The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 24
My first concern was for Matthew, our third partner. The tiny psychologist had the physical presence of a field mouse. I hissed at Meredith to call his cell and hoped the man was tucked inside his office, the door locked. Luke shouldn’t go after him. If anything, as soon as he saw my wall of BH Killer notes, he’d misunderstand them and come for me.
“What’s wrong?” Meredith asked, coming to stand beside me. “I mean, aside from the obvious. You look pale.”
“He’s in my office.”
“So?”
“He’s got something against Randall Thompson. Just now, he asked if I represented him.”
“Which you don’t.”
“Yeah, but—” I waved a hand in the direction of my office. “That’s not what he’s going to think when he sees all my work in there.” The victims’ names, in chalk on the wall. The columns. The notes. Crime scene photos, pinned up in a neat grid. It’d be impossible to miss. I lifted my head, listening. Luke was quiet, probably standing in place, staring at it all.
What was taking security so long?
“Do I want to know what this guy’s kink is?” Meredith asked softly.
“I wish I had an easy answer for that.” In layman’s terms, Luke was a walking train wreck. In non-layman’s terms, he was best conceptualized as recurring patterns of covariant traits rather than a single diagnostic category.
“But he’s violent?”
“He has a temper, which he loses often.” But it wasn’t just a temper. There was premeditation behind his outbursts. The incident with his sister occurred after Luke bought two cans, filled them with gas, and then sat for two hours outside her work, waiting for her to get off. Two hours where his anger built and solidified into a firm and deadly resolution. “Yes,” I amended. “He’s violent.”
A knock rattled against the door, and we both jumped. “Don’t say anything,” Meredith whispered.
“Dr. Moore? Dr. Blankner? It’s Bart, from the front desk.”
I immediately flipped open the lock and cracked the door for the security guard. “Do you have him?”
“They stopped him just off the elevators and have him at the desk.” Bart ran a hand over his smooth head, then scratched the back of it. “He’s saying he didn’t do anything wrong, other than breaking a lamp, which he said you can bill him for.”
“Okay.” I straightened my blouse, a little embarrassed that we’d been cowering in the office like babies. “Dr. Reeker—our psychologist. Is he okay?”
“I’m fine.” A sheepish Matthew peeked around the corner. “I was making contingency plans if Mr. Attens decided to break my door down. He didn’t.”
“I almost wish he had,” Bart said, unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Then we could call the police and file an assault charge. As it is, we have to let him go.” He brought the radio up to his mouth and relayed the instructions.
“That’s fine.” I hugged myself. “I just want him out of here. Can you keep him from coming back?”
“Yeah, they’ll add him to the list now. Don’t worry, Doc. We’ll keep you guys safe.”
We’ll keep you guys safe.That was impossible. Bart’s team was great, and their presence was why I’d chosen this building, but they could only do so much, and their protection ended at the building’s doors.
“You okay?” Meredith asked as the security guard headed for the elevators.
“Yeah.” Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t like putting any of you in danger.”
“Meh.” She brushed it off. “You have to deal with my perverts checking you out from the waiting room, and we both have to suffer through Matthew’s mopey clients. You ever chatted one of them up in the elevator? I swear, their depression is contagious.”
Perverts.I flashed back to Luke’s dark face. “That pervert,” he had seethed, “put his—”
What had Randall done to him? Luke’s temper wasn’t a new behavior. It had been present his entire life. If Randall had molested him as a teenager, he would have fought back.
Meredith poked me, and I struggled to return to the conversation. “You’re right. Who cares about getting your throat slit when we have to deal with your clients using up all the hand lotion in the bathroom?”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “Exactly. See?”
“I’m going to see how bad my office is.” I gave the group a grateful smile and left Meredith’s office, stepping into what I had previously thought of as my sanctuary.
It was almost in order, aside from the rose gold–and–glass lamp that was now shattered beside my desk. Judging from the impact and outward spray of glass shards, it had been dropped straight down. Probably heaved over his head and toward the dark wood floors.
I had loved that lamp. It had been a gift from my mother when I first moved into the office and would be impossible to replace. I crouched beside the exposed interior and cupped my hand, picking up the pieces and collecting them.
“Here.” Jacob held out the small silver trash can that was normally by my coffee maker. “Why don’t you let me get that?”
“No, no.” I dumped the handful into the trash can and took it from him. “I got it. You’ve got to get back to the desk.”
He hesitated, then nodded. I continued the cleanup as best I could, leaving a small amount of glass powder for the maids to catch in their biweekly rounds. Rising to my feet, I did a slow 180, seeing the office through Luke’s eyes. The wall of details. The photos. The files spread out everywhere. A forgotten coffee cup by the chair I was sitting in. I moved behind my desk, examining the contents with a critical eye. My calendar was closed, computer locked and asleep. There was a legal pad filled with doodles and a few lines of notes that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me. By the phone, Robert’s business card was propped up against my paperweight. I frowned and picked it up. Had Luke seen it? If he had, would it have meant anything to him?
Before I could second-guess the decision, I picked up the receiver and dialed Robert’s office line.
“Cluster and Kavin.”
“Mr. Kavin, please.”
“May I ask what it’s regarding?”
“It’s Dr. Gwen Moore, about Randall Thompson.”
“Please hold.”
A gentle cadence played, and I pulled my chair up to the desk and sat down. Closing my eyes, I let out a slow breath, reminding myself of the same things I had told Luke. Breathe from my stomach. Relax. He wasn’t the first client who had lost his temper with me, and he wouldn’t be the last.
“Hey.”
Robert’s familiar greeting did something foolish in my chest. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy.”
“It’s no bother. What’s up?”
“This is probably nothing, but I wanted to mention it to you just in case. A client just left my office. His name is Luke Attens. He’s a little fixated on the Randall Thompson arrest. He asked me a lot of questions, wanted to know if he was a client of mine.” I paused.
“He’s not. He’s my client. You’re a consultant for me,” he responded.
“I know. I didn’t go into that with him, I just denied it. He pressed the issue, didn’t believe me, and got a little heated.”
“Is he a violent individual?” Robert’s tone was calm, his words measured and almost deadly cool.
“He has been in the past.” I twisted the coil of the phone cord around my finger. “He forced his way into my office and saw my notes and files. Just briefly, but if he suspected Randall of being my client before, I’m sure he’s convinced of the fact now.”
“Are you worried he’ll come after you again?”
“I had your business card on my desk. I’m worried he saw it and might come to your office next. If you put me in touch with your building’s security desk, I can give them a physical description of him.”
“I just pulled him up online. There’s a photo. Is this right? He lit his sister on fire?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I cleared my throat. “He said Randall was his teacher—”
“This isn’t a secure line,” he cut me off. “Let’s continue this conversation tomorrow, at our two o’clock.”
I glanced down at the floor and stilled, catching sight of my purse in its spot against the leg of my desk. The neck of it was open, and I reached down and plucked it off the floor.
I’d never been a big purse stuffer. I don’t carry Band-Aids and medicines, checkbooks or phone chargers. My purse mimicked my house—the bare necessities, in neat order. Inside the Chanel bag were my lipstick, powder, a travel-size Kleenex pack, a pen, and a small tin of peppermints.
My wallet was missing, as were my keys.
I didn’t have to retrace my steps or figure out if I had forgotten my wallet. I hadn’t. And I’d used my keys to unlock my office this morning. If they both weren’t in here, they’d been taken. I thought of my driver’s license, with my home address on it.
“Gwen? Are you there?”
“I have to go,” I said faintly.
“What happened?”
“He took my wallet and keys. I need to go.” I’d need to change my locks. Was he headed there now? If so, why? I thought of him shaking out a can of gasoline on his sister, of his obsession with fires. He brought it up frequently. My beautiful house. All the pieces I worked so hard to collect. Clem was inside, the lock on her cat door securely in place. “I’ll talk to you later.” I stood and grabbed my purse, then realized I didn’t have my car keys.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“I’ve got my cat at home. If he goes in—”
“My office is closer. I’m leaving now. Call the police and meet me there.”
He hung up before I could respond.