Prodigy Page 7

  SIX

  Armed with her Kenneth Cole briefcase and dressed in a lightweight black wool suit, Barrett strode quickly from the Forensic Evaluation Center on East 34th to Gramercy Park. Her emotions were all over the place, and had little to do with this first meeting with Jimmy Martin. Ralph had stayed the night, and waking next to him had felt so right. He had pulled out all the stops, and had even said the one thing she’d desperately wanted to hear, “Barrett, I think it’s time we had a kid.” Still, she’d told him that she wanted more time to think things over; she couldn’t trust him, and if one night of fabulous and reckless sex was going to undo the damage, she’d have to give that some careful thought.

  She took a couple deep breaths and turned onto Gramercy Park North. She stopped; it was beautiful. In front of her was the iron-gated park, its symmetrically laid-out perennial beds were thick with mottled patches of yellow and white crocus and narcissus. The hundred-year-old fruit trees and specimen trees were ablaze with pink and white blossoms that perfumed the air. Behind her, the noise of Manhattan dropped away, as though this were a different city, one that had become fixed in the late 1800s. The Victorian hotels and Italian style townhouses with wrought-iron galleries spoke of an elegance and gentility removed from the bustling fervor of the outside streets.

  She pulled out a scrap of paper with Jimmy Martin’s address and headed toward the south side of the park. Midway down the block she saw two men standing by a dark blue sedan parked in the shade of a budding Gingko tree. Her pulse quickened.

  “Ed,” she called out. “Detective Hobbs?”

  The taller of the two, with closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, turned. “Barrett, it’s good to see you.”

  “You too,” she offered her hand, but found herself swept up into a more gratifying bear hug with Ed’s bushy moustache tickling the side of her neck.

  The other man, who was leaning against their car, drolly noted, “I take it you two know each other.”

  Barrett stepped back; something didn’t make sense. “What are you doing here?” she asked. And then followed up with a whispered, “Are you undercover?”

  “No,” he shook his head, “what you see is what you get. You asked for an escort and here we are.”

  “But detectives? You? They send deputy chiefs for …”

  His hazel eyes met hers briefly, and then looked away, “Not anymore.”

  “What happened?” she asked, sensing sadness in the man with whom she’d spent many fine hours in the past. The last case he’d called her in on was Charlie Rohr. But that was two years ago. There’d been numerous times when she’d thought about calling him, maybe going out to lunch. But when she had those thoughts they were usually followed by the realization that she and this tall, married detective had a chemistry that felt as if it could go far beyond tracking serial killers.

  “It’s a long dull story,” he said.

  “Maybe you’ll tell me.”

  “Maybe. So this is the perp’s house?”

  Barrett checked the numbers, and gazed up at the looming mansion. She stepped back to get the entire effect; it was a lovely building from its ivy-covered wrought-iron porches, to the carved cherub heads that stared out from above the imposing front door and from beneath each of the shuttered French windows.

  “Nice crib,” Ed commented.

  “He has the whole building to himself,” she stated.

  “I have two rooms and a bathtub in my kitchen,” Ed replied, “and I can barely afford that.”

  “Don’t you still live in Queens?”

  “I did; now I don’t.”

  “But …”

  He shook his head. “Enough about me.”

  His partner joined them, “Ed is a fine example of why you shouldn’t piss off your boss. So, do I get an introduction to the beautiful lady?”

  Barrett rolled her eyes, as she mentally noted that Ed’s partner would probably hit three hundred pounds and lose the rest of his thinning red hair before the age of thirty.

  “Dr. Barrett Conyors, Officer Bryan Cassidy.”

  They shook. “So how do you guys know each other?” Cassidy asked.

  “We worked a couple cases. Barrett is the best profiler I’ve ever met,” Ed stated. “By the way, I heard about Charlie Rohr...I heard you were there. I’m sorry.”

  “It was pretty awful,” the bloody scene played in her head. “The idiots let someone in with a firearm.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that,” she said, looking up at a cherub and feeling an unpleasant sensation as its eyes appeared to be watching her. “I don’t know if cops get it the same way, but all of my bad cases kind of follow me around. I know I’m going to be seeing Charlie Rohr for a very long time.”

  “You think his family will sue?” Ed asked.

  “No idea. They didn’t want anything to do with Charlie while he was alive, but there’s a damn good case to be made against the state, so you never know. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Why is that name familiar?” Bryan asked.

  “The Caravaggio killer,” Hobbs replied.

  Cassidy smiled, “The guy with the knitting needles who liked girls with something extra.”

  “That’s right. Barrett did the profile. If it hadn’t been for her he’d still be out there.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in profiling,” Bryan commented.

  “I don’t,” Ed said, but then added, “I believe in her.”

  “Oh, please,” Barrett brushed away the compliment, yet clearly enjoyed Ed’s admiration. As she recalled, that had been mutual. But what the hell was the deputy chief of detectives doing here? If he wasn’t putting Jimmy under surveillance, it made no sense. And why was he living in Manhattan, what had happened to his wife and kids? “I wondered why you hadn’t called me,” she said.

  His head cocked slightly.

  “For a case,” she added.

  “Can we talk about that later?”

  “Sure …”she looked at her watch, and felt a growing apprehension, standing in front of the Martin townhouse, feeling it tower over them. “I guess it’s time to head in.”

  “You wearing a wire?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  “I don’t usually tape my patients without their knowledge.”

  “This is different and you know it.”

  “True, but still.” She smiled, glad that he was taller than she was, and why no wedding band? While Ralph had no difficulty carrying through on his lustful thoughts, Barrett’s would-be infidelities had always stayed between her ears. Although, back when she and Hobbs had spent long hours unraveling the inner world of Charlie Rohr, she’d wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in the powerful arms of the no-nonsense detective.

  “Think about that wire,” Hobbs said.

  “You’ll be there,” she reminded him.

  “I’d rather be listening in.”

  “I’m not hearing this,” Cassidy remarked.

  “Enough,” Barrett hefted her briefcase, let a car pass, and then crossed the street and walked up the broad granite steps. As she approached, she caught the mournful sound of a cello spilling from the house. With her hand on the antique fox-head doorknocker she paused. She assumed it was a recording, probably Brahms. A clock chimed the hour from inside the house; she knocked and the cello playing stopped.

  The towering mahogany door swung in and a tall blond man with pale-blue eyes greeted her. At first she thought he was the butler, but realized a servant wouldn’t be dressed in belted chinos and a white oxford button-down shirt. A Siamese kitten batted at his ankles, drawing her attention to the unmistakable red-blink of a security bracelet.

  “Dr. Conyors?” the man said, his voice pleasant and deep.

  “Yes,” Barrett answered, feeling a blast of cool air spill over her as gooseflesh popped on her arms.

  He stepped back into the dark, marble-flo
ored foyer. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met once when I was in the hospital.” He extended his hand.

  “I remember, but you look different,” she said, shaking his hand, noting the strength of his grasp and that he was wearing musky cologne. Had she been mistaken? This couldn’t be the same guy. At the same time her eyes were pulled in a dozen directions as she started to grasp the grandeur of the house. Even in the dimly lit foyer, it was hard not to gawk at the majestic sweep of the spiral staircase, or the beautiful inlaid marble on the floor, or the carved wood paneling and columns, and the artwork … like being in a museum.

  The plainclothes cops trailed in after her.

  “That’s right,” Jimmy said, watching as they entered, “you requested an escort. At least they’re not in uniform.”

  To Barrett’s ear, it was a reproach. “As you said, it’s what I requested.”

  “Never mind,” his tone conciliatory. “The kitchen is to the right, past the parlor and through the dining hall,” he directed them, as though they were a pair of in-the-way servants who needed to be gotten from underfoot. “There are some deli sandwiches on the table. I’d offer you something other than soda, but I can’t have anything stronger in the house.”

  “We could stay here,” Hobbs offered, looking Jimmy straight in the eye.

  Jimmy held the detective’s stare and then turned to Barrett. “Is that necessary?”

  “No,” she said, “it’ll be fine. Where would you like to meet?”

  “I thought the library would be best.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want us out here?” Hobbs asked.

  “No,” she met Ed’s gaze, thankful for his concern. “So where’s the library?” she asked, trying not to be intimidated by Jimmy’s environs.

  “This way,” and turning his back on the detectives, he picked up the Siamese cat and strode across the foyer to a pair of paneled doors with bronze handles in the form of North Wind heads. He pushed them open and Barrett got her first glimpse of the cavernous, book-lined room.

  “Wow!” she muttered, as she followed him into the two-story library. She immediately noted the cello and wooden music stand positioned next to a concert-grand piano. “That was you playing,” she stated.

  “Yes.”

  “You sounded wonderful. Brahms?”

  “The E Minor. You like Brahms?”

  “Very much,” she admitted, barraged with information. This was not the man she remembered. Her one interaction with Jimmy Martin had been with a hulking and obese patient, whose hands shook and whose eyes were barely visible beneath folds of fat.

  “The piano part is beautiful,” he commented. “I have it out … if you’d like to play.”

  She stopped in front of a pair of oxblood leather-upholstered club chairs arranged around a carved marble fireplace, with Grecian women on the sides and an open-mouthed gargoyle in the center. “That’s not why I’m here,” she replied curtly, wondering how it was that he had assumed she could play. Had he and Ellen talked? Maybe she’d told him about their shared past.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s just that Dr. Kravitz liked to play duets.”

  Barrett stood behind a leather chair, “We should talk about that.”

  “If that’s what you’d like.” He sank into a leather chair, stroked the cat and watched her intently as she sat across from him.

  “Before we start,” Barrett began, slightly unnerved by the two pairs of startling blue eyes that followed her every movement, “we need to be clear about a few things.”

  “Yes?”

  “First, because you’re under a forensic board release agreement, what we talk about is not confidential. Even though you’re footing the bill, I am expected to make a full report back to the board every month.”

  “I understand.”

  “Also, if I find that you’ve violated any of the conditions of your release, I am obliged by law to report that.”

  Jimmy stiffened, “Yes.”

  “Just so long as you understand this from the beginning. Do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” Barrett regretted her sternness, but experience had taught her that it was best to clarify up front. Forensic psychiatry was different from therapy. While Jimmy was her patient, her loyalty belonged to the State of New York and toward preserving public safety. “I was sorry to hear about Dr. Kravitz,” she continued, having gotten through her disclaimer.

  “He wasn’t a very good pianist,” Jimmy remarked. “But it’s odd, I’d gotten used to him being here. This is exactly when we’d meet.”

  “Would he play the Brahms with you?”

  “Too hard. We’d play other things, mostly the kind of stuff I did when I was a little kid.”

  “You’ve played a long time?”

  “My whole life. But they wouldn’t let me at Croton.”

  “I can’t help but notice how different you look from that one time we met. It must have been what, three years ago?”

  “But I remember you,” he blurted, his tone almost like a child’s. “You seemed very nice, not like all of the others. That’s why I asked for you.”

  His information startled her. “You asked for me?”

  “Yes, you didn’t know?”

  “No,” she admitted, wondering why Anton hadn’t told her.

  “Does that matter?”

  “No,” she wondered if she’d misinterpreted what Anton had said, and why hadn’t Ellen mentioned it? “But what you were saying about Dr. Kravitz … that the two of you played music. Do you miss him?”

  “I only knew him for a few months. He visited me at Croton once it was clear they were going to let me out. And then he started seeing me here every Thursday. At first, we’d sit and talk … like this, but every time he came he’d go over to the piano. I could see he wanted to play, and so one day I offered; it made the time go by.”

  “Don’t you think that’s odd?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Before Croton I never had anything to do with psychiatrists, and now I must have met over a hundred. Some of them were very strange. I don’t think Kravitz playing duets with me would even make it into the top ten of weird. Like your coming here; is this normal?”

  “Not really,” she admitted, feeling his eyes boring into hers.

  “But you’re here, anyway— albeit with cops in my kitchen. That’s kind of how things go for me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve had a strange life, starting right at the beginning. I don’t think people even realize that kind of thing until they’re much older, but when you look back, you can see how it is you got to be the way you are. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so, but can you be more specific?” she asked, wondering whether his story would match up with Ellen’s. “What made your childhood strange?”

  He grunted, “What didn’t? It was like living in quicksand, where anything solid could suddenly slip away and you’d be left struggling just to keep alive.”

  “And your sister?”

  “Right …” He looked down at Fred who lay curled and purring in his lap. “She was the only thing I could grab onto. We had each other.”

  “Even when you were in the hospital she looked after you, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. They wouldn’t have let me out if it weren’t for her. As far as my parents were concerned, I could have stayed there forever.”

  “You know that she didn’t want me to interview you when you were in Croton.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was that?” Barrett asked, comparing his responses to the sister’s, and to what actually had happened.

  “She thought you might make it harder for me to get out.”

  “How is that?” she asked, watching for subtle physical and verbal cues that could reveal the presence of lies.

  “It’s like you said, whatever we talk about isn’t confidential. And things have a way of getting twisted in the retelling. You weren’t
the only one who wanted to use me as a … a test subject.”

  “You were going to say something else,” she prompted.

  He gently wiped a bit of sleep from out of the corner of the cat’s eye. “A guinea pig.”

  She smiled back, “It’s a beautiful cat.”

  “His name’s Fred.”

  “Why Fred?”

  “Frederic Chopin.”

  She stopped herself from blurting that Chopin was her favorite composer. “How old is he?”

  “The vet thinks he’s about six months old.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “My case manager found him in the garbage one morning as he was coming with my medication. He was with two other kittens and they were both dead. He brought him over and I fed him with an eye dropper. He was so tiny and for a while I didn’t know if he would live or not.” He stroked the cat under the chin, “But he’s getting to be quite the fat little thing.”

  “I can’t get over how different you look,” Barrett said, noting how gentle he was with the kitten, and that Jimmy Martin was a good-looking man.

  “I was huge,” he admitted. “It’s what that place does to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His expression darkened, “I try not to think about that.”

  “You were very young when you went into the hospital.”

  “I was eighteen,” his breath caught.

  “Do you remember much about what got you arrested?”

  “Do we have to talk about that?”

  “Yes,” she urged, sensing a shift in Jimmy, something different in the eyes, the voice, the posture.

  “Dr. Kravitz didn’t make me.”

  “I’m not him, Jimmy. I’m going to need to know how you think about your crime; it’s part of my job.”

  “I don’t think about it. I was out of my mind.”

  “And you’re not now?”

  “No, that’s behind me.”

  “You were found in Nicole Foster’s apartment.”