He was so sure she'd done it.
Really, this inquisition was merely a formality. The more he uncovered, the more he found the circumstances were just too perfect.
On the surface this case seemed particularly thorny, stumping even the most shrewd of his colleagues. But in his 15 years of detective work, he'd picked up a thing or two.
The deceased--James Walter, a lone, middle-aged bachelor--was found in his garage, seated in his running car. With his cell phone in hand, he was last dialed by a private number returning no trace. His home was littered with small clues: the recently-used lipstick in the car's center console, the lacy bra stuffed haphazardly in the back of the drawer, the extra tampons stashed in his bathroom cabinet. And after asking around, no woman in his life of which to speak.
Except, of course, for his psychiatrist.
Detective Michael Berman's reflections in the mirrored elevator were cut short, punctuated by a chime of arrival.
Even her waiting room seemed imbued with a strange aura. Doctor Maria Angelos' secretary assured the detective that she'd be just a minute. Naturally, he took a seat.
Duly noted was the sheer calm of the room's ambience, a room that clearly rebelled against its liminal reputation, a room that seemed eager to force its inhabitants to sit and simply be for a little while, rather than fret about such futile, transient matters as life's everyday worries.
The wooden, coffered walls absorbed noise perfectly, the space almost eerily silent except for very slow, very pleasant jazz wafting from the ceiling speaker. No harsh fluorescent bulbs to be found--only warm light, and not too much of it, from stylish, strategically-placed floor lamps. A faint, calming fragrance of something piney, perhaps balsam, puffed away from a small machine humming in the corner. The chairs, a far cry from the starkly utilitarian constructions typically found in such rooms, were accommodating, soft, and supportive. Very easy to settle into. Fascinating art on the walls; little reading material of which to speak. A kindly grandfather clock ticked in the other corner, each tick a heavy thunk forward in time, its pendulum swinging with equally great effort.
An art lover, Detective Berman studied an intricate and colorful impressionist painting on the wall across from him. It was spirited, yet restrained, with big, bold strokes of vibrant greens. And as he examined it, focused on it, it wasn't long before he realized that the rest of the stimuli around him had faded away.
Veritably peaceful by any standard. So peaceful, in fact, that when called in, the detective found prying himself from his position took a bit of effort.
He'd always had that tendency of intense, tunneling focus, and though it uniquely suited him to his work, it sometimes caused moments of distraction like this. Mildly amused at his own fixation, he rose and followed the doctor's receptionist, making an appropriate mental note of this phenomenon as a fascinating study in the effect of one's surroundings.
His face appeared apprehensively from behind her door, taking in her office. This space was of similar serenity to her waiting room--carefully-curated, though more suited for long hours of work.
And there sat the little lady herself at her expansive mahogany desk.
"Doctor Angelos?" called a baritone voice.
"You must be Detective Berman, hi," she said sweetly, rising to shake his hand. "Good evening. Come in, have a seat. Hope the rush hour traffic wasn't too bad."
"Evening, Doctor. No, not too bad. I have my shortcuts," he replied. She nodded politely.
His large, sunken eyes scanned the woman before him, his instincts immediately sizing her up. She was more than a head shorter than he, wearing a burgundy skirt suit that, while modest, highlighted her curvy figure. Somewhere in her early forties. Long, light brown hair--a dusty shade, streaked with silver, done in a French twist, with bangs that fell into full moon, pale green eyes. Dark undereye circles stood in stark contrast to both her eyes and her pallor. With a thin nose and slight overbite, her features were diminutive, somewhat crooked, fey. Odd, yet striking; altogether uniquely alluring. She smelled of sandalwood.
The detective in front of her, as Doctor Angelos found, was of similarly peculiar magnetism, albeit clearly frazzled from the day's demands. At first glance an average-looking man, closer scrutiny found a countenance tan, warm, and expressive, with eyes trustworthy and a smile disarmingly kind. His frame was tall and well-filled, his posture straight but saddled with fatigue. Approaching forty, it both showed and didn't. The charcoal suit under his coat looked to her discerning eye to be of superior fit and quality, perhaps vintage. His hair, curly and tangled and ink black, stood in all directions, framing his heavy brows and equally inky gaze. On his aquiline nasal bridge sat a pair of rounded black spectacles. His face was coated so liberally in stubble that it threatened a beard--a shadow cast well past five o'clock. He smelled of the city, mixed with deodorant on its last legs.
"If you'll excuse my appearance," he said, stretching discreetly, looking down at himself as if reading her mind. "I've been up and about since five this morning. I was lucky enough to be the detective on call. No time to so much as run a comb through my hair."
"Of course. I'm terribly sorry to hear that," she said, hand to her chin thoughtfully. "Sounds like a very stressful day. Such a tragedy about what happened. I'm at a loss."
"Absolutely. But thank you for understanding."
"They pay me to do just that. So what can I do for you?" she said, gesturing to an empty seat across from her desk. He took it, admiring its soft, plush leather.
"I must say, Doctor, this is quite the suite you've got here. The waiting room, the art, the chairs. I'm sure it gets patients talking. If not about their trauma, about the brocaded drapes, at least."
"Oh, of course. I pick every fixture in my home and office with the utmost thought. Down to the pile of the carpet."
"I can tell. I love those grandfather clocks. You can never go wrong with one, can you? They're timeless. Though not really, because, well, you know."
She smiled. He continued.
"Uh...You seem to have a different one in here than in the waiting room."
"Thank you. The one in the office is a more modern model, whereas this one's a genuine antique. Regency Era England."
"Incredible."
"Indeed. So what's on your mind, Detective?"
"Well, I'm just here to do a bit of bureaucratic poking around," he said, taking out his legal pad. "Standard procedure, piecing together a coherent narrative grounded in substantiated fact. Because the whole thing, when we really look at it, it all looks a little...well..."
"Of course. I didn't want to say anything, but it does reek of foul play, I'm afraid. As chief investigator I'm confident you will do your due diligence."
"You have my word. Hey," he said suddenly, pointing to a miniaturized marble sculpture on her desk. "Proserpina?"
"You know it?" she replied, eyebrows raised.
"Love Bernini, no one like him. I could look at his work all day long. I always discover something new about it whenever I take the time."
"That's precisely why it stands on my desk. But I'm sure you didn't come here to do that," she said politely. The detective gave her a slight smile. She returned with a particularly pleasant one.
"Right. So regarding Mr. Walter...you knew him on a doctor-patient basis, right?"
"That's right."
"And you're a practicing psychiatrist, is that correct?"
"Guilty as charged," she said evenly.
"So that's the only basis on which you knew him."
The doctor paused.
