36
Aligned Design
Ch. 4
Gleason slid the card key in and out of the slotted lock on the door. She opened the door, stepped in, shut it behind her and began to cry. She dropped the newspaper and covered her face with her hands. She cried, not from fear, but from loneliness.
Sobs racked her. Suddenly she missed Bobby, she thought of Gavin, her mind flashed to Christian MacNaughton. She saw Christian shouting for them not to take her away from him. She had been seven years old. She hadn't thought of Christian since she was nine.
Gleason had never felt loneliness. She knew the difference between loneliness and aloneness. She was used to a life of periods of long singleness. But right now, she wanted someone to hold her; she wanted Bobby to hold her. For the first time, she was lonely.
She took the 'do not disturb' sign from the inside of the door handle, opened the door, and slipped it over the handle on the outside. Then, she crossed to the bed and lay down. She pulled up her green chenille throw, hitched a few sobs, and slowly fell asleep.
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"I'm here to see Mr. Canvettelli, please." Eames showed her badge to the tall, white haired, anorexic sales person flicking a feather duster on a two-foot something made from god-knows-what.
"I'll let her know you're here." Eames had thought the sales person had been a woman; however, having heard the voice, she wasn't so sure now. These arty types, she thought.
Eames continued working the case without Bobby. She didn't trust him anymore. She couldn't trust him. He was too unstable. She was certain that he was still his brilliant self. Cognitively he was as sharp as ever; emotionally, he was a train wreck. His emotions were going to stand in the way of his intellect. She needed all of Bobby to be available to do the work they had to do. Pieces of Goren, without the whole, made an unbalanced heap, ready to break and crash on everything around him.
Canvettelli peeked around the sales associate and saw the tiny detective looking at the Maceon-Breue bust. At least that tall man-beast wasn't with her. God, what a fright he had been.
"All right, I'll speak with her. But I want to talk out there, in the open. Tell her I'll be out in a few minutes." The androgynous clerk relayed the message and Eames waited.
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Canvettelli frantically punched in Jenese's cell number. Oh, God, oh, god, what will I say to the detective? Answer, will you? I don't know what to say. Come on, answer. The cell continued to ring until the message prompt sounded. Damn! Canvettelli flipped shut the phone and took a deep breath. Be with me Jesus, he said to himself. He smoothed his hair, peeked into the mirror hanging beside the door and exited the tiny office.
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"Detective," the gallery owner with unrestrained aloofness, "your partner is not with you?"
"No, I thought you and I could get more accomplished without him. Can we talk in your office?"
"I would prefer to talk with you out here; if you don't mind."
"Certainly. Tell me how you decided to purchase those six paintings by . . ." Eames checked her notes, "uh,"
"Meraux Peignoir," Canvettelli supplied.
"That's it, Meraux Peignoir, like the negligee. Why him?"
"This gallery specializes in up and coming French artistes. Peignoir is – was – known as one of the brightest, youngest contemporary impressionists. His work was already being sought by notable museums."
"I see. Where did you learn of him?" Eames asked.
"Detective, please. I make it my business to know whom to know about." The gallery owner said scornfully.
"Of course, how silly of me," Eames replied facetiously. "How did you know the broker you purchased the paintings through?"
"Well, he was, he was referred to me by another gallery owner."
Eames caught the change in attitude. Canvettelli went from smug to hesitant. He was uncertain how to respond to the question about knowing the broker. Someone else was involved in setting up the deal, and it probably wasn't another gallery owner.
"I'll need the name of the gallery owner who recommended the broker to you." She looked at the man gone wan and added, "I can wait while you find that name for me."
"Ah well, I, it's, that is, it's at home. I'll have it for you tomorrow. I'll phone the name and number to you. If that will be ok?"
"I guess it will have to be ok. Tell me, what did you plan to do with the six paintings? Did you already have buyers? Were you going to have a showing?" Eames asked.
It was obvious Canvettelli did not have the answers he needed to keep the lies straight.
Why didn't Jenese fill me in on all those things? Why wasn't Jenese here to answer all these hard questions? "You know, detective, I just realized I have an appointment in a few minutes. You'll have to excuse me. I'll phone the name you requested tomorrow. Good day." And with that, Canvettelli swept himself around and departed into his tiny little office.
Eames flipped shut her small notebook, slipped it into her coat pocket and left. She headed to her vehicle intending to head back to the office. She wanted to meet with Bobby and discuss his list of known associates.
What is that going to be like, she wondered.
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"Things haven't been right between us since the shooting." Bobby told his boss. "I got home last night about nine-thirty and her things were gone." He debated about telling Deakins that Gleason is in Chicago. Bobby looked up and Deakins saw pain like he'd never seen in the man. "I just want things to be like they were before."
Deakins sighed and ran his hand down the back of his head. "Ok, let me see what I can do, Bobby. If I get you set up with someone you can talk to, do you promise to work with that person? Promise to do whatever that person says you need to do?"
Bobby looked down and said, "I don't have a choice, do I?"
"There is only one choice if you want to things to improve."
Bobby nodded in misery.
"Ok, I want you to stay close to the office here until we know what we're going to do. You handle the research and phoning while Eames works the field. Ok? If she brings in witnesses or suspects, you are going to watch behind the glass, she interviews. Understand?"
Bobby began to protest and then quit, "Ok, ok. We'll do it your way."
Deakins looked at Bobby's defeated posture.
"We can fix this, Bobby. It'll just take time."
Bobby stood and walked back to his desk.
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"Detective, the ME sent this up," the assistant handed Bobby a large envelope.
"Thanks," Bobby responded and took the envelope, opened it and slid out the forms. He read them and then lifted the phone. Eames answered on the second ring. They hadn't spoken since the coffee room. She was gone when he came out of Deakins office.
"Eames." She was heading back to One Police Plaza after leaving the gallery, stopped at a red light.
Bobby hesitated and then, "Alex, it's me."
Eames heart stopped. He sounded so terrible. Oh, god, how she loved him.
"Bobby. What's up?"
"Uh, I, I . . . I need to talk with you. Ok? . . . Alex?"
Eames closed her eyes; she didn't know what to say. "Bobby, I don't know what to say."
He said nothing for a long minute. Then, "Ok. Sure. I understand. Uh, uh, listen, the ME's report is back on the painter. I'm going to head over there if Deakins let's me out. I just wanted you to know the ME's report is back. I'll, I'll . . ." and he clicked off.
Eames folded her phone and her mind spun.
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Bobby hung up. He felt a door shut in his mind. It just shut. Suddenly there was calm and darkness in one part; the Alex part had shut off. It was good, not feeling anything there. Numb, his mind was numb regarding Eames. There, that's better, he thought. He reread the ME's report, stood and walked to Deakins' office.
"Can I run over to the ME's office? I want to look at the painter's body and talk to Rodgers."
Deakins looked up in surprise. "Uh, sure. Sure, Bobby."
"Ok. I'll come right back. I won't be more than an hour."
Deakins watched the big man turn and walk away. Oh, that's not a good thing, what Goren just did, Deakins said to himself. That wasn't my detective right there. Jesus, let him not be going like his mother.
Deakins picked up the phone and dialed Dr. George Huang's number.
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"Housekeeping."
Gleason woke slowly to the sound of knocking and a voice at the door.
"Housekeeping. Would you like service today?"
"Oh, oh. No, no thank you. Not today. Thank you." Gleason called, sitting up on the bed. She listened and heard the person wander away, down the hall. She looked at the clock. Two o'clock! She'd slept nearly four hours. She sat up and put her feet on the floor. Her stomach was upset. Too much for breakfast, she said to herself. It was good, though. But too much. She sat for a minute and then knew she was going to be sick. She stood up and dashed to the bathroom.
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"George, it's Jim Deakins. Say, I need your help, or advice or whatever, but I've got a situation over here that's beyond me."
"Of course, Captain. What can I do for you?"
"Well, to be honest, it's kind of a sensitive situation. One of my detectives needs some help. I was wondering if –,"
"Is this about Detective Goren?"
"Yes, it is, actually. What made you think so?" Deakins was surprised the psychiatrist knew he was calling about Bobby. But perhaps not, he thought to himself, who else would warrant such a call?
"I kind of figured. I knew Detective Goren had been in post trauma counseling and had attended mandated anger management classes. Those two programs should be just about finished and now would be the time for the results to begin manifesting. If you hadn't called, they would have worked. So, how bad is he?"
"It's not good, George. He's been back ten days and he's already verbally abused a witness who will probably bring suit against the department. He showed up two hours late this morning looking like he'd been drinking all night. He's had one major blow up here in the office. And his partner is afraid of him."
"Has he put his hands on anyone yet?"
"Yet? Jesus George, is that possible?"
"Jim, anything is possible. Has he hurt anyone?"
"No, thank God. He wants help, though. I talked to him earlier and he was really sad. I've never seen him like this." Deakins hesitated and then asked, "George, you know about his mother and her illness, right? Is it possible he's headed down that same road?"
"I don't think so. If Goren were going to manifest schizophrenic behaviors, it would have happened in his late teens, twenties or early thirties. How old is he, forty-something?"
"Yes, he's mid forty, I think. Thank God for that, anyway. I was thinking he was going to be sick forever. You do not know how much better that makes me feel. God." The relief in Deakins' voice was authentic.
Deakins genuinely liked the young detective. Not just for his ability to solve cases, but for who he was as a person. Goren was a smart, likeable guy. Odd, certainly, but Deakins had to admit; he looked on Goren as a son or admired younger brother. He was proud of the man.
He had hoped Goren would find someone and settle down. Deakins had doubted such a woman had yet to be made that would fit with Goren's character, but then Gleason Wintermantle had entered their office less than two months ago. He had watched Bobby fall hard and fast for the lovely professor. She was a wonderful woman. Deakins had silently hoped that they would become the couple he wished for Bobby.
Things almost went that way, and then the awfulness happened. The shooting at the university by one of Gleason's students, her being shot and almost loosing her life, Bobby's reaction, his broken hand, the food poisoning, his abduction by Clive Donohue, a former lover of Gleason's. His suspension, mandated counseling and classes. It had been a stressful two months.
It had looked like things were going to work out, though. Gleason had recovered; Bobby's hand had mended without permanent damage; he had attended his counseling and classes without objection; his range scores were improving and he was back to work. But then the anger, dear God, the anger. Now Gleason had left him. Things were bad.
"You said he talked with you earlier today. Did he reveal anything?"
"He talked about how he wanted things to be the way they were. He sounded desperate. What can we do, George?"
Huang thought a minute and then said, "Let me talk with his post trauma counselor and the anger management leader. I'll get back to you in a day or two. Is he still coming into work?"
"Yes, but I've told him he's in-house only; Eames is doing field and interviews. He's only to watch behind the glass."
"How was he with that? Any resistance?"
"No, not at all. He really wants to fix things. Help us get him better George."
"I'll get back with you in a day or two."
Deakins hung up and covered his face with both hands.