Phobia KDP (6 page)

Herne remained silent.

“I’m one of the few therapists in the tri-state area who has extensive experience treating phobias and pervasive fears,” Lochhead said. “As a result, I sometimes get clients from as far away as Harrisburg.”

Saxon pounced, as if he’d finally given her the response she craved. “Exactly what type of treatment do you use for phobia patients?” Saxon asked.

Herne met Saxon’s eyes.
Slow down,
he tried to signal.
Take your time.

“Depends on the fear and the patient,” Lochhead said. “Psychology is not an exact science. It’s an art. Different phobias require different treatment regimes. In many cases, particularly with social phobias, I refer the patient to a physician for anti-anxiety medication that will help alleviate the problem. I follow up with therapy, of course.”

“And how would you treat someone with a phobia of snakes?” she asked.

Lochhead’s smug grin stretched across his tanned face. “I hope, Lieutenant, you aren’t trying to get me to talk about a specific patient.”

Saxon’s face flushed. “We know Amanda Todd was a patient of yours, and we know you treated her for a phobia.”

“Whatever you know about Amanda Todd, you didn’t learn it from me,” Lochhead said. “I’m bound by my ethical code to keep information about patients confidential, unless they’re a threat to themselves or someone else. If you want me to talk about a patient and her treatment, you better have a court order in hand that compels me to do so.” He looked down at his sandwich, poking the garlic and herb bread with a finger. “You two have made me lose my appetite, and I do love these sandwiches. Unless you have more questions, I’d like to eat my lunch in peace.”

As Saxon opened her mouth, Herne placed a hand on her arm. She shook it off and stalked out of the office two paces ahead of him. Herne felt as if he’d just spent an hour mucking stalls at the local dairy farm. Lochhead’s presence left him feeling dirty.

He heard Saxon’s stomach rumble as they walked down the building’s stairs. His own stomach growled in response.

“Lunch?” he asked.

She nodded.

They stopped at The Sandwich Station when they reached the ground floor. At the counter stood the same mousy woman they had passed on their way to deliver Lochhead’s lunch. Herne had thought her less than memorable, but as he watched her more closely, he realized that something about the way she stood drew his attention. Her muscles tensed and her eyes darted back and forth, as if she were constantly on alert. He suspected a loud noise, like a book dropping or a car backfiring, would send her running out of the shop.

She left The Sandwich Station carrying a paper bag. The clerk looked at Herne. “Would you like something else?” he asked.

“I’ll try that sandwich,” Herne said.

“Wonderful.” The clerk beamed as he prepared it, chatting happily. “Making sandwiches is an art. A culinary art. It’s just a shame most folks don’t appreciate it. Lunchtime isn’t about dining anymore. People just want something quick they can scarf down at their desks without really tasting. They don’t take the time to savor their food. It’s bad for the digestion.”

“Your sandwich looks pretty good,” Herne admitted.

The clerk beamed. “I’m so glad you tried it. I get tired of making the same old turkey and Swiss on white bread.” He looked at Saxon.

“I’ll have turkey and Swiss on white bread,” Saxon said.

Herne’s lips twitched, but he remained silent.

They carried their sandwiches into the building lobby. She started to walk ahead of him, but he grabbed her arm.

“Get your hand off of me,” she hissed.

“Look, Lieutenant,” Herne said. “You and I are going to be working together pretty closely on this case. Rex asked me to be a consultant. I was invited to join this investigation.”
Invited and coerced,
Herne thought. “I’m going to avoid stepping on your toes, and I want the same courtesy from you.”

“You undermined my authority in there,” she said. “You’re not in charge of me.”

“He wasn’t going to open up to us,” Herne said. “It was time to move on.”

“I had more questions,” Saxon said.

“Sometimes asking questions reveals more than you want a suspect to know,” Herne said.

She said nothing for a moment. Then she nodded. He tried to change the subject.

“Did you order the turkey sandwich for the sole purpose of annoying the store clerk?”

She grinned, and Herne saw the amusement that glittered in her eyes. For a brief moment they had a small truce.

Fear caused bile to rise in his throat when he first saw the cops walk toward his door. He had to choke down the vomit.

His private investigator business was just a one man show, so Robert Morales didn’t have the luxury of a secretary. He was in his waiting room, anticipating a new client, when he saw the police through the glass window of his office door. They paused and glanced in his direction, and that was the moment Morales almost puked.

They kept moving down the hallway, and Morales ran to his office door and watched them walk away.

His business had been in operation for five years, so he was acquainted with Saxon on a professional basis. Morales knew she was a competent cop. But the lieutenant was, after all, just a
woman
. Not a threat.

But the man who had accompanied her was different. Large and looming, he stood like a cop even though he didn’t wear a uniform. Morales was a big man himself. Smart private investigators kept their muscles toned and strong, since sometimes a situation could get physical. More than once he’d been sucker punched by a cheating husband who wasn’t happy about being tailed. So it wasn’t the cop’s size that frightened him. He wasn’t intimidated by the man’s thick neck or broad shoulders. He wasn’t afraid of the jagged scar that almost touched the man’s right eyebrow nor the crook of his nose, although both told tales of fights and violence. No, Morales wasn’t scared of the man’s appearance.

He was scared of the man’s movement.

The man with Saxon had walked slowly and deliberately, like a tiger stalking a gazelle. Though he appeared relaxed, Morales sensed the man’s muscles were tightly coiled springs.

Ready to pounce.

Ready to tear apart his prey with the type of savagery known only to animals.

When the man disappeared around the corner, Morales had breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t vomited. And they hadn’t come for him. Not yet.

But part of him knew that one day soon, the day would come.

Morales would be the prey. And the man who walked like a tiger would be the predator.

CHAPTER FIVE

The ragged kitchen chairs were thrift store purchases, and Herne watched Saxon shift in her seat. He almost suggested they move to the living room—his faded tweed sofa, purchased from a yard sale, was a little more comfortable—but decided his suggestion might be misinterpreted. Instead, he poured another glass of club soda. When he first gave up drinking, he had switched from whiskey to the clear, salty liquid. But it was a poor substitute.

He noticed beads of sweat on Saxon’s nose, and glanced at the perspiration stains on the armpits of his own white tee-shirt. Although he had a window air-conditioning unit in the living room, the air it produced was barely cool. The unforgiving heat of the summer blanketed them inside his sweltering house.

His meager savings was not enough to allow him anything other than small luxuries, like take-out pizza and the Sunday newspaper delivered on his doorstep. He had no extra funds for home improvement projects, such as installing a central air-conditioning system.

The feel of the heat was made worse by the slight odor of cat urine, detectable on the muggiest summer days. Every once in a while, when the scent wafted across the room, Herne clenched his teeth. He’d grown to think of the former feline resident as nothing but a smelly nuisance, and he wondered if the previous homeowners had simply allowed their pet to use the entire living room as a litter box.

After I’ve caught the killer and this case is closed, I’m going to rip up all the carpet and redo the hardwood floors,
Herne thought.

The finality of that statement—knowing that one day the case would be over—filled Herne with a combination of relief and dread. He tilted back his head and gulped his drink, swallowing hard to remove the knot in his throat. The doorbell rang just as Herne placed his empty glass on the kitchen table.

Tucker stood at the door, a frown creasing his angled face. “This fucking case is going to kill me,” he said as he walked into Herne’s kitchen. “No shit, it’s going to fucking kill me. The media’s having a field day. That bitch from TV News 4, Lori Sims, keeps fucking up the information. So far she’s reported that Amanda Todd’s death was a suicide, an accident, and a gang hit. The fact that Amanda is dead is the only thing that bitch has right so far.”

“Drink?” Herne offered. He kept a bottle of Jack Daniels in his cabinet. It was Herne’s daily temptation, akin to a bag of heroin in a methadone clinic waiting room.
It makes you stronger
, he said to himself as he pulled the bottle from the shelf.
You get stronger every time you resist temptation
. But for the first time in months, he found himself doubting the truth of the statement.

Tucker nodded. “Make it a double, Art. I need to relax.” He cast his glance over the empty pizza boxes on the chipped wooden table. “Don’t tell me I missed another one of your home cooked meals,” he said.

“Saxon and I have been working since this afternoon. We just took a break for dinner. If I’d known you were coming, we would have saved you a slice.”

“Fuck you, Art,” Tucker said. Herne knew that Tucker’s profanities had many different meanings. Sometimes he was angry. Sometimes he was sad. In this case his use of
fuck you
was designed to be affectionate. “You wouldn’t have saved a slice if I’d been starving to death. I know how much you love your pizza.”

Herne poured the Jack Daniels for Tucker, trying to ignore the saliva that spilled into his mouth at the sharp scent of whiskey. He squeezed the glass tightly to prevent his hands from shaking as he passed his friend the drink.
Just hang on a little while longer,
Herne thought.
One day at a time.

It was the mantra chant of every twelve step program. And to Herne the words sounded hollow.

Tucker pulled out a kitchen chair and sank his lean frame onto the hard wood. “Christ, it’s hot in here. When the fuck are you going to get central air-conditioning, Art?”

“When you pay for it, Rex.”

“Fuck you. So, did you two come up with anything?”

“Lee called,” Herne said. “He confirms a total of eleven snake bite wounds on the victim, and estimates the time of death to be about ten in the morning. He says there are no other signs of physical or sexual assault.”

“Any leads?”

“No boyfriends or significant others. We interviewed a few of her friends and colleagues. Everyone agrees that there was no one special in Amanda’s life. She didn’t even have any close friends. She had plenty of acquaintances and lots of business associates, but no one who knew much about her daily life. A few folks suggested that she was liberal with her sex life, but not a single person admits to ever being intimate with her.”

“And none of the neighbors saw anything strange?”

Herne glanced at Saxon. After meeting with Lochhead that afternoon, Saxon had gone to interview Amanda Todd’s neighbors. The Lieutenant pulled a small notebook from her breast pocket and flipped through the pages.

“No one saw anything unusual the night or morning of Amanda Todd’s death,” Saxon reported. “However, her next door neighbor claims to have seen an unfamiliar silver SUV parked across the street during the last month.”

“Every day?” Tucker asked.

Saxon shook her head. “She couldn’t pin it down exactly, but she says the truck was there at least twice a week. I checked with the other neighbors. No one claimed it, and no one else saw it.”

“Silver SUV,” Herne mused. “What about a make or model?”

“No luck. The neighbor was an old woman. Practically ancient. Her eyesight was bad and her hearing was worse. She says color is the only thing she knows about cars. She did say the SUV was a boxy type with square edges, not rounded in the front or back.”

“Something older,” Herne said. “Or maybe utilitarian.”

“It’s not much,” Saxon admitted.

“Silver is the most popular color for vehicles,” Herne said.

“Jesus,” Tucker said. “So all we have is a fucking silver SUV that might have been parked on Amanda’s street? That’s fucking great.”

“What about the snakes? Any leads?” Herne asked.

Tucker shook his head. “Johnson checked for sales of snake handling equipment. Cages, tongs, whatever kind of shit snake handlers use. Nothing. You can buy that shit on the Internet.”

“Did anyone take a good look at the rattlers?”

“I talked with a guy at Animal Control. He says these snakes are common around here. Anyone could have taken a hike in the woods and gathered up a few.”