Keith Ablow - Compulsion

"Listen," he said, as soon as she had left. "I needed help, so I pushed you to get involved. But you might have had it right when you turned me down." He looked at me like a physician about to diagnose something incurable. "You may not be able to do this work anymore. It tears you up too much."

"Didn't you just tell me on the phone last night that they'd have to shake you loose from this case to shake me loose?" I said.

"I'm letting you off the hook," he said. "Think about it and let me know."

"I don't need to think about it," I said. "I'm into this too deep to back off."

He nodded unconvincingly.

"I won't touch the crap. All right?"

"Sure," he said.

I was feeling leaned on, so I leaned back. "Maybe my drinking isn't really the issue here," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're getting pressure from the mayor. You've got a nice job. You want to keep it. So I slip, and you say I'm down for the count. You make everyone happy."

"Like who?" Anderson bristled.

I shrugged. "Like the mayor and Darwin Bishop." Having said those words, I wished I could have stuffed them back inside me. I knew Anderson was just trying to help me. "I didn't…" I started.

He was already on his feet. "Hey, fuck you," he said, barely keeping his voice down.

"I didn't mean that," I said. "And I didn't start this whole thing."

The muscles in Anderson 's jaw were tight, his expression telegraphing he was barely in control, but he managed to sit down. "All I want," he said, "is to solve this case without it ruining your life or mine. So when I see you starting to get close to a suspect's wife…"

"Is that what this is all about?" I said.

"Let me finish." He lowered his voice. "When I see you getting close with Julia, then starting to dive back into a bottle, I worry whether your vision is getting cloudy. Because I'm depending on it. Is there something strange about that? Or did you forget that her son and husband are the two lead suspects in this case?"

"There's nothing strange about it," I admitted. "I understand."

"Good." Anderson drank his entire ice water without a breath. He put the glass down with the decisiveness of a judge ruling on a case. He looked around the dining room self-consciously. "You're set for a second interview with Darwin Bishop tomorrow," he said.

I was a little surprised Bishop had consented to it. "What did he say, exactly?"

"Whatever he said, he didn't say it to me. I only got as far as Claire Buckley. She handles Bishop's schedule."

"I guess she handles a lot of things."

"No question about it," Anderson said with a wink. "Sal Ferraro, my private investigator friend, the one who tracked down Bishop's hotel and travel receipts, tells me they've got another trip planned next month. July in Paris. Bishop reserved a very pricey suite, for one full week, at the George V, right near the Champs Elysees."

"Why wouldn't they book two rooms?" I said. "Just for appearances?"

Anderson smiled. "Why did Gary Hart pose for a photograph on Monkey Business! Why did Clinton use the Oval Office?"

"Good questions. I guess it seemed worth the risk at the time. Or it seemed about time to self-destruct."

"Exactly. That was my point about you and Julia," he said.

"Point made," I said, hoping that would be enough to get him off the topic.

He seemed satisfied. "Are you going to tell Darwin about Billy having contacted you?" he asked.

I thought about that. Strictly speaking, it was Bishop's right to know-not only because the information involved his son, but also because Billy's tone at the end of our call meant Darwin Bishop's own safety and that of other family members could be at risk. "I have to tell him," I said. "Until we're absolutely certain who the murderer is, I don't want to keep anyone's secrets."

"I agree," Anderson said. He pressed his lips together and nodded to himself. "Does that include Julia?" he said.

"You're relentless," I said.

"Does it include her?" he persisted.

I stared back at him. "Asked and answered," I said flatly.

"Not really," he said. "But let me ask a different question." He paused: "Why haven't we talked about her as a suspect?"

"Julia?" I said.

"She wouldn't be the first woman to murder her child," Anderson said. "She was at home the night Brooke died, just like everyone else."

"We haven't talked about her because neither one of us has a gut feeling she was remotely involved," I said. "We haven't talked about Billy's brother Garret, either."

"Stay with me on Julia for a minute, okay?"

"Sure."

He gathered his thoughts. "Some women get depressed after they have a kid, don't they? Postpartum depression?"

Postpartum depression, an illness that descends within six months of giving birth, affects tens of thousands of women in the United States alone. The cause isn't known. It might be hormonal, neurochemical, or psychological- or some combination of the three. "Of course," I told Anderson.

"And women who've killed their kids have used postpartum depression as the basis for insanity pleas, haven't they?" he said.

I knew what he was getting at, but I wasn't in the mood to admit it. "You sound like a prosecutor," I said. "Am I on trial here?"

"Just answer me."

"In some cases, women with postpartum depression have pled not guilty by reason of insanity after killing their babies," I allowed.

"In a few cases, it even worked," he went on. "They successfully argued that they were so depressed they lost contact with reality."

"I had one of the cases," I said. "A woman down in Georgia who shot her daughter and killed a neighbor's kid. The jury let her off."

"And Julia Bishop has a psychiatric history. Depression."

I thought back to my lunch with Julia, particularly to my worry that her lack of sleep and lack of appetite might reflect a recurrence of that depression. "What you're saying makes some sense," I said, "but-"

"But she has pretty eyes and a great ass, and Frank Clevenger loves the ladies, especially the broken ones." He grimaced. He knew I hadn't gotten over losing Kathy to mental illness. "Sorry," he said. "Now it's my turn to apologize."

Part of me wanted to grab Anderson by the throat, but another part of me knew he was right. I couldn't exclude Julia Bishop as a suspect in the murder of little Brooke. "Don't worry about it," I said.

He still wouldn't let go. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"She goes on the list," I said. "I don't think she filled Brooke's throat with plastic sealant, but I can't prove it right at this moment, okay? Satisfied?"

"Yes." Anderson relaxed. He sat back in his chair. "Don't get me wrong. I'd be blown away if she were the one, Frank. But I've been blown away before."

Dinner arrived. Swordfish for me, sirloin for Anderson. I thought to myself how I would love a glass of Merlot to go with the whole spread. I meditated a bit on those words. I would love a glass of Merlot. Maybe Anderson wasn't off base at all. Maybe addiction was at the heart of my romantic feelings for women, including Kathy-and Julia. Maybe it truly was the broken parts of them that attracted me, because they spoke to what was broken inside me.

We finished dinner and made plans to meet in the hotel lobby at 10:00 a.m. the next morning. Anderson would be driving me to a ten-thirty appointment with Darwin Bishop. I offered to get myself there, but he reminded me that an official backup wasn't a terrible idea, so long as white Range Rovers were following me around.

I headed back to my suite. The bottle of wine was waiting for me in the hallway, where I'd left it. I looked straight at it because my impulse was to look away. Then I walked into the room, quickly closed the door, and slid the dead bolt home.