And then an awful thought, one so terrible I might indeed have suppressed it, began to surface.

Chapter 43

I feigned illnessand excused myself. I went to the bathroom and dialed Edgar’s phone number. My father-in-law himself answered. “Hello?”

“You said Monica was seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Marc? Is that you?” Edgar cleared his throat. “I just heard from the police. Those pissant fools had me convinced that you were behind all this—”

“I don’t have time for that now. I’m still trying to find Tara.”

“What do you need?” Edgar asked.

“Did you ever find out the name of her psychiatrist?”

“No.”

I thought about it. “Is Carson there?”

“Yes.”

“Put him on.”

There was a brief pause. I tapped my foot. Uncle Carson’s rich voice came over the line. “Marc?”

“You knew about those pictures, didn’t you?”

He didn’t reply.

“I checked our accounts. The money didn’t come from us. You paid for the private detective.”

“It had nothing to do with the shooting or kidnapping,” Carson said.

“I think it did. Monica told you the name of her psychiatrist, didn’t she? What was it?”

Again he did not reply.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Tara.”

“She only saw him twice,” Carson said. “How can he help you?”

“He can’t. His name can.”

“What?”

“Just tell me, yes or no. Was his name Stanley Radio?”

I could hear him breathing.

“Carson?”

“I already spoke to him. He knows nothing—”

But I had already hung up. Carson wouldn’t say any more.

But Dina Levinsky might.

I asked Regan and Tickner if I was under arrest. They said no. I asked Verne if I could still borrow the Camaro.

“No problemo,” Verne said. Then squinting, he added, “Do you need my help?”

I shook my head. “You and Katarina are out of this now. It’s over for you.”

“I’m still here, if you need me.”

“I don’t. Go home, Verne.”

He surprised me with a big hug then. Katarina kissed my cheek. I let go and watched them drive off in the pickup. I headed toward the city. There was heavy traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel. It took me over an hour to get through the tolls. That gave me time to make some phone calls. I learned that Dina Levinsky shared an apartment in Greenwich Village with a friend.

Twenty minutes later, I knocked on her door.

When Eleanor Russell returned from lunch, there was a plain manila envelope on her chair. It was addressed to her boss, Lenny Marcus, and markedPERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL .

Eleanor had worked with Lenny for eight years. She loved him dearly. Having no family of her own—she and her husband, Saul, who had died three years before, had never been blessed with children—she had become something of a surrogate grandmother to the Marcuses. Eleanor even had photographs of Lenny’s wife, Cheryl, and their four children on her desk.

She studied the envelope and frowned. How had it gotten here? She peeked into Lenny’s office. He looked so harried. That was because Lenny had just returned from a homicide scene. The case involving his best friend, Dr. Marc Seidman, had exploded back into the headlines. Normally Eleanor would not bother Lenny at a time like this. But the return address . . . well, she thought he should see it for himself.

Lenny was on the phone. He saw her enter and put his hand over the receiver. “I’m kinda busy,” he said.

“This came for you.”

Eleanor handed him the envelope. Lenny almost ignored it. Then Eleanor watched as he spotted the return address. He turned it over, then back again.

The return address simply read,From a friend of Stacy Seidman.

Lenny put down the phone and tore open the envelope.

I don’t think Dina Levinsky was surprised to see me.

She let me in without a word. The walls were blanketed with her paintings, many hung at odd angles. The effect was dizzying, giving the entire apartment a Salvador Dalí feel. We sat in the kitchen. Dina offered to make tea. I said no. She put her hands on the table. I could see that her fingernails were bitten down past the cuticle. Had they been that way at my house? She seemed different now, sadder somehow. Her hair was straighter. Her eyes were downcast. It was as if she was transforming back to the pitiful girl I had known in elementary school.

“You found the pictures?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Dina closed her eyes. “I should have never led you to them.”

“Why did you?”

“I lied to you before.”

I nodded.

“I’m not married. I don’t enjoy sex. I do have troubles with relationships.” She shrugged. “I even have problems with telling the truth.”

Dina tried to smile. I tried to smile back.

“In therapy we’re taught to confront our fears. The only way to do that is to let the truth in, no matter how much it hurts. But see, I wasn’t even sure what the truth was. So I tried to lead you there.”

“You were back in the house before the night I saw you, weren’t you?”

She nodded.

“And that’s how you met Monica?”

“Yes.”

I kept going. “You two became friends?”

“We had something in common.”

“That being?”

Dina looked up at me, and I saw the pain.

“Abuse?” I said.

She nodded.

“Edgar sexually abused her?”

“No, not Edgar. Her mother. And it wasn’t sexual. It was more physical and emotional. The woman was very ill. You knew that, right?”

“I guess I did,” I said.

“Monica needed help.”

“So you introduced her to your therapist?”

“I tried. I mean, I set up an appointment for her with Dr. Radio. But it didn’t work out.”

“How come?”

“Monica was not the sort of woman who believed in therapy. She thought that she could best handle her own problems.”

I nodded. I knew. “At the house,” I said, “you asked me if I loved Monica.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She thought you didn’t.” Dina put her finger in her mouth, searching for a sliver of nail to bite. There was none. “Of course, she thought herself unworthy of love. Like me. But there was a difference.”




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