Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“My secretary Joyce made a notation we’ll be billing insurance,” Catherine remarked, checking the intake form. It was Saturday, and she didn’t usually see patients, but after Rebecca had left, the apartment had seemed so empty—almost lifeless—that when she’d picked up her messages and found one about a request for a semi-urgent appointment, she’d decided she might as well work. “I see you have a good plan that doesn’t cap the number of visits, so that will be simple.”

“I don’t think I’ll be coming long enough for that to be an issue.”

Her tone level and matter-of-fact, no hint of aggression or combativeness. Just a statement.

“And that brings me to the next question,” Catherine responded just as evenly. “It says your reasons for coming are work-related. Can you tell me about that?”

“I’ve been ordered to see a therapist and to obtain a written statement that I am fit for duty.”

“Ordered? I’m sorry,” Catherine said, glancing down at the form, confused. Joyce had left a message that a new patient had called asking for an appointment as soon as possible, but there had been no indication that it had been any kind of official consultation. She often performed evaluations of city employees—mostly work-related disability claims, and occasionally confirmatory profiles on detainees, but someone from the appropriate city department usually called ahead to set up the meeting. “What do you—“

“I’m a police officer.”

“I see.” Catherine pushed the folder aside, leaned back in her chair, and met the young woman’s eyes. Now it was time for them to talk. “I didn’t get any referral papers. Usually someone sends me a summary of the incident.”

“It’s probably in transit—I’ll call them on Monday.”

“No need—we’ll take care of it. How did you get to me? Isn’t there an in-house psychologist who signs off on an officer’s duty status?”

“There is, but the department has to provide alternate choices for reasons of impartiality. You’re on the short list.”

The lesser of two evils? Actually, she hadn’t even realized she was on any kind of list, and the only reason she minded was that had she known, she would have asked Joyce to screen new patient calls differently and to prioritize calls from police officers. Her already busy private patient schedule could only accommodate so many therapy sessions per week, but she always made time for emergencies.

“Is there some reason that you didn’t want to see…is it still Rand Whitaker doing the psych evals for the department?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged, a move that reminded Catherine of Rebecca’s dismissive gesture when she considered something unworthy of her attention. Lord, do they stamp them out of some mold somewhere, these silent women with suspicious eyes?

“I’m asking why you went outside channels because I need to know if there was a conflict or problem within the department that will affect how you and I communicate, or that we need to discuss.”

“No problem. I just want my private business to stay private. And…”

For the first time she looked the slightest bit uncertain.

“And…? Catherine asked gently.

“And I wanted to talk to a woman.”

“Fair enough. Let me tell you a little bit about how I do this, so that we’re on the same page. It helps to avoid confusion if you have an idea of how long this might take.”

A curt nod, an attentive expression despite a faint frown line between dark brows. Catherine sensed her ambivalence—she had come because she had been ordered to, but she was also cooperating. Perhaps, on some level, she wants to be here.

“As I said, the department will send a summary of why you’re being referred, but I want you to tell me in your own words. Then I’d like to spend some time getting to know you. General background kinds of things. When I feel that I can make some determination about this event within the context of your professional life, I’ll file my report.”

“How much of what we talk about will be in it?”

Two references in less than five minutes to issues of privacy and confidentiality. She’s worried about keeping something in her personal life a secret.

“You may see my report. I will not discuss your case with anyone without informing you and obtaining your consent. You understand that I will need to include some details of our meetings to substantiate my findings, and that this will become part of your personnel record?”

“Yes.”

A bit of anger there. She feels violated. Betrayed by her superiors, by the system that sent her here?

“Do you want to proceed? You could still see Rand Whitaker.”

“No. How long will this take?”

“I don’t know. Have you been suspended?”

“No. But they’ve got me riding a desk.”

Stiff shoulders, condescending tone of voice, one quick, frustrated fist clench. She’s chafing at the restrictions.

“More than a few sessions, most likely. I’ll see you on an accelerated schedule, but that’s as definite as I can be.”

Several beats of silence.

“Okay.”

“So. Tell me what happened.”

“I was daydreaming about something that happened in a session today—something that brought up more than I realized, apparently. Rather like a waking version of what Freud said about dreams. He called them day residue, things we are still trying to process that we didn’t finish before sleep.”

“He said a lot more than that about dreams, didn’t he?” Rebecca commented dryly.

Laughing, Catherine nodded agreement. “Yes, quite a bit of which I take issue with.” Linking her fingers through Rebecca’s, she continued, “Nevertheless, even if I could talk about it, I certainly wouldn’t want to take up our time together tonight with business. After all, this is a date, right?”

They’d made love, spoken of love, but they’d never had the time to fall in love. As much as she missed Rebecca’s subtle presence in her apartment—the extra clothes in the closet, two coffee cups in the sink, her keys and wallet on the dresser, she liked this new distance. It was a distance heavy with promise and hope, a kind of charged separation she’d never experienced before. It was the very opposite of lonely, because Rebecca was with her.

“Well,” Rebecca mused, feigning thought, her thumb playing over Catherine’s palm, “I got all spruced up in my best suit and I washed the Vette. I’m trying to impress you with the dinner and the wine.”

She’d missed her that afternoon when she’d opened the door of her apartment to be greeted by the musty scent of abandonment. Out of years of habit, she’d dropped the duffle inside the door and walked directly across the rugless living room to the single window, pushed it up, and leaned out to breathe the aroma of car exhaust and Saturday dinners. Home. As familiar as a favorite bar, and as lonely as the tail end of the night with only a bottle for company. She leaned closer across the table, her gaze claiming Catherine with the intensity of a caress. When she was with her, the places inside that always ached stopped hurting. “I was hoping that you chose that dark green blouse with me in mind, because it reflects in your eyes—like shadows in a forest, calling my…”

“Rebecca,” Catherine murmured, her heart hammering, “we’re in a restaurant.”

Undeterred, she continued in a low, husky tone, “And I’ve been thinking all afternoon about the way my skin burns when…”

“We are going to sit here and consume this very fine food, or Anthony will be so offended he’ll never recover.” Her voice cracked and she had to swallow. She had never been the focus of such undiminished attention in her life. It was a heady feeling and she suddenly understood how people made fools of themselves for love. “Is this how you seduce women?”