The Delilah Complex (24 page)

N
ina listened to my explanation of what had happened in the consultation with Paul Lessor. She’d frowned when I described the razor blade and how he had held it up in the light. She’d leaned forward when I explained how he had started to lactate and how I’d put that together with a long-term Thorazine patient and what I knew from Jordain about the victims possibly being drugged with Thorazine before they had died.

Nina’s loyalty to those she loved was legendary. And so was the depth of her anger.

Over the years, everyone who worked with her had seen her go into battle for a patient, oppose interference from outside authorities, fight off family members who were detrimental to the patient’s regaining his or her mental health.

In the past four months, I had seen her angry more often than in the past thirty years. First over my involvement with the police in the Magdalene Murders, and now with the Scarlet Society case.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

What she said after I finished came hurtling out with a
suppressed force that surprised me. She didn’t yell; in fact, her voice was like a whisper. But harsh. Her mouth was pursed and the vertical lines above her upper lip—usually almost invisible—were white with rage.

“You do not call the police to come into this institute and take a patient away in cuffs.”

“I explained to you he was not a patient. He was here for a consultation. But that was a ruse. He was here to threaten me, Nina. He had a razor blade. He knew things about the men who have been killed. He
was
threatening me.”

“How do you know that he was dangerous? How do you know he wasn’t simply delusional? How do you know that razor blade wasn’t only a prop?”

“I don’t, but I couldn’t take a chance. The man had a weapon.”

“You have worked with hardened prisoners. You know karate and self-defense. We all do. You know exactly what to do when someone comes at you. If he had a gun, if you were here alone at night, that might have been different. You weren’t. He didn’t. You were out of line here, Morgan. You were looking for an excuse to call the police. You’ve been looking for an excuse for days.”

“That isn’t true.”

Her well-shaped eyebrows arched high in disbelief. “Isn’t it?”

“Are you insinuating that I’m lying?”

“No. I’m assuming that you are not facing the truth.”

“Have I ever done that before?”

“That doesn’t mean you are not doing it now,” Nina said. “You’re not dealing with how you feel about this detective.”

“I am dealing with what I know about this spate of killings.”

“We’ve been over this before, haven’t we? What you know about the Scarlet Society can’t help the police. But that’s not the issue here. We’re talking about you calling them here.”

“I’m telling you that he was threatening me. That I thought there was a real possibility he is the killer and that he had come to make sure I didn’t help the police figure out who he was. Why he thought I could, I don’t know. Something about what I’d been quoted as saying in the paper. But how much of this matters anymore? They have him in custody. No matter what he did or didn’t do, the man brought what I perceived as a weapon into my office. Nina, what if he had jumped on me and cut me? What if he’d lucked out and slit an artery?”

Something softened in her face. A motherly concern, the reality of what I was saying? “You know, don’t you, that I’m on your side?”

“You have a funny way of showing it. You aren’t looking out for me, Nina, but for the institute.”

She frowned. I could see hurt mixed with returning anger.

I stood up. “I have another patient. And this isn’t going to get us anywhere. You have to trust me on this.”

She stood, too, so we were facing. Neither of us moved to embrace the other. One of us should have.

And then the moment was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Dr. Snow, Detective Jordain is on the phone.”

D
ulcie was standing in the middle of the living room. I was on the couch, more relaxed than I had been in days. Jordain had Paul Lessor in custody. The danger was over. Dulcie was telling me about her rehearsal.

“Once we were all there, Raul sat us down in a circle and we went over everything that had happened in Boston.”

She wasn’t just telling me what had happened but performing for me, as if it were a scene from the play. “He asked each one of us what we thought, both positive and negative. No one mentioned me freezing up. No one.”

“Well, Dad said it wasn’t something he thought many people even noticed. I’m sure it felt to you like it lasted for hours, but he told me it was only a minute or two.”

“It did feel like hours, sort of like time had just stopped. And it was so quiet and everyone was looking at me and I couldn’t figure out what to do next.”

“It sounds really awful,” I said. “My mom told me about it when it happened to her.”

“Did she ever throw up because she was so nervous?” Dulcie asked. “Raul said some really big actors and actresses
throw up even after years of performing. Can you imagine that? If I kept throwing up, I’d quit. Don’t you think you would?” But she didn’t really give me a chance to answer. There was more to tell about the healing that happened this day. “So then Raul told us there were more reviews and he read them to us.”

“Were they good?”

“All three of them said that I was going to be a star. That I had everything it takes.”

“Did they mention your stage fright?”

She shook her head. “No. Pretty amazing. I really thought they would.” Dulcie was more serene than I’d seen her in the past few weeks. The opening was still eight weeks away. The writers were reworking two of the songs and some of the dialogue. The cast and director were reblocking some of the numbers that had tripped them up in Boston.

I’d talked to Raul for a few minutes while Dulcie was gathering up her stuff that evening, and he assured me that her stage fright was much less severe than he’d seen in far more experienced performers.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” he’d said.

“If you can find me a mother who doesn’t worry about her daughter, then she’s not much of a parent.”

I looked around, making sure Dulcie wasn’t nearby and couldn’t overhear me, and broached the subject of the suspected crush. “It seems perfectly natural to me but I wanted to mention it. To let you know.”

“Goes with the territory,” he said matter-of-factly. “First time it happened I was floored. Had no bloody idea what was going on. But that was a while ago. I’ve gotten awfully good at spotting it. And if I do say so, I’ve figured out how to strike a good balance of staying involved without appearing interested.”

After Dulcie finished recounting her day, we’d gone into the kitchen to make real hot chocolate, with melted bittersweet chocolate and milk. Actually, Dulcie was preparing it to ensure its success. I was sitting at the table and keeping her company.

That was when Noah called and asked if it would be okay if he came up.

“Is this business…?”

“Or pleasure?” He finished the part of the sentence I hadn’t asked, partly because Dulcie was in the room and partly because it was easier for me to assume it was business.

“I think you have to tell me,” I said.

“Tonight, it’s business. But it’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Dr. Snow.”

There was a playfulness back in his tone that seemed appropriate. I could only imagine how relieved he must be to have detained the man who had eluded and confounded him and the rest of the department for almost a month.

I didn’t ask him if it could wait until the next day. If it could have, I knew he wouldn’t have called.

“Do you like hot chocolate?”

“Are you making it?”

“No, Dulcie is.” They’d never met, but he knew about her, had seen photos of her, and had been interested in her drama career.

“Then the answer is yes.”

“S
o, you’re the actress,” Jordain said as he took Dulcie’s hand to shake it. “Tough gig. How are you holding up?”

“Okay,” she said.

I could tell that she was curious about him. I’d explained that he was coming over to talk about a current case, but she wasn’t quite sure. She had some sixth sense about him. The same sense, I supposed, that I always had about her. So she hadn’t just inherited my mother’s love of acting, she’d inherited my intuition.

“I think openings are just the worst,” he said.

Dulcie looked at me with a crease between her brows, silently throwing accusations across the room like darts. I shook my head at her.

“I didn’t tell you that, Detective, did I?” Dulcie asked.

“No. I play piano, Dulcie. Jazz. I’ve done some big gigs. I know the drill. I know the shakes.”

“How long did it take you to get over it?” she asked in a fascinated voice.

“Never got over it, but learned to live with it. Lots of deep breathing. And focusing. Waiting to go on, I ask myself why I’m doing this to myself. And I always have the
same answer. Because I want to make the music. Damn the audience.”

He was so good at being charming that it was almost suspect. I was glad I wasn’t going to have to see him anymore now that the case was solved. He was probably very good at lying, too. The other night with him had been an aberration. One I was not going to put myself in a position to repeat. He’d taken advantage of how stressed I was. How worried I was.

“Hey, it’s getting late,” I said, seeing that Dulcie had finished her hot chocolate. “Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

She gave me the pouty-mouth look that was the precursor to an argument, and I intercepted whatever it was that she was about to say.

“This is nonnegotiable.”

“Yes, Dr. Sin,” she retorted with just a shade too much sarcasm. I let it ride and repeated the suggestion that she take herself off to bed. She stopped at the door and turned to Noah. “It was really cool that you told me that stuff. Thanks.”

“It was nice meeting you. And I’m really looking forward to seeing you in that play,” Jordain said.

“Are you coming?” She seemed pleased, which really surprised me. Her response was immediate and heartfelt.

“If your mom invites me.”

“If she doesn’t, I will.”

I’d never seen my daughter flirt, and it shocked me. Not pleasantly, either. I had a jolt of foresight: in one split second I jumped from this one comment to her dating and me being home at night waiting to hear her key in the door.

Jordain and I went into the den.

“Is it him for sure?” I asked.

“Not sure. We think it’s him. One very interesting development is that he’s got that tattoo on his right foot, like the victims.”

“He does?”

Jordain nodded. His gaze focused on me. Unwavering. Intense. I wanted to look away but knew that would be suspect. I wanted to tell him, too. Just two words. But he didn’t need to hear them. He’d get them out of Paul Lessor now.

“What are your next steps?” I asked.

“We’re running the prints we found in the apartment. We’re checking his address book against the four address books we have of the victims. We’re looking for anything that ties these men together. We’re interviewing people he worked with. Trying to pinpoint where he’s been for the past few weeks. Looking for anything out of the ordinary. And about a million other things.” He stifled a yawn.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept more than four hours at a stretch?”

He smiled. Damn. That long, slow, slippery slide of his lips that affected me somewhere deep inside.

“Morgan, is there anything you can tell me about that tattoo?”

He knew that I knew. But how? Damn him again. I shook my head. They had him in custody. They’d figure it out now on their own. I wouldn’t have to betray any confidences or break privilege. I was almost light-headed with relief.

“But you know something we don’t.”

“Noah, don’t, please.”

“Shit.”

“If you’re going to start badgering me then I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“What do I have to do for you to ask me to stay?”

I didn’t say anything. A wave of cold spread over me. I gave an involuntary shiver.

“Why do I frighten you?”

I shook my head.

He didn’t relent.

“Do you even know?” he asked.

I shook my head again.

“I have a few ideas.”

“That’s good,” I said sarcastically.

“You want me to keep them to myself?”

“Yes, but I have an awful feeling you aren’t going to.”

“Have you been out on a date with anyone since your divorce?”

I could have told him that it wasn’t any of his business. Or just refused to answer. But I knew he wasn’t going to give up and I didn’t feel like fighting. Or at least that was my excuse. “No.”

“Do you think that’s giving your daughter the right message?”

“What?”

We were sitting together on the couch, far enough apart that we weren’t touching at all, but close enough so that I could smell his minty cologne. Close enough for him to reach out and brush my hair off my face.

“You know your hair is the color of the molasses that my mama used to cook with,” Noah said. “And your voice sounds like the water that whooshed by in the river outside our windows late at night.”

“You are shameless.”

“I’m smitten. I have been since I first met you. And even more than that since the other night. I didn’t think you’d be so hard to get over.”

“You make me sound like a flu.”

“Nope. The opposite. Being with you makes me wide awake, more aware of everything—of colors, tastes, even the smell of the air. After we’re together, when I’m alone again, there’s this sad riff that settles on me.”

I looked down, not wanting him to see the flush in my cheeks.

Smart man, he went back to what he’d been saying about Dulcie. “So do you think it’s a good idea for your daughter to see her mama give up on men? For her to see you throw yourself into your work and her? It’s too much pressure on a kid. It’s inhibiting to a teenager to have to worry if Mama is lonely and sad.”

“When did you get a degree in child psychology?”

He ignored the attitude in my voice. “Is her father dating?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Not good for another reason. Makes it look like men are stronger than women.”

This was like needles under my nails. Paper cuts on my fingerpads. Insects biting at my cheeks and neck. A dozen tiny unpleasant feelings erupted in me at once.

“How dare you,” I accused.

“What? Too close for comfort?”

“I am as strong as any woman she will ever meet. She sees that every day. I didn’t fall apart when my marriage did. I didn’t go running after a dozen men just so that I wouldn’t be alone. I didn’t start drinking or taking tranquilizers or doing anything unhealthy. I slept through every night. I never even intimated how lonely I was.”

He let my last few words linger in the air. It embarrassed me when I realized what I’d inadvertently said.

“Like who? Who told you how lonely she was and put all that pressure on you?”

My head jerked of its own accord. The sudden rush of tears that came to my eyes shamed me. He’d fooled me again. Once more getting me to tell him things and express feelings that I’d never admitted to before.

With one hand under my chin, he turned my face toward his. Reaching out with the forefinger of his other hand, he stopped a tear that was sliding down my cheek.

“You don’t have to tell me, Morgan. I can guess. But I want you to know you can tell me. It’s this crazy thing between us. I know things about you without knowing how. Will it help if I tell you it scares me as much as it scares you?”

“If it scares you, why don’t you go?”

“Because feeling scared like this is a big part of being alive.” And then without giving me a chance to object or move, he leaned forward and kissed me.

It was generous. Sustaining. He took nothing. Gave all.

Through my lips he transferred his want. His willingness to wait. His utter helplessness in the face of his desire. I accepted it all. Gave nothing back. He didn’t fight for it. Or try to pull it out of me. It was enough for him to offer it up to me.

“One day you’ll want to give it back,” he said in a deep, low voice that was like darkness falling. “I know you will. I don’t think I’m wrong. About other things, yes. But not you. Don’t ask me why. There is no reason on earth except I just know. It’s like when I have an idea for the piano. Sometimes it can take months for me to search out the whole composition. But that’s okay. The idea of it keeps me going. Because I know in my fingers, in my inner ear, in my soul, that the rest will come if I can just give it time.”

He kissed me again, this time putting a hand on each of
my shoulders and pulling me very close to him and enfolding me in his arms.

For thirty seconds…forty-five. I just forgot. I wasn’t there. Not a woman sitting on a couch in her den with her daughter sleeping in another room. Not a therapist who had information that this policeman would do anything to get.

The sound of his blood beating in my ears and the feeling of his arms sheltering me blocked out any world that I knew or was used to.

Finally, before I could pull away, because that was what I knew I had to do, he did. Standing, he smiled down at me, a little wistfully. “You make me ache,” he said, and, without giving me a chance to say anything, left me there, sitting on my couch, looking around my den as if I’d never seen it before.