"Fine door," Delaney said. "Bleached oak with beveled glass. You can ring now, Sergeant."
Boone pressed the button alongside the neatly printed nameplate: DR.
DIANE ELLERBEE. The female voice that answered was unexpectedly loud:
"Who is it?"
"Sergeant Abner Boone, New York Police Department. I spoke to you earlier today."
The buzzer sounded and they pushed in. They stood a brief moment in the entrance way. Delaney tried the door of the Piedmont Gallery. It was locked.
They looked about curiously. The hall and stairway were heavily carpeted. Illumination came from a small crystal chandelier hung from a high ceiling.
"Very nice," Delaney said. "And look at that banister.
Someone did a great restoration job. Well, let's go up. Sergeant, you do the talking."
"Don't let me miss anything," Boone said anxiously.
Delaney grunted.
The woman who greeted them at an opened door on the second floor was tall, stiff. Braided flaxen hair, coiled atop her head, made her appear even taller.
A Valkyrie, was Delaney's initial reaction.
"May I see your identification, please?" she said crisply.
"Of course," Boone said, and handed over his case with shield and ID card.
She inspected both closely, returned the folder, then turned to Delaney.
"And who are you?" she demanded.
He was not put off by her loud, assertive voice. In fact, he admired her caution; most people would have accepted Boone's credentials and not questioned anyone accompanying him.
"Edward X. Delaney, ma'am," he said in a quiet voice. "I am a civilian consultant assisting the New York Police Department in the investigation of your husband's death. If you have any questions about my presence here-any doubts at all-I suggest you telephone First Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen or Acting Chief of Detectives Michael Ramon Suarez.
Both will vouch for me. Sergeant Boone and I can wait out here in the hall while you make the call."
She stared at him fixedly. Then: "No," she said, "that won't be necessary; I believe you. It's just that since -since it happened, I've been extra careful,"
"Very wise," Delaney said.
They stepped into the receptionist's office, and both men noted that Dr.
Diane Ellerbee double-locked and chained the door behind them.
"Ma'am," Boone said, "is the floor plan of this office the same as-uh, the one upstairs?"
"You haven't seen it?" she asked, surprised. "Yes, my husband's and my office are identical. Not in decorations or furnishings, of course, but the layout of the rooms is the same."
She ushered them into her private office, leaving open the connecting door to the receptionist's office. She got them seated in two cretonne-covered armchairs with low backs.
"Not too comfortable, are they?" she said-the first time she had smiled: a shadow of a smile. "Deliberately so. I don't want my young patients nodding off. Those chairs keep them twisting and shifting. I think it's productive."
"Doctor Ellerbee," Boone said solemnly, leaning forward, "I'd like to express the condolences of Mr. Delaney and myself on the tragic death of your husband. From all accounts he was a remarkable man. We sympathize with you on your loss."
"Thank you," she said, sitting behind her desk like a queen. "I appreciate your sympathy. I would appreciate even more your finding the person who killed my husband."
During this exchange, Delaney had been examining the office, trying not to make his inspection too obvious.
The room seemed to him excessively neat, almost to the point of sterility. Walls were painted a cream color, the carpet a light beige.
There was one ficus tree (which looked artificial) in a rattan basket.
The only wall decorations were two framed enlargements of Rorschach blots that looked as abstract as Japanese calligraphy.
"Both of us," Boone continued, "have read your statement to the investigating officers several times. We don't want to ask you to go over it again. But I would like to say that occasionally, after a shocking event like this, witnesses recall additional details days or even months later. If you are able to add anything to your statement, it would help if you'd contact us immediately."
"I certainly hope it's not going to take months to find my husband's killer," she said sharply.
They looked at her expressionlessly, and she gave a short cough of laughter without mirth.
"I know I've been a pain in the ass to the police," she said.
And so has Henry-my father-in-law, Henry Ellerbee. But I have not been able to restrain my anger. All my professional life I have been counseling patients on how to cope with the injustices of this world.
But now that they have struck me, I find it difficult to endure. Perhaps this experience will make me a better therapist. But I must tell you in all honesty that at the moment I feel nothing but rage and a desire for vengeance -emotions I have never felt before and which I seem unable to control."
"That's very understandable, ma'am," Boone said. "Believe me, we're just as anxious as you to identify the killer.
That's why we asked for this meeting, hoping we might learn something from you that will aid our investigation. First of all, would it hurt too much to talk about your husband?"
"No," she said decisively. "I'll be thinking about Simon and talking about Simon for the rest of my life."
"What kind of a man was he?"
"A very superior human being. Kind, gentle, with a marvelous sympathy for other people's unhappiness. I think everyone in the profession who knew him or met him recognized how gifted he was. In addition to that, he had a first-class mind. He could get to the cause of a psychiatric problem so fast that many of his associates called it instinct."
As she spoke, Delaney, while listening, observed her closely. Ivar Thorsen and Monica had been right: Diane Ellerbee was a regal beauty.
A softly sharp profile suitable for a coin. Sky-blue eyes that seemed to change hue with her temper. A direct, challenging gaze. A porcelain complexion. A generous mouth that promised smiles and kisses.
She was wearing a severely tailored suit of pin-striped flannel, but a tent couldn't have concealed her figure. She didn't move; she flowed.
What was so disconcerting, almost frightening, was the woman's completeness. She wasn't a Valkyrie, he decided; she was a Brancusi sculpture- something serene that wooed the eye with its form and soothed with its surface. "Marvelous" was the word that came to his mind-meaning something of wonder. Supernatural.
"Don't get me wrong," she said, fiddling with a ballpoint pen on her desk and looking down at it. "I don't want to make Simon sound like a perfect man. He wasn't, of course. He had his moods. Fits of silence.
Rare but occasional outbursts of anger. Most of the time he was a sunny, placable man. When he was depressed, it was usually because he felt he was failing a patient. He set for himself very high goals indeed, and when he felt he was falling short of his potential, it bothered him."
"Did you notice any change in him in, say, the last six months or a year?" Boone asked.
"Change?"
"In his manner, his personality. Did he act like a man with worries or, maybe, like a man who had received serious threats against his life?"
She pondered that for a moment. "No," she said finally, "I noticed no change."
"Doctor Ellerbee," Boone said earnestly, "we are currently investigating your husband's patients, under the terms of an agreement negotiated between Doctor Samuelson and the NYPD. Are you familiar with that compromise?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "Julie told me about it."
"Do you think it possible that one of the patients may have been the assailant?"
"Yes, it's possible."
"Have you yourself ever been attacked by one of your patients?"
"Occasionally."
"And how do you handle that?"
"You must realize," she said with a wry smile, "that most of my patients are children. Still, my first reaction is to protect myself. And I am a strong woman. I refuse to let myself be bullied or suffer injury."