Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (9 page)

Would you like me to seduce you?
“Ms. Chalice, are you there?”

I had to admit I was not prepared to hear the sound of Nigel Twain’s voice, a sexy, throaty baritone that stirred me down to my toes. Nor was I prepared for the English accent. It made me drift a bit, a little tele-fantasy. I refuse to call it phone sex. I certainly wasn’t paying for it, not yet, anyway. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was great. I was a little disappointed with myself for not having thought of it in advance. His name was Nigel, not Nick or Ned. Nigel was as British sounding as they came.

“Ms. Chalice, Ms. Chalice?” He pronounced my name like no one else ever had,
Chal-e-say
. I had never been made love to over the phone.

“Yes, Dr. Twain, sorry. Please continue.”

“As I was saying, your case intrigues me. Even in my end of the practice, I rarely stumble across transpersonal episodes of this nature. How long have you been having these dreams?”

Keep talking. Please, just keep talking.
Another five minutes and I’d have to nail Lido in the interrogation room.

“Ms. Chalice, is this a bad time?” Hell no, it’s a great time, a wonderful time. “Would you prefer that we continue our conversation at a later date?”

No!
“No, I’m okay. How many times have you come across this type of thing, Dr. Twain?”

“Well actually, I’ve had experience treating several, shall we say, from-the-womb cases. None, however, were exactly the same as this. I find it highly intriguing. Would you like to explore it together?”

God yes.
I had already built a composite of Twain in my mind.
Careful, Stephanie, let’s not forget why we called the good doctor.
“My therapist says it’s all bullshit. He says it has something to do with the Electra complex.”

“Really? I don’t see how.”

“I think he’s a Freudian.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? How the totality of modern psychotherapy is based on the work of a man who lived and died more than sixty years ago, a man whose work was patently rejected by his peers. What did your Freudian suggest, a little hypnosis, flashing lights and sleight of hand? For the love of God—I’m surprised the words hocus pocus didn’t slip out of his mouth.”

“So you think there may be something to this that the Freudian won’t acknowledge?”

“I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no. Therapists are quick to mention Freud’s name. They use it as some kind of silver bullet, a validation for the entire practice of psychology. Laymen take stock in the name Freud; ‘Oh yes, he must know something, he used the F word.’ Jung and Adler, two of the most important players in modern psychological theory, resigned from the International Psychoanalytic Association in protest of Freud’s theory on infantile sexuality.”

“So you’re saying I should keep an open mind.” Have you ever heard anyone refer to Freud as the F word? I thought that was really cool stuff.

“Exactly. I’ll tell you up front, the majority of psychological practitioners frown upon many of the treatments we use here at the Center. They view my work as some kind of enlightened voodoo.”

Everything sounded so good in his words. He was so soothing, seemed so in command. I wanted to lie back in the powerful arms I imagined he had and surrender myself to his treatment. Too bad there was no way that his appearance could ever live up to the fantasy Dr. Twain that I had artfully painted in my mind. Then again, you never know.

Nigel Twain was every woman’s fantasy.
He certainly was mine, except . . . “Bacteriophobia, Ms. Chalice.” Twain settled into his hi-back swivel. The top of his desk was barren except for a computer terminal and a telephone.

“That would explain the surgical mask and cotton gloves.”

“Exactly.”

“But aren’t the gloves porous?”

“They’re of my own creation, Detective.” Twain smiled at his accomplishment. “The cotton is laminated on the inside by a trademark Japanese process called Entrant. It’s similar to Gore-Tex, which allows the skin to perspire, yet it’s one hundred percent waterproof from the outside. I used to wear those horrible latex things under calfskin, but the smell . . . the smell was just horrid.”

“And the mask?”

“Treated with a germicidal agent.”

So you’re a nut.
“You couldn’t find a doctor that could help you with these little, shall we call them, problems?”

“I’m worlds better than I used to be.”
Oh sure. Absolutely.
Twain erected a tent under his chin and spoke in an even tone. “I lived in a sterile bubble for two years. So as you see, these minor bits of paraphernalia are really nothing.” Twain broke camp and leaned forward. “It’s something left over from a paranoid manifestation, the result of a bad trip.”

“Pakistan?”

Twain chuckled in his stirring English baritone. “Let’s not play games. You’re a cop, so I’m sure you checked me out, nice and thorough. I know I did a bit of snooping before you arrived. There have been so many lawsuits levied at me over the years. Let’s just say an ounce of prevention—”

Oh God, please help me. “So we’re not talking bad trips as in travel to the third world?”

“LSD, Ms.
Chal-e-say
. Say it, L-S-D. I took it. I used it. It’s not a secret. It lies at the very foundation of my research. I was able to help patients in ways that conventional therapists can’t even imagine. Can you get by it, Detective? Can you overlook my research long enough to let me help you with your problems? I know you’re intuitive. That’s why you dropped your conventional therapist after just two visits.”

“So you and your patients weren’t just sitting around and getting buzzed?” I asked pointedly.

“Who told you I did that, the Freudian?” I nodded. Twain became agitated but settled down almost immediately. Marvelous self-control, don’t you think? “It’s completely infuriating.”

I was almost at a loss for words. Can you believe it? “You’re nothing like I expected.”

“And that was?”

“Timothy Leary, a 1970s California burnout type. I didn’t expect a—”

“Bald, strapping black man?” Twain cracked his neck.

I would have said Mandingo warrior.
“More or less.”

“You’ll find that I’m full of surprises.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting.”

“Very well.” Twain rose. God, he was tall and muscular. He propped himself up against the windowsill, his black-gloved hands resting in his lap. “Stephanie Chalice, born in Manhattan, New York. Your father was a New York City detective. He died from complications of manifest diabetes. Your mother suffers from the same affliction.” He glared at me. “Shall I go on?”

I no longer cared that he was a hunk, or a loon, or that he was perhaps the sexiest-looking man I had ever seen in my life. It seemed that I was not in his office for psychological help. I was there because he wanted me there, because he had something on his mind. I nodded again.

“You made detective at the age of twenty-seven, a promotion usually accorded more senior candidates. You received attention from the media for your arrest of a Libyan freedom fighter on New Year’s Eve. By the way, you photograph beautifully.” Twain winked and then continued to prattle on. “You’re assigned to the investigation of two related double homicides and you’re romantically tied to your partner, a handsome chap by the name of Gus Lido.” Twain finished rattling off everything everyone knew about me and then gazed at me evenly. “Does that just about sum it up?”

“You bastard!” I rose from my chair and walked around his desk to confront him. We were an inch apart, a distance that could either be considered romantic or confrontational. “What’s your game, Twain?”

“I’m here to help you, nothing more.”

“Well, you’re not helping. As a matter of fact, I’m feeling uncomfortable and tense.”

“I’d like to help you.” His eyes slithered over me like a long, moist tongue.

“No hidden agendas, Dr. Twain, no bullshit and no games. I thought you could help me with my nightmares, but if there’s anything else on your mind, I’ll see to it that—”

“I assure you, my intention is only to help you.”

I glared at him before we stepped apart. He was a living contradiction—big, handsome, powerful, and yet afraid of tiny germs. “Let’s hope that’s so. One lick of the lips and you’ll be back in therapy for the rest of your life.”

“I rue the prospect.”

Yeah, rue this!
The freak was getting off. “So, shall we go back to doctor-patient, or am I out of here?”

Twain stood. He looked deeply into my eyes while touching my arm gently with his gloved hand. Careful, Twain, my cooties might jump out and bite you. He was such a damn contradiction, the body of Tyson Beckford and the neurotic trappings of Woody Allen. He directed me back to my chair. “Please, sit down.” I didn’t move, prompting him to add, “Please, if you sit down, I will too.”

God knows why I got back into that chair. Twain was so damn intriguing. I didn’t know whether to smack him around or tear his clothes off. Doesn’t that mean I’m conflicted? Damn, I was getting sucked deeper into the whirling vortex of psycho-dementia. Sucked, now that was an interesting choice of words—what else has he had germicidally treated?

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed that as a New York City detective, you were accustomed to being spoken to directly. Apparently I caught you off guard.” Twain lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to.”

Punish me, Detective. I’ve been a bad boy.
Is that what he was thinking? I’ll bet that Twain’s head was just filled with dirty little thoughts. The prospect of looking into them excited the hell out of me. “Let’s move on then. I’ve got miles to go before I sleep,” I said.

“Reciting Frost?”

“Yes, Frost. Even a cop can enjoy poetry.” And you took the road less traveled, didn’t you?

“I love Frost.” Twain’s eyes lit up as he spoke. “There, you see, we’ve found common ground.”

Just barely.
I smiled.

“Fine, let me come clean then. I don’t take on many new clients, Detective. I’ve got to have a real desire to help someone before I become engaged in anything new. A new client has to be really . . . extraordinary.”

“And I—”

“Detective Chalice, you’re as extraordinary as they come.” He smiled strangely, like a child about to divulge a deep dark secret. He was almost giddy as he sat down in his chair. “I have a Venus obsession.” A single tear rolled down his face and disappeared behind his dark mask.

“Humor me, would you, Doctor?”

Twain opened his drawer. He had a wad of Kleenex in a Zip-lock bag. He removed one and resealed the bag before drying his face. “It’s terrible,” he said between sniffles. “I’m drawn to women and yet—”

“I get it, forbidden fruit. You want women but you’re afraid. So, why me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re magnificent.”

“And Nigel wants to be a bad boy?”

“But can’t.”

“Why don’t you hire an escort? You don’t look like you’re starving.”

“Please, don’t be absurd. It’s not just your beauty. It’s your complexity that intrigues me.”

“So, you’re helping me because you think I’m beautiful and nuts.”

“Birds of a feather.”

“This is too funny to be true.” I stood and began to stride around the room. “Is this for real?”

“Even the clients I agree to see are on a six month waiting list. I saw you in a matter of hours.”

Jesus. “How lucky can a girl get?” Twain opened his center desk drawer and took out a folder. He spread its contents so that all the newspaper articles he had clipped were visible. I eased forward and took hold of the folder. Twain had clipped all the articles related to my current investigation.

“Ninety percent of what I know about you, I learned from these articles. Of course, I guessed about the relationship between you and Detective Lido. Needless to say, you did not dispute the claim. I’m the only one who can help you, Stephanie. I’m the only one.”

I don’t know why I didn’t walk out, but I didn’t.

Becoming unstable.
It always pissed me off when my computer flashed that warning. I now understood what it meant. I was glad that I had promised to help Ma do some baking. Activities like creaming and sifting are therapeutic, churning and steaming are not. Always remember that when you’re in the kitchen. Twain had turned out to be a handful and not in the way I had hoped. He was a phobic, drugged-out English shrink with a crush on Yours Truly—Just what I needed in my life. Swell.

“Friggin’ apples are hard as nails,” Ma swore, expressive as always. She was wearing her taupe housecoat. Taupe is for baking, green is for money. Ma’s big on color association. She had a vault key pinned to the green one, remember? I wonder what she had pinned to this one, a paring knife and a photo of Graham Kerr? Remember him, the Galloping Gourmet? I think Ma still had a hankering for his schnitzel. Well anyway, she was in the taupe housecoat, bearing down on a Cortland with an apple corer, mercilessly gouging out the center. Personally, I didn’t feel too centered myself, but the hell with that now. We’re baking, right? Let’s put mental illness aside for the moment.

I was preparing the streusel topping which consisted of four sticks of butter and a full package of brown sugar. Brown sugar? Damn it. Everything brought me back to Twain. I didn’t like being out of control; I’m as anal as they come. “My God, Ma, ya think there’s enough sugar in this recipe? I hope you’re not planning on eating any of this.”

“It’s apple pie, Stephanie. What’s wrong with apple pie?” Ma swore under her breath. I didn’t hear her comment, but it sounded like a doozie.

“It’s not apple pie; it’s a friggin’ candy bar with a few chunks of fruit thrown in.” I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel which was older than I was. Ma never throws anything out. “How many times do I have to warn you to stay away from sweets?” She swore under her breath again. She looked out the window, trying to ignore me. I gave her a nudge on the hip.

“Hey! Watch it, I’ve got a sharp knife in my hands.” She slapped my hand away and swore one more time. “What’s good to eat, Stephanie, nothing?”

“Forget it. Want help with your apples?” I walked over to my bag and took out my backup piece. I had the
Para-Ordnance
.45 Light/Double Action
out of its holster in a jiffy, ejected the clip and emptied the slide before Ma could see what I was doing.

“Here!” I stormed over to her and put a peeled Cortland on her head. “Hold this,” I ordered. I hid the gun behind my back. As she accommodated my request, I took two steps back and aimed at the apple, well, slightly higher, actually, well out of harm’s way. “This is ever so much better than that old coring tool. How many apples you got left? I’ve got a full clip.”

“Stephanie!” she shrieked. “You’ve gone crazy. What the hell are you doing?” She looked a little pale and shaky, but what the hell. What did it take to make a point around this place anyway?

“This is gonna be great. So much faster too.”

“Oh my God. You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, really, Ma, I’m a crack shot. Should I just do the apple or would you like a little off the top?”

“Cut it out, Stephanie. It’s not funny.”

“What’s the difference, Ma? You’re killing yourself anyway. At least you won’t be torturing me with a slow, agonizing death. What’s the expression, two birds with one stone?”

Ma glared at me and I glared back, will against will. Who would blink first? A couple of seconds passed. It seemed longer. I put down the gun. “What am I gonna do with you, Ma? I already lost Daddy. Do I have to bury you too? Jesus, Ma.” I began to mist up. “I’m only twenty-eight.” Damn that Nigel Twain. Here I am in the prime of my life. Stephanie Chalice: cop, hero, independent woman, child. I felt so damn tired.

“Hey, what’s up, Stephanie?” Ma walked over. My head was lowered in despair. She had to crane her neck to get a look at my face. “Let’s sit down and talk.” She took me by the arm. “Come on.” We walked over to the sofa and plopped our fannies down. The sofa still had those awful protective plastic slipcovers on them. They had yellowed and cracked with age. A plastic shard caught me right in the ass.

“I’m all right, Ma.”

“You’re full o’ shit, you’re all right. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Midlife crisis.”

Ma snickered. “You’re only twenty-eight. What gives?” I guess I smirked at her remark. “That’s better. Now spill it.”

“I’m all right. Don’t you ever get a little gloomy?”

“Gloomy? Yes, I get gloomy. I don’t impersonate William Tell with a sidearm.”

“I’m expecting my period, that’s all.”

“So take some Midol, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me this is PMS. My daughter doesn’t get PMS.”

“Do so. I’m just so naturally bitchy it’s hard to tell the difference.”

“You can do better than that.” She gave me a few moments and when she saw that I wasn’t going to talk, sighed and then slapped her leg. “I give up.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “I’m here when you want to talk. No appointment necessary.” She stood up and reached for my hand. “I’ll scrape the damn topping off the apple pie. It’ll kill me, but I’ll do it.”

I gave her a little girl smile and then stood up. I threw my arms around her and gave her a kiss. “Love ya, Ma.”

“I love you too, honey.” Suddenly her finger was in my face. “Pull your piece on me again and I’ll put you over my knee. Got it?”

We hugged for a long time. It restored me. I wasn’t going to burden her with my loony problems: the nightmare, the homicidal maniac I was tracking, or the misguided adventures of Nigel Twain. Enough shit had fallen on her in her life. I had to figure this one out by myself.

I wondered if I would have spilled it if my father had been the one beseeching me, cop to cop. I looked over Ma’s shoulder. The Cortlands were turning brown.