Trace - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 75

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"Clear," he comes back.

Good, she thinks. He isn't picking up on any sounds downstairs. "You don't even want to know how much trouble you're in," Lucy says to Dr. Paulsson. "You don't even want to know who's watching and listening to all of this in real time, live. Sit down. Sit down!" She returns the pen to her pocket, its hidden lens looking right at him.

He moves unsteadily, fumbles with a chair, rolls it out from the counter, and sits, looking at her, his face white. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

"I'm your destiny, motherfucker," Lucy says to him, and she tries to will her rage back into its cage, but it is easier for her to will herself to seem scared than it is for her to will her rage into submission. "You do this sort of shit with your daughter? With Gilly? You molest her too, you son of a bitch?"

He stares at her, his eyes wild.

"You heard me. You heard me loud and clear, asshole. The FAA's going to hear you soon enough too."

"Get out of my office." He is thinking of grabbing her, she can see it in the tensed muscles of his body, in his eyes.

"Don't try it," Lucy warns him. "Don't think of moving out of that chair until I tell you to. When was the last time you saw Gilly?"

"What is this about?"

"The rose," Benton cues her.

"I'm the one asking questions," Lucy tells Dr. Paulsson, and a part of her wants to tell Benton the same thing. "Your ex-wife is spreading stories around. Did you know that, Dr. Homeland Security Snitch?"

He wets his lips, his eyes wide and frantic.

"She's making a pretty good case for you being the reason Gilly's dead. Did you know that?"

"The rose," Benton sounds in her ear.

"She says you came to see Gilly not long before she suddenly died. You brought her a rose. Oh, we know about it. Everything in that poor little girl's room has been gone through, trust me."

"A rose was in her room?"

"Get him to describe it," Benton says.

"You tell me," Lucy says to Dr. Paulsson. "Where'd you get the rose?"

"I didn't. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't waste my time."

"You're not going to the FAA…"

Lucy laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, assholes like you are cut out with a cookie cutter. You really think you'll get away with your shit, you really think it. Talk to me about Gilly. Then we'll talk about the FAA."

"Turn it off." He indicates the camera pen.

"You tell me about Gilly, I'll turn it off."

He nods.

She touches the pen and pretends she's turning it off. His eyes are scared and don't trust her.

"The rose," she repeats.

"I swear to God, I don't know anything about a rose," he replies. "I would never hurt Gilly. What is she saying? What is that bitch saying?"

"Yes, Suzanna." Lucy stares at him. "She has a lot to say. The way she tells it, you're the reason Gilly's dead. Murdered."

"No! Good God, no!"

"You play soldier with Gilly, too? You dress her up in camouflage and boots, asshole? You let perverts in your house to play your sick little games?"

"Oh God," he groans, shutting his eyes. "That bitch. It was between us."

"Us?"

"Suz and me. Couples do things."

"And who else? You have other people over playing your games?"

"It was my private home."

"What a pig you are," Lucy says menacingly. "Doing shit like that in front of a little girl."

"Are you FBI?" He opens his eyes, and they look dead with hate, like shark eyes. "You are, aren't you. I knew it would happen. I should have known. As if my life has to do with anything. I knew it. I've been set up."

"I see. The FBI forced you to make me take my clothes off for a routine flight physical."

"It has nothing to do with anything. It doesn't matter."

"I beg to differ," she replies sarcastically. "It matters all right. You're going to find out just how much it matters. I'm not the FBI. You aren't that lucky."

"This is all about Gilly?" He is more relaxed in the chair, defeated and barely moving. "I loved my daughter. I haven't seen her since Thanksgiving and that's the God's truth."

"The puppy," Benton cues her, and Lucy considers ripping the receiver out of her ear.

"You think someone killed your daughter because you're a snitch for Homeland Security?" Lucy knows better, but she is going to get him. "Come on, Frank. Tell the truth! Don't make it worse for yourself!"

"Someone killed her," he repeats. "I don't believe it."

"Believe it."

"That can't be."

"Who came to your house to play the game? You know Edgar Allan Pogue? The guy living behind your house? Living where Mrs. Arnette used to live?"

"I knew her," he says. "She was a patient of mine. Hypochondriac. Damn pain in the ass, really."

"This is important," Benton says, as if Lucy doesn't know. "He's confiding. Be his friend."

"Your patient in Richmond?" Lucy asks Dr. Paulsson, and the last thing she wants is to be his friend, but she softens, acts interested. "When?"

"When? Oh God. Forever ago. Actually, I bought our Richmond house from her. She owned a number of houses in Richmond. At the turn of the century, her family owned the whole damn block, was one big estate, got divided up for members of her family, eventually for sale. I bought our house from her, for a bargain. Some bargain."

"Sounds like you didn't like her much," Lucy says, as if she and Dr. Paulsson get along fine, as if he wasn't molesting her a few minutes ago.

"She'd come by the house, my office, whenever she wanted. Pain in the ass. Always complaining."

"What happened to her?"

"Died. Eight, ten years ago. Long time ago."

"Of what?" Lucy asks. "What did she die of?"

"She'd been sick, had cancer. She died at home."

"Details," Benton says.

"What do you know about it?" Lucy asks. "She alone when she died? She have a big funeral?"

"Why are you asking all this?" Dr. Paulsson sits in the chair, looking at her. But he is feeling better because she is friendly. It's obvious.

"It might be related to Gilly. I know things you don't. Let me ask the questions."

"Careful," Benton warns her. "Keep him close."

''Well, ask me then," Dr. PauLsson says snidely.

"Did you go to her funeral?"

"I don't remember her having one."

"She must have had a funeral," Lucy says.

"She hated God, blamed him for all her aches and pains, for nobody wanting to be around her, which was understandable if you knew her. What a disgusting old lady. Just intolerable. Doctors don't get paid enough to treat people like her."

"She died at home? She was that sick with cancer and died all alone at home?" Lucy asks. "She was in hospice?"

«-k The "

No.

"She's a wealthy woman and dies all alone at home, no medical care, nothing?"

"More or less. Why does all this matter?" His eyes move around the examination room, and he is alert and more confident.

"It matters. You're making things better for yourself. A lot better," Lucy assures him and threatens him at the same time. "I want to see Mrs. Arnette's medical records. Show them to me. Pull her up on your computer."

"I would have purged her record. She's dead." His eyes mock her. "Funny thing about Dear Mrs. Arnette is she donated her body to science because she didn't want a funeral, because she hated God, and that was that. I guess some poor med student had to work on the old bitch. I used to think about that from time to time and feel sorry for the poor med student whose luck of the draw was to get her withered, ugly old body." He

is calmer and more sure of himself, and the more confident he gets, the more Lucy's hatred rises like bile.

"The puppy," Benton says in her ear. "Ask him."

"What happened to Gilly's puppy?" Lucy asks Dr. Paulsson. "Your wife says their puppy disappeared and you had something to do with it."

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