CHAPTER 13
IT WAS NEARLY ten P.M. when I closed the file.
Stacy had left therapy claiming she’d found direction. This morning her father had implied the transformation had been temporary. She’d promised to call but never followed through. Normal teenage flakiness? Not wanting me to view her as a failure?
Despite her declaration of independence, I’d never considered her a therapeutic triumph. You couldn’t deal with what she’d been through in thirteen sessions. I suppose I’d known all along that she’d held back.
Would we really talk about college tomorrow morning?
I paged through the file again, found something in my notes of the eleventh session. My deliberately sketchy shorthand, born of too many subpoenas.
Pt. disc. fath. hostility to Mate.
That’s all the two of them could do when faced with something they couldn’t control. Get angry at it. Big male thing, get pissed off, want to crush it.
The phone rang.
“Dr. Delaware, this came in an hour ago,” said the operator. “A Mr. Fusco, he said you can call him back anytime.”
The name wasn’t familiar. I asked her to spell it.
“Leimert Fusco. I thought it was Leonard but it’s Leimert.” She recited a Westwood exchange. “Guess what, Doctor—he says he’s with the FBI.”
The Federal Building, where the FBI was headquartered, was in Westwood, on Wilshire and Veteran. Only blocks, as a matter of fact, from Roy Haiselden’s house. Something to do with that? Then why call me, not Milo?
Better to check with Milo. I figured the frustrations of the day would push him to keep going, so I tried his desk at the station. No answer there or at his home, and his cell phone didn’t connect.
Unsure I was doing the right thing, I punched in Fusco’s number. A deep, harsh voice—heavy shoes being dragged over rough cement—recited the usual speech: “This is Special Agent Leimert Fusco. Leave a message.”
“This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning your—”
“Doctor,” the same voice broke in. “Thanks for getting back so quickly.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been assigned to look into a police case you’re currently working on.”
“Which case is that?”
Laughter. “How many police cases are you working on? Don’t worry, Doctor, I’m aware of your allegiance to Detective Sturgis, have cleared it with him. He and I will be meeting soon, he wasn’t sure whether or not you’d be able to make it. So I thought I’d touch base with you personally, just to see if you’ve got any information you’d like to share with the Bureau. Psychological insights. By the way, I’m trained as a psychologist.”
“I see.” I didn’t. “The little I know I’ve told Detective Sturgis.”
“Yes,” said Fusco. “He as much as said so.”
Silence.
He said, “Well, thanks anyway. It’s a tough one, isn’t it?”
“Looks to be.”
“Guess we’ve all got our work cut out for us. Thanks for calling back.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You know, Doctor, we do have some expertise in this area. The Bureau.”
“What area, specifically?”
“Psychopathic killings. Homicides with psychosexual overtones. Our data banks are pretty impressive.”
“Great,” I said. “Hope you come up with something.”
“Hope so, too. Bye now.”
Click.
I sat there feeling like an unwitting character in a candid video.
Something about him … I called information and asked for the FBI number. Same prefix Fusco had given, so his number was probably an extension. A female recorded voice said no one was in this late. Rust never sleeps, but the government does.
I tried Milo, again, no success.
Fusco’s call bothered me. Too brief. Pointless. As if he’d been checking me out.
Knowing I was being paranoid, I got up, checked all the doors and windows, set the alarm. When I got to the bedroom, Robin was in bed reading, and I slid in beside her. She had on one of my T-shirts and nothing else and I stroked her flank.
“You’ve been industrious,” she said.
“Midwestern work ethic.” I reached up under the T-shirt, felt the orange peel of goose bumps between her shoulder blades. She yawned. “Ready to sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
She mussed my hair. “Another rough night in store?”