could we start?” I said.
“I expect to have time available in a few weeks. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” I said, grateful at that moment for the reprieve.
I was in bad enough shape already without Bernstein’s help.
Chapter Seven
SAPD headquarters sits in the middle of the 200 block of West Nueva, a shadeless stretch of street perpetually lined with squad cars and beat-up American-made vehicles. I parked at the corner in the elevated garage that also serves the historic red brick Bexar County Courthouse. I made my way through the people on the sidewalk—law enforcers, undesirables and what I suspected were law enforcers dressed as undesirables, the percentages teetering in precarious balance.
I stood just inside the lobby, letting my eyes adjust from the sun, which was already glaring like a floodlight at that early hour. An ATM occupying prime floor space came into focus first. A sign above it read, Sex Offenders Report to the Security Desk. Detective Slaughter had told me to bypass this station, but in that moment I couldn’t bring myself to ignore the armed youngster eyeing me from behind the glass.
“I have an appointment with Detective Slaughter,” I said.
He sat straight, neck floating in the collar of his over-starched blue shirt, the look on his face more quizzical than accusing. I imagined him grown into his uniform someday, morphed into one of the oversized guys that climb out of most squad cars.
“Homicide,” I added, grateful for the urgent legitimacy it conveyed.
He pointed down the hall to my right. “Have a good day.”
My heels echoed off the green and white marble floor, turning heads in open doorways as I passed. The tiny hairs on my forearms stood at attention under the scrutiny. Have a good day? I wondered if sex offenders were given the same consideration. And I wondered if a day that included an appointment with a homicide detective even held that potential.
The hallway ended at another glass booth. A sign resembling a menu hung on a metal door to my left:
HOMICIDE
ROBBERY
SEX CRIMES
NIGHT CID
Another sign, this one hand-lettered, warned that parking would be validated only for those having appointments with detectives. I’d left my ticket under the visor, the possibility of such amenities not having occurred to me.
A tiny woman with a humped back sat at the reception desk, staring over her glasses into a computer screen. I stood with my belly to the window ledge. My presence failed to evoke interest.
“I’m Dr. Nora Goodman,” I said, when the silence went on past decency.
“Teresa Rodriguez.” She pointed to her nameplate without turning toward me.
“I’m here to see Detective Slaughter.” She gave me a blank look. “I have an appointment.”
“An appointment.” She let the word roll around in her mouth and then yawned.
For a moment, I thought I might have dreamt it all. Howard’s death. Allison’s suicide. This was followed by a sensation that I might still be dreaming. I cleared my throat. Felt the dryness there. No. It was real. The receptionist’s brown eyes stared. I searched my memory for another bit of necessary information. A password I should know? The word for appointment in Spanish? Appointemiento? No. Fecha? No. Cita. Maybe.
Teresa stretched her arms up over her head. On the downswing, she brought her hand to rest on a clipboard to her right, studying it as if it had just materialized.
There were only a few names on the list and even from where I was standing, I could see mine was first. I reached through the window and pointed. “That’s me,” I said.
Teresa pulled back with a tic-like motion, like my move held a threat. I knew that look from my work in mental hospitals. The look that comes over the face of the nurse on the locked unit when that particular patient approaches. The look that accompanies her jamming keys deep in her pocket with one hand and poising the index finger of the other to punch in the number for Code Red.
Teresa kept her eyes on me while she picked up her phone receiver. “George,” she said. “Your doctor is here.” Reinforcement on the way, she seemed to relax. “What kind of a doctor are you anyway?”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” I said.
“Psychiatrist!” She pointed her finger at me. “Ha!”
A compact man, pink scalp showing through his red buzz cut, appeared in the doorway. I took him for mid-thirties. He had on a crisp white shirt with sleeves turned up and a banker-red tie. A slick straight scar ran the length of his right forearm.
Teresa smiled at me and cocked her head. “Hey, do you know Dr. Richard Kleinberg? He’s our consultant. Muy guapo, este hombre.” She fanned herself with outstretched fingers.
“I know him,” I said. He’s not that good looking.
“I’m glad you’re getting psychiatric help, George,” Teresa said, noticing him behind her. She leaned toward me. “He needs to see you, Doc. And then the rest of them back there. And if you can’t do nothing with them, have me sent away. This place is driving me seriously crazy.” She laughed, lips held tight, her uneven shoulders bouncing up and down.
Detective Slaughter shook his head, popped open the metal door and led the way down a gray linoleum passage.
“So you work with Dr. Kleinberg?”
“No,” I said.
“But you know him?”
“He’s my husband.”
“Really?” he said. “Smart guy.”
“We’re separated.”
A scoreboard, touting the number of traffic fatalities for the year on one side (seventy-two) and the number of homicides (one hundred thirty-seven) on the other, provided the only break in the long empty wall.
“Men will have their mid-life crises,” he said. “No immunity for you mental health types, I guess.”
I saw myself as he must have seen me. Aging female. The usual lineup of sagging spots—eyelids, jowls, breasts, belly, butt, knees. “You assume it’s his decision,” I said. “Do you make use of intuitive leaps like that in all your investigations?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Just playing the numbers.” He ushered me into a glassed-in office, cleared papers off the visitor’s chair, then asked if I’d like some coffee as if he wanted to make up.
I hesitated.
“It’s not the usual police brew,” he said. “I get here early so I can make it myself.”
He was right. It was decent
