Bound by Suggestion Page 2

  She glanced at me. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Jeffrey Resnick,” I said, forcing a smile, and shoved my hand at her.

  The woman eyed my outstretched hand, hesitated, then took it.

  Our eyes locked. Her hand convulsed around mine. Peering past the layers of her personality, I looked straight into her soul.

  A tremor ran through me. I pulled back my hand, my legs suddenly rubbery. Sweat soaked into my shirt collar and I took a shaky breath, hoping to quell the queasiness in my gut.

  “Do you mind if I sit?”

  She gestured toward the couch in the living room, but I lurched into the kitchen and fell into a maple chair at the worn Formica table. The others followed, leaning against the counters, looking like wallflowers at a dance. Mrs. Jarowski moved to stand in front of the refrigerator, arms at her side, body tense. The open floor plan allowed me to look into the apartment. Like the kitchen set, the rest of the furniture was shabby but immaculate. Mrs. Jarowski’s faded housedress was freshly ironed. She probably spent her days scrubbing the life out of things.

  I looked around the sterile kitchen, an exact replica of the room directly below us—the floor, the counters, the cupboards—everything, right down to the white plastic switch plates. Three embroidered dishtowels lined the oven door pull, Mrs. Jarowski’s only concession to decor. The tug of conflicting emotions was even stronger than downstairs. We looked at one another for a few moments in awkward silence.

  Mrs. Jarowski cleared her throat. “Are you a doctor, too?” she asked me.

  “You might say I’m an expert on headaches. Tell me about yours, Mrs. Jarowski. Migraines, aren’t they?”

  The old lady’s sharp eyes softened. “I’ve had a lot of tests, even a couple of CAT scans, but they’ve all been inconclusive. I’ve been told they’re due to stress. One doctor said they’re psychosomatic.”

  “I doubt that,” I said, winning a grateful nod. “They get pretty bad sometimes, don’t they?”

  She nodded again, looking hopeful.

  “I can sure identify with that. I got mugged last year. A teenager with a baseball bat cracked my skull. Since then I get some really bad ones. I’m working up to a doozie right now.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” she asked, an odd catch to her voice.

  “Nothing. Tell me about Eric Devlin.”

  Her back went rigid. “I’ve already told the police, I don’t know anything about his disappearance.”

  “His mother said he was ‘all boy,’ but I get the feeling he was a little hellion. A noisy kid. Kind of a brat, really.”

  Dr. Marsh glared at me as if I’d blasphemed God almighty. The whole city had developed a reverence for the missing child.

  Mrs. Jarowski didn’t share that feeling.

  “He used to ride up and down the sidewalk on one of those big plastic tricycles for hours at a time. Up and down and up and down. They make one hell of a racket, don’t they?”

  Her lips tightened. The tension in that kitchen nearly crackled.

  My nausea cranked up a notch and I loosened my tie. On the verge of passing out, I rested my elbows on the table to steady myself.

  “When I have one of these sick headaches, I have to lie down in a dark room with absolute quiet. Otherwise I think I’d go insane. Has that ever happen to you?”

  Mrs. Jarowski’s gaze pinned me.

  The vision streaked before my mind’s eye: Eric, eyes round with anticipation, his small hand clutching the tumbler of chocolate milk, something his mother would never let him have. Paula calling to him from somewhere outside. The half empty glass falling to the spotless floor, shattering. Chocolate milk splashing the walls and cabinet doors.

  “It’s peaceful and quiet these days,” I said. “Like a morgue.” My gaze drifted to the full-sized refrigerator—back to her. I swallowed down bile. “Do you want to show me?”

  Her cheeks flushed. She wouldn’t look at me.

  Dr. Marsh and Richard looked at me in confusion. Mrs. Jarowski seemed to weigh the question, her solemn gaze focused on the floor.

  “The freezer, right?”

  Mrs. Jarowski’s anger slipped, replaced by a tremendous sense of guilt—but not, I noticed, remorse.

  “Dr. Alpert, maybe you should have a look,” I suggested.

  Mrs. Jarowski held her ground.

  Richard brushed past me and crossed the room in three steps. His eyes bored into hers and the older woman backed down, moving aside. The freezer door swung open. A heavy, black plastic garbage bag filled the space. Richard worked on the twist tie and then he pulled back the plastic. His breath caught in his throat and he slammed the door, suddenly pale.

  “Holy Christ.”

  The quartz wall clock ticked loudly, but time seemed to stand still.

  At last Richard moved to the phone and punched 911. “I’m calling to report a body at 456 Weatherby, apartment C.”

  Richard swallowed as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. Dr. Marsh blinked in confused revulsion.

  Stony-faced, Mrs. Jarowski turned, her slippered feet scuffing across the vinyl floor as she headed for the living room. She sat down on her faded couch, picked up the remote control and turned on the television.

  Finally Richard hung up the phone.

  “Dr. Marsh, can you watch Mrs. J until the police get here?” I asked.

  She nodded, still looking shell-shocked.

  I squinted up at Richard. “Maybe you could help me to the bathroom. I don’t want to barf on Mrs. J’s nice clean floor.”

  I sat back against the lumpy couch, breathing shallowly, a hand covering my eyes to blot out the piercing light. After more than an hour, two of my pills still hadn’t put a dent in the throbbing headache.

  The cops had already taken Mrs. Jarowski away. The ME had arrived and the crime photographer was still flashing pictures in the kitchen. The place was full of cops and the murmur of a dozen voices drilled through my skull.

  “Can I get you something, Mr. Resnick?” Lieutenant Brewer of the Buffalo Metropolitan Police stood over me. The chunky, balding cop still seemed taken aback that his case had been broken by an outsider.

  I squinted up at him. “No, but I’d appreciate if you could assure my privacy. Please don’t give the press my name. The last thing I want is publicity.”

  “Okay, but answer me this; how’d you know?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know how it works, it just does.”

  “The old lady waived her rights. Said she heard Ms. Devlin had signed a new two-year lease and decided she’d had enough of the noise. She lured the kid up here and made him quiet—permanently.”

  “And the chocolate milk?” Richard asked me.

  “The lure of a forbidden treat. Mrs. J ground up sleeping pills and had him drink it,” I said. “When he was dopey, she planned to smother him.”

  I thought about it—remembered what I’d seen when I’d touched her. Fury gave her the strength to hold the boy, who’d struggled in those last minutes. She’d sealed his nose and mouth with a wad of freshly pressed linen dishtowels, pinning him against the floor until his body slackened, his small chest no longer heaving. Then she’d heard Paula Devlin frantically calling for her son. Anna Jarowski sat beside the dead boy for a long time—triumphant in the knowledge she’d finally silenced her intolerably noisy neighbor.

  I looked up at Brewer. “I take it you haven’t searched the place yet.”

  “Call me paranoid, but I’m waiting for a warrant. No way do I want this thrown out of court on a technicality.”

  “You’ll find what’s left of the tricycle in one of the closets. She’s got a hacksaw. Been cutting it up and sneaking it out in the trash for the past eight months.”

  Dr. Marsh elbowed her way through the crowd in the kitchen. She’d been gone about an hour—breaking the news to the boy’s mother, no doubt.

  “How’s Paula?” Richard asked.

  “I gave her a sedative
. Now that her mother’s here, I think she’ll be all right.” She looked at me. “How are you, Jeff?” Her icy veneer had melted, her best bedside manner now firmly in place.

  “Sick.”

  “But you’ve got to feel good about what you’ve done.”

  I frowned. “I made two women miserable. Why would that make me feel good?”

  She seemed puzzled by my answer, but I didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. “Dr. Marsh, you said another psychic came here. What did she tell Paula?”

  “That the boy was well and living in a small town down south, anxious to be back home with his mother.”

  Poor Paula.

  “Do you need me anymore?” I asked the detective.

  He shook his head. “Go home before you keel over.”

  I glanced at my brother. “Now would be a good time, Rich.”

  I moved on shaky legs. Richard and Dr. Marsh steadied me on the stairs. We ducked under the crime scene tape and they pushed me through the throng of press as we headed for Richard’s Lincoln Town Car.

  Dr. Marsh crushed her business card into my palm. “Call me.” Her voice was husky, excited, like a rock star’s groupie.

  Reporters and cameramen swarmed as she slammed the car door. Richard left her to deal with them, taking off with a squeal and leaving rubber on the asphalt.

  “Sharks,” he muttered.

  I leaned against the headrest and considered my first consultation. By all counts, a royal success.

  Then why did I feel so dirty?

  Chapter 2

  It took two days for the hellacious headache to fade. Avoiding noise and light, I unplugged the phone and hid in my darkened bedroom.

  Three days into my isolation, Richard crossed the driveway, marched up the stairs to my loft apartment over his garage, and read me the riot act for being inaccessible. I refused to feel guilty. It also occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from my lady, Maggie Brennan, either. I called her at work, got her voice mail, but decided not to leave a message.

  The lady shrink was the next to call. I was developing a set of prints in my darkroom when the phone rang. Okay, so I’m a relic from a bygone age. I love my digital camera, but I also love to do fine art black-and-white prints made with old-fashioned chemical photography.

  “Mr. Resnick? This is Dr. Krista Marsh. We met at Paula Devlin’s.”

  “Yeah.” Not entirely rude, but not enthusiastic, either.

  “I’ve been waiting for your call. I want to know more about your psychic gifts.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. I met Paula as a favor to my brother. If you’ll excuse me, I’m kinda busy right now—”

  “Wait,” she said. “I don’t want to dissect your mind, if that’s what you think. This is personal. I’m fascinated with what you do and I’d really like to sit down and talk to you about it.”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “Richard, of course.”

  Of course.

  “I was surprised by your low-key demeanor,” she continued. “No histrionics, no drama. Most self-professed psychics are deliberately vague. Your insight was astonishingly accurate. How do you explain it?”

  “I can’t. It’s just lucky I was on the same wavelength as Paula, her kid, and Mrs. J. It doesn’t usually happen that way.”

  “Would you be willing to talk about this in more detail?”

  Using tongs, I picked up the pictures, dumped them into the fixer and swished them around. “Okay,” I said at last. I still don’t know why. Maybe it was the sincerity in her voice, the fact that she was Richard’s colleague, or the trust Paula Devlin so obviously placed in her.

  “If you could come to my office, I’d be—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why should I inconvenience myself just to satisfy your curiosity, Dr. Marsh?”

  “Call me Krista.”

  “Look, Dr. Marsh, I’ll be home Saturday morning. If you drop by between ten and eleven o’clock, I’ll talk to you then.”

  “I’ll bring donuts.”

  “I prefer muffins. Nothing with bran. And I take my coffee with cream—no sugar.”

  “I’ll remember that. See you Saturday.”

  I hung up without saying good-bye.

  That was stupid. I didn’t want to talk to her. Being rude hadn’t discouraged her, which meant she wasn’t easily intimidated.

  Good.

  I went back to the prints floating in the fixing bath. A thread of unease crept through me as I worked. I hoped I hadn’t made a big mistake.

  Saturday dawned warm and sunny, a perfect spring morning—the kind that makes you forget all the months of snowdrifts and frigid temperatures that Buffalo is so famous for. I’d awakened early and, feeling good, decided to do something useful outside. It was too early to plant annuals, but I didn’t feel like turning over the garden yet again. Instead, I washed the last of the salt off the three cars: Richard’s, his wife Brenda’s, and my own wreck.

  I saved Richard’s silver Lincoln for last. Maybe I’d even spend an hour or so waxing it. God, I loved that car, something so far out of my price range I knew I’d never own anything comparable. But I got vicarious pleasure taking care of it and occasionally driving it.

  I was hosing down the front end when a champagne Lexus pulled up the drive. Dr. Marsh stepped out of her car, clutching a large bakery bag and balancing two cups of coffee.

  Dressed in form-fitting jeans, a scarlet sweater, and a bulky denim jacket, she didn’t look at all clinical. Large sunglasses hid her expressive brown eyes and, I admit, I wasn’t immune to her attractive face.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she greeted me.

  “Breakfast was hours ago.”

  I set down the hose, wiped my wet hands on my shirt, and joined her on the side steps of Richard’s house.

  She handed me a cup and provided napkins. “How’s oatmeal raisin?”

  “My favorite,” I said, reaching into the bag.

  She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair like a headband, then removed the lid from her cup. “Richard told me you used to be an insurance investigator.”

  “Corporate downsizing kind of ended my career.”

  “And the mugging, too?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “How much did Richard tell you?”

  “Not much more than that. Just that as a result of the fractured skull, you seem to have acquired an empathic ability. He said you’ve used it to help solve several crimes. Strong emotions seem to be the catalyst.”

  “I don’t like meeting people because they expect you to shake hands. That usually starts it.”

  “With everyone you meet?”

  “Some people, like Richard, are blanks to me.”

  “Would you shake my hand?”

  “You haven’t killed anyone lately, have you?”

  She laughed. “No.”

  I set my coffee on the step, took her hand, shook it—and hung on. Her skin was warm and soft, her long fingernails professionally manicured. She wore no rings. Single?

  “Well?”

  I released her hand. “Nothing.”

  “What did you feel when you shook Paula’s hand?”

  I sipped my coffee and thought about it for a moment. “Desperation. She really thought she wanted to know what happened to her son.”

  “Thought?”

  “Knowing the truth robbed her of her hope.”

  She frowned. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

  “I have to tell you, Dr. Marsh—”

  “Krista,” she insisted.

  “that invoking this ‘gift’ comes at a price.”

  “The headaches?”

  “Yeah. Monster skullpounders. I’ve been to several quacks. They don’t call them migraines, because they’re not brought on by the usual triggers, but they sure act like migraines. I’ve changed medications at least six times in the past year. None o
f them have been entirely successful.”

  “Is that why you don’t offer your services to the police on a regular basis?”

  “It’s painful tapping into some stranger’s emotions. Why would I do it as a hobby?”

  “To help people?”

  I sipped my coffee. “You’re mixing me up with my brother. He’s the noble one in the family.”

  “He mentioned your low self-esteem.”

  “Did he now?”

  “He worries about you. He feels you haven’t dealt with a lot of issues surrounding the mugging and what’s happened since.”

  Heat flushed my cheeks. “Did he consult you professionally on my behalf?”

  “No. We’re friends. He asked my opinion.”

  “And that is?”

  “I’m not looking to take you on as a patient, if that’s what you think.”

  “Richard’s other big crusade is for me to become someone’s guinea pig. He thinks I’d make a great topic for a thesis or dissertation.”

  “And that doesn’t interest you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a private person. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

  “And you don’t respect doctors.”

  “Where do you get that idea?”

  “Quacks?” she repeated.

  I sipped my coffee. “I respect Richard. He’s very good at what he does. Except he’s obviously got a big mouth. Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “You aren’t his patient.”

  I frowned. “You got me there.”

  “What about other doctors?”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t had many good experiences.”

  “Have you sought therapy before?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask when?”

  “No.”

  “I take it it wasn’t successful.”

  I shifted uncomfortably on the cold hard step. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Do you judge all counselors by that one experience?”

  “I like to think I judge people individually. And I’d really like to change the subject. No cracks about being in denial, either.”