Текст книги "A Fatal Debt"

Автор книги: John Gapper

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“Call me if you like. I’m in the city sometimes.”

I felt the urge to justify to myself asking her out, but I resisted. It was a bad idea, no matter how tempting.

“I don’t think I should. Business and pleasure, you know,” I said awkwardly.

“So,” she said. “You think I’m pleasant.”

I laughed despite myself as I climbed onto the sidewalk. Then she eased the Range Rover into the traffic while I stood and watched her disappear.

8

That Saturday, I went to the greenmarket in Union Square, and when I returned, laden with paper bags, I was halted in the lobby by Bob Lorenzo, the head doorman of my apartment building. Bob had a neatly trimmed beard, bloodhound eyes, and an air of fortitude under pressure. We got on fine, though I tried to avoid discussing the Mets or the co-op board, both of which were painful topics.

“Dr. Kaufman came by, Dr. Cowper,” he said, holding up an envelope with “Ben” written on it in Rebecca’s round script and then underlined. “You just missed her. She asked me to give you this.”

“Thanks, Bob,” I said. I had once tried to persuade him to call me by my first name, but it had not stuck. The envelope was weighed down at the bottom by something, and I felt the shape inside: her key to my apartment. Bob regarded me with a look of disapproval, as if he knew what the package signified.

“She said she wouldn’t be here so much anymore. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said. I felt a surge of irritation at his silent judgment, compounding my guilt. What was wrong with these people?First my father and Jane, and now I couldn’t walk into my apartment building without being made to feel ashamed. That probably would have been my mother’s reaction, too. Are you quite sure, Ben?she’d have said with an undertone of reproach.

Back in my apartment, I lay on the bed, took a breath, and tore open Rebecca’s envelope with my thumb. Inside was a sheet of paper folded over upon itself, with her key attached with Scotch tape.

Ben,

I’m sorry I had to go. I miss you already but I think it’s for the best. I expect I’ll see you at work. I’ll be the one who looks like she’s been crying.

R.

I wanted to weep, but nothing came-my emotional tank was empty. It would have been easier if she’d been angry with me. Her affection and sad dignity were a kick in the stomach. If I hadn’t known her so well, I’d have thought that she’d calculated it to cause me pain, but she wasn’t like that.

I got up and paced around the room for a while, but the desolate feeling wouldn’t pass. I felt weary, but I didn’t want to stay at home, feeling bad about my ill treatment of Rebecca and entanglement with Harry, and worrying about my father’s heart. I needed something to distract me. I laid her note on the bed, walked into the living room, and called a friend from the hospital. He was a party animal who’d known in our first week of residency which bar to drink at and where to go afterward. Sure enough, he was heading out to a gathering later on.

“A guy Emma knows invited us to his apartment in TriBeCa. His parties are great, they say. He works on Wall Street,” he said.

“I don’t know, Steve. I don’t think I want to spend my Saturday night with a bunch of bankers.”

After my week with Harry and his entourage, it didn’t feel like relaxation to be plunged back into his world.

“Right. You’ve got so many other choices, don’t you? That’s why you’re calling me at six o’clock. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

When the sun had set and the lights had gone on in Union Square, casting a glow over the rooftops, I went into the bathroom. I opened a medicine cabinet above a jar of seashells that Rebecca had collected on a vacation we’d had in Cape Cod. I poked among the lotions and deodorants, behind the Ambien that she’d sometimes taken to help her sleep. I found a bottle full of orange ovals-30-milligram tablets of Adderall. Doctors shouldn’t self-medicate, especially not with amphetamines meant to treat attention deficit disorder, but Steve did and sometimes I did, too. At that moment, I craved anything that would blank out the thoughts in my head.

By the time I’d hailed a taxi downtown, my skin was prickling and a sheen of sweat had broken out on the backs of my hands as the amphetamine salts filtered into my blood, tampering with the norepinephrine and dopamine inside my brain. My mouth was dry and I felt the worry of the past few days drop away, leaving a light-headed fascination with the colors and shapes around me. All of the emotional clamor, the buzz of discomfort, grew muted. The discordant groans of the taxi’s air conditioner congealed into a pleasing harmony. I lowered the window as we shot along Broadway and the lights streamed behind us like a vapor trail in blue sky.

I pushed fruitlessly at the buzzer on the metal door to the building for five minutes before a couple rolled down the stairway on their way out and admitted me. It was obvious why I’d been ignored when I reached the tenth floor of the building and heard the roar of voices from inside the apartment. It was a vast multifloored loft with white-painted iron columns and a crush of guests shouting over hypnotic music being mixed on an Apple laptop by a DJ. Urban wealth was on display everywhere, from the canvases of rusting bridges and desolate landscapes on the walls to the black-uniformed waiters pouring Krug champagne into flutes. I walked out through the doors onto a terrace with a glittering view of nearby towers and, in the distance, City Hall. Steve was standing in a knot of people, and I walked up to him.

“So you made it. Ben, this is Lucia,” he said.

The young woman by him smiled. She was pretty-dark cropped hair, mascara, and gleaming eyes. She wore a silk dress, and the amphetamines made the straps over her shoulders appear to sparkle in the light.

“Great to meet you,” I said, feeling her soft hand in mine.

“Isn’t this apartment awesome?”

“Amazing.”

“It’s Gabriel’s. He’s over there with Josh.”

She pointed to a corner of the balcony where two men were talking. The man she indicated had a ruddy face, a flat jaw, and alert eyes. He seemed amused by the whole event, as if he were a guest rather than the host.

“I’m going to find a drink. Can I get you one?” I said.

Later on, back at her apartment in the East Village, after she’d gone to sleep, I stood at her bedroom window overlooking a dark alley and stared at the brick wall opposite. It was two a.m. and the Adderall was wearing off, making me shaky and paranoid. I remembered my walk on the beach, Harry telling me how he’d lost everything in the crash, and shivered, my faith in him evaporating along with the drugs. He’d told me he wouldn’t harm himself. Why should I trust him?I thought.

Hot water cascaded over my head and down my body on that Sunday morning as I stood in the shower at the gym, trying to absorb the news. I’d just watched it on television, the thing I’d feared. I’d left Harry in what I’d believed was a stable condition, and he had taken his own life. If I’d stuck with my instincts-the treatment in which I’d believed-instead of giving way to Duncan, I could have saved him. I thought of Nora and the distress she must now be in. After all she’d been through to save him, Harry had abandoned her. How could I face her again?

After a few minutes, I turned off the faucet and stepped out of the shower to dress. The treadmill runners were still panting on their machines as I’d been half an hour before, oblivious to the outside world. Walking out of the gym, I saw the same spring scene-the chess players on the sidewalk, a couple walking a dog, an old lady talking to a doorman-but my pleasure in it had gone.

Back home, I lay on my bed for a minute, thinking about Harry’s death and what it meant for me. I couldn’t talk to Rebecca; I didn’t want to worry my father in his convalescence; I couldn’t face calling Episcopal. Reminding myself that I advised patients not to wallow in their misery, I got up and paced my living room for a while. Then I decided that I had to find out exactly what had happened. Felix, I thought. He’d know. I looked through my jacket for my phone and scrolled through the Calls Received list to the previous week. There was the cellphone number from which he’d called me to fix the return trip on Harry’s jet. Pushing the key to redial, I waited.

“Lustgarten,” a voice said smoothly and evenly after two rings.

Had it been anyone else, and I hadn’t heard the sound of raised voices in the background, I would have thought it was the tone of someone having a relaxed Sunday afternoon. By his standards, however, he sounded edgy.

“Felix, this is Ben Cowper.”

“Ah, Dr. Cowper. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. I’m sorry to disturb you. It sounds as if you’re busy.”

“Just a little, yes. Could you hold on a minute? I’ll be right with you.”

“Sure,” I said.

He put his hand over the phone, but I could hear his muffled voice call across a room.

“Andrew! … Andrew! Tell him he’ll have to wait. We’ll have a statement in ten minutes.… No, I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s God Almighty.”

There was a rustle as Felix removed his hand and spoke to me.

“Sorry about that. The roof’s fallen in, as you might expect.”

“Are the papers calling?” I asked densely.

“A few. That happens when the chief executive of a Wall Street bank dies violently. The vultures circle.”

If I’d been thinking in that moment, if my brain hadn’t been frozen with shock, I would have caught it. Chief executive, he’d said, not former chief executive. But I pressed on with my questions blindly, and it took another few seconds for Felix to deliver the news unambiguously.

“How’s Mrs. Shapiro coping?”

“Nora’s in quite a state, very traumatized. She’s with the police now. She thinks she can get Harry out on bail. Best of luck, I say.”

“Get him out? From where?”

“Out of jail, I mean. Where else?”

“But he’s dead, isn’t he? I saw it on the news.”

Felix made a strained gurgling sound, half mirth and half horror, at my words. Then he told me. The peculiar thing is that when I first heard the words, my first, instinctive reaction was relief. It turned out I hadn’t let my patient commit suicide after all. I’m not going to kill myself, he’d promised me on the beach in East Hampton, and he’d told the truth-just not the whole truth.

“Harry?”said Felix. “No, Harry’s absolutely fine, apart from being under arrest for murder. It’s Marcus Greene who’s dead. Harry shot him last night.”

9

The Riverhead Correctional Facility loomed from the mist in the cold morning. I saw a couple of trailers set back in the woods off the Long Island Expressway and the eyes of a startled deer, then I was pulling up to the security gate. It was a gloomy place, six or so floors high with a few narrow slits in the walls to let in light. The walls were covered with rolls of shining razor wire, one piled on another, and patterns were molded on its facade in a halfhearted effort to make it less drab. Don’t get yourself locked in here, the building said. The blue-uniformed guard glanced at my license and waved me on.

Inside, a thin, dull-eyed correction officer told me to take off my belt and jacket and put them in one of the lockers. I sat on one of the bucket chairs fixed to the floor in the waiting area with a knot of visitors-mostly women and children who looked as if they knew this ritual well. On the hour, a shift of visitors drifted out, a couple joking idly with the officers.

The entrance to the visiting room was a cage with red barred doors on two sides. Visitors had to walk into it and have the door locked behind them before the guards released the other. They weren’t taking chances. Before I entered the cage, an officer stamped the back of my hand with a small green circle.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Ultraviolet,” he said, shining a flashlight on it to light it up. “We don’t want the wrong guy leaving.”

The visiting room was large and dimly lit, with long trestle tables running its length. Each table had a Perspex screen in the middle, perforated with holes to let through the sound of voices. Prisoners in yellow jumpsuits with VISITING written in black on the back sat on the stools on one side, awaiting their visitors. As wives and girlfriends approached, they stood up to hug or kiss them briefly before sitting again. I didn’t see Harry at first, but then I spotted him in the far corner, away from the others, sitting on a stool by himself and looking toward me with a placid expression on his face. A bulky officer stood by him, like his personal bodyguard, as I walked over to greet him. He stayed seated, as he’d done on his lawn two weeks previously, but thrust up one hand over the Perspex to shake mine.

“Hello, Doctor. Sorry about this,” he said, pointing across at the other inmates. “Not much privacy here.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Shapiro. How are you?”

“You know. Keeping busy.”

I looked at him through the screen. It was only the fourth time I’d seen him, but it felt as if our relationship had lasted months. I’d have said that we’d become intimate except that he’d so obviously deceived me. We were also back together in an institution, this time with him in a yellow uniform instead of blue. Since his arrest ten days before, he seemed to have changed in a way I hadn’t expected. I’d imagined that he would be feeling desperate and unhappy, but the tightness in his jaw had gone, his eyes were alert, and his skin was ruddy. Despite having been detained for murder, he looked better.

I’d put in my request to see him as soon as he’d been arraigned. An all-star legal team and an offer of $20 million bail had not been enough to win him release. The correctional facility was to the rear of the Suffolk County Court, where serious crimes on Long Island were tried. It was an enormous holding pen for those in criminal purgatory, awaiting trial or a jury’s verdict. To my surprise, the request had been promptly approved and I had been given a time the following week. Harry wanted to see me.

Perhaps he craves a familiar face, I’d thought on the drive. A media frenzy had erupted since the killing, and every paper and cable show was full of speculation and opinions about Harry’s fate. The fact that a Wall Street baron had been arrested for murder rather than a white-collar crime had provided the public spectacle that people craved as revenge on all bankers. I’d informed the jail that Harry was my patient and he seemed to have played along with that, but I didn’t believe it was true any longer. I knew that he’d see a jail psych to get his meds-he had no need for me.

Yet I felt we were now kindred spirits: he was locked up and I was in limbo. The explosion of Greene’s death had been succeeded by an eerie calm. When I’d arrived on Monday at Episcopal, having watched people around me on the 6 train reading about Harry on the front page of the Post, it felt like a forbidden topic. The others were surely talking about it behind my back, but no one dared mention it to my face. The most honest was Maisie, who hailed me with a sympathetic look and a “How are you doing?” that sounded genuine.

Jim Whitehead had finally made clear what everyone else was thinking when, unable to take it any longer, I walked into his office after lunch.

“Ben. How are you?” he said.

When Dr. Formality used my first name, it had to be bad.

“I’ve been better,” I said.

“Has Mrs. Duncan spoken to you yet?”

It was evident from the way he said it that they’d discussed the case. She’d be the one to let me know the hospital’s verdict.

“No one’s said anything.”

“Well,” he said, standing to head off the possibility of a long conversation, “I believe she’ll be in touch.”

With that, the Episcopal omerta had resumed and I’d reached Friday without anyone uttering a word. Even Steve, when I’d called him, had no parties to offer for the weekend. I was left to myself, thinking over the previous week and seeking the clues that I’d missed. If Harry had planned to kill Greene all along, he’d done a good job of hiding it, or I was incompetent. I preferred a third possibility, although it didn’t reflect well on me either-that he hadn’t known what was on his mind until he’d confronted his victim. That wasn’t much better, but at least it wouldn’t make me feel such a fool.

“You look well. How are the conditions?” I said.

Harry chuckled at the question as if he were holed up in summer camp rather than a jail. “It’s not like being in my own bed, but I’ve made the best of it. The other guys on the tier treat me okay. I’m spending time in the gym.”

This was a change from the Harry of York East. That bed hadn’t been good enough for him although it was the best we offered, yet a jail mattress was fine.

“I wanted to see how you were, after all that’s happened.”

“I’m good. No need to worry about me.”

I was finding the conversation unreal. Not only were we glossing over the fact that Harry had just killed someone, but his mood had changed entirely. An enormous weight seemed to have been lifted from him. He’d been shattered by losing his job, but the likelihood of spending the rest of his life in jail didn’t appear to bother him. I glanced at the officer, but he was looking at the gray sky through the room’s high window and didn’t seem to be listening. All the same, I leaned forward and spoke quietly, my breath misting a patch around the Perspex holes.

“Mr. Shapiro, I must ask … Did you kill Mr. Greene?”

Harry didn’t hesitate or bother to keep his voice down. “I did,” he said, nodding calmly. “I was angry. I lost control. He called me that morning, said we needed to talk about something. I was in the city, but he made me anxious, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I told him I’d drive out there.”

“What did Mrs. Shapiro say about that?”

“I didn’t tell Nora. I knew she’d try to stop me. You’d got her so worried, she didn’t trust me.”

With good reason, I thought. Nora had promised me that she’d keep an eye on Harry, yet she’d let him escape and kill someone. I remembered her telling me in the psych ER that she’d keep the gun out of Harry’s way, the shock and unhappiness etched on her face. She’d said the same thing when I’d asked again in East Hampton. Absolutely, she’d assured me. I’d trusted her, but she’d let me down.

“You met at your house?”

“He said they were taking the Gulfstream away and they weren’t going through with the settlement we’d agreed upon. He was getting heat from Washington, he said. It didn’t look good. He was a coward-he wouldn’t stand up for me. I was mad at him.”

“So you shot him? Just like that?”

Harry rubbed the palm of his right hand up and down a couple of times on the surface of the table, his knuckles flexing. He gazed at me and there was no longer any fire in his eyes, not even an ember. The life that had once been there had died along with Greene.

“I wasn’t acting normally, you know that. Those pills you gave me affected me. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was crazy.”

I was shocked by how blatantly he’d just blamed it all on me. He didn’t look ashamed at having fooled me or for having forced me to release him. It was all my fault, was it-nothing to do with him?I felt like reaching across the Perspex screen and shaking him, but his corrections officer loomed nearby.

“But you feel better now,” I said, not bothering to hide my skepticism.

“Much better.”

He leaned back, and I knew that was it. I wasn’t going to get any more out of him. The truth was that I’d never known what was going on in his head, not from the first moment I’d seen him. I’d been blind right from the start. A knot of officers by the cage called time and started to beckon the inmates out row by row.

Harry thrust out his hand. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again, Doctor.”

“I don’t know either.” I took it, feeling his hard, decisive grip.

“Thanks for your help.”

“I don’t think I helped, Mr. Shapiro.”

“Oh, you did,” he said, smiling slightly as he turned away.

When I reached the parking lot, a man and a woman in their forties were waiting by a black sedan. He was ruddy-faced, with plush cheeks, thick shoulders, and a belly that bulged over his belt-a high school football player gone soft. His partner was in better shape: her neck muscles were taut, as if she worked out. Her hair was curly and her face olive-skinned-Greek or Italian, I guessed.

“Dr. Cowper?” she said, halting me as I got to my car and pulled out the key. They had parked next to me-they’d known which one it was.

“Cooper, yes.”

“Okay,” she said in an unruffled tone. “I’m Detective Pagonis and this is Detective Hodge. We’re with Suffolk County homicide. We heard you were here, thought we’d take a drive over. We’d like to ask you a couple of things. You’re Shapiro’s shrink, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

Hodge grimaced but didn’t say anything. Pagonis seemed to be in charge.

“Hey, come on, Doctor. You’ve just been to visit him, haven’t you? That’s what he told us, anyways. It’s all in his statement.”

She reached through her passenger-side window and pulled a sheaf of papers from under the windshield. It was a photocopy of a long document written neatly by hand and signed by Harry on the last page. Pagonis pointed to a passage halfway through.

I received psychiatric treatment at Episcopal hospital from Dr. Ben Cowper. Dr. Cowper was responsible for admitting me to a psychiatric ward and then discharging me on Monday, April 27.

Pagonis pulled the papers away.

“I see,” I said, trying to look unimpressed. “How can I help?”

“Just a few questions at Yaphank. It’s not far-on the way back to the city. Won’t take long. You’re not under arrest.”

I hadn’t considered that possibility until she mentioned it, but the sight of my name inscribed on Harry’s confession made me realize it wasn’t out of the question. Things were starting to crumble around me, and I couldn’t think of any excuse to disobey her.

“You understand I can’t answer any questions about my treatment of Mr. Shapiro. I have a duty of confidentiality.”

“For now,” she said dismissively. “We’ll take the expressway. You can follow us.” She climbed into the passenger seat while Hodge took the wheel.

We turned off the expressway twenty minutes later on a flat road with low buildings on either side. I was concentrating on keeping a safe distance from the back of their car, but I looked up at the surroundings as they turned right into a lot with a two-story building marked SUFFOLK COUNTY POLICE DEPARTMENT. The Stars and Stripes hung by the entrance, and I saw cops walking through a reception area lit in sodium yellow. I prepared to halt, but Hodge kept going round the side of the building, passing ranks of cars, and parked close to the rear.

“We can go in this way. It’s easier for our offices,” Pagonis said, leading me to a metal freight door at the back of the building.

It was isolated, with no one in sight, and I felt even more like a suspect. Hodge pressed a red button by the door and I could hear the elevator creak into life somewhere inside. He pulled the door open with a screech and we stepped into the metal box, which deposited us at the second floor on a hallway with a biblical commandment written on the wall in large letters: THOU SHALT NOT KILL. I wondered which bright spark had adopted it as the squad’s motto: if everyone obeyed, they’d be out of business.

Why did I agree to this?I thought to myself as Pagonis led me down a hallway and into a narrow room, maybe nine by thirteen, with just one desk, a couple of chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall on one side. An interview room, I knew from a hundred cop shows, and I looked for the voice recorder but there wasn’t one.

“Have a seat,” Pagonis said, unbuckling her gun belt from around her waist and passing it to Hodge. “Coffee? Milk, sugar?”

I sat in the seat she’d indicated and, looking down, saw a three-foot chain bolted to the floor under my feet. There was a pair of handcuffs attached to one end, and I realized they were shackles. Christ, I thought. Did they chain Harry when they brought him to this place?Hodge reentered with two paper cups of coffee and sat down silently by Pagonis’s side, giving me a glare of suspicion. Her face was lined with exhaustion, but adrenaline was keeping her going-it had to be the biggest case of her career.

“We’re investigating the death of Marcus Greene,” she said, stirring sugar into her brew. “We aren’t called out to East Hampton much. The village police deal with most things there-tennis permits, break-ins, that stuff. We don’t get a lot of business, so this is a change all right. Shapiro probably told you what happened.”

“As I said, I can’t discuss that.”

“Sure, sure. Listen, Mike, why don’t you get the photos? Dr. Cowper’s a professional, right? He’ll want to know what his patient did.”

No, I won’t, I thought, but there was nothing to do but wait as Hodge heaved himself to his feet again and wandered out of the room in search of the evidence. Pagonis gazed at me with superficial friendliness, as if all of us were in this together. A couple of minutes later, he walked back into the room, spilling half a dozen photos on the desk.

“Messy, eh?” Pagonis said, looking at me.

Reluctantly, I picked up one of the images and looked at it. I recognized the Shapiros’ living room right away. The shot was taken from roughly where I’d sat talking to Nora. Had it been only two weeks ago? It felt as if it had been forever. The sofa on which she’d sat was in the background, with their conservatory behind. In front was the gray-and-black wool rug, on which a man’s body rested, with his left arm splayed out to one side. The right one was clasped over his chest, as if in a useless effort to stop up the wound that had killed him. I could see a small entry mark in his chest on the left-hand side, a few inches above the heart. Behind his back, blood had flooded out, encrusting a wide pool of dark red soaking into the rug. It looked as if the bullet had taken out an artery on the way through. If his death hadn’t been immediate, it must have come within minutes.

“This is him,” Pagonis said, handing me another photo.

I’d seen Greene’s face in newspaper photos since the killing, and I recognized it inert on the rug, photographed from above. His face was white and his eyes stared out unseeingly. His upper lip was twisted in a rictus, as if frozen as he forced out his last words-he looked both scornful and desperate. His head rested in the pool of blood, to which a few strands of his graying hair were glued. I was used to seeing the faces of the dead in Episcopal, but this was different, more personal, as if it were a relative of mine whose last agony had been preserved there. I felt saliva drip inside my mouth and tried to control my nausea.

“What do you think of your patient’s handiwork?” she asked. Your patient. Your fault. Pagonis wasn’t subtle. “Shapiro had a nine-millimeter. Not a bad shot. He must have been a few yards away. There’s no powder on the clothes. He fired twice, but we haven’t found the other bullet. Must have missed once and got him the second time. Here, look.”

She pushed the photo toward me and tapped it, as if I hadn’t seen enough the first time. I reluctantly examined Greene’s face again. Those cold, staring eyes told me the error I’d made-I’d caused this man to die in agony.

“We’ll show you the weapon,” Pagonis said relentlessly. “Mike?”

Hodge lumbered to his feet again and she gave me the same thin, hard smile as we awaited his return. I stared at her blankly, but inside my mind was in turmoil. I thought of the gun I’d held in the ER when Nora had handed it to me-a Beretta Cheetah, I remembered Pete O’Meara telling me. My fingerprints must be on it, I thought. That’s why Pagonis has got me here. I knew there must be more to it than just Harry’s statement. They know everything that happened-the signs that I ignored.

Minutes passed as we waited for Hodge. Pagonis looked as if she could sense my discomfort and was gratified by it. I heard his footsteps in the corridor and saw a familiar shape grasped in his right hand as he walked over to us, a gun held securely in a plastic evidence bag to prevent contamination.

“There we are,” she said as Hodge placed it on the table. “A Glock. Shapiro’s fingerprints were all over it and powder on his hands.”

I didn’t say anything, just reached forward and pulled it toward me. It wasn’t the same gun. It was a similar shape, but it looked a little bigger and it was dull gray with a square barrel, like those the New York police carry. Thank God, I thought. I’d misjudged Nora after all. She’d kept the gun safe, as I’d told her to do. Then I thought of Harry. I wondered how he’d got hold of this gun. Nora hadn’t mentioned another weapon, so where had it come from?

“You’re a shrink at Episcopal?” Pagonis said.

“An attending psychiatrist, yes.”

“Shapiro says you admitted him to the hospital, right?”

“I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.”

“Did you think he was dangerous?”

“Again, it’s privileged.”

“But you let him out again,” Hodge said, his eyes flat.

I wondered if he distrusted all psychs or if he felt a particular enmity for me. Probably the first: most cops thought our job was to concoct bullshit excuses for criminals.

“I’ve told you that I’m unable to discuss this,” I said with an edge. “There are strict laws on patient confidentiality in New York State.”

“What you did was very convenient,” Pagonis said, ignoring me. “You take him into the hospital, establish he’s not right in the head, then let him out. A couple of days later, he goes on the run and pulls this gun on Greene. Then he calls up his wife back in New York and tells her. Next up, he calls the East Hampton police to hand himself in. We’ve got a record of both those calls. It looks nicely planned to me, not at all crazy, but you gave the guy the perfect defense.”

Her voice was laden with cynicism, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. Harry had tried his excuse about my treatment absolving him of responsibility on me in Riverhead. I’d reacted the same way as Pagonis.

“Detective,” I said, “I can’t help you.”

Pagonis treated me to a long, cool look before getting up from her chair. “All right, we’ll talk again. Here’s my card,” she said, handing me one. “Call me if you change your mind. Mike will show you out.”