"That's the business my employers are in," I said, my voice going flat and hard, driving out the reasonable tone I'd been using. "Lending money. The therapist borrowed a bit less than the twenty, but it's gonna cost twenty to get square. You want to pay this off, you're borrowing twenty. It's gonna cost you some juice to get square too, okay?"
"I…how would I…?"
"In cash," I told him, letting him hear the jailhouse and the graveyard in my voice. "Once a month. We can have somebody come by, pick it up. Or they could meet you, anyplace you say."
"How do I know…?"
"Like I said, the letters aren't worth anything to us. You can have them all, up front. How's that?"
"That seems…fair."
"We operate on good faith, Brother Jacob. Like I said: We trust you with our money; we trust you to keep your word."
"All right."
"I appreciate it," I said. "You keep that one. I'll be back in a couple of weeks with the rest. I hand them over to you, you give me the first payment. After that, once a month, okay?"
"Yes."
"Thanks for your time," I said, getting to my feet.
He didn't offer to shake hands.
Wolfe was waiting in the parking lot, standing next to her old Audi, the Rottweiler by her side on a loose lead. As I approached, the baleful beast snapped to attention, glaring at me with his dark homicidal eyes.
"This is her," I said, handing over a copy of everything I had on Jennifer Dalton.
"You talk to her yourself?" she asked.
"Yeah. And she rings righteous. At least for now."
"We'll take a look."
"Thanks. One more thing. Those addresses you gave me? The co–ops Kite owns. Can you get me a tenant list?"
"How deep you want to go?"
"Far as you can. How they pay the rent, canceled checks, leases, anything."
"Neighbors too?"
"Be careful you don't spook—"
"We know what we're doing," Wolfe cut in.
"I know," I said by way of apology.
A pair of elderly ladies strolled by arm in arm, steps slow but eyes alive. Pals, glad to be with each other.
"Look, Rosalyn," one said to the other, pointing at Bruiser, "isn't that one of those Wildenheimers?"
"Well, I think so," her friend said, raising her eyebrows at Wolfe.
"That's right," Wolfe told her, a merry smile on her face.
"Are they good watchdogs?" Rosalyn asked.
"Oh, very good," Wolfe assured her.
"That's good, dear. A young woman in this city needs protection these days. You can't be too careful."
The two old ladies moved on, yakking away. "A Wildenheimer?" I said to Wolfe.
"That's a Jewish Rottweiler," Wolfe smiled at me. "Don't you know anything?"
"You know anything about the Gospel of Job's Song people?" I asked the slim, hard–featured man. We were in a gay bar just off Christopher Street, talking in the four o'clock dead zone between the lunch crowd and the evening mating dance.
"The Psalmists? Sure. They're not with us exactly: homosexuals aren't really welcome in their hierarchy, and none of us serve as ministers. Not openly, anyway. But when it comes to AIDS, they're right there. I don't care for a lot of their doctrine—hell, I don't care for any doctrine—but they stand tall against that 'God's punishment' obscenity."
"You ever have any dealings with them?"
"Not personally."
"Okay. Thanks for your time."
"Tell Victor I said hello," the man said.
"I don't like the hypnosis piece," I told Kite.
"Not to worry," he said smugly. "We're on all fours with Borawick."
"What's a Borawick?"
"A case, Mr. Burke. The proverbial 'federal case,' as it turns out. The Second Circuit set the standard just last year. It's not a rigid formula—they use the so–called 'totality of the circumstances' test. But the factors the court must consider are all in our favor."
"Tell me."
"Very well. Borawick was the same set of facts: hypnotically refreshed memories of child sexual abuse recovered from an adult who entered therapy for what she thought was an unrelated problem. That in itself is one factor: why the subject underwent therapy in the first place. Then the court will consider the hypnotizability of the subject, qualifications of the hypnotist, the procedures utilized, and any corroborating evidence."
"Which we have."
"Yes. In spades. But the most important issue is whether any suggestions were implanted."
"How could any court tell that?"
He templed his fingers, gazed at me over the steeple. "The key is whether there was a permanent record of the hypnosis itself."
"And…?"
"Heather," Kite said, a tone of triumph in his voice.
Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. I heard a cabinet being opened, the sound of snapping plastic. I felt her come up behind me. She gently placed a standard audio cassette into my lap and stepped back.
"I presume you have an adequate machine available?" Kite asked.
"Sure."
"What you have is a copy, Mr. Burke. I plan to introduce the entire history of Miss Dalton's sessions into evidence. And then I shall step back and simply say what I have waited to say all my life as a lawyer: res ipsa loquitur."
He raised his eyebrows, but I didn't take the bait. "It's Latin," he said. "It literally means 'the thing speaks for itself.' And the tapes do. Eloquently, I assure you. And, unlike Borawick, in which the refreshed testimony was not allowed, our hypnotist is not some amateur with a high school education and no formal training who didn't keep adequate records. In our case, Mr. Burke, if you will remember, the hypnotist was a psychiatrist. And a psychiatrist who not only kept written records of his sessions; they were all preserved exactly as they occurred. If ever one searched for the classic case to rebut the so–called 'False Memory syndrome,' one could not do better than what we have."
Most investigators don't even know what the word means. You stop the cops from using informants and the only crimes they'd ever solve would be those by deranged postal workers who come to work once too often. There're plenty of well–meaning amateurs, but they run around like headless chickens on crystal meth. Private eyes? They're mostly ex–cops with some contacts. Or find–out–if–your–husband–is–cheating–on–you keyhole peepers. Or hypertech guys who know all about code–grabbers and digital scramblers but don't get the concept of tire irons and duct tape.
I don't have a license, but the humans I learned from were the best teachers in the world. You want someone to find secrets, use a man who has plenty of his own.
When games have no rules, they're only games to the players who made them up. I never made up the games, but they made me a player. When I was just a kid: ugly secrets, dark corridors, terror around every corner. I learned how to hide real good. And now it's real hard to hide from me.
Plus I was working my own city. Where I know how to find the best slip–and–slide men in the world. The Prof might have lost a step—maybe he wasn't up to bank vaults or high–security buildings anymore—but he could still go in and out of a regular apartment house like smoke through pantyhose.
"Seven G," I told him, unfolding a floor plan. "It's a two–bedroom, top floor, rear. No doorman. I'll make sure she's not around when you go in."
"She bunks alone?"
"Guaranteed," I said, relying on Wolfe.