due to doctor-patient privilege, as Mr. Larsh had no knowledge Mr. Feldberg was not a licensed psychiatrist.
Mr. Larsh’s present whereabouts is unknown.
We are asking you to review the files provided and use any means at your disposal to locate Mr. Larsh. It is our goal to present new evidence to the court in order to reverse this injustice and to bring Mr. Larsh to trial.
Sincerely,
The Pro-Justice League
P.S. Your own sense of justice is well documented and it is our hope this has not changed, for the sake of the loved ones of all those involved in this case.
A low pulsing sensation began behind my left eye. Not a good sign of things to come. I stared blankly at the letter before me and tried to comprehend what I had read. I immediately dismissed the gobbledy-gook of the main body of the letter, condensing all the words down to Locate - Jarvis - Larsh. What exactly I was to do once this was accomplished was unclear, but I was sure my mystery caller would provide new details in the future.
Another missing person case. Great.
It was the cryptic postscript, however, that caused me the most concern. The part about my well-documented sense of justice could only be referring to my time on the police force, a dark period I’ve been trying to forget for some time. The second half’s reference to the loved ones of all involved, was a direct reminder that somehow Linda and Maria’s safety be kept in my thoughts at all times.
Do what we ask and no one gets hurt.
Of course, it’s hard to trust a convicted con man currently rotting in a federal pen, who hides behind veiled threats and the so-called Pro-Justice League. I will admit this box and letter were clever devices to get me to start my investigation. The letter was unsigned and there was no address information provided. The contents were in the style of a form letter, no different from ones televangelists send out asking for cash to fight the good fight on behalf of Jesus and unborn babies everywhere.
If something did go sideways in the days and weeks ahead, Max could deny any knowledge of this box. He would claim The Pro-Justice League must be a group of concerned citizens who meet once a week in a church basement or a member’s rec room to discuss legal cases where justice had not been fulfilled. Some of these groups deal with death penalty cases, he’d argue, while others look at smaller cases, such as his.
SIX
ALEXIS
Alexis Penney held the cashier’s cheque in her hand, which she noticed was shaking slightly. Was this due to the giddy excitement she felt about her pending investment or a subconscious neurological tick warning her to stop this madness?
She tried to recall when in her past she had handed over her life savings to a person she barely knew and came up with two such events: the day she purchased her first car, when she was nineteen, and the day she bought her first house, at the age of twenty–six. Both of those investments had worked out nicely, she reasoned, as she folded the cheque in half and placed it in her purse. Those payments of $988 and $12,000 were a pittance, however, compared to the $150,000 cheque in her possession. She was thirty-five, recently divorced, coming out of a relationship which had ended very badly and wanted to—needed to—feel independent. This venture seemed like the right opportunity at the right time.
Besides, she thought, as she exited the bank, Dr. Max was the man with the plan and could never lead me astray. What self-respecting therapist would set one of his patients up for failure?
***
The past year and a half had been the worst of Alexis’ life. During that period, she’d begun a torrid affair with a married man that, unfortunately, their spouses both soon discovered. When you live in the rural town of Ravenwood, if you didn’t know your neighbour’s business when you walked into the R.W. Café for your morning coffee, you would by the time you left. She and Randolph “Randy” Mayer had not been the most discreet adulterers and were exposed when they’d been seen together at the White Plains Shopping Mall, located an hour out of town. The grade school’s sixth-grade teacher and local busybody, Lizzie Cantner, had witnessed them kissing in the parking lot prior to departing in their respective vehicles. The Alexis-Randy scandal took hold of the small community about thirty seconds later.
Upon their return home, the whispering and odd glances they received were bad enough, but it was Randy’s wife’s premature death the same evening that really put a kink in their relationship. Poor Patricia Mayer had been bludgeoned to death with a shovel as she sat in her back yard, drinking iced tea by the pool. An elderly eyewitness told police she had seen a Chevrolet Malibu—a car similar to Alexis’—being driven out of the subdivision around 9:15 p.m. She could not say, however, with absolute certainty that Alexis was behind the wheel. The coroner concluded Patricia had met her maker roughly between 9:00 p.m. and 9:45 p.m.
Alexis did not help matters by refusing to give a credible alibi, not wanting to lead police to the mall’s surveillance videotape collection. When the tapes did surface, Alexis admitted to the affair but continued to deny her involvement in the murder. Unfortunately, Randy was a bit more forthcoming and Alexis was charged with being an Accessory to Murder. Randy would eventually take a plea bargain and was sentenced to twenty–five years in prison with a chance of parole in twelve years. In exchange for his light sentence (under the circumstances), he was required to testify at Alexis’ trial, stating she had handed him the shovel and encouraged him to end his marriage in a most remarkable fashion. Alexis’ defence lawyer was working on getting a similar deal when word came down Randy had been killed in the prison cafeteria during an argument over a pudding cup.
The newspaper headline the following day said it all:
FREE TO KILL AGAIN? MISTRESS WALKS
Prosecutor forced to drop all charges against Penney
It was a sad day for Lady Justice but a very good one for the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Penney. Her husband—who just wanted Alexis out of his life as soon as possible—agreed to a swift divorce, settled her share of their vast real estate holdings and bid her a not-too- friendly fare-thee-well. Now loaded with cash, she headed west for a fresh start. Even the release of the quickie tell-all true crime book, The Murdering Mistress, written by a court reporter and her ex-husband, had not dampened her enthusiasm for a new life. She figured no one outside the three counties surrounding Ravenwood would even care or buy it. In case it did become a bestseller though, she made a few changes to her appearance, the first of which was dying her naturally strawberry-blonde hair—which figured prominently in the picture that adorned the book’s front cover—to a darker shade of red.
Once on her own, Alexis found herself dealing with bouts of depression and realized she should seek professional help. One day she flipped open the Santana Hills yellow pages and began her search. Coming from a small town, the only experience she had with shrinks was gleaned from TV shows. She had no idea of the difference between a “psychiatrist” and a “psychologist”—both of whom sounded very official and a bit scary. The term “therapist” however, produced no such adverse reaction. Quickly 90% of the listings were irrelevant. She focused on the remaining few ads until she came across one featuring a picture of an appealing-looking gentleman named Max Feldberg. She immediately dialed his office number and an appointment was set for the following Tuesday at 9:00 a.m.
Their first few sessions went smoothly. Dr. Max, as he preferred to be called, seemed to possess a very worldly persona and they clicked immediately. She told him about her upbringing, her marriage and the affair with the
