the woman, what happened?”
“We partied. I drove him home just after 2:00 a.m.”
“He was unable to drive?”
“He was fall-down, stinking drunk.”
“And you’re one hundred percent certain your partner is innocent of this crime?”
“Yes, dammit!” Quentin looked away, then back. “No way did Terry do this. Besides, Terry could hardly walk let alone overpower and murder a woman.”
She was quiet a moment, then she nodded. “I agree with your assessment, Malone, but I’ll be watching him. I’m not going to let one of my detectives fall apart on the job.”
“He’s okay, Captain. He—”
“He’s not okay,” she corrected, tone curt. “And you know it. Don’t let him take you down with him, Malone.”
She returned to her desk, signaling that they were through. Quentin crossed to the door, stopping and looking back at her when he reached it. “Aunt Patti?” She looked up. “Tell Uncle Sammy I said hello.”
“Tell him yourself.” A smile touched her mouth, softening her face. “And call my sister. I hear from John Jr. that you’ve been neglecting her.”
With a chuckle and a small salute, Malone agreed.
6
Friday, January 12 Uptown
A headache held Dr. Benjamin Walker’s cranium in a vise. He struggled beyond the pain to focus as the patient sitting across from him described his ambivalent feelings about the recent death of his mother. Ben had been working with this man three months; in that time he’d only begun to scratch the surface of the damage done by the man’s horrific childhood.
“It’s not right, Dr. Walker. She was my mother. And she’s gone. Gone.” The man wrung his hands. “Shouldn’t I feel something at her passing?”
“What do you think you should be feeling, Rick?”
The man lifted his bloodshot gaze to Ben’s. “Grief. Regret. Fury. I don’t know, but something for God’s sake!”
Ben jumped on the last. “Fury? That’s a strong emotion, Rick. One of the strongest.”
His patient stared blankly at him. “Fury? I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
“I couldn’t. I loved my mother.”
“Actually, it’s quite understandable that you might be angry. Even furious.”
“Really?” The man looked relieved. “Because she’s gone?”
“Could be that. Maybe in part.” Ben folded his hands in his lap, schooling his features to neutrality. “Could be other things as well.”
“What things? What are you suggesting?”
“Think about it, Rick. You tell me what things.”
Ben sat back, waiting, silent. Giving his patient time to consider the question, then to fill the quiet that screamed to be broken. Someday, he believed, Rick Richardson would fill that quiet. And the noise would be deafening. Frightening. Ben had glimpsed a simmering rage in this man, a rage directed at women. It had emerged in the recounting of a routine argument with his wife; his attitude toward his boss, who happened to be a woman; in word choice; body language; subtle shifts in facial expressions when talking about women.
Ben suspected the true source of Rick Richardson’s pain and rage was his controlling and abusive mother. A fact his patient was as yet unwilling—and unable—to admit. Now that she had passed, with nothing resolved between them, those feelings of rage most probably would worsen. They could turn inward. Or outward.
Either way, Ben feared they were in for some rough sessions ahead.
“She was a good mother, Dr. Walker,” Rick said suddenly, tone defensive. “A very good mother.”
“Was she?”
Rick shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, vein popping in his forehead. “What the hell is that supposed to mean! You didn’t know her! You don’t know anything about our relationship or the kind of person she was!”
“I know what you’ve told me,” Ben murmured. “And I’d really like to know more.”
Rick stared at him a moment, then jerked his gaze away. “I don’t want to talk about her right now.”
Ben watched as his patient began to prowl the room. “Why not?” he asked.
Rick whirled to face Ben. “Because I don’t. Isn’t that good enough for you? Why do you have to pick at me like that? Pick, pick pick. Just like my wife. Just like my moth—fuck.”
“Did your mother pick at you?”
He flushed. “I said, I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Fine. We have a few minutes left, you tell me what you do want to talk about.”
Predictably, his patient chose the less emotionally charged subject of his job. While he talked, he continued to prowl about the room. Ben followed the man’s movements; as he did he caught a glimpse of himself in the antique, three-by-five-foot gilt-framed mirror that hung directly across the room from him. The mirror had been an outrageous indulgence, a recent gift to himself to celebrate taking on his twenty-fifth patient.
Twenty-fifth patient. Eighteen months ago he had been with a thriving psychiatry group in Atlanta, a partnership offer on the table. He had chucked it all to follow his elderly mother to New Orleans.
Her move had been a shock. She had just picked up and gone, insisting afterward that it had been his idea. Ultimately, Ben had seen her behavior as a blessing—and a wake-up call.
His mother’s bizarre behavior had forced him to slow down and take a long look at her. When he had, he’d realized something was wrong with her, something more than absentmindedness. Test results had proved him right—she had been suffering with the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.
The realization had stunned him. It had made him feel as if he’d been an inattentive, ungrateful son—and a fool as well. He was a doctor, for God’s sake! He should have seen what was happening to her before she’d gotten so far gone. For years she had confused people and events; she had forgotten appointments and special occasions. But then many people forgot things.
At least that’s what he had told himself. Until her behavior had forced him to face the truth.
Six months after arriving in New Orleans, Ben had convinced her she would be happier—and safer—living in a semi-independent living facility.
“I fantasized about dying again.”
Ben sat up straighter, instantly one hundred percent focused on his patient, annoyed with himself
