Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [classic children's novels txt] 📗

“Hence Browne.”

“There you have it. Hence the Browne.”

I interrupted. “Is there any way I can find out what happened to her? When she graduated, did she go on to further study, did she go into clinical practice…”

Maria picked up the phone. “Tania, it’s Maria Chandler. Can you look up something for me and call me straight back? Mary Browne, graduated from here probably in 2012. I need to contact her.”

They looked at me while we waited, and the guy said suddenly, “So that kind of thing really happens, huh?”

“Yeah, it happens.” I smiled. “I never yet arrested anybody for being a Communist, but I lost count of the people I arrested for homicide.”

That caused an uncomfortable silence which I smiled through until the phone rang. I figured Dehan would have been proud of me. Maria scrawled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“We are not all left-wing hippies, Detective. And we don’t all think you are pigs. Mary Browne graduated with honors in 2012. She then went into training as a clinical psychologist, specializing in child psychology and PTSD. The contact information here is nothing more than you could have got from the Yellow Pages, so I am not giving you any private information.”

I thanked them and left. I found my way back to my car and sat in the sun thinking about what I had learned. Her practice was on Market Street, back where I had come from, a stone’s throw from my hotel. Was it her? Was it Maria Garcia, now Mary Browne, clinical psychologist from Berkeley, originally from Hunts Point in the Bronx? Or was she a completely different person, originally from Michigan?

I fired up the Mustang and cruised back across the bay, watching the sun explode in a trillion manic shards of light across the water, while I drummed on the steering wheel and asked myself, what now, John Stone, what now?

Twenty-Six

I parked outside Westfield on Market Street and dodged across the road. Her building was one of those nice old stone buildings from the turn of the nineteenth century. Her clinic was on the fifth floor. There was a comfortable waiting room with black leather armchairs and lots of magazines, and a comfortable woman with a comfortable smile sitting behind a reception desk.

I was trying to look neurotic. That’s supposed to be easy for New Yorkers. But I wasn’t sure what to do so, so I just acted naturally and it seemed to work.

“I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Mary Browne.”

She tapped into her computer and said, “When would you like to see her?”

“As soon as possible. Can it be today?”

She looked at me like I was magic. Maybe she thought I was using Jungian synchronicity. I smiled. She said, “Well, if you don’t mind waiting, she has a cancellation in half an hour! May I have your name?”

“That’s superb. John Stone.”

“Have you insurance?”

“No.”

“Then that will be seventy dollars for the hour.”

I almost told her that it was cheaper, and healthier, than a Bronx hooker, but decided against it. I sat and read an article about the Larsen Ice Shelf in the Antarctic, and just as I was coming to the good bit, I heard my name being called.

I stepped into her room and closed the door behind me. There was a window that looked out over Market Street. I could see my car outside Westfield. The carpet was gray, and she had a beige calico sofa and two beige calico armchairs arranged around a coffee table. She didn’t get up. She sat and watched me.

I was aware of a strange thrill of excitement but tried to ignore it.

She was lovely. Not beautiful—she was also beautiful—but more than that she was lovely. She was about thirty-one or two. Her hair was dark and cut to shoulder-length in a rather old-fashioned style. Her eyes were large and a deep brown. She was smiling. Her expression was humorous but above all kind.

“Are you Dr. Mary Browne?”

“Yes. And you are John Stone.” I sat down. “What seems to be the problem, John? Marylyn said you wanted to see me as soon as possible.”

I stared at her. I had somehow imagined that once I saw her I would know. But I had no idea whether this was her or not. I said, “Your accent.” I smiled. “I’m a New Yorker, from the Bronx. Do I detect a trace of New York there?”

Her eyes glistened. “That’s what we call evasion. You have an hour, John, and we want to use it. Time is precious. You didn’t want to see me about my accent. So, what’s troubling you?”

“I’m a cop. But I have developed a real fear of violence. I can’t watch it on TV or on the news, and if there’s a chance of encountering it on the job, I start shaking, my palms go sweaty, I feel sick…”

She looked serious and made a note in her pad.

“When did you start getting these reactions?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Can you think of anything that happened two weeks ago that might have triggered these reactions?”

I was making it up as I went along, and I know the cardinal rule when lying is stick to the truth in every detail you possibly can. So I said, “Only thing I can think of is I was assigned to head up a cold cases team. Just me and one other detective.”

“Have you had any violent experiences since you started?”

I watched her carefully. “I witnessed a murder. An ex-cop called Kirk.”

She looked up at me and met my eye. She had absolutely no expression on her face. “Kirk. What happened?”

“It was a UPS deliveryman. He went up to his front