In Pursuit of Justice (4 page)

“Well then, you’d best get back to pumping that iron. You need a spot?”

“No. I’m not pushing. Just easing back in.” In truth, she’d been about to quit when Maggie’d come along. Her chest was on fire, and even though she’d reduced her usual weights by half, she’d been struggling. What worried her the most, though, was how short of breath she got after ten minutes on the treadmill. Although the doctors had assured her that her lung—collapsed by the bullet that had entered between her third and fourth ribs, an inch above her heart—had not sustained any permanent damage, it felt like something wasn’t working right. And if she couldn’t run, she couldn’t work. “I’m doing okay.”

“Right,” Maggie agreed. “Good to see you back, Rebecca.”

Yes. It will be good to get back. All the way back
. When she went into the locker room to shower, despite the pain and the fatigue, she felt more like herself than she had since the moment two months before when she’d come to in a sea of agony to find Catherine bending over her, terror in her eyes. All she needed now was to convince everyone else that she was fit for duty. She had a lot of unfinished business to attend to, and she couldn’t begin to take care of it until she had reclaimed her place in the world.

*

“Is something wrong?” Rebecca asked quietly. They were seated at a small candlelit table in the nook formed by floor-to-ceiling bay windows in DeCarlo’s, a very exclusive restaurant that occupied the ground floor of a century-old mansion. A bottle of imported champagne sat chilling in a silver ice bucket beside them and the appetizers—grilled figs and sweet sausages—had just been placed in the center of the linen-draped table. Despite the elegant décor and the intimate atmosphere, she had a feeling that her dinner companion was absorbed in something other than the fine meal and her own stellar company.

“Hmm? Oh, no.” Catherine reached for her hand, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. I drifted away there for a minute. Work.”

“Don’t apologize; I know the feeling. Even been guilty of it a few times myself. Anything you can talk about?”

“No, not really.”

Rebecca nodded understandingly. “No problem.”

“Thanks.” Fortunately, Rebecca had appreciated from the first that Catherine’s work was something that she could only allude to in the most general of terms, for obvious reasons of patient confidentiality. It had been just that conflict that had brought them so explosively together just a few short months before. It was one thing, however, to have the barrier exist professionally and quite another to have it crop up in their personal dealings. Because she’d never before had a relationship that had been so central to her life, Catherine had never had to contend with the fact that she couldn’t discuss some of the ramifications of her work with the person closest to her. She was still learning how to navigate those murky waters, and, thankfully, Rebecca, who was used to compartmentalizing her life, didn’t push. It helped defuse the awkwardness, but there were times—like tonight—when Catherine wished she
could
talk. The session earlier in the day kept returning to her thoughts.

“Let’s get the paperwork out of the way first, okay?”

“Sure.”

“No significant medical, surgical, or psychiatric conditions in the past?”

“That’s right.”

“Ever been hospitalized for any reason?”

“No.”

She’d wait to ask about the obvious bruise under the left eye and what looked like finger marks on the neck. “Any drug allergies or current medications?”

“No.”

“Recreational drug use?”

“I drink now and then. Nothing else.”

“Do you smoke?”

“When I drink.” Faint laughter.

Catherine smiled. She had found that with new patients it was best to start with something basic and unthreatening such as reviewing the data the patient provided on a standard medical questionnaire. It established a bit of rapport, although the young woman in her office didn’t seem particularly nervous. Upright posture, no apparent tics or nervous habits. Her button-down-collar pale blue cotton shirt and dark tan chinos were meticulously pressed, her oxfords polished and shined, her thick wavy hair cut short, no make-up. If anything, the clear-eyed brunette with the sharp blue gaze was watching her with just a hint of suspicion—or was it something else? Intense curiosity? Not unusual from patients, but it usually developed later in the course of treatment—that need to know the therapist as a person and not as someone who merely existed for fifty minutes once or twice a week and to whom you exposed your most intimate secrets. But about whom you knew almost nothing.

“My secretary, Joyce, made a notation that 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 with all her belongings in tow, 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 was 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, I don’t understand,” 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. “Is this a disability situation, or something else?”

“It’s a disciplinary investigation.”

“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.”

The young officer 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. What do you say?”

Several beats of silence.

“Okay.”

“So. Tell me what happened.”

“If there’s something you
can
say, I’m here if you want to talk,” Rebecca remarked.

“I’m fine. I was just 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—most 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, too. 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 even though they still had a lot to learn about one another, Rebecca was a part of her life now.

“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. And I’m trying like hell to impress you with the dinner and the wine.”

Watching a pleased smile flicker across Catherine’s elegant face, Rebecca thought of how much she’d missed her that afternoon when she’d opened the door of her own 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.