Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (76 page)

I called the Minotaur automated system again, waited through all the announcements, and finally got an operator.

“Good morning, Minotaur,” said the same voice that had told me to make a note of Stick’s extension.

“Halley Copley, please.”

“Extension five-three. Please make a note of it. I’ll transfer you.”

“Ms. Copley’s office,” said a male voice after several rings.

“I have an urgent fax for Ms. Copley. Is she in Paris or—?”

“She’s here.”

“Thanks. I’ll fax it right away.” I hung up before he could become inconveniently helpful.

I packed an overnight bag. I could drive there before the end of the workday. I took only clothes. I couldn’t remember, not even when Diane and I vacationed, a time that I was without at least a notebook. There was something invigorating about the improvisation and leanness of going to see her immediately.

Minotaur wasn’t hard to find. It dominates a flat stretch of land roughly a quarter mile from the Tarrytown exit on the Saw Mill, bordered on one side by a pond, by woods on the other. There are two long massive beige structures that house the labs. In the center is a four-story office building, mostly glass. The testicles are bigger than the phallus, I thought, as I turned into the two-lane driveway. Actually, at the entrance the two lanes widen to four, each gated, for entering and exiting on either side of a security booth. The outer lanes are automated, allowing employees to swipe an ID card through a machine that opens the barrier. The interior lanes, for visitors, require you to stop and confront the guard.

The guard was a skinny young man, no more than twenty-one, with brilliant red hair. He wore a pale blue uniform, including a hat, although it was hot. The hat was too big for him, covering most of his forehead. “Hi,” I addressed him in an official, harassed tone. “I don’t have an appointment. I’m here to see Halley Copley. Her extension is five-three. My name is Neruda.”

He reached for a phone and repeated, “Mr. Neruda?”

“Hold it for a sec. She doesn’t know my name. Say that I’m here to talk to her about Gene Kenny’s suicide.”

He stared at me for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“Eugene Kenny. He worked here. He committed suicide four weeks ago. Did you know Mr. Kenny?”

“Me?” he asked nervously.

“He worked here, right?”

“I don’t know.” He gestured to the automated gate. “If they work here, they just go right through.”

“So you never had any contact with him.” I stared at his photo-badge to read his name. “Is that right, Patrick?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes sir.”

“Do you know anyone who did? I want to talk to anyone who knew him.”

“No, sir. But personnel or maybe Ms. Copley could help with that.”

“All right, son. Go ahead and tell Ms. Copley I’m here.”

He turned away from me to whisper into his telephone. I don’t know if he told Halley’s male secretary that I was a detective, but that’s what he assumed. He met me in the main lobby. He was as tall as I, and as thin and young as the guard, but his hair was brown. He stood in front of a white Formica reception desk, manned by a pretty black woman wearing a phone headset. “Detective?” he said, approaching with his hand extended as I came in through a smoked glass door. “I’m Jeff Lasker, Ms. Copley’s assistant.”

“Detective?” I repeated with a smile. I shook his hand. “No. I’m Dr. Neruda. I’m a psychiatrist. I guess this
is
a kind of detective work. Forensic psychiatry. But I’m not working for the police. At least not at the moment.” I didn’t hope to accomplish anything through these mildly deceptive tactics except to hurry up the process of seeing Halley. Perhaps I hoped to catch her without a chance to prepare herself. I wanted as spontaneous a reaction as possible.

“So you’re not here at the request of the police?” He wasn’t bristling, merely confused.

“I’ve spoken to Detective O‘Boyle and he asked for my help with something about Gene, but no. I just want to have a talk with Ms. Copley for my own sake. This isn’t official. Is she available?”

“Do you have any identification? I’m sorry, but we have to check.” He didn’t sound sorry.

“No problem,” I said. I showed him both my driver’s license and my AMA card.

He was more interested in my medical identification. He gave it a long look and then offered me a becoming smile. “She’s on an overseas phone call right now, but she should be available in ten minutes. Why don’t you sign in here?” He pointed to a book on the receptionist’s desk. “And I’ll take you to the conference room. She’ll be with you soon.”

The conference room was banal. A long rectangular black table, black leather swivel chairs, two water pitchers. The only unusual item was an impressively sleek computer set apart at a workstation in the corner. Nevertheless, seeing the nondescript room gave me the sort of chill one might feel in the presence of a great landmark. I looked out the smoked glass windows and confirmed that they faced the parking lot. This was the scene of Gene and Halley’s first kiss.

I didn’t care about anything. Not Cathy, or little Pete. Or even me.

I settled in one of the swivel chairs, but soon I was on my feet. My eagerness to see her was disturbing, but I couldn’t dampen it. I paced until I thought to check whether the computer was Gene’s machine. The label read H-1000. I was ignorant of that model. It could still be Gene’s handiwork. I hadn’t seen him for his last year at Minotaur, a period in which he was supposedly in charge of all design. Perhaps this was his last creation.

Stop romanticizing, I warned myself, and moved to the window to stare at the dull view of parked cars, giving my back to the door.

When it opened I didn’t turn. I saw enough of a reflection in the dark glass to know a woman had entered. She lingered just inside the conference room, her hand still on the doorknob. I waited.

“Dr. Neruda?” she finally spoke. Her voice was deep, perhaps somewhat hoarse, but I doubted her sultry tone was caused by a cold in the throat. Gene said everything about her was sexy.

I turned for my first look. She was shorter than I expected. Gene’s awed passion for her had inflated her height in my imagination. In fact, she was petite, five four, certainly less than a hundred pounds, small hands and feet. She wore a bulky black jacket over a white blouse buttoned to her neck, but there was enough of a rise against those layers to let you know her breasts were probably not petite. Her nose and brow were delicate. I was also surprised by her coloring. I had pictured her as blonde and fair. In fact, her long straight hair was raven black and her skin, unblemished and smooth, appeared almost tanned. Her full lips were painted bright red, her eyes were dark circles, set a little too close together, and they glistened, watching me somberly. The overall effect was like a doll: pretty, small, passive, and lovable.

“Halley Copley?” She nodded, still not fully in the room. I walked to her, my hand out. “Nice to meet you.” Her head tilted back, eyes forced to rise to maintain contact with mine as I came near. They didn’t waver. It was an unafraid gaze, yet not bold. She gave me her hand. It was as small as a child’s. The tips of her fingers were cool. Her handshake was quick and firm. She let go and gestured to the table. “Have a seat, Doctor.”

“We could go somewhere else,” I said.

She was en route to the head of the table. She pulled the chair out, asking, “Excuse me?”

“If being here is uncomfortable for you,” I said softly, the way one might speak to a grieving widow. “We could go to your office or we could take a walk.”

My unexpected remark interrupted her intention to sit down. She released the chair and looked back at me over her shoulder, long shimmering black hair draping her jacket. This gave me her profile, a single eye staring with what seemed to be a flash of anger. Makeup can cover a great deal, but I was sure at that moment it was not covering grief. “What?” she said and gave up on sitting. She faced me.

“I thought you might prefer to talk somewhere else,” I said.

“Doctor—” she tossed her head slightly, as if her hair were in her eyes, although it wasn’t. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yes, I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Excuse me, but I don’t know who you are.” She laughed. Not really a laugh; she released a burst of air, a kind of snort of feeling. I can’t describe it easily. Although the noise seemed a mixture of several emotions—scorn, astonishment, amusement, resignation—they weren’t truncated. Each of these feelings was somehow fully expressed, their contradictions resolved, confusion expelled. She took a deep breath and looked away as if, with that said, I and the mystery of me, no longer interested her.

“I’m sorry. Let me explain.”

She nodded, but her eyes didn’t acknowledge me. With her hands on the back of the chair she stood in perfect tranquility, waiting without anticipation.

“I treated Gene Kenny for many years. He first came to me as a teenager. And I saw him again for a few years just before you both met. Unfortunately, he stopped seeing me during the past year, and I’m …” I paused, thinking how to be honest without revealing too much. I didn’t want to pollute what she might say about Gene.

“You’re guilty,” she finished for me in a private tone, as if she were alone in the room.

She’s managing me, I noticed. Listening carefully and reacting self-consciously. “Well, I’m certainly concerned. Gene didn’t seem to me to be suicidal—”

She made another sound, a different chord of feeling—disgust, sadness, amusement, and a hint of relaxation. She touched the back of the chair, lightly pushing it toward the table. “You were sure wrong about that.” She walked in my direction, but there was no eye contact; she was moving to the door. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said without strain, the words neither a rejection or a rebuke, merely a fact. Her small left hand reached for the doorknob. I noticed she wore a big old-fashioned men’s watch, square-shaped, divided into two small clocks set to different times. She opened the door, ignoring me. “I’m leaving,” she said as she passed through to the hall.

“Why?” I called in a very loud voice. I hoped to stop her determined progress with a provocation.

“I don’t want to talk about Gene with you,” she answered back, not slowing or stopping. There was another expulsion of feeling—this time astonishment, regret, and irritation mixing with triumph—as she turned the corner and disappeared into the main lobby.

I stood alone in the room for a minute or two. Reviewing the encounter, she did seem, in fact, to be grieving. Gene told me she had been heartsick at the death of her brother. She claimed not to have unburdened herself until she met Gene, who listened sympathetically. Even if that was a flattering exaggeration, it still meant she was reluctant to express loss. Also, she immediately assumed I felt guilty, an obvious projection. Nevertheless, my instinct told me otherwise. Anger at me was perfectly natural, perhaps justified. But the utter lack of curiosity, the quickness to avoid even the pleasure of attacking me, was too cool and rational for a head clouded by sorrow.

A guard appeared. This one was bald and overweight. He told me it was time to go and gestured toward the lobby. I was amused. I must have smiled, because he frowned and said harshly, “Come on,” as if I had shown resistance.

The redheaded guard raised the gate for me before I reached his booth, hurrying my exit. He glared at me as I drove past. It was too late to return to Baltimore. I took the Saw Mill to the city and considered during the drive whether my desire to break through this wall Halley had thrown up was anything more than stubbornness. What right did I have to intrude on her or her father? None, of course. Once I reached the Fourteenth Street turnoff from the West Side Highway, I had to admit there was nothing but willfulness behind my decision to go on.

I asked Susan and Harry to put me up for the night. I lied to her, saying I was in town to get some of my files from the clinic. I was sorry to give her a glimmer of hope that Diane and I were reconciling. I realized, while we opened her couch into a bed, that I was reincarnated as the boy Rafe: alone, keeper of secrets, on a mission whose goal I could not quite define. From a clinical point of view, I would have had trouble arguing with a professional judgment that I was displaying symptoms of a nervous breakdown.

In the morning I phoned my lawyer, Brian Stoppard, the high-priced talent I had inherited from Uncle Bernie. He knew I could no longer pay him four hundred an hour, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking my calls.

“Do you know anything about a man named Theodore Copley?” I asked.

“Copley. Sounds familiar. I can’t place him. Who is he?”

“He’s the—I
think
he’s the CEO of a small- or medium-sized computer company called Minotaur.”

Brian let out a Bronx cheer. “Not small, Rafe. Now I remember him. Minotaur used to be medium-sized, but he just bought out Haipan’s American division and he took over some Frog company too. He’s backed by somebody you know—Edgar Levin, Irving’s son.”

I was thrilled. Irving Levin was a crony of my uncle’s, a real estate baron nearly as rich as Bernie in the sixties. He had two sons. Edgar expanded his father’s holdings and now owned varied chunks of the city, from cable television to a slice of the Mets. Alex, the younger son, went west to Hollywood and produced several hits. He and Julie were friends and colleagues, or at least they were five years ago, the last time I spoke to her. So I had at least two avenues of approach.

Stoppard continued talking while I celebrated privately. “In fact, one of our partners, Molly Gray, handled Edgar’s investment in Minotaur. And you probably know Molly’s husband. Stefan Weinstein? He’s a shrink too.”

“Of course. Brilliant man. But I’ve never met him.”

“He’s brilliant even when you meet him. Talk with Molly. She probably knows more about Cowley’s financing than he does.”

“Copley,” I corrected him.

“Cowley, Copley, what’s the difference? All those high WASPs are the same. Give them a sailboat and a gin and tonic and they think they’ve seen God.”

“You’re a racist, Brian.”

“WASPs aren’t a race, they’re a club. I should know. I’m a member now. What’s up? I hope you’re raising money to open a new clinic. Do you want me to get Molly on the line?”