She takes the key to her apartment off of her key ring, opens the door and slips it under the mat. Georgia will be here tonight. Danielle is flooded with relief. She could never leave
Max—even for a night—without knowing that someone who loves him as much as she does will be there in her stead.
Before she can change her mind, she takes a last look around the apartment. When she slams the door, the lock clicks with an ominous finality.
Danielle paces as the morning sun spills onto the thick carpet of her Chicago hotel room. She stands at the window and thinks of the last time she was here. Two years ago, a sexy corporate embezzlement case brought her to this very hotel. The Whitehall reminds her of what she used to be, of the intellectual sparring during the day and the long dinners with clients in trendy restaurants at night. It has the old-world luxury absent in most American hotels—the penned note on the pillow of her turned-down bed; the thick white robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door; a glass of her favorite cognac poured just so on the side table, remembered from her last visit. Nestled off of Michigan Avenue in the Gold Coast, it speaks to her of times past and of times that may never come again.
She resists the strong urge to answer Tony’s frantic calls. She knows he will hit the roof if he finds out that she has violated the terms of her bond…yet again. With any luck, she will be back in Plano tonight with at least one piece of information that will keep the hearing from being a disaster. She is a desperate woman, grasping for a ray of light in the dark. She cannot leave a single stone unturned.
Late last night, when she was certain he would be asleep, Danielle left a message on Sevillas’s cell phone, informing him about Georgia and that she was to be put on Max’s visitation list as co-counsel for the defense. She instructed him
to let Georgia visit Max whenever she likes, and whenever Max needs her. Danielle winces even now to think of Tony’s reaction to her unilateral directive. She is grateful she won’t be there when he finds out where she is—and what she’s doing. If all goes according to plan, he won’t know anything. She made Georgia swear only to tell Tony that she is sick in bed.
Just as she sits down with a cup of coffee, her cell phone rings. She grabs it and taps the screen:
Max.
Her heart is seized with panic. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
His voice is riddled with anger and panic. “What are you doing in Chicago? How could you leave me here and take off without telling me?”
“Max, it’s all right. Wait, how did you know I was in Chicago? Did Tony tell you?”
“Sevillas?” He snorts. “I tracked you with my GPS.”
“What GPS?”
“We’ve both got GPS—on our iPhones, remember?” His voice is grim. “Now would you quit stalling and tell me what you’re up to?”
Danielle shakes her head. “I’m looking for evidence. For the hearing.”
“Why Chicago?” he asks. “Sevillas told me about that creep, Fastow, and I’ve been checking up on him.”
She spends the next half hour trying to convince Max that she will be back in time for the hearing, that it is important that she follow this lead on Marianne, and that he should line up all his information and e-mail it to Sevillas. Then, if she doesn’t come up with anything, there’s no harm done and they can go after Fastow full bore, which she promises they will do in any event. She urges him to continue his research and to keep his eyes open, particularly with regard to Fastow. She hopes that this will provide a major distraction that will lessen his terror about the hearing and the possibility that she
won’t be there. She also makes a mental note to call Georgia and ask her to stay with him as much as possible today. If he can’t have his mother, at least he’ll have the next best thing.
Now she paces around the room, waiting for word that her felony flight has not been in vain. Her rumpled bed is a fair reflection of another sleepless night. She forces herself to sit on the smooth leather sofa and light a cigarette. The smoke tastes bitter. Just as she closes her eyes and begins to relax, her cell phone rings. She glances at caller ID and flips open the phone. “Hello?”
“Ms. Talbert?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Marcia, Dr. Jojanovich’s nurse?”
“Yes, Marcia,” she says. “Thank you for calling back so promptly.”
“Well,” she says. “Because you said your case is urgent, the doctor says he can give you a few minutes around twelve-thirty.”
“That will be just fine.” She picks up the pen and pad from the glass coffee table. “If you could just give me directions.”
“Go to 5896 Polanski Avenue. It’s on the northwest side on the fourth floor,” she says. “Oh, and the doctor said to bring whatever records you have, since you’re a new patient. He’ll want to go over them after he looks at his file.”
“Of course,” says Danielle. “I’ll bring everything I’ve got.”
Danielle looks out of the back of the taxi. They pass quickly from the glittering stores of Michigan Avenue into Chicago’s more depressing neighborhoods until they reach a narrow, dilapidated building. The brass plate above the doorbell is tarnished, the lettering barely legible.
Boris Jojanovich, M.D.
She
pushes a tarnished intercom button. The tinny voice scratches through like an old seventy-eight. “May I help you?”
“Ms. Talbert to see the doctor.”
“Oh, yes,” the voice says. “Buzzing through.”
A sound like an electric razor gone bad comes from somewhere around the doorknob. Danielle pushes hard. The door moves grudgingly, then slams behind her. A list of tenants is stuck to the wall with yellowed Scotch tape. The typewriting looks like the product of a Royal manual, circa 1950, badly in need of a new ribbon. Danielle runs her index finger down to the
J
’s and finds the suite number on the fourth floor. She sighs when she sees the out-of-service sign on the elevator. By the time she climbs the stairs to the designated floor, she is out of breath, but she is no longer nervous. She smooths her hair and walks to the reception desk.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Talbert.” Marcia, a twentysomething whose mellifluous voice belies her solid frame and sensible navy dress, stands and pours her a glass of water. “Everyone needs this after climbing those stairs. Here you go.”
Danielle takes a long drink. “Thank you.”
“You’re right on time. Just take a seat and I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”
The walk to the three empty wooden chairs is short. Danielle is barely seated when a side door opens and an elderly man in a white coat appears. His bespectacled face is stern. Impressive folds of flesh hang between his eyes and form bulldog jowls at his collar.
She stands and extends her hand. “Dr. Jojanovich?”
“Yes. Ms. Talbert, is it?” His voice is a deep baritone. “I’m not quite sure how I can help you, but come in. Hold my calls, Marcia.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The office Danielle enters is surprisingly large. A dusty computer sits on top of an old desk, a thick cord wrapped around its base like an umbilicus. Dr. Jojanovich points to a sagging club chair, and, after she is seated, he settles into an ancient leather affair. It produces a
whooshing
noise as he descends. Intent brown eyes study her carefully. “Well, Ms. Talbert, what can I do for you? Marcia said you needed to see me immediately.”
Danielle takes a deep breath and gives him her most confident smile. “Actually, Dr. Jojanovich, I’m not the patient. I’m a lawyer. My name is Danielle Parkman.”
The eyebrows rise. “A lawyer?”
“Yes,” she says. “I find myself in an odd position, Dr. Jo janovich. If you’ll let me explain.”
He rests his gnarled hands on the worn desk. “Please do. I’m not overly fond of attorneys.”
She smiles. “Most people aren’t. I represent a client who has run into problems in Plano, Iowa.”
He shakes his head. “I have never practiced in Iowa, Ms. Parkman.”
“Well,” she says, “the problem is in the form of a homicide, I’m sorry to say, involving one of your former patients.”
Jojanovich’s eyes open wide enough for some white to show. “Homicide?”
“Possibly suicide.”
“Let me be certain I understand you, Ms. Parkman,” he says slowly. “You make an emergency appointment under false pretenses, when in fact you wish to discuss a possible murder or suicide in Iowa, where I have never practiced and, God willing, never will. As a lawyer, you must know that I cannot discuss one of my patients with you without violating the doctor-patient privilege.” He shakes his head
again and stands. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Danielle steps quickly into his path. “Please, Doctor. My client could be facing the death penalty for the murder of your patient. The State may be successful if I don’t get the information I need right away.” She goes back to her seat, trying not to let him see how terrified she is just saying those words. Maybe if she sits, he will.
The doctor remains standing. “Which patient?”
“His name is Jonas Morrison.” There is no recognition in Jojanovich’s eyes. “He was seventeen years old. He was admitted into a psychiatric hospital in Iowa this summer and died of…severe wounds. The autopsy is inconclusive, so we don’t know whether the wounds were self-inflicted or the result of a homicide. My client has been accused of killing him.” She meets his eyes. “I’m trying to find out anything you know that might shed light on the situation.”
Jojanovich looks at his chair as if noticing it for the first time. He sits. “What in the world led you to me?”
Danielle pulls a piece of paper out of her purse. “I’ve been trying to track down some background information on the boy, but all I’ve found is this document with your signature on it as the referring physician to a psychiatric hospital—Maitland.”
“Hmm.” Jojanovich takes the paper from her. He lights a half-smoked cigar that rests on an old tin ashtray. After a few ruminative puffs, he studies what she has given him. When he is finished, he looks up. “I think you’ve made a mistake, Ms. Parkman.”
“Doctor, if you’re worried about privilege—”
“No.”
“Because if it is, the patient is dead and the privilege does not supersede—”
“No, Ms. Parkman,” he says. “That is not the issue.”
Danielle leans forward. “Then what is? If you would like confirmation that I’m an attorney…”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I have no patient by the name of Jonas Morrison.”
Danielle stares at him.
He leans back in his chair. “Besides, I’m not a psychiatrist, nor do I have a pediatric or adolescent practice. Never have.”
Bewildered, Danielle studies the paper he hands back to her. It is right there in black and white. “Doctor, please bear with me. This simply doesn’t make sense. Isn’t this your name and address listed as the primary referral source for Jonas’s admission to Maitland Psychiatric Asylum in Plano, Iowa?”
Jojanovich stands. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parkman. I’d like to help you, but I don’t have any idea where this came from and I’ve never had a patient by that name. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He walks toward the door.
Danielle slowly folds the piece of paper and puts it inside her purse. “Doctor, perhaps you remember his mother, Marianne Morrison?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
The black well of doubt about Max that has followed her from Iowa grows larger. Sevillas and Doaks are right. She is just another desperate defendant off on a wild-goose chase. All she has accomplished is to ensure that the moment she steps off the plane, she’ll be handcuffed and thrown back into jail. She has made a fool of herself, and this time the price will be her freedom—and Max’s.
Stop it,
she tells herself. She has to keep trying. “Let me describe her for you. She’s about five-one or five-two, blond hair, blue eyes, early forties…”
“No, I’ve told you—”
“Maybe if you thought about it for just a moment.”
Jojanovich’s opaque eyes are patient. “What did you say her name was?”
“Marianne Morrison.”
The doctor returns to his desk. The deep crevice between his eyes threatens to sew both brows into a single, furry line. She can tell he is trying to humor her so she will finally give up and leave. He is obviously of the generation of men who are not accustomed to throwing a woman out of his office. “How does she talk? Dress?”
Danielle’s mind races. “She’s Southern, from Texas originally. Her clothes are very expensive and elegant, but…colorful. She tends to wear tailored suits and a lot of jewelry.” She searches Jojanovich’s face for any sign of recognition from the pathetic portrait she has sketched. The older man’s face is a blank. She decides to toss out any detail she can remember. Maybe something will click. “She is a widow who was educated to be a physician, but became a nurse instead. Oh, I understand that she’s very good with computers. She used them a lot when she was a nurse. Her son, Jonas, had severe psychiatric problems. He was born in Pennsylvania.” Her voice trails off.
Jojanovich’s eye wattle recedes to reveal a sad glance. “I’m genuinely sorry, Ms. Parkman. I wish I could help.”
Danielle sighs. Wordlessly, she walks over and shakes his hand. As she says a dispirited goodbye to Marcia and begins the long descent to the street, her mind whirls. What now? All she has left is a barely legible Chicago address that she found scrawled in the margin of some document Maitland produced. She doesn’t even know if it has anything to do with Jonas. If her visit to Jojanovich is any indication, it’s just another dead end. Why would Marianne have faked a referral for Jonas? God knows there is no question that he needed to be at Maitland. The doctor must be lying. Or he just doesn’t want to
get involved. But if all he did was refer Jonas to Maitland, why would he be worried about malpractice? Danielle knows the answer before the question fully forms in her mind. Because anyone can sue anyone for anything. This is America.
She hails a cab and pulls her raincoat around her. Dark clouds gather in the distance. As she directs the driver back to the Whitehall, her cell phone rings. She looks at the caller ID. It’s Doaks. He must believe that she is in her apartment doing precisely as she has been instructed: leaving them alone to do their jobs. She ignores the call.
She can’t go back empty-handed.