Stephen White - Blinded

She settled back, crossed her legs, and said, “He went back to kill them, you know.”

No, I didn’t know. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Sterling met them one year. Had his little flings with them. And he went back to see them again the next time.”

“The next time?”

“The next time he was covering the event, whatever it was. The golf tournament, or game, or race, or whatever it was. A lot of this stuff he produces is annual, you know? He goes back to some of the same places, and he does basically the same thing every year.”

“And… he continued his affairs? He saw the same women each year in each city?”

To me, it sounded exhausting.

“If he… liked them. If their first encounter was… you know. Then, yes, he saw the same women again.”

I tried to gauge her discomfort at our discussion of Sterling’s serial infidelity. I thought it was high. Or maybe I just thought it should be high.

“And then he killed them?” I asked. I knew the beginning of the story, and a lot of the middle, and the very end, but it felt as though somebody had ripped out a chunk of pages just before the conclusion.

“Not usually. Just sometimes.”

Great, I thought, allowing myself the luxury of some irony. Maybe he can be rehabilitated.

“Go on, please, Gibbs. Was there a method to his… a way to understand the motivation he used to… I mean, how did he, um-”

“Decide? Some of them wanted more from him. That wasn’t the arrangement. That’s why I think he…”

Killed them.

“They were the ones who wouldn’t let go, who insisted. That’s what put them at risk.”

The arrangement?

Was Gibbs implying that the women were responsible for their own murders by violating some agreement they had with Sterling? Reaching such a conclusion would not have been that atypical for a battered woman.

Damn, I said to myself. Gibbs had once again distracted me. I’d been confronting her about her decision to stay in a hotel, not Safe House, and she’d managed to change the subject to murder. A compelling change, I had to admit: This misdirection was not the work of an amateur.

I prepared to point out the process when her face displayed sudden alarm. “You’re not going to tell anyone what I just told you, right? Not the police? If anybody learns this, Dr. Gregory, they will have learned it from you. No one else knows about it. I couldn’t bear it if any of this got out. I couldn’t.”

I’d been expecting Gibbs to revisit her distrust of the reliability of my silence from the moment she’d walked in the door, but the timing surprised me, and an undertow of accusation sucked at me. I said, “I haven’t broken your trust, Gibbs. And I won’t.”

“Good.” She smiled at me. “No matter where we go-you and I-we end up talking about sex, don’t we?”

Were we just talking about sex? Or had I just been witness to yet another one of the greatest illusions since Penn and Teller?

“Sex. It’s not just for procreation anymore.”

In the ensuing minutes, in case I required it, I received a refresher course in the resilience of denial and the elasticity of resistance. Gibbs and I covered no new ground. The topic of Sterling’s affairs? It was of no apparent interest to her. “Old news,” she declared. “I prefer to look forward.”

Sterling’s being alive, or dead? “I think Detective Purdy is right. He’s alive. I would know if he were dead. I would. That changes things. It does. I have decisions to make. Different ones.”

The danger she was in? “He wouldn’t hurt me. He did it once and he apologized. He won’t do it again. I just need to get away from all the media.”

I prodded her resistance directly. I went after the soft flanks of her denial. Nothing seemed to work.

Sometimes that was the nature of psychotherapy.

After Gibbs left her session-her exit was marked by a promise to call me once she was settled into a hotel-I ran into Diane in the hallway as we were both on the way to the bathroom. She was wearing jeans and a sweater: not office garb.

“I just came in to get my appointment book,” she explained. “I have jury duty. Have to be at the courthouse in ten minutes. God, I hope I get sequestered. It would be so great to get sequestered.”

“No lawyer in this town is going to let you sit on a jury.”

“Why not?”

With the frequency with which Diane testified on custody and child abuse issues, she knew the county’s judges and clerks, and the law, better than half the members of the bar. Every attorney wanted to believe that at the conclusion of a trial what ruled in the jury room were the echoes of the lawyer’s own words of wisdom. But any lawyer who had ever crossed paths with Diane Estevez knew that she wouldn’t think of allowing that to occur. Were she seated on a jury, what would rule in the jury room was what Diane wanted to rule in the jury room-which meant that the odds of Diane being chosen as a juror in Boulder County were about the same as Al Gore spending Christmas on a ranch in Crawford, Texas.

She tilted her head back toward my office, sniffed the air, and said, “Do I smell the Dancing Queen?”

I flared my nostrils and tested the air but didn’t detect anything. Was I immune to my client’s perfume? As a way of changing the subject, I asked, “You can’t hear anything in your office, can you? When I’m in my office doing therapy, you don’t overhear my sessions?”

“With your voice? You speak so quietly, I’m surprised sometimes that your own patients can hear you. Why, did I miss something good?”

“Nothing? You can’t hear a thing?”

“No. Why? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you laugh.”

She laughed. “Why are you asking?”

“I’ve had a few accusations from patients in the last few days that I’m divulging information that I heard during therapy. They’re… concerning; they’re accusations about serious things.”

“Accusations? Not just worries?”

“Accusations.”

“Oh, the Dancing Queen? Are you the anonymous tipster? You’re the one who called Crime Stoppers on Platinum?”

“Diane.”

She had really perked up. “Well, are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Nothing inadvertent?”

“No.”

She squeezed past me and slipped into the bathroom. As she shut the door, she said, “Maybe your office is bugged.”

I said, “Ha. Very funny.”

But I’d barely shifted my weight from one foot to the other before I thought: Sam.

Rhymes with damn .

It was surprisingly easy to find someone to sweep my office for bugs. I called a couple of lawyers I knew through Lauren, who put me in touch with the private investigators they used, and the two investigators both pointed me toward the same company: West Security.

The electronic security specialist I talked to at West was a woman named Tayisha Rosenthal. She explained that I had my choice between a cursory sweep of my office for about half of my practice’s daily earnings, and a thorough sweep, which would cost me twice what my practice typically generated in a day. If I chose the thorough examination, she would give me a 99.99 percent assurance that my office was not being monitored by listening devices.

I said I would take the deluxe package.

She asked when.

“As soon as possible.”

“Can you do noon?” she said. “I can squeeze you in at noon.”

I looked at my calendar. It would mean canceling a patient, maybe two. I said yes and I gave her the address.

I’d made a bad error in judgment when I’d asked Gibbs for freedom to consult with Sam about her suspicions about Sterling. That was certain. And it was clear that Sam had gone too far when he’d approached Gibbs himself and decided to take off on some ill-thought-out quest in Georgia.