The Blue Journal (23 page)

So, Knoebel was getting set to see a shrink in the city, maybe setting up a polite little insanity defense. Probably using one of the hired guns a firm like Bennett's called in whenever they needed an expert to say that a client was crazy. Not too difficult to buy that sort of testimony. After all, who isn't crazy in New York?

Walker wondered what Randi Conway's reaction would be when she learned she'd been replaced, not by a mere psychologist, but by a qualified psychiatrist, as the lawyer made a point of saying, which should add an extra sting to the news. Might get her mad enough to loosen up her professional reserve and spill some information.

“Detective Walker, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here, I'm just not sure how to respond, Mr. Bennett. Are you asking me a question or are you just practicing your technique in subtle threats?”

“Threats? Come now, Detective. I don't think we need to resort to those tactics. Once you've had a chance to consider the situation with your superiors, I'm sure you'll conclude that the only fair and reasonable response is to return Mrs. Knoebel's laptop. Printed papers and all copies. Computer disks as well.”

You unctuous little slimeball
, Walker thought. “I tell you what. I'll do just that, I'll take it up with my superiors. We'll get back to you.”

“That'll be fine. Can we expect a response by the end of today? I need to know whether I'll be required to file a motion with the court.”

“I'll get back to you tomorrow. And while I check it out on my end, Counselor, you may want to ask your client how he really feels about bringing this to a judge. I'm not sure how much you or your client know about what Mrs. Knoebel kept on her laptop, but I doubt her husband will be keen on airing his wife's personal writing in a courtroom filled with reporters.”

The silence on the other end had a frigid feel. When Attorney Bennett spoke again, he kept his tone even. “We would, of course, demand a private hearing in chambers. But since you have raised the issue, let me warn you that any attempt to exploit Mrs. Knoebel's writing in the interim will be met with the most vigorous legal action. Do we understand each other?”

“We do.”

“And I can expect an answer from you no later than tomorrow morning?”

“Right.”

“Good. In the meantime, none of these materials are to be shared with anyone outside your department.”

Walker sat up straight in his chair. “Got it.”

“And, naturally, from this point forward, neither you nor anyone from your department is to speak with Dr. Knoebel unless I am present. Understood?”

“Naturally.”

“Very well then,” the lawyer said, and hung up.

“Eat shit and die,” Walker growled at the dial tone. After these strong-arm tactics from the mouthpiece from New York, he figured his next conversation would feel like a coffee break.

He dialed the number and Stratford, after saying “Thanks for getting back to me,” quickly added, “When I didn't reach you this morning I checked in with Chief Gill. Just want to let you know it wasn't an attempt to go over your head.”

“I appreciate that. If this is about Dr. Conway, I'm sure the chief told you she's not a target of the investigation. At least not at this time,” Walker added. “Our interest is getting her to cooperate in finding this woman's killer.”

“She wants to cooperate, I assure you. We're just concerned about the effect this will have on her professionally. You're asking her to divulge sacred confidences. I don't want this to end up destroying her practice.”

“I understand, I really do. But I've got a murder to solve. And I may have a murderer who might not be willing to wait to find out if Dr. Conway is going to name him or her, if you catch my drift.”

“I do. Randi's safety is of paramount importance to me.”

“Well that's good. As I've told Dr. Conway, and I'll tell you, I can get a court order to force her to open up.” He didn't admit that Chief Gill had put the kibosh on that idea, at least for now. He hoped Gill didn't divulge that to his old pal, First Selectman Stratford.

“We can make that decision later, can't we?”

Walker was not sure when he and Stratford had become “we,” but he said, “Not too much later.”

“What do you say you and I get together? We're on the same side here, maybe I can help.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let's meet for a drink. That work for you?”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“How about tomorrow at six, my club, that be all right?”

“Fine,” Walker said, then waited, but Stratford seemed to be finished.

A voice over the intercom said, “Call for you on oh-three.”

Walker told Stratford he had to go. Stratford gave him the name of the club, Walker thanked him, then hit the button for the next call. It was his ex-wife, phoning to say that his daughters would not be coming to see him for dinner on his scheduled night.

“Why?”

“They've been invited to a birthday party, Anthony. They'll have dinner with you one night next week. I'll have them call.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Got any other good news Mary? Your stock portfolio jump up today?”

She said, “Good-bye, Anthony.”

He said, “Make sure they call me,” but she'd already hung up.

He slammed the phone down, then looked up at Kovacevic, who had just walked in. “Bitch,” he growled.

“Problem sir?”

Walker had a look at the junior officer. “Not anymore,” he said. “At least not every day. Come on, let's go.”

Outside headquarters, as Walker and Kovacevic made their way to the parking lot, they were intercepted by three television units that materialized from vans parked on the street, each team consisting of a man supporting a shoulder-mounted camera and a reporter intent on shoving a microphone in Walker's face.

“Detective Walker.” A young, attractive blond was the first to reach him. “We have an unconfirmed report that there's been a development on the Elizabeth Knoebel murder investigation. Would you care to comment?”

Walker looked at Kovacevic, then back to the woman. “No,” he said, and kept walking.

A well-dressed young man took his shot. “Is it true your department is narrowing the search for a suspect in the case?”

This time Walker didn't look at anyone as he replied. “I have no comment.”

The third reporter gave it a try, but Walker simply said, “There's an ongoing investigation and I have no comment at this time.”

“Does that mean you'll be making a statement sometime soon?” the first woman asked.

They had reached Walker's SUV. He turned around and, instead of answering the question, said, “You know, your vans are illegally parked in front of the station house. I'd get them out of here before I have them all towed.”

Then he and Kovacevic climbed into the Explorer and slammed the doors shut.

“What was that about, sir? What new development?”

“Not sure, Kovie, but three television crews showing up on the same morning, just a couple of days after we crack the code for Elizabeth Knoebel's diary? This is not good.”

CHAPTER 27

It was an unseasonably warm Monday afternoon, less than a week since Elizabeth Knoebel's body had been discovered. The four remaining members of her therapy group were meeting for the first time without her.

As expected, the discussion immediately turned to Elizabeth's death and who might have taken her life.

“Her husband,” Fran Colello announced with as much certainty as if she had witnessed the crime.

When no one else responded, Randi asked, “Why would you say that?”

“He must have known about her lovers and finally had enough of it. Or maybe he just found out. Anyway, her husband did it,” Fran repeated.

The other three women were silent.

Randi said, “I don't recall Elizabeth ever discussing lovers in this group.”

“What was there to discuss?” Fran challenged with a knowing look. “Does anyone here have any doubts that she was a slut?”

The others maintained an awkward silence.

“Elizabeth never made any admission of infidelity in the group,” Randi reminded them. “She may have cultivated a sexy persona, but she never shared anything about infidelity that I can recall.” In fact, Randi Conway was tempted to concede, Elizabeth rarely shared anything other than her contempt. Instead she turned back to Fran and said, “You sound very sure of your accusations.”

“There are some things a woman just knows,” Fran said. Then she nodded her head, as if confirming a thought.

“If she did have a lover, maybe
he
was the one who killed her,” Lisa Gorman said. As the youngest member of the group, she was usually careful not to confront the others. Today, however, she had a secret she wasn't revealing, and a special sense of importance—the police had called her to help them with the case. “Maybe she and this man, whoever he was, maybe they had a fight or something.”

“No,” Fran snapped. “It was the husband,” she said.

Phyllis Wentworth cleared her throat, as if seeking permission to enter the discussion, and the others turned to face her. She was adorned in her usual tapestry-like clothing, her affect forlorn, her posture uncomfortably stiff. “Maybe Lisa is right,” she suggested. “It could have been a lover's quarrel. You hear about that sort of thing all the time.”

Fran was not having any of it. “Bullshit,” she said.

Dr. Conway decided to move away from Fran's anger. She directed herself to Joan Avery. “How do you feel about all of this?”

“Me?” Joan had not said a word up to then. Now she slowly looked around the room as if she had never seen these women before. “I don't give a good goddamn.”

She suddenly had everyone's attention.

“What is it?” Phyllis asked. “What's wrong?”

Joan sighed, as if the entire matter was too boring for her to bother about. “I didn't care about Elizabeth Knoebel when she was alive. Why should I care about her now?”

“Bravo,” exclaimed Fran Colello.

Joan settled her distant gaze on Fran. “To be honest, I don't really care much about your problems either. I'm sick of this whole thing and I quit. I'm finished. I only came here today because we agreed to talk it out before any of us left the group. Now that I'm here I realize I don't really have much to say. I'm just done.”

Phyllis Wentworth rose from her seat. The others watched as she stood there, visibly shaking. She wanted to move toward Joan, but she could not. She slowly sat back in her seat and said, “I wish you wouldn't leave.” She spoke those words softly, her gaze cast downward. It was as much as Phyllis could manage.

The room became quiet. Then Joan said, “Thank you, Phyllis. That's actually the nicest thing any of you has ever said to me.”

After another uncomfortable silence, Randi asked, “Why do you feel you want to leave?”

“There are any number of reasons.”

“Please share some of them with us,” Randi urged.

Joan managed a weak smile as she said, “Of course. You want me to share.” She shook her head as if recalling some piece of bad news she would have preferred to forget. “My marriage stinks. Let's face it, that's why we all came to you in the first place, right? So guess what? After all these hours of group and private session, and after all this sharing, my marriage still stinks. In some ways it's worse than ever. I don't know, maybe these sessions exposed problems I didn't even know existed. Maybe ignorance really is bliss.”

“Damn right,” Fran said, but no one even looked at her.

“And now Elizabeth is gone. Whoever she was—and believe me, she was no friend of mine—she created a certain dynamic in this group, a tension that got us to react with real emotion. Think about the sessions when she wasn't here. What a waste of time they were, the four of us just sitting around and complaining about what assholes our husbands are.”

Phyllis recoiled at the statement, but Joan went on.

“Especially you Fran,” Joan went on. “You really are a bitter person, Elizabeth was right about that. But you aren't all wrong either. You talk about being ignored and unloved by your husband. I think that's why we're all here. I feel abandoned by my husband, emotionally and sexually. I'm not twenty-five years old anymore. I can't compete with the young women we see on television and look at in magazines, these fantasy girls our husbands salivate over. I can't excite my husband the way I once did, because I'm not that same person anymore. But it's not something we're going to fix by sitting around and griping.”

Fran's anger evaporated. “It's all true,” she said in an uncharacteristically somber voice. “I keep hoping there's a solution, but there is none, is there?” She looked at Joan, who held her gaze as Fran added, “The worst part is that I still love the rotten bastard. Isn't that just a laugh?”

“No,” Joan said. “It's not a laugh at all. It's to your credit, don't you see? You're here because you have hope. Because you still believe that your commitment and your love will mean something in the end.”

Fran smiled, something she rarely did in this room. “What about you, Joan?”

“I've given up that hope,” she said.

No one spoke for a moment. Then Randi said, “Joan, you mentioned Elizabeth, how she was a catalyst here.”

“I don't know who Elizabeth really was or what she was after. I know that she did some evil things. I may know even more about that than the rest of you. But whatever she did or did not do, it's finished now. As for me, I have some things to figure out, but I'm not going to do it by sitting here complaining about my husband. For me, the circle is broken.” Joan forced another wan smile. “Death is not the only escape,” she said.