Lori, p.13
Lori, page 13
Lori shook her head, fumbled for cleansing tissue, blew her nose. Big girls don't cry, not even in aftershock, not even when Russ doesn't call. No one calls, because you're all alone, and you've got to stop acting like a kid. If you're really concerned about loss, what about your wardrobe?
Outside of the things she'd brought back from school there was nothing left. It was time to go shopping for some clothes.
Time, yes, but what about money? Lori had plastic, plus around three thousand in the savings account and a few bonds to cash in. She'd have to find out how much she could count on getting from the estate, and how soon. The house was gone but Dad always told her the real value was in the lot, not the dwelling. In order to sell it she'd need a title transfer, and everything was tied up. How could she untangle the mess? She didn't even have a lawyer, now that Rupert was dead.
Dead and dangling, sticking out a purple tongue to mock her. And his mouth gaping, whispering a warning. Keep your door locked.
No, it was Metz who said that, because Rupert had been murdered. They knew how, but they didn't know why. They didn't know about the yearbook.
Locked doors are no protection against memories, and they couldn't protect her from the chill she'd felt ever since reading Rupert's note; the chill and the questions.
Why should he want to kill her? Could it have something to do with the yearbook? Where did he get it, what had become of it? Was the book one of the things Rupert fed into his shredder? Might the murderer have taken it? And if so, when would the murderer come to take her?
The doorbell buzzed.
Lori started across the living room in automatic response, then halted as mounting chill froze movement. Now the buzzing gave way to knocking, harsh and insistent. Her tongue was frozen too, but she had to speak.
"Who's there?"
"Lieutenant Metz."
She recognized the muffled voice and for a moment she felt relief. But what if he'd come to arrest her?
"Miss Holmes?" Again the knocking, the knocking on the thin door that was so easy to smash. And if he had a warrant-
"I'm coming."
Lori unlocked the door, opened it, let him in.
Under the lamplight his face was drawn and drained of color. "Sorry to bother you," Metz said, but he didn't look sorry, just tired. "Thought I'd stop by for a minute on my way home."
"You live around here?"
"More or less." He glanced around the living room, eyeing its contents. "Nice place."
Lori's chill crept into her voice. "Do you want to search it?"
"Nothing like that, Miss Holmes."
"Then what do you want?"
"I'll,show you."
Lieutenant Metz walked back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Its lock clicked.
There was another click, and Lori saw the doorknob turning. The door swung open again. Metz stepped over the threshold and moved toward her, his right hand balled into a fist.
"How did you do that?"
"Easy."
Metz opened his hand to display what it held and Lori's eyes widened.
"We found it in one of Rupert's desk drawers," he said. "There were others, but all of them worked on locks at the office. This one didn't fit. I got to thinking about that and had a hunch." Metz's voice was casual but his stare was intent. "Any idea how Rupert happened to have a key to your apartment?"
"I didn't give it to him." Lori frowned. "As a matter of fact, he gave the apartment keys to me after he arranged my rental with the manager. I carry one in my purse and the other on a pocket key chain, in case something happens to my bag."
Metz nodded. "He must have had another duplicate made for himself."
"Could you trace it to a locksmith?"
"Probably, but what's the point? We know he had the key. The question is why he wanted it." Tired or not, Metz could still stare. "Did you happen to notice anything missing from here since you moved in?"
The yearbook. Of course, that was the answer.
She hadn't told him before, but should she tell him now? If she ever intended to, this was the time. Lori hesitated, then shook her head.
"What about when you got back from the hospital?"
He knew about the hospital. Which meant she'd made the right decision in keeping silent.
If she had any doubts they were quickly dispelled as Metz continued, "Maybe you'd better have another look around, Miss Holmes. In case you aren't aware of it, withholding evidence is a criminal offense. Obstruction of justice."
"I understand," Lori said. "But there's nothing missing."
Metz shrugged. "Do yourself a favor and check again. It never hurts to make sure." He held out his hand. "Meanwhile, here's the other key. Hang on to it."
"I will. And thanks for stopping by."
"Just wanted to keep you posted." He turned and moved to the doorway. "Remember what I told you. If you come up with anything-"
"I'll give you a call." Lori nodded. "Good night, Lieutenant."
As Metz started down the hall Lori closed the door behind him. The click of the lock was reassuring, but only cold comfort, because the chill mounted again. Cold chill from the cold key in her cold hand. And it would be a cold day in hell before she called Lieutenant Metz.,
Or before Russ called her.
Lori pocketed the key, glancing at her watch. Almost eight o'clock. Was Acapulco in the same time zone? Silly question; it didn't matter, she mustn't let it matter. Better fix herself a bite to eat. That didn't matter, either, but a hot meal might help warm her against the chill.
She went into the kitchen, went through the ritual of preparation. Fifteen minutes later she carried the results of her efforts to the table. Scrambled eggs, toast, instant coffee-breakfast, really, but easier to swallow when your
throat tightens up, though the toast proved to be a problem.
Everything was a problem. Russ and Rupert, keys and killers, dreams and yearbooks, and withholding evidence is a criminal offense.
Better criminal than crazy. That's why she hadn't told Metz about the yearbook. Because once she started, he'd come at her with questions.
At least there was one question he wouldn't need to ask. Rupert's key accounted for the disappearance of the yearbook from her apartment.
But what made the yearbook important to him? Why was it so important to her? And where did she get it in the first place?
These were some of the things Metz would want to know, and when she answered, or tried to answer, he'd stare. Stare at the crazy lady who babbled about psychics and dreams and yearbooks going bump in the night, this crazy lady who freaked out at the hospital, whose doctor told her to see a shrink.
Lori remembered Metz didn't know about her visit to Leverett, but that wouldn't stop him from drawing his own conclusions about the rest of the story. A crazy lady- maybe not crazy enough to kill her own lawyer, but certainly not competent enough to handle her estate.
Rupert himself had seemed concerned about that angle; he warned her to keep a low profile, and so did Russ. Trusting Rupert turned out to be a mistake, of course, but was it a mistake to trust Russ? In spite of his denials, maybe he thought she was crazy too. If not, why wasn't he calling?
One thing was certain: she didn't trust Lieutenant Metz. He'd played games during their interviews, trying to trick her into some kind of confession, then did another number on her with the duplicate key. Or was she being paranoid?
Lori shook her head. Perhaps her suspicions were imaginary, but other fears had foundation in fact. The face she'd seen pictured in the yearbook was as real as the face of the corpse in the closet. And for some reason the photograph was even more shocking, because she didn't understand why it frightened her so.
Put it aside and let it settle. That's what Dad told her when she was a kid, trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle with pieces which wouldn't fit. Good advice, and it usually worked.
She rose, carried dishes to the sink, washed and dried and put them away. But she couldn't put this puzzle aside and it didn't settle, not even when she removed her makeup and prepared for bed. Too many jagged pieces remained, too many spaces were unfilled. She'd never be able to finish it alone.
But Dad wasn't here to advise her, he and Mom were gone. Nadia Hope might have had some intuitions but she was gone too, she and Rupert. Leaving Lieutenant Metz, staring in distrust. And Russ, who didn't call.
Lori filled a glass at the bathroom tap, popped a sleeping pill into her mouth, and sent it to a watery grave.
Graves were a part of the puzzle she couldn't work out on her own. It was going to be a bad night unless she controlled her thoughts. Crazy thoughts brought crazy dreams, but that's what you expect from a crazy lady and that's what they'd say if she told them.
But she had to talk to someone.
On impulse Lori took a ballpoint from the nightstand and scribbled herself a hasty note.
Then she switched off the lamp, climbed into bed, pulled the covers up around her neck, and slept like a baby.
Baby was a good girl. Daddy always told her that, and it was true.
Good baby, good girl, good student, good person. Being in love wasn't being bad, making love wasn 't being bad, either, no matter what they said.
So why was she punished? She didn't deserve that, nobody deserved that. Cruel and unusual punishment, hard labor, solitary confinement. It was wrong, dead wrong, but it would end, all bad things come to an end.
So sleep, baby, sleep.
You'll be growing up soon-I promise you.
TWENTY
The nurse at the reception desk was black, her clipped English accent probably of Jamaican origin. "Miss Holmes? Let me tell him you're here." She lifted the phone and delivered the message, then looked up, nodding. "Please go in."
"Thank you, Miss-"
"Mika." The nurse's white-toothed smile revealed that her visit to the dentist the other day had not involved any drastic oral surgery.
Moving to the inner office door, Lori remembered the braces she'd worn as a child, the dread of dental ordeals. Oral. Ordeals. Was there any connection between the words? If there hadn't been, there was now; the oral ordeal lay ahead.
But when she entered the private office her apprehension melted in the warmth of sunlight and Dr. Leverett's greeting.
He was wearing a dark blue blazer over a pastel blue shirt with an open collar that set off a newly acquired suntan; the grey eminence had vanished.
"I'm glad you called," he said. "I've been thinking about you ever since I read that newspaper item the other day."
"What item? I didn't see anything in the Times."
"Maybe they're holding the story until the police release more details." Two clippings lay beside the file folder before him; Leverett picked up the one on top and handed it to Lori across the desk.
Los Angeles Attorney Apparent Suicide. The heading topped a single paragraph and Lori scanned it quickly. Benjamin W. Rupert, 58… longtime practice. And yes, here it was… body discovered by client Lori Holmes…
She glanced up, frowning. "Where did this come from?"
"Santa Barbara paper. I went up there after our session. Just got back last night."
Lori eyed the other clipping on the desktop and Leverett spoke quickly. "Nothing to do with you."
Her frown deepened. "May I see it?"
He handed her a lengthier item with a bolder heading.
***
STUDY WHODUNITS, ANALYST URGES
Addressing the final meeting of the three-day Conference on Mental Health Care at the Biltmore, a Los Angeles psychoanalyst advised his colleagues to read detective stories to improve their professional techniques. "Every therapist must follow in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, searching for clues to unravel the mystery behind problems of the patient," said Dr. Anthony J. Leverett…
***
Lori glanced up and Leverett nodded. "As I said, it has nothing to do with you."
"But that's a very complimentary write-up. You shouldn't be so modest."
"I'm not, really." He smiled as he retrieved the clipping. "Tell the truth, I cut this out to put in my scrapbook." Leverett leaned forward. "Which reminds me. I'd like to take a look at that yearbook you spoke about."
Lori took a deep breath. "It's gone."
"Gone?"
"Ben Rupert stole it from my apartment. At least I think he did." She hesitated. "It's a long story."
"That's what I'm here for." So she told him.
It wasn't as much of an ordeal as she'd anticipated, because Dr. Leverett sat back, listening quietly, and didn't interrupt. The hardest part was describing how she found Rupert in the closet, but she got through it and went on to recount her meetings with Metz.
When Lori finished there was a moment of silence before Leverett leaned forward again. "I can understand why you didn't tell the police about the yearbook," he said. "Your friend the lieutenant is quite a handful."
"Metz is no friend of mine. He thinks there's something wrong with me."
"I believe I made it clear that this isn't the case."
"You spoke to him?"
"He was here waiting when I came to the office this morning." Leverett nodded. "Apparently he'd contacted Dr. Justin and learned about your visit the other day. He thought it might be helpful if I gave him my professional opinion of your mental condition, as he put it."
"And-?"
"I said you'd consulted me because of stress over your parents' death and there were no indications of other problems."
"Do you think he was satisfied?"
"Not completely. He wanted to know details of what you said during our session. I told him there was nothing which pertained to his investigation, and I refused to violate your right to privacy as a patient."
Lori's throat tightened but the words burst forth. "That miserable bastard-"
Leverett smiled. "Doing his job doesn't make him a bastard. But I agree he's miserable. I got the impression of
a tired man trying to cope with a situation that's gotten out of control. I can't fault his motivation, but his methods leave something to be desired."
"Let me guess," Lori said. "Did he try to stare you down?"
"Exactly. And when that didn't work, he played cops and robbers. Did I know Ben Rupert? Where was I at the time of his death?"
"I can't believe it!"
"Neither did he. At least he didn't seem to, even when I showed him the clipping about my speech at the conference. I suggested he phone Santa Barbara and verify my presence at the hotel on the night in question."
"Did he call?"
"I assume he would, after going back to his office. I hope so. As you said earlier, being involved in a criminal case isn't exactly a pleasant experience."
Lori nodded. "Looks like we're in the same boat."
"For the time being, anyway. Lieutenant Metz may not be the state of the art in police procedure but he's nobody's fool. I think he'll come up with some leads soon."
"Do you feel I was right not to tell him about the yearbook?"
"I can understand why you didn't. But understanding doesn't necessarily mean agreement. There are other considerations."
"Like withholding evidence?"
"Let's talk about that." Leverett sat back. "Did you or didn't you? Technically your only evidence would be the yearbook, and you don't have it. What you've done is withhold testimony because there's no proof to your story."
"Russ knows."
"He's not here to defend you. He can say he saw a yearbook, but that doesn't explain where or how you got it, what became of it, or why you believe it's so important."
"All the more reason I should keep my mouth shut."
"Perhaps." Leverett spoke slowly. "But let's suppose you did tell Lieutenant Metz what you told me. And that, for sake of argument, he'd think you were mentally disturbed."
"Argument? We both know he'd think I was a raving maniac."
"That could be his first reaction. But the point is whether or not he'd think further. Think about finding out if Nadia Hope was actually with you that night before her accident, look into your claim of resemblance to the girl in the yearbook. Wouldn't it ease your concern if you knew the police were following through?"
Lori shook her head. "Even if they took me seriously I'd have to wait a long time before they got around to checking. Right now all Lieutenant Metz has on his mind is the murder case."
Leverett shrugged. "Chances are you're correct. But it's my gut feeling that sooner or later you must tell Metz and get his help."
"Then let it be later," Lori said. "I need something to back up my story instead of being labeled as some kind of a nut until they decide to make a move. I want to be able to tell them who Priscilla Fairmount is and whether or not there's some connection between her and Rupert, and what all this has to do with me."
"So what you're saying is you won't be satisfied until you can supply the police with facts."
"Exactly."
"But what I'm hearing is that you need to learn these facts for your own peace of mind."
"True. And I intend to get them."
"Sounds like a pretty tall order. Have you thought about hiring a private investigator?"
"I don't know anyone. Do you?"
"No, not offhand."
"Well, I won't stab a finger at some name in the yellow pages," Lori said. "If I'm not ready to trust the police I certainly don't intend to trust some stranger."
"Wednesday," Leverett murmured.
"What?"
"Today is Wednesday." He was glancing down at a notepad. "Two more appointments this afternoon, three tomorrow. But the morning is free."
"I don't get it."
"You will, if I find anything. Let me make some calls, see what happens."
Lori blinked. "You're going to play Sherlock Holmes?"
Leverett tapped the clipping on the desktop before him. "About time I practiced what I preach, don't you think?"
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try. But why-?"
"Because you're hurting. And your welfare is my responsibility." Leverett smiled. "And to be perfectly frank, because this whole thing is fascinating, a challenge to the imagination."
