Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (15 page)

The Cohens looked at each other. "No," John
said. "We don't."

"We also found drugs. Cocaine and prescription
drugs . . ."

"You think drugs might be tied in to his
murder," Elizabeth said. Mercanto noticed that there was no
surprise in her voice.

"It's possible."

"Nonsense," said John. "Stanley liked
to do a line or two . . .I guess we all do, but he wasn’t that deep
into them."

"
John, that’s not true. How many times did you
tell me you were worried about how much he was doing . . . and his
moods. That could have been caused by drugs."

John gave her a look. "It wasn’t that bad.
What he's saying is that Stanley was in over his head. That wasn’t
so."

Mercanto shifted, trying to ease the pain. John knew
more than he was saying, at least that much was obvious.

"Look, sir, we need all the help we can get. I'm
not a reporter, I'm a cop. I need the help. One of the things I
haven't been able to find out is who he was buying drugs from . . ."

Silence for a few moments. Finally John spoke. "We
don't know his name, but Stanley mentioned he'd been dealing with a
Jamaican."

"Do you know where they met? Was it the park?"
Mercanto asked.

John shook his head. "I don't know. It was
something we really didn't want to know too much about, if you see
what I'm saying."

"Let's get back to that night. What time was
dinner over?"

"
We finished around eleven but stayed on for a
few drinks. I think we closed the place," John said.

Elizabeth added, "That’s because John's not
sure. He had a few too many. We did close the place. After that we
said goodnight and went home. That’s the last time we saw Stanley."

"Think back. Did anything unusual occur while
you were having dinner?"

"
No," John said.

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. "There was one
thing. . . about, oh, one forty-five he got up and made a phone call.
He was only gone a couple of minutes but that did seem odd. I mean,
who do you call that late?"

Mercanto's heart picked up its beat. "Did he say
who he was calling?"

"No. In fact, I think he said he was going to
get cigarettes. The only reason I know he made a call was that from
where I was sitting I could see him," she said.

"
Nothing, not a clue . . . ?"

She shook her head, and Mercanto was, once again,
stopped cold.
 
 

CHAPTER 11

MACES CROSSING was busy with late lunch customers
when Margaret arrived. The Valium she had taken before leaving the
office had calmed her, and she waved hello to Mace, who was at the
bar talking with the Campbell brothers and John Sgarlat, businessmen
she knew slightly from Racquet Club dinners with Adam. Mace waved
back and pointed to a table near the window. Waiting for her there
was Charles Foster, her own analyst, and friend.

Charles was a slight man in his mid-sixties, shrewd
eyes and a face that radiated warmth and interest toward everything
around him.

She tossed her coat on one of the extra chairs and
sat down. While she fished her cigarettes from her purse, Keith, the
bartender, brought her a glass of white wine. She and Charles had
been meeting here for lunch for years. It was the personal touch that
kept them coming back.

"I was pleased when you called," Charles
said. "It does my image a world of good to be seen with a
beautiful woman."

She was glad to see he wasn’t really angry with
her. Since her father’s death years ago while she was in graduate
school, Charles had been her mentor, her stability, and she didn't
want anything to disturb that.

Through the years he had gone from being one of her
professors to her personal and training analyst to her friend. They
chitchatted for a few minutes, then Charles said, "Now, what’s
on your mind . . . ?"

"
What makes you think there's something on my
mind? We're friends, can't we just have lunch together?"

"
Your smoking. You don't normally chain-smoke
unless something's bothering you."

She looked at her cigarette. He was so right. "Why's
everyone suddenly picking on me about my smoking?" she said,
remembering Loring’s words from one of their sessions. When he
didn’t answer, she went on, "I don't now how to begin . . .
God, I sound like one of my patients."

"Why don't you start by satisfying my curiosity.
Who else has been commenting on your smoking?"

She took a sip of her wine. "Charles, you're
good, do you know that? One of my patients said it. He said I was
sensual when I smoked." She felt herself blush when she said it.
Jesus, some analyst. Well, now she was the patient . . .

He noticed her reaction. "How did it make you
feel?"

"Good and bad. I'm still a woman, and a woman
likes compliments, but he said it in a transference situation — "

"Transference with whom? Another woman, I assume
. . .his mother, his wife?"

"He's single. It was his mother . . . I guess
I'd better start at the beginning"

She detailed her sessions with Loring, careful never
to mention his name. She told of the episode in the fitting room, his
conflicts, his statements, her theories.

Charles listened. When she was finished he said,
"What an interesting case. Complex, intelligent, responsive.
What's bothering you?"

"What he's not telling," she said.

"Nothing unusual about that, especially with
symptoms this complex. Besides, it’s early, you’ve only touched
the surface. You know that." He stopped for a moment. "But
then you're not talking about his past, are you? You’re talking
about the present."

She lit another cigarette."He broke in on one of
my sessions today . . ." She considered telling him that Loring
had stolen her scarf afterward but didn’t, even though it was what
had led her to call Charles for lunch. The scarf was such a bare
statement of Loring's need. To discuss symptoms with another
professional was one thing, but to tell about the scarf would,
somehow, be a sort of betrayal on her part . . .

Charles's eyebrows raised at this information. "I
see, and what did you do?"

Margaret turned and looked out the window. In the
near distance she could see the Cathedral of Sts. Peter and Paul.

"I sent him away."

"And . . . ?"

"I didn’t want to, he was in a bad way. He
needed me — "

"Needed you . . . or needed to see you?"

She took a drag on her cigarette. "Same thing."

"
No, it’s not, you know that . . . is he
attractive?"

"That's inappropriate. You wouldn’t ask a man
that. This is a professional situation we're talking about."

"That's true, it is a professional situation
we're talking about, but I think it's a valid question. And one that
I most certainly would ask a man describing a similar situation with
a female patient."

"I just don't much like the way you're putting
it. You make me sound like a so-called typical female. Is that how
you really think of me?"

"No, of course not, and I'd think after all
these years you'd know that. Let’s table the question."

"Let's not. Yes, he is attractive. One of the
handsomest men I've ever laid eyes on. Satisfied?"

Charles nodded, continued in a soft voice as if her
outburst never happened. "Is he the first patient who has ever
broken in on one of your sessions?"

"There have been others."

"
. . . And you sent them away, too," he
said. When she said yes, he said, "But something made this one
different. What was it? Was he suicidal? Did he threaten you or
appear violent when you told him to go?"

She shook her head. "He would never hurt me."
She realized she'd better explain that, even if she wasn't being
entirely honest. "He's not that kind of man, he’s very gentle,
he could never hurt anyone. That’s what makes it so bad. When I
sent him away I really hurt him, I know I did. He thinks I rejected
him . . ."

Damn it, this wasn't how she planned it. Everything
she was saying was coming out wrong. Charles was being argumentative.
She looked away. God, was she going to cry?

He put a hand on her arm. "What you're telling
me is dangerous ground. You did the right thing to send him away. If
you’re going to help him you’ve got to maintain control, and from
what you’re saying he does need your help."

"That’s what I'm trying to tell you," she
said.

"Margaret, what you’re going through happens
to every analyst at some point in his career. He meets a patient who
gets around his reserve. Not as often as the public thinks, but it
happens. Patients can be very seductive. You’re alone with them for
long periods of time. They expose themselves to you. A special
closeness develops. It's almost sexual by definition. Sex is, after
all, the physical communication of unspoken needs."

"It's not like that, Charles. I'm not going to
go to bed with him, for God's sake."

"But you’re thinking about it."

Instead of denying it, she straightened and asked him
why he said that.

"We’re discussing distance. If we look at
ourselves as the center, and the people of our lives as concentric
circles around us, like rings on a tree, the most distant circle is
our enemies. The closer in we get, the more intimate the
relationship, until we reach the center, which is symbolized by the
sex act, when the statement of closeness is made by one partner
actually being inside the body of the other."

He paused to light a pipe. "Your exact words a
moment ago were — ’I’m not going to go to bed with him.' You
didn't say, ’I'm not thinking about going to bed with him.' Which
indicates to me that you’ve moved him one concentric circle closer
to the center. More important, you’ve gone from a passive, romantic
speculation to an active denial, which, as you well know, means that
in your own subconscious you’ve accepted the possibility as
reality."

"No Charles, you’re wrong. What I'm telling
you is that . . . what I’m telling you is that this is a patient
I’m very concerned about. Period"

"No," he said gently, "you're telling
me that you're human, that you're afraid you're about to make a
mistake, that you need help."

She looked at him. "What you're saying doesn’t
make me sound very professional, does it?"

"Bullshit. I’m not Bill Buckley. Your
libidinal considerations aside, what we're talking about here is
plain wrong from every standpoint. Sheer folly, as they would have
said in the nineteenth century. There are no grounds on which you can
justify it. Patients are like your children. They trust you. You
can't betray a trust."

"
Charles, you're way out in left field. What I
want to talk about is the best way to help him."

"
That's what I’m talking about, too . . Look,
satisfy an old man’s curiosity. Tell me your dreams."

She looked at him for a long moment. It was a mistake
to come here, but if I don’t answer him he’ll think something
worse anyway. "All right. I dreamed about him twice. Each time
we were in a house. He was in the kitchen making dinner. I came and
stood in the doorway — "

"I won't insult your intelligence by
interpreting that one for you . . . What about your waking hours?
Your wish-thinking?"

"Can I have another glass of wine . . . no, make
it a Perrier," she said, remembering the Valium.

He caught Keith’s eye and ordered.

"I think Adam is having an affair . . . with one
of his students. She's nineteen. A friend told me about them. At
first I didn't believe it, hated her for telling me. You know . . .
kill the messenger, but after a while I couldn't deny it any more.
Oh, he has an excuse every time he’s late or goes out at night but
. . ." She turned to look out the window again. Damn it, she
needed someone to care about her for a change. "Charles,
nineteen-year-olds can be very indiscreet, and heartless. Every night
she calls. If I answer she just listens, doesn’t say a damn 
word. Adam calls it a prank caller, but I know it's her." She
paused. "But there have been times when I pretended to myself it
was my patient, not her."

"Is this a what's-fair-for-the-goose deal?"

She whipped around to look at him, her eyes angry.
"Don't humiliate me. We've been friends too long. I didn't come
here for that."

He was silent for a moment, then: "I'm sorry for
what's happening between you and Adam. I don't want to see you hurt,
but — "

She shook her head. "I know what you're going to
say — but you're not listening to me, you're projecting — "

"
I'm projecting? Talk about transference.
Margaret, face it, you're becoming emotionally involved with a
patient who has a very complex psychological disorder.
Run-of-the-mill neurotics don't go around having psychotic episodes
in men's stores."

Loring's face came to her mind. Charles was no god.
Loring was her patient. Charles didn't know him. "It wasn't
psychotic. It was hysteric. There's a big difference, I believe."