Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

If she could get him to an AA meeting, get him to take the first step… Tess let out a long breath as she dropped her hands. Hadn’t Joey’s mother explained how many times she’d tried, how many years she’d devoted to prying Joseph Higgins, Sr., away from the bottle?

Tess understood the woman’s bitterness, respected her determination to resume her own life and bury the past. But Joey couldn’t. All through his childhood his mother had protected him, shielded him from his father’s illness. She’d made excuses for the late nights and the lost jobs, believing the truth should be hidden from the boy.

As a child Joey had seen too much, heard more, then had taken his mother’s explanations and excuses and built a wall of lies around his father. Lies he was determined to believe. If his father drank, then drinking was okay. Okay enough that at fourteen Joey was already being treated for alcohol addiction. If his father lost his job, it was because his boss was jealous. Meanwhile Joey’s grades in school slid down and down as his respect for authority and himself diminished.

When Joey’s mother had no longer been able to tolerate the drinking and the break had come, the lies, broken promises, and years of resentment had poured out. She’d heaped the fathers faults on the son in a desperate attempt to make him see the mistakes and not to blame her. Joey hadn’t, of course, nor had he blamed his father. There was only one person Joey could blame, and that was himself.

His family had broken apart, he’d been taken out of the home he’d grown up in, and his mother had gone to work. He’d floundered. When Mrs. Higgins had married again, it was Joey’s stepfather who had pressed for counseling. By the time Tess had begun to see Joey, he’d had thirteen-and-a-half years of guilt, bitterness, and pain to wade through. In two months she’d barely made a dent in the armor he wore-in their private sessions or the family counseling twice a month with his mother and stepfather.

The rage swept through her so quickly, she had to sit for several minutes and fight it off. It wasn’t her function to rage, but to listen, to question, and to offer options. Compassion-she was allowed to feel compassion, but not anger. So she sat with the anger backing up in her, fighting against the control she’d been born with then honed to a professional tool. She wanted to kick something, hit something, strike out somehow at this hateful sense of hopelessness.

Instead she picked up Joey’s file and began to make further notes on their afternoon session.

Sleet had begun to fall. She picked up her glasses, but didn’t look out of the window, didn’t see the man across the street standing on the curb and watching the light in her apartment. If she had looked, had seen, she would have thought nothing of it.

Just as when the knock came she thought of nothing but the annoyance of being interrupted. Her phone had rung incessantly, but she’d been able to ignore that and leave it to her answering service. If one of the calls had been a patient, the beeper beside her would have sounded. The calls, Tess had guessed, had all been connected with the article in the evening’s paper, linking her to the homicide investigation.

Leaving the file open, Tess walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“Paris.”

A lot could be gleaned from the tone of a voice, even in one word. Tess opened the door, knowing she opened it to a confrontation. “Detective. Isn’t it a little late for an official call?”

“Just in time for the eleven o’clock news.” He walked over and switched on her set.

She hadn’t moved from the door. “Haven’t you got a TV at home?”

“It’s more fun to watch a circus with company.”

She shut the door, peevish enough to let it slam. “Look, I’m working. Why don’t you say what you have to say and let me get back to it?”

He glanced over at her desk, at the files open and her big-framed reading glasses tossed on them. “This won’t take long.” He didn’t sit, but stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the news team’s intro. It was the pretty, heart-shaped face brunette who read the evening’s top story.

“The mayor’s office confirmed today that Dr. Teresa Court, noted Washington psychiatrist, has been assigned to the investigation team of the Priest homicides. Dr. Court, granddaughter of veteran Senator Jonathan Writemore, could not be reached for comment. The murders of at least three women are suspected to be linked to the killer termed the Priest because of his use of an amice, a scarf used in ceremony by Roman Catholic priests, to strangle his victims. The police continue an investigation begun last August, now with the assistance of Dr. Court.”

“Not bad,” Ben murmured. “Got your name mentioned three times.” He didn’t even blink when Tess strode over and slammed the button to off.

“I’ll repeat, say what you have to say.”

Her voice was cool. He drew out a cigarette, determined to match her. “We have a press conference at eight tomorrow in the mayor’s office.”

“I was notified.”

“You’re to keep your comments general, stay as far away from the specifics of the case as possible. The press knows about the murder weapon, but we’ve managed to keep the notes and the contents of them from leaking.”

“I’m not a fool, Ben. I can handle an interview.”

“I’m sure you can. This one happens to be on departmental business, not personal glory.”

Her mouth opened, but all that came out was a hiss of breath. She knew it was both undignified and useless to lose her temper. She knew that such a ridiculous and bitter statement deserved no answer. She knew that he, standing there in judgment, deserved nothing but the coolest, most controlled dismissal.

“You bigoted, small-brained, insensitive ass.” Her phone rang again, but they both ignored it. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and tossing out your little gems of idiocy?”

He glanced around for an ashtray and settled on a small hand-painted dish. There was a vase of fresh, autumnal mums beside it. “Which gem was that?”

She stood straight as a soldier, while he stood at ease and flicked ashes into the dish. “Let’s just get something straight. I didn’t leak this business to the press.”

“Nobody said you did.”

“Didn’t they?” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of the skirt she’d worked in for fourteen hours. Her back hurt, her stomach was empty, and she wanted what she struggled so hard to give her patients-peace of mind. “Well, I interpret this little scene differently. As a matter of fact, I was promised my name would never be linked with this investigation.”

“Got a problem letting people know you’re cooperating with the police?”

“Oh, you’re clever, aren’t you?”

“As hell,” he returned, fascinated by the complete annihilation of her control. She paced as she spoke, and her eyes had deepened to purple. Temper in her was rigid, and icy, unlike the venom-spitting, plate-throwing sort he was more accustomed to. It was all the more interesting.

“Either way I go, you’ve got an answer. Did it ever occur to you, Detective, that I might not care to have my patients, my colleagues, my friends question me about this case? Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want to take the case in the first place?”

“Then why did you? The pay’s lousy.”

“Because I was persuaded to believe I could help. If I didn’t still think so, I’d tell you to take your case and choke on it. Do you think I want to waste my time arguing with some narrow-minded, self-appointed judge about the morality of my profession? I have enough problems in my life without you adding to them.”

“Problems, Doc?” He took a slow sweep of the room, the flowers, the crystal, the soft pastels. “Things look pretty tidy around here to me.”