The pace of the snow suddenly accelerated. The lazy snowflakes that had been falling were replaced by millions of smaller, quicker reinforcements. A few superfrozen scouts started sticking to the windshield.
I was dressed in cotton cords and a light sweatshirt. Home had its allure.
“Yeah, it is,” I said. “Follow me.”
I led Detective Reynoso down the lane and then into our house.
Lauren had scribbled a few words on the bottom of the note that I had left for her about heading out earlier in the day with Sam. She and Grace were home from yoga and gone again to a birthday party in Lafayette for one of Grace’s friends. I use the word “friend” loosely. One-year-olds don’t actually have buds; they have other one-year-olds that their parents make them hang out with.
I closed my eyes and cursed silently. Taking Grace to the birthday party had been my job: I was supposed to get Grace some lunch and then take her to her friend’s party and bring her back home.
Two outings in a row taxed Lauren’s multiple sclerosis-depleted energy reserves, which meant we would all pay a price later in the day, probably increased fatigue, for my oversight.
Damn.
During my interlude of silent self-flagellation, Reynoso stood patiently in the entryway. I finally remembered my manners. “Can I take your coat?”
“Sure. Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
She tried some small talk on me. “Do you know that Baseline Road is the fortieth parallel? I read that on the Boulder website.”
“No, I didn’t know that. You mean exactly? No minutes, no seconds?”
“Exactly. That’s what it says. The road is exactly forty north.”
“Well,” I said as I led her into the living room and adjusted the thermostat to bring us some heat. To the west the usual glorious panorama of the Rocky Mountains was nothing but a screen of swirling white dots. “It’s usually a nice view. In fact, on most days you get a pretty good look at the fortieth parallel.”
“Your wife’s a prosecutor,” she replied, unamused.
Reynoso had moved on; we were apparently finished chatting longitude and latitude. But I didn’t especially want to talk about my family, so I didn’t respond.
She noticed that I didn’t respond.
“I’ll take that coffee,” she said. “Actually tea, if you have it.”
I didn’t trust Reynoso alone in my house. What did I think she was going to do? Nothing specific, but at that moment I didn’t even like the idea of her reading the titles that were lined up in my bookcase. “Of course. Come to the kitchen with me while I make it.” I didn’t say,“If you’re curious, you can check out the cookbooks.”But I thought it.
I made her a small pot of tea-Tension Tamer from Celestial Seasonings seemed an apropos choice. She sat on a stool and watched me. I could tell that she was enjoying our meeting more than I was.
When the tea was ready-she asked for milk, no sugar-I carried a mug back into the living room for her. She took a seat on the sofa, held the tea below her face-for the warmth, I decided, rather than the aroma-and took a tiny sip. After a moment she closed her eyes briefly and said, “Thank you.”
I was settling firmly into the familiar security of therapist mode. I didn’t say, “You’re welcome.”
Reynoso, I guessed, was a few years older than I. Her features were carved, and the ridge beneath her eyebrows was prominent and brooding. But what was most stunning about her appearance was the quality of her skin. Her complexion looked as soft and smooth as my almost-toddler daughter’s.
“The other day on the phone? After your call? I wasn’t cordial with you, Dr. Gregory. I’d like to begin by apologizing to you for that. The whole thing came out of the blue. I wasn’t gracious.”
“Accepted.” My antennae were tuned for cynicism, and I immediately wondered whether she was disarming me or placating me or both with her apology. “You thought I was a crank, I bet.”
“We get some crazy calls sometimes. You have a child?”
“A daughter.” I still didn’t want to talk about my family.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” she said.
“Although it’s not a pleasant subject, I don’t expect it has to be difficult, either, Detective Reynoso. I’m happy to tell you anything that I have permission to share with you.”
“Ah,” she said, and returned her attention to her mug. “That’s the rub, though, isn’t it?”
“The rub?”
“You deciding what you have the right to tell me. That’s the complication for us, right?”
“Your profession has rules. My profession has rules. I’m sure that we can respect each other’s positions.”
Actually I wasn’t at all certain that we could respect each other’s positions, but it seemed like a cordial thing to say, and it was apparent that we were both trying hard to be cordial.
The posted odds in Vegas were a hundred to one against things remaining cordial between us, however.
Reynoso said, “My profession’s rules are geared toward discovering the truth. That’s all.”
I didn’t want to joust with her. But I was willing to, if that’s what she wanted. I said, “Mine aren’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You don’t have a goal of helping your… patients learn the truth about their lives?”
I figured it was a trick question. “Psychologically? Yes. Factually? No.”
“I was in therapy once.”
What would the American Psychological Association want me to say? “I hope you found it helpful.”
“Very.”
“Great.”
“I don’t have much leverage with you,” she said with her eyes averted and her hand reaching for her purse.
I thought,Good. The fact was, I didn’t think she had any leverage with me. But in the interest of extending the cordiality as far as possible, I said, “You don’t need any leverage, Detective. I’m happy to do whatever I’m able to do to help you solve this crime.”
She took a notepad and slender pen from her shoulder bag along with a small tape recorder and a purse-size bottle of Tylenol. She set the recorder on the coffee table between us, threw a couple of pain relievers into her mouth, and washed them down with a gulp of tea. After flicking the recorder on, she pointed at the red light for my benefit, stated the date and time, and then touched the pause button. “Where are we right now? The address?”
I told her my address, adding, “You feeling okay?”
She touched her temple. “I’ve had a headache since I got here.”
“It could be altitude sickness. Happens a lot. Drinking more water might help.”
“Altitude sickness?”
I nodded.
“You have headaches all the time?” she asked.
“No, you get over it.”
“Good.” She returned her attention to the recorder, removed her finger from the pause button, repeated the address, explained the purpose of the interview, stated her name and mine, and asked me if I was participating voluntarily.
I had to think about my answer. Finally, I said I was.
“When did you first meet Gibbs and Sterling Storey?”
I considered that question carefully, too. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to answer that one.”
It was obvious that Detective Reynoso hadn’t expected my response. She’d thought she was lobbing a softball my way.
She said, “What?”
“The circumstances of my meeting the Storeys-if, indeed, I have met the Storeys-might be part of a therapeutic relationship, and any details about a therapeutic relationship, even simply whether or not there is a therapeutic relationship, and if there is, when it may have begun, are things that I’m not permitted to reveal under Colorado law.”