Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

“Did you think she might misrepresent a situation for her own glory?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. She wasn’t out for glory-she was on a mission. I’m telling you, some of the younger women started calling her Mother Teresa, and not always out of admiration. Actually, that was part of the problem; she split the office straight in half between Rhea worshipers and Rhea doubters. And then she wouldn’t let you question how she came to a conclusion. Like in that one case where the guy she was accusing of molestation was a former prosecutor who’d been nominated for a federal judgeship. Rhea wouldn’t let us see her case notes before she testified. If the case had backfired, we could have been facing a ton of damages.”

I thumbed through my stack of printouts. “Wasn’t the daughter who brought the charges part of Wiell’s private practice?”

“Yes, but Rhea was still on the state payroll, so the guy could have claimed she was using state office space or facilities for photocopying or whatnot-anything like that would have brought us into a lawsuit. We couldn’t afford that kind of exposure. We had to let her go. Now you tell me, since I’ve been so frank with you, what’s Rhea done that means a PI is interested in her?”

I’d known I’d have to cough up something. Tit for tat, it’s how you keep information coming to you. “One of her clients was in the news this week. I don’t know if you saw the guy with the recovered memories from the Holocaust? Someone wants to write a book about him and about how Rhea works. I’ve been asked to do some background checking.”

“One thing Rhea knows better than any other therapist who ever worked for this office, and that’s how to attract attention.” My informant hung up smartly.

So she is a legitimate therapist. Controversial but legitimate,” I said to the glowing tip of Don’s cigarette. “If you did a book with her, you wouldn’t be signing on with a fraud.”

“Actually, they’re excited enough in New York that I went ahead and scheduled an appointment with the lady. Tomorrow at eleven. If you’re free, want to sit in on it? Maybe she’ll allow you to bring back a report to Dr. Herschel that will help you allay her concerns.”

“Under the circumstances I can’t imagine that happening. But I would like to meet Rhea Wiell.”

We were sitting on Morrell’s back porch. It was close to ten, but Morrell was still downtown at a meeting with some State Department officials-I had an uneasy feeling they were trying to persuade him to do some spying while he was in Kabul. I was wrapped in one of Morrell’s old sweaters, drawing some small comfort from it-which made me feel like Mitch and Peppy-the dogs like to have my old socks to play with when I’m out of town. Lotty had brought my day to such a ragged end that I needed what comfort I could find.

I’d been running since I kissed Morrell good-bye this morning. Even though I still had a dozen urgent tasks, I was too tired to keep going. Before dictating my case notes, before calling Isaiah Sommers, before going home to run the dogs, before heading back to Morrell’s place with a contract for Don Strzepek to cover my queries about Rhea Wiell, I needed to rest. Just half an hour on the portable bed in my back room, I’d thought. Half an hour would make me fit enough to cram another day’s work into the evening. It was almost ninety minutes later that my client roused me.

“What made you go down to my aunt with all those accusations?” he demanded when the phone dragged me awake. “Couldn’t you respect her widowhood?”

“What accusations?” My mouth and eyes felt as though they’d been stuffed with cotton.

“Going to her home and saying she stole money from the insurance company.”

If I hadn’t been bleary from my nap I might have answered more coolly. But maybe not.

“I will make every allowance for your aunt’s grief, but that is not what I said. And before you call to accuse me of such abominable behavior, why don’t you ask me what I said.”

“All right. I’m asking you.” His voice was leaden with suppressed anger.

“I showed your aunt the canceled check the company issued when a death claim was submitted nine years ago. I asked her what she knew about it. That is not an accusation. A check for her had been made out in care of the Midway Insurance Agency. I couldn’t pretend her name wasn’t on the check. I couldn’t pretend Ajax hadn’t issued it based on a bona fide death certificate. I had to ask her about it.”

“You should have talked to me first. I’m the person who paid you.”

“I cannot consult with clients about every step I take in an investigation. I’d never get anything done.”

“You took my money. You spent it on accusing my aunt. Your contract says I can terminate our arrangement at any time. I am terminating it now.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “Terminate away. Someone committed fraud with your uncle’s policy. If you want them to get away with it, so be it.”

“Of course I don’t want that, but I’ll look into the matter on my own, in a way that will respect my aunt. I should have known a white detective would act just like the police. I should have listened to my wife.” He hung up.

It wasn’t the first time an angry client had fired me, but I’ve never learned to take it with equanimity. I could have done things differently. I should have called him, called him before I went to see his aunt, gotten him on my side. Or at least called him before I went to sleep. I could have kept my temper-my besetting sin.

I tried to remember exactly what I’d said to his aunt. Damn it, I should do as Mary Louise said, dictate my notes as soon as I finished a meeting. Better late than never: I could start with my phone conversation with the client. Ex-client. I dialed up the word-processing service I use and dictated a summary of the call, adding a letter to Sommers confirming that he’d canceled my services; I’d enclose his uncle’s policy with the letter. When I’d finished with Isaiah Sommers, I dictated notes from my other conversations of the day, working backward from my informant at Family Services to my meeting with Ralph at Ajax.

Lotty called on the other line when I was halfway through reconstructing my encounter with the insurance agent Howard Fepple. “Max told me about the program he saw with you at Morrell’s last night,” she said, without preamble. “It sounded very disturbing.”

“It was.”

“He didn’t know whether to believe the man’s story or not. Did Morrell make a tape of the interview?”

“Not that I know of. I got a copy of the tape today, which I can-”

“I want to see it. Will you bring it to my apartment this evening, please.” It came out as a command, not a request.

“Lotty, this isn’t your operating room. I don’t have time to stop at your place tonight, but in the morning I-”

“This is a very simple favor, Victoria, which has nothing to do with my operating room. You don’t need to leave the tape with me, but I want to see it. You can stand over me while I watch it.”

“Lotty, I don’t have the time. I will get copies made tomorrow and let you have one of your very own. But this one is for a client who hired me to investigate the situation.”

“A client?” She was outraged. “Did Max hire you without either of you talking to me?”

My forehead felt as though it were squeezed inside a vise. “If he did, that’s between him and me, not you and me. What difference does it make to you?”

“What difference? That he violated a trust, that’s what matters. When he told me about this person at the conference, this man calling himself Radbuka, I said we shouldn’t act hastily and that I would give him my opinion after I had seen the interview.”