“Is he a shrink?” I asked.
She took another look. “It doesn’t say ‘Dr.’ Li, so I doubt it.”
I pulled the Li file from the box.
“I know a real doctor,” I said, “and she’s a damn good profiler. I think I’ll drop by Cheryl’s office and ask her to take a look at this guy’s notes. I’ll be back in a few.”
“I thought she was in Boston,” Kylie said as I headed for the door.
“Just for the weekend. She flew back on the early morning shuttle.”
“So then you haven’t seen her since when—Friday?”
“Thursday afternoon.”
“In that case, I doubt if you’ll be back in a few. But don’t take too long. Election Day is a week from tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
God bless Fred Robinson.
For eleven years he was married to a beautiful, intelligent, self-assured woman. Then he dumped her for someone younger, dumber, and needier.
His loss, my gain.
I met Cheryl four years ago, when I was hoping to get into Red. She was the shrink assigned to probe my brain to make sure I was a good fit.
I was nervous as hell, and she knew it.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, Detective Jordan. I won’t bite.”
And I wouldn’t mind if you did, Dr. Moist Red Lips, Inviting Brown Eyes, and Smooth Caramel Skin Framed by Tumbling Waves of Thick Jet-Black Hair. I was only twenty-nine, but I was ready to cross sleeping with a hot Latina psychologist off my bucket list.
A few years later, Cheryl told me she was 90 percent Irish, but thanks to her Puerto Rican grandmother, she looks about as Irish as J.Lo. But back then she was still sporting her wedding ring, and I figured hitting on a married woman during a job interview would be a bad career move.
We chatted about my background, both personal and professional, and then she popped a loaded question: “Do you think rich, powerful people deserve a better class of service from the police?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, which sounds like the exact wrong answer to give when you’re trying to get into the superelite squad created to serve the rich and famous.
She didn’t react. All she said was, “Can you elaborate?”
“The rich don’t deserve any better police protection than the homeless. What they do deserve, especially when they’re the victims of a crime, is a cop who is sensitive to their needs, not one who resents them because they’re rich or spoiled or egomaniacal.”
“You come from a working-class background, Detective Jordan. What makes you confident you know how to deal with someone like Donald Trump?”
“My mother was a makeup artist—movies, TV, fashion shoots. She dealt with them all—the divas, the prima donnas, the rock stars, each one more entitled than the last. She taught me how to handle them.”
“How?”
“‘Don’t try to change them,’ she used to say. ‘Remember that deep down inside they’re as insecure as the rest of us. And the room is never big enough for two narcissists, so check your own ego at the door.’”
“You had a smart mom,” Cheryl said. “It sounds like she got along with everybody.”
“Almost everybody, except for this one guy she argued with constantly.”
Everyone loves show business gossip, and I knew I had her. “You don’t have to tell me his name,” she said, “but I’m dying of curiosity. Who was it?”
“My father.”
I got the job.
Cheryl and I became friends early on, and then, when her marriage started to head south, I became the only friend she wanted to confide in. Two weeks after her divorce, we became friends with benefits. And the benefits have been fantastic.
The door to Cheryl’s office was open, and I walked in. As soon as she saw me, she bounded from behind her desk, wrapped her arms around me, and kissed me hard. “God, I’m happy to see you,” she said, pressing her body against mine.
And just like that, I went limp in some places, not so limp in others.
Cheryl and I had been together only a few months, and I wasn’t ready for this passionate a reunion . But my body kicked into autopilot, and my hips started doing small circular motions against hers.
“Exactly how happy are you to see me?” I said, kicking the door shut and maneuvering her toward the inviting baby-blue sofa that came in handy whenever she had to work around the clock.
“You’re crazy,” she said, pushing back but not pulling away.
“Crazy? Lousy diagnosis, Doc. Try horny.” I started unbuttoning her blouse.
I thought she’d stop me, but she began kissing, groping. “Lock the door,” she whispered.