"What's the evidence?"

Barrett ran through her first meeting with Jimmy. She told him about the lack of a lithium tremor.

"A lot of people don't get a tremor," Anton replied curtly.

"When he was at Croton, he had a marked tremor, Anton. And his prolactin level is now normal-it used to be sky high. I think I need to contact the review board, but I thought I'd run it by you first."

"As part of the board, Barrett, I can tell you they're not going to do anything. What have you got to go on? He's not shaking? Maybe his body acclimated or maybe he's under a lot less stress so you can't see it anymore. Same thing goes for the prolactin, it can normalize in people who've been taking meds as long as he has; you know that."

"Anton, Morris Kravitz never checked his lithium level. Were you aware of that?"

"I wasn't. But that just speaks to Kravitz's sloppiness, you can't hold that against Martin. It's not his fault his shrink wasn't doing his job. I hate to say it, Barrett, but this case has you scared. Jimmy Martin spent eighteen years in Croton and has only been out a few months-and he's been squeaky clean. The stuff you're rattling off seems more about you and less about him."

Barrett held the phone to her ear, dumbfounded by Anton's stance. Was she overreacting?

"Have you considered that maybe you should get some clinical supervision?" he continued. "Lord knows Martin's paying enough for you to get a few hours with somebody to get your head straight around this."

"I don't know what to say," Barrett commented, feeling betrayed and a little foolish. Why was he talking to her like this? Like she didn't know what she was doing.

"Well, I appreciate your call. But I'd caution you against contacting the board. You have to be careful that it doesn't appear like you're deliberately trying to come up with something to get Martin violated back to Croton."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"I didn't say that. But if you were to bring what you just told me to the rest of the board, it wouldn't look good."

She thought of more she could bring up, but as she ticked through the pieces that didn't fit she imagined Anton batting each of them away as products of her over-active imagination.

"Was there anything else?" he asked.

"No ... it's just your response surprises me."

"How's that?"

Barrett thought back to the inconsistency in Anton telling her that Jimmy's case was a gift as opposed to Jimmy having specifically asked for her. "Never mind," she said.

"You know, if you want to unload this case ... I could arrange that."

"It's okay," she forced a brightness into her voice, "I'll be fine. This has been helpful."

"I'm glad," he said, but sounding wary, and then hung up.

Was he right? From the way he spoke, it was almost as though she were paranoid. He'd probably freak if he knew she'd just called Kravitz's widow, or if she'd gone into the coincidence around the accident that prevented Jimmy's one-and-only set of bloodwork from making it to the lab. Weird.

She pulled out her PDA and looked up Hobbs' cell number. When he picked up on the second ring, she felt a rush of relief at the sound of his voice. "You busy?" she asked.

"Always. So what's up?"

"I need a favor." And she felt like adding, and a friend.

"Shoot. If I can do it, I will."

"It's very strange, and if you say no, I'll understand ... Any chance I could get you to tag along on a field trip to see the widow Kravitz."

Ed hesitated, "Kravitz ... Martin's shrink, the one who died. The one whose death certificate I was supposed to pull for you. Forgive me, but I totally blanked on that one."

"No problem, I already got it. So, are you up for it?"

"Sure. I've got night duty, so as long as we're done by eight, just tell me where and when."

FOURTEEN.

Jimmy drew the bow hard and fast across the cello. Throaty arpeggios leapt forth, his fingers landing with precision. He fought against the growing haze of the pills; he'd take them a bit longer. Still jazzed from last night's outing, he felt the pieces slip into place. Barrett's love, like a beacon, was calling him home.

The music soared, filling the s.p.a.ce with Bach's G.o.dly perfection. His breath deepened as he pictured the tall man with the trombone case, crossing the street, not looking-careless.

He pressed harder, pushing the tempo faster, nudging the adagio into an allegro, and then a scherzo, the notes blurring, his fingers flying spider-like over the strings. He pictured the auditorium where they'd play, the beautiful and intimate setting where he'd often given recitals with Ellen. It was the smallest of the three rooms at Carnegie Hall-the Weill. Arthur had done as instructed, the hall was rented, and the date was set.

He reached the end of the movement, and without stopping, soared into the opening of the Brahms E minor. He could hear her playing in the background. She'd be dressed in black, pearls at her throat. And after, when the music stopped, he'd put down his cello and take her hand. Applause would engulf them as she'd gracefully rise from the bench. He'd turn to her, and she to him. In his mind's eye he saw her beautiful lips form the word, "yes," and then- "Ain't going to happen, Jimbo." Father's voice cackled.

Jimmy's head whipped around, his bow faltered and screeched as his fingers missed notes.

"She doesn't love you, Jimbo."

He tried to ignore the heckling. Father was scared. She would save him, and he would love her always, they'd have children, and Ellen would be their aunt, and they'd spend endless nights playing music by the fire and Father would be forever banished.

"Fat chance. The only way you'll ever get her, Jimbo, is if you tie her up and drug her."

"No!" Jimmy stopped playing, hearing the last sour note fade. Father was wrong, but sometimes there was truth in what he said. He c.o.c.ked his head to the side, wondering if the voice would say more.

"She doesn't love you."

That wasn't true. It was just he had to complete the tests, like a knight or Prince Charming from Maylene's stories. Father was trying to distract him. To make him fail.

Jimmy caught a whiff of stale whisky and tobacco. Adrenalin surged and his pulse quickened. He put down the cello, and looked around the empty library.

"You're not here," Jimmy said. "You're dead."

"You can't kill me."

"You're dead. You're pathetic."

"She'll never love you," Father persisted, his voice high-pitched and whiny.

"You can't touch me."

"It's the pills."

"No," Jimmy said, not about to give in, savoring this newfound strength, "if it were the pills you would have disappeared at Croton, but you didn't. You made my life h.e.l.l."

"Just trying to be of service," Father replied. "At least you were popular."

"She loves me," Jimmy said. "We're going to be married."

"Fat chance, Jimbo. Fat chance." He was laughing, "She just wants to lock you up. Hey fellas, Jimbo's back in town."

"Shut up!" Father was wrong, but had he missed something? He ran out to the carriage house, and checked the taps on her phone lines. He listened and what he heard was frightening. What the h.e.l.l was prolactin? Is that why he'd grown b.r.e.a.s.t.s at Croton? He'd thought that just came with all the weight. What was she doing? Why was she doing this to him? Checking labs, asking questions?

"Give us a little kiss, Jimbo," Father's cackle seemed to fill the room.

"Go away." Then her call to the medical examiner followed by the one with Sheila Kravitz. But what could she tell Barrett, what could she know?

"She'll find something," Father chuckled. "And won't that be special?" he started to sing, "Jimbo's back in town. Jimbo's back in town."

Jimmy focused on the recordings; the one with the detective stopped him cold. He was flirting with her. He played their conversation back several times, listening to the lightness in her tone.

Father changed tunes, "Her boyfriend's back and you're going to be in trouble ..."

Something was wrong, several somethings. First off, Jimmy had requested plainclothes police. He didn't want the neighbors to see patrolmen coming in and out. But plainclothes didn't mean detective. So why a pair of detectives? And it was obvious that Dr. Conyors had a previous connection with this Hobbs. But what would she be doing flirting with a cop? She talked to him like an equal, like a friend.

Father interjected, "Like a lover. Like a hot and tasty cop lover with a big fat night stick that..."

"Shut up!" Jimmy screamed, struggling against a paralyzing fear.

He clicked on the Internet, and began to search. Starting with the police department's web site he retrieved Edward Hobbs' badge number, date of hire, and rank. "Interesting," he muttered finding a glitch in the database where there were two entries for Hobbs' name and badge number. He clicked on the second, "s.h.i.t!" he muttered. That couldn't be right. How was it possible for someone to go from being a Deputy Chief of Detectives down to a Detective Third Grade? Was it all part of an elaborate scheme to get him sent back to Croton? Anxiety flared, but the date of Hobbs' demotion was over a year ago. Even he could tell that the timing was off. Still, the thought of having the once Deputy Chief wandering around his home and romancing Dr. Conyors made him furious. He switched databases and hacked past the firewall security and into internal investigations. He double-clicked on the icon for Disciplinary Actions and Outcomes. In the search field he entered Hobbs' badge number. The screen flashed once as it pulled up a 200-page disciplinary file on Detective First Grade Edward Hobbs.

"My, my, my," Jimmy commented, as he opened the file and started to read. And just like the husband, he now realized that Hobbs would be a test that he could pa.s.s easily.

FIFTEEN.

Barrett and Hobbs walked down the carpeted hallway, checking door numbers as they went. Between apartments were groupings of fussy French gilt tables and chairs and crystal-dripping mirrors with lighted bra.s.s wall sconces.

"Shrinks make good money," Ed commented, as they neared their destination.

"They can."

"How much do you think apartments go for in a building like this?"

"To buy or rent?" she asked, as they engaged in a favorite New York pastime-How Much Does That Apartment Go For?

"Your choice."

"I'd say, to rent, a closet-sized studio is over two grand."

"And to buy?"

"Same apartment ... half a mil, maybe three quarters."

Before they could work their way up through one, two, and three bedrooms they arrived at the door to Morris and Sheila Kravitz's apartment.

Barrett was raising her hand to knock as the door opened.

Sheila Kravitz, a woman seemingly in her early thirties with over-processed ash-blond hair greeted them. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes were red-rimmed, even in the dim light. "The doorman called me," she said, as she led them down a long hall. "You have to forgive the mess, but the movers are coming tomorrow and I'm trying to get things as organized as possible."

"You're leaving town," Ed commented.

"And you are?" she asked.

"Detective Hobbs."

"Figures." Sheila turned and looked at Barrett, "You didn't say anything about bringing a cop."

"He's a friend," Barrett said.

"I suppose it doesn't matter. I don't really understand why you're here. But in a way I've been expecting someone. You know I told Morris a long time ago that the money didn't matter." She then stacked three half-packed boxes on the edge of the couch, clearing a s.p.a.ce for Barrett and Hobbs. "I guess you'd say he wasn't a very secure man."

"You miss him," Barrett commented, trying to draw a bead on Sheila's elliptical statements.

"You have no idea."

"What did you mean by the money didn't matter much?" Barrett asked.

Sheila straightened up and pushed a wisp of straw-dry hair back from her face. "This," she raised her hands and turned around. "All of this," pointing toward a killer view of the Hudson to the west and a s.p.a.cious deck, where small evergreens and trailing ivy had been neatly planted, facing east. "If you asked Morris he'd probably make some weird joke about needing it for me, or doing it for me-it didn't matter to me. It's bad enough when everyone around you thinks that you're a gold digger, but when you get it from the man you love ..."

"The money had something to do with Jimmy Martin?" Barrett asked.

"That's the Croton man, isn't it?"

Barrett nodded.

"So that was his name. Morris was very good at not talking about his patients. It's one of the first things that drew me to him."

"Where did you meet?" Barrett asked.