F Wilson - Sibs

"I'm afraid I can't discuss that with you, Miss Wade. It's privileged information."

"I've never heard of such a thing!"

"Nevertheless, that is my policy."

▼

Crosstown traffic was a killer, as usual, so Rob Harris arrived at Dr. Gates' office a little later than he had intended. He introduced himself to the receptionist and was relieved to find that the doctor was still in his consultation room.

Dr. Gates had refused to cooperate over the phone. Rob knew from experience that many doctors automatically refused to divulge medical information on their patients, even when foul play was suspected; some did it as a power play, and others actually thought they were protecting a dead patient's rights. Psychiatrists were the most stubborn. But he had learned over the years that the mere physical presence of a detective flashing his badge in the office often had a tongue-loosening effect on these docs.

"Please have a seat," the receptionist said. "The doctor should be through in a few minutes."

Rob glanced at the little girl sitting in the corner flipped through a magazine at breakneck speed, then back at the receptionist.

"Kind of young for psychotherapy, isn't she?" he whispered.

The receptionist did not smile.

"Her mother is with the doctor," she said coldly. "Please be seated."

"Sure. Right."

He checked out the tropical fish in the tank. He didn't know what kind they were, but they were bright, beautiful, and graceful. He took a seat on a couch against the far wall and glanced at the little girl a few feet away. She was tearing through that magazine, stopping only to look at the cartoons. A skinny little thing dressed in Oshkosh overalls and a plaid flannel shirt, with long, dark brown hair twisted into a single braid. Cute. Rob had never been crazy about kids—usually they were pests—but this one was pretty well behaved. She seemed oblivious to him. So much the better.

For some reason, Kara popped into his mind. Rob leaned back on the sofa and sighed. In a way he was glad she was in Pennsylvania and not in the city. That made it a little easier telling her on the phone that the investigation was just spinning its wheels. But damn it, he didn't have diddlyshit to work with. Two unmatchable completes and a partial off a hotel water glass; a description of two white males that could fit one out of every four guys on the Upper West Side. And Forensics saying there was no evidence of foul play. He was glad he hadn't been sitting in front of Kara when he'd told her that.

This psychiatrist was his last lead. Rob had picked up from one of Kelly's co-workers that she'd been seeing Dr. Gates regularly for a year or more, ever since she went through a nasty break-up with some guy she'd been seeing for awhile. Rob had checked out the guy— married with children, no less—and his whereabouts last Tuesday night were accounted for. So Dr. Gates looked like the last hope for a solid lead. And not a very bright hope.

Rob picked a magazine off the top of the nearest pile. It was Cosmopolitan. He was about to toss it back when the vast exposed areas of smooth skin on the cover model caught his eye. Next to her left arm was a heading: "10 Ways to Keep Him Satisfied!" That sounded interesting. As he opened the issue, he heard a little voice from the corner.

"My mother says Cosmo exploits women."

He looked up. The little girl was still concentrating on her own magazine, rapidly paging through it. Since there was no one else around…

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

"Cosmo exploits women," she said without looking up.

"Really?"

"Yep. My mom says."

She still hadn't looked up.

"So you said. But what do you think?"

"I think so, too."

Oh, great. A feminist munchkin.

"How come?"

Finally she looked up. Her eyes were a pale, pale blue, and she was more than cute. Adorable. Rob's heart warmed instantly at the sight of her face.

"Look at that cleavage," she said, pointing to the cover.

Rob bit his lip to keep from laughing. Cleavage? What did this little thing know about cleavage?

"How old are you?"

"I'm nine."

"No, you're not. You're thirty-nine, at least. Maybe forty."

She smiled, showing straight, white teeth that seemed too big for her mouth.

"I'm nine. And a half." She pointed at the Cosmo cover. "And that's cleavage."

Rob looked down at the cover.

"Oh, my!" he said. "You're so right! Look at that cleavage! It's awful."

He quickly pulled out his pen and began scribbling on the cover.

"What are you doing?" the girl said, craning her neck to see.

"Getting rid of the cleavage!"

She hopped out of her chair and plopped down next to him. Her expression was concerned as she watched him filling in the model's exposed pectoral areas with black ink. She glanced at the receptionist who was busily typing out the dictation coming through her earphones, then back to Rob.

"You can't do that!" she said in a loud whisper.

"Of course I can!" He scribbled harder. "I'll teach them to exploit women!" He opened the magazine, then slapped it closed. "Oh, no! Full of cleavage! Cleavage everywhere!"

The little girl was giggling. Rob found that he loved the sound. He didn't want her to stop. He handed her his pen and began pulling magazines at random from the pile.

"Here! We'll become cleavage police! Take these! We'll search every one of them!" She was laughing now. He pointed to the cover of another issue of Cosmopolitan. "More cleavage!" He opened a Time and gasped. "Oh, my Lord! This is the worst yet!"

When she saw what he was pointing to, she began to belly laugh, loud enough to cause the receptionist to look up from her dictation.

The sound of her laughter broke Rob up. He began laughing along with her.

"Quick!" he said, handing her the Time. "Do something about that! Cover her up!"

▼

Dr. Lawrence Gates was insufferably arrogant. And Kara thought that was a generous assessment.

Throughout her carefully reasoned plea for information, he had sat and watched her in the way one of his patients in the waiting room might watch the fish in the tank. Her words beaded up and rolled off him without marring his impenetrable surface.

Cold. Aloof. Remote. Oblivious to Kara's anguish at being in the dark about what had led her twin to her death on the sidewalk in front of the Plaza Hotel. He just sat there twirling a key ring on his index finger. Two twirls and then he'd grab it; then he'd do it again. Twirl-twirl-stop. Over and over. It was annoying the hell out of Kara, especially since she wasn't getting anywhere.

"So you see," she said, "I need to explain to myself why Kelly had slutty clothes hidden in her apartment. We had a good upbringing. We were taught to respect ourselves. Who was she hiding those clothes from? Who was she afraid of? The police will want to know too."

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly, as if a bell had rung. "I sympathize with your plight, but it changes nothing. I do not discuss my patients with anyone—not with their parents, not with their spouses, not with their siblings, not even with their identical twins. You'll have to go now."

Kara stared at him in shock. That was it: he had a timer in his head and he had been sitting there waiting for it to go off. Suddenly furious, she went on the offensive.

" 'Go now'?" she said, keeping her voice low with an effort. "Fine. I'll go. But I'll go from here to a lawyer. And I'll be back with a subpoena for your records, and maybe a summons to boot. The police are talking about the possibility that my sister committed suicide. If that turns out to be true, I'm going to want to know why her psychiatrist didn't spot the risk and do something to head it off. You may find yourself trying to explain that at a malpractice trial, Dr. Gates."