional. “Come in.”

I wanted to put my head down on my desk and close my eyes. Instead, I did one quick round of square breathing. Shit. Why was my panic always so close to the surface? It was as if I was always waiting for the phone call, the knock on the door, the explosion. Expecting it. Anticipating the awful call that something was wrong, that Dulcie was in danger. In my head her safety was at risk every minute of every day. I fought it and I blocked it and I lived with it, but sometimes it morphed into the fear I’d had about my mother’s safety when I was a child. She hadn’t been safe and I hadn’t been able to save her.

I was no wimpette. I was no victim. Yet I suffered anxiety along with most of the rest of the world. To cope I’d learned exercises, did visualizations. Had worked on my issues in therapy. And most of the time I mastered my weakness. But if it caught me off guard the way it just had when this detective walked into my office and introduced himself, I lost the ability to control my feelings.

I gulped the air.

It didn’t matter that this man I’d never met before was standing there watching me trying to come up from under. He just waited and smiled at me with eyes that were surprisingly kind, and then walked across the floor toward my desk.

“Can I sit?” he asked, with his hand on the back of the chair facing me.

And as I nodded, I realized why he was here. Of course. It had been the leitmotiv of my whole day. This detective was here about Cleo. Something had happened to her. They’d found her.

The words were already forming in the back of my throat. Has something happened to Cleo Thane? Is it connected to the other prostitutes who were killed? Is she the most recent victim of the Magdalene Murderer? Is that why she missed her appointments and hasn’t been in touch?

After my call to Gil Howard and Elias Beecher’s plea, I was primed to hear the solution to the mystery. And who else would have it other than a detective? This detective.

He was watching me, and I wondered how much of what I was thinking he could glean from the expression on my face.

All I wanted to do was find out if Cleo was all right, but I couldn’t just come out and ask when I didn’t know for sure that she was the reason he was here. Besides, even if she was why he was here, I couldn’t reveal that Cleo had been coming to see me.

Not until I knew she was dead. If she was alive there was nothing I could say. I would have to wait to hear what the detective wanted before I could ask about a patient who had come to symbolize a tight ball of anxiety that I could not dissolve.

“I should let you catch your breath. Do you want me to get you some water?” He looked around and spotted the water carafe. I shook my head and picked up the glass already on my desk.

“I do apologize, Doctor. I hate that about what I do-show up unannounced and have people look at me like I’m the grim reaper. Just once, I want to introduce myself to someone and have them throw their arms around me and hug me tight and say, Oh, I am so damn happy you are here.”

I smiled.

How easily he’d brought me around. Expertly, I’d have to say. The man had to have had some psychological training.

“I’m Detective Noah Jordain.”

“Hello. I’m Morgan Snow.”

In the past few years, I’d been asked to work on several cases with the NYPD. I’d appeared in court to give testimony dozens of times. I’d met dozens of policemen, some of whom fit the stereotype of a law-enforcement officer, and others who eschewed the role and just cared about doing their jobs the best they could.

Noah Jordain, on first impression, was one of the latter.

Some people inhabit their skin with comfort, others are never at ease. He was. His clothes-a blazer, jeans, a white shirt and tie-fit him. Elbows, knees, stomach that didn’t push at the seams, creases where they should be. Even from a distance, I was sure he smelled clean. Like lemons, I guessed.

But when he leaned in to shake my hand, I was surprised to find his scent was rosemary and mint. Not as expected, but just as sharp and invigorating. He looked as if he was in his late thirties-early forties at the most-but there was something aged and ragged in his voice. You could hear all that he had seen behind his words. And you could see all that he had heard in his eyes. Sorry blue eyes that analyzed as they searched. And they always searched.

He squinted, stared, looked from me to the windows, behind me, to the right, to the left, back to me, to my face, then my hands, then he looked right into my eyes. Dared me to look away. A police trick-did he even know he was doing it? I dared him to look away first. A therapist’s trick. We were evenly matched. Involuntarily I smiled just a little at the thought. He held out his hand and I shook it, aware of it being large, pleasantly dry, but not too rough. I could tell that he had enormous strength in his fingers but that he was aware of it and was being careful.

“Dr. Snow, right?”

I nodded. “Now. Do you want to sit down or are you going to stand over me and talk down to me?”

“Whoa. I know I upset and scared you. But that much sarcasm? I don’t talk down to women. Especially pretty ones who have more degrees than I do.”

With a smile, he sat opposite me at the desk, leaned back and gave me some more time. He was so completely at ease, and so few people were in my office that it was a pleasure to watch him.

How people acted when they first met you and then came into your space told you something about them. Especially this space. Some people needed to give themselves time, were nervous or intimidated; others had too much bravado, needed to own the area even though it wasn’t theirs. He didn’t do any of those things. His actions were not informed by any neurosis. At least not yet.

I offered him coffee and he accepted.

I was glad for a few minutes of busy work to observe him and get a beat on him.

My curiosity was like the pain in my head, insistent and determined. And as much as I wanted to just ask him to tell me why he was here and find out what was going on, I would be better served this way. Knowledge, even subtle knowledge and intuitive information, was a weapon. And since I was sure he had his gun in a holster under his arm or strapped around his ankle, it seemed only fair for me to have some ammunition of my own.

“Milk? Sugar?” I asked as I poured the still-steaming Italian roast from the thermos into one of the four mugs that Dulcie had made for me in school. The one I picked for him read: Was Freud Wearing a Slip?

I turned for his answer.

“Light and sweet.”

I knew he hadn’t meant there to be anything even slightly lascivious about his answer. I knew he was being straightforward-I could see it in his face. And I almost laughed at the way his eyes widened slightly when he realized his words had sounded suggestive.

And then, the tall, strong detective blushed. And something kicked awake in me. But it wasn’t anything I could even think about. Not there and not then.

I was used to being only one kind of person in this room-a doctor listening to my patients through a filter of learning, weighing every word uttered. I had never been a woman sitting in that office, and I couldn’t remember ever hearing a line that I responded to. Of course over the years, a few of my male patients and even one or two of my female patients had been flirtatious with me, but my reaction had always been clinical.

This was different.

And it was stupid, I thought as I stirred the cream-colored brew and handed it to him, careful not to touch his hand by accident. This was ridiculous.

He was inspecting the mug.

“Cute.”

“My daughter’s handiwork.”

“Clever kid.”

“Much too clever.”

“How old is she?”

“Twelve. Going on four sometimes. Twenty other times.”

“You’re lucky.”

I smiled. “I know.” I looked down at my own mug. It read: Jungry? Or Thirsty? I showed it to him and he laughed deeply.

“So. How can I help you, Detective?”

Now I was afraid I was blushing. Everything sounded like a ridiculous line. Why? What was going on? This was serious. An NYPD detective was sitting in my office on official business and I kept hearing innuendos.

In the middle of this awful day, a day I’d spent worried about Cleo, a day punctuated by talking to two men who were both disconsolate over her disappearance, I suddenly realized that probably for the first time in quite a few years, I’d met a man whom I was actually attracted to. He wasn’t a friend like Simon, whom I was trying out the thought on. This was a man I’d never met before and I was curious about him.

There was nothing special about him. Well, he had nice hair. Salt-and-pepper, which fell in soft waves across his broad forehead and down his neck. But his eyes were sort of small. And his nose might be a little bit too big. Except all put together, he was striking. Handsome, even. And he had great hands.

Shit. What was I doing noticing the man’s hands?

He saw that I was staring at his hands and his eyes sort of crinkled and his lips spread into a grin, and I felt his whole stupid smile in the pit of my stomach and my head pounded more.

I picked up the bottle of pills and finally, after hours of suffering with the damn headache, shook two out. But still I didn’t take them. Holding them in the palm of my hand, I looked down at them. Two tiny pills that scared me and reassured me at the same time.

He just watched. Took it all in. Sipped his coffee, then said, “You might as well take them. I’m afraid this is going to be a complicated conversation.”

I nodded, surprised that he had almost read my mind. “You already know that?”

Now he nodded. “We have reason to believe that one of your patients is missing. And I’m hoping you might be able to help us figure out why.” He was watching me the way I watched my patients, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“What patient?” I knew, but I wasn’t going to let on that I did.

“Cleo Thane.”

I could not allow any reaction. Not yet. I had to protect her until I found out that I no longer could. “Detective, you know there is nothing I can tell you about any of my patients. I can’t even confirm or deny that someone is seeing me.”

“She is. Her fiancé already confirmed it. He’s the one who reported her missing. There’s not much we can do about a missing person other than put out a report and wait. Unless it’s a child. Or there has been a threat. Or there is proof it was a kidnapping. Or there’s something to suggest foul play. We went to her apartment, but there is no sign of any foul play. Nothing to suggest that anything has happened to her. One of her suitcases is gone, according to her boyfriend. And some of her clothes. On the surface there is nothing even slightly suspect about that.

“But with what has been going on with the Magdalene murders, I don’t want to assume anything. We know who your client is and what she does for a living, and since there is some maniac out there who’s brutally-”

“If there is nothing suspect about her apartment, why do you think there is a connection?” Could he hear the panic in my voice?

“How ’bout we trade. An answer for an answer.”

I nodded. “But you first. Do you think this is connected? Do you think she is still alive?”

“That’s two questions, but I’ll answer them. We don’t know anything about her disappearance at this point. For all we know she went away for reasons of her own and just didn’t tell anyone what they were. And, yes, we think she’s alive. Again, we have no reason or information to think otherwise.

“Now, my turn,” he said. “Have you heard from Ms. Thane?”

“No.”

“Is she a patient?”

“Yes. She is a patient.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Last Wednesday.”

“How many appointments has she missed?”

“Two.”

“Had she ever missed appointments before?”

“No.”

“And she didn’t call you to cancel?”

“No.”

“Is that unusual?” he asked.

I nodded.

He took a long drink of his coffee. Down the hall a door opened and shut, and I was aware of the sound and then the ensuing silence. Even after he put down his mug, he didn’t speak right away. As if he was figuring out what to say or how to say it.

“I need you to help me,” he said.

It was such a personal plea that it took me by surprise. The official tone was gone and there was real pain in his voice. How could he do his job and still have room to connect with that much feeling? I knew what he faced, and I couldn’t have done it.

“I’m not sure that I can help.”

“You can. It’s more a question of if you will.”

“There isn’t anything I can tell you. Everything Cleo told me is confidential. Privileged and private information.”

“Dr. Snow-”

“Morgan, please.”

“Morgan, you have a terrific reputation. You’ve got fans in the department. My forensic psychiatrist says you are one of the best in your field.” He took a breath and then blew the air out of his mouth. “Will you help us?”

“As long as she is alive there isn’t anything I can-”

He held up his hand. His fingers really were impossibly long, and graceful. I imagined them holding a gun. It was an incongruous image.

“Here’s where we are. We don’t know where Cleo Thane is. We don’t know if she’s in trouble or not. But we have a man out there who has brutally murdered and defiled two prostitutes, and we don’t want Cleo Thane to be the third. Right now, I’d just be happy to find out where she is so I can rule her out. We’ve been to her apartment with her fiancé and it doesn’t look like anything is missing. But we don’t have her appointment book or her PalmPilot or her beeper or whatever it is she uses. We don’t have her cell phone. We only know that she hasn’t used it in the last six days.”

“But what can I do?”

“You can tell us what you know about her. Was anyone bothering her? Was she planning on leaving the city? Was she dissatisfied with her business? Did she have any clients who-from what she told you-might be psychotic? And what about the fiancé? Was she really happy with him? Did they have problems? Does he have any issues we should know about?” I could tell from the way he was leaning forward, from the way he had placed his hands on my desk, how badly he wanted the answers.

I shrugged. “I can’t tell you any of those things. I’m sorry, I really am. But Cleo is my patient and everything that she has told me has been told to me in complete confidence. As long as she might be alive, I have to protect that confidence.”

“Even if it means putting her in jeopardy?”

I opened my hands, fingers splayed, as if I was holding the answers and had let them all slip out. But all that dropped to the floor were two round white painkillers.