French Twist Page 8

  Chapter 29

  “My office is this way. Please, come with me, so we can talk before the exam.”

  Why am I wearing a gown? Through another door. Reynolds’s office is sparse: another glass desk, a small gray cabinet. Some solemn-looking medical books on the shelves. An examining table with three measuring tapes and a small camera. Nothing else. It barely reads like a doctor’s office. Reynolds gestures to the chair opposite his desk.

  “What is your trouble? What is your dream? How can I help?” he asks.

  She knows she must slip into the role she has come here to play. Reynolds’s voice soothes her. But, damn it, she will, of course, be tougher. She’s smarter. Clear the decks. Light the lights.

  “I am just starting to hate the way I look. I mean, I know I’m sort of pretty. I also know the world’s falling apart, and I’m worrying about the millimeter droop in my neck and my ears. But, well, I guess I should start by doing something about my weight…”

  Burke knows that she is perfectly proportioned. She knows that if she ever truly complained to her cousins Maddy and Marilyn they’d laugh and criticize her for such self-involvement. God forbid she ever said something to Moncrief. He would force-feed her a hot fudge sundae.

  “There’s always room for improvement,” Reynolds says. “That’s the wonder of life.”

  That’s the wonder of life? Burke thinks. Jesus.

  Reynolds reaches into his filing cabinet and takes out two pamphlets. He hands one to her.

  “Read along with me, Marion. Let’s start on page three.”

  The page is titled “Help on Your Journey.”

  He begins reading:

  “The judicious use of diet pills may lend you exactly the support you and your willpower need in order to learn and maintain sensible eating habits. Small doses of Dexedrine in limited quantities will give you the resilience you never knew you had.”

  Burke nods. Dexedrine, huh? On the street, in the clubs, in the best and worst neighborhoods, they’re called Black Beauties.

  “By the way,” he says. “I know, of course, that my assistant, Nora, asked for the name of your pharmacy. That will be used strictly for emergencies. I will, for the sake of precision, put together a weekly packet of medication for you. It’s a much wiser system, a safer system.”

  “But how do you know what…” Burke begins.

  “I know, Marion. The Reynolds system is always the same, always foolproof. When you see a truly beautiful woman on Fifth Avenue, chances are great that she once sat where you’re sitting now.” He continues reading, in what is becoming the most bizarre doctor’s visit she’s ever had:

  “Random and unpredictable sleeplessness is sometimes the result of even the most well-planned and supervised weight-loss plans, like the one you’ll be embarking on. To compensate for the possible problem of insomnia, you will also be prescribed limited doses of Flunitrazepam, the medication that has been proven helpful to many European women.”

  Again Burke nods. She is sure that she remembers Moncrief saying that Flunitrazepam is called le petit ami parfait, “the perfect boyfriend,” by wealthy Parisian women.

  The reading from the gospel according to Reynolds continues. He tells Burke that her pill packet will also contain two forms of mescaline, as well as what Reynolds calls “a late afternoon relaxant.”

  Burke knows that on the streets of New York, these tablets are called roofies.

  Reynolds stands at his desk.

  “So that’s it,” he says. “I’ll see you a week from today, anytime that’s convenient and available.”

  “That’s it?” she says, and she realizes that she may have sounded too surprised. Quickly she adds, “What I mean is: aren’t you going to weigh me or take blood or urine or look in my eyes?”

  “No need to right now. If we need those things at a later date, then we’ll do them. But for now, it’s better to just relax.”

  He hands her a small bag. It is made of a gray velvet-like material. The bag has a gold thread closure; it looks like it would contain a piece of silver given as a wedding gift, or a piece of jewelry given to a loved one.

  Then Reynolds hands her a five-by-seven manila envelope. The envelope has nothing but the letter A written on it.

  “These are helpful also. They’re a mild laxative. Sometimes my clients find the act of bowel emission to be a helpful signal of how they’re doing.”

  Burke has studied Moncrief’s notes. She knows exactly what this medication is: Amatiza, a prescription laxative.

  Reynolds keeps talking. “They’re fairly large pills. So be sure to take plenty of water with them. Of course, you’ll be staying away from all fruit juice. Too much sugar. Sugar and carbs. The dual enemy.”

  As he speaks she cannot resist squeezing the metal tab on the manila envelope. She pulls out one of the light-blue pills. By any estimation it is huge.

  “Can I cut these in half?” Burke asks.

  “You may get them down any way you choose,” he says. “Put them on the tip of your husband’s…” he begins to say. Then he laughs. Burke tries hard not to show that she’s both surprised and repulsed by his joke.

  “In any event, the medication chart for when you should take these pills is in the little bag,” he says. “If you have any questions, Nora or I are always available.”

  Reynolds removes his suit jacket. He hangs it carefully on the back of his desk chair. He walks around the desk to where Burke is seated.

  She thinks: Why am I wearing an examination gown if he’s not going to examine me?

  Now Dr. Reynolds stands in front of her, close to her.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

  “No, I guess not,” Burke asks.

  But she realizes that this is now or never. She’s got to get him to sell her some drugs. She pretends as if some new thought has just crossed her mind.

  “Oh, yes. There is something. I’m glad you brought up the laxative thing,” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “A friend of mine told me she occasionally uses something called…oh, I’m not sure…it’s like…clementine…clemerol…some sort of laxative that really relaxes you inside…she says.”

  Burke is setting herself up to request an illegal drug, one banned by the FDA. It should be powerful. It’s formulated for horses.

  “You’re probably thinking of Clenbuterol,” Reynolds says. “And it is highly effective. But I’m not sure it ‘relaxes you inside.’”

  “I could swear that’s what she said.”

  “It could help. Some women like it.”

  “I’d give it a try. I’m pretty serious about losing weight.”

  “I’ll add it to the prescription package. But I must warn you…”

  Oh, Burke thinks, this is when he warns me of serious side effects.

  No. Reynolds says, “…that there will be an extra charge. I’ll give you seven pills, until next week’s visit. Like I say, they’re pricey. One hundred dollars each.”

  “That’s fine,” says Burke.

  “Very well. Now go get dressed, and on your way out stop and see Nora. I’ll tell her to add Clenbuterol to your ‘goody bag.’ It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Same here,” Burke says.

  With a big smile on his face, Dr. William Reynolds speaks again. “Next week we can discuss what we might do about those droopy breasts of yours.”

  Chapter 30

  Katherine Burke dresses quickly. The baggy black linen Alexander Wang pants tie easily at the waist. The simple white cotton T-shirt slips quickly over her shoulders. She grabs her pocketbook and she does a fast check of its contents: iPad, personal iPhone, work cell phone, roll of thirty hundred-dollar bills, and finally, the “Austrian Baby,” which is what Moncrief calls the Glock 19 handgun that Burke and Moncrief carry.

  Burke walks down the short hallway to the waiting room. She is certain that the lighting is dimmer than when she first entered. Yes, her quick police detective mind registers th
at the two Sonneman table lamps have been turned off. The track lighting has been turned down. The spotlight on the Koons photo is no longer on.

  “It’s not scary,” she thinks. “It’s just gloomy.”

  The very skinny, very pretty receptionist/assistant—Reynolds called her Nora—is not at the glass desk.

  Then suddenly a noise, a human sound, not quite a cough, not quite a sniffle. Burke turns in the direction of one of the black couches. The back of the couch is facing her. Then Burke watches the receptionist beginning to sit up. Nora yawns the tiniest of yawns.

  “Oh, Miss Cotillard, I’m sorry. I was just catching a nap while I was waiting for you. You’re Dr. Reynolds’s last patient. Forgive me,” she says as she stands.

  “What’s to forgive? I wish I could grab a nap right now myself,” says Burke.

  Nora goes to her desk and begins tapping away at her iPad. “Let’s just see what the total payment is. The consultation is one thousand…”

  One thousand!

  Burke tries not to show her astonishment when she hears the amount.

  “The weight-loss medical package is another thousand,” says Nora. “And I see here that Dr. Reynolds has dispensed additional medication, Clenbuterol. That’s seven…”

  Now Burke hears a noise coming from behind her. Nora must be hearing that noise also. Both women look toward the black couch where Nora had been napping. The cough comes again, louder. It is an intense cough, a man’s cough, a sick man’s cough, Burke thinks.

  Suddenly a young man stands up. Burke can only assume that he also has been lying on that couch. The young man squints in the direction of both women. He seems confused, disoriented. He is blond, young, thin. The young man is Reed Reynolds.

  “That’s Dr. Reynolds’s son. I think they’re meeting for dinner,” says Nora, who delivers the information calmly, matter-of-factly. Burke nods, as if this actually explained something.

  “Your dad will be out momentarily, Reed,” says Nora. Now she looks back to her iPad and says, “That will be a total of twenty-seven hundred dollars, Miss Cotillard.”

  Katherine Burke begins counting out hundred-dollar bills.

  “Excellent,” says Nora. “Cash.”

  Burke speaks. “Oh, and I’ll need a receipt.”

  “I’ll just e-mail it to you,” says Nora.

  “Oh, I’d prefer a hard copy.”

  “If I e-mail it you can just print it at home.”

  “Yes, but I really would prefer to leave with a piece of paper. I’m a dinosaur when it comes to receipts.”

  Suddenly a loud harsh voice comes from Reed Reynolds.

  “Are you deaf and stupid, lady? She said she’s going to e-mail it to you.”

  “Reed, please…” says the receptionist.

  The young man comes from around the black couch and approaches the glass desk.

  “I know this bitch,” says Reed Reynolds. “She doesn’t know that I know her, but I do.”

  “I don’t remember ever meeting you,” says Burke, who is now really on edge. This kid is stoned or at least buzzed.

  “You were with that asshole who tried to buy shit from me in the park. Like I didn’t know you were feds or cops or some other kind of asshole.”

  Burke is not quite certain what she should say. But facing Reynolds, her arms and hands are shaking. Her stomach is churning. This operation is about to go up in flames. She turns away from Reed Reynolds to face Nora.

  “Just ignore him,” Nora says.

  But Burke cannot. Reed Reynolds is walking toward her. His long legs bend dramatically at the knees. His walk is almost cartoonish.

  The combination of sneer-and-smile on Reynolds’s mouth, the dramatic deep red outline of his dead eyes…there’s nothing cartoonish about that.

  She snaps open her pocketbook. She reaches in, but immediately realizes that her cell phone is in the compartment where her Glock should be.

  Reynolds’s voice comes at her, loud but slurred: “Move to the goddamn door, lady.”

  Burke freezes.

  Reynolds’s voice again: “Get her! Are you fucking deaf? Get her.”

  It takes Burke a millisecond to realize that Reynolds is shouting at Nora.

  If the cell phone is sitting where the Glock should be, then the Glock should be where the…

  Burke reaches into her pocketbook. Yes. I am a lucky sonofabitch, she thinks. Burke spins to face Nora.

  Nora is holding a gun.

  Burke’s arm is still in her bag. Her hand is on the gun. But Nora is a second ahead of her. Nora aims her pistol in Burke’s general direction.

  Nora fires—and misses. The bullet hits the couch.

  This is astonishing…to everyone except a cop. “The ‘general direction’ IS NEVER GOOD ENOUGH!” She can hear her firearms instructor’s voice.

  “Even if you’re only three feet from your target it’s still READY, AIM, and SHOOT. If you forget the AIM part, then chances are you’re dead.”

  Katherine Burke does what Nora didn’t do.

  First she aims. And then she shoots.

  Blood sprays from Nora’s neck. She falls on top of the desk. Nora’s blood is smearing like children’s finger paint on the glass desk.

  Then suddenly a hideous, retching, gagging sound comes from Reed. Sick and savage and loud, like a cannibal war-cry.

  Now Burke is alive in a kind of crazy way. She spins around and sees the boy fold at the waist. His head is almost at the floor, but he is still standing. He begins spewing a fountain of vomit, which splashes to the floor. Some of it hits his black pants as she uses her phone to call for Moncrief.

  Chapter 31

  I dial 911 as I enter the reception room, along with Dr. William Reynolds. I see a dead woman face-down and bleeding out over a glass desk. I barely recognize Reed Reynolds, who is so unconscious that he appears to be dead, his head resting in his own pool of vomit. I ignore William Reynolds, staring at his dead receptionist and son. They will be dealt with when more officers arrive, which should be any minute.

  When I look to the other corner, I see K. Burke standing, looking out the window. Her shoulders are shaking. She is sobbing, really sobbing, big bursts of tears mixed with squeaks and grunts and coughs.

  I walk to her and from behind I put my arms on her shoulders and gently turn her around. She puts her head on my chest.

  “It is all right, K. Burke. You behaved admirably. You have much to be proud of,” I say softly.

  I hold her, rubbing her back with my hands. Silence. Seconds. Minutes. Then Burke speaks.

  “Moncrief, I just killed someone.”

  I imagine page after page after page of police forms and reports. Thousands of finger taps on so many cell phones and laptops. Photographers and photographs and the whooshing sounds of expensive cameras. More detectives. Medical examiners. More police officers. Inspector Elliott. A deputy mayor. The newscasters. The newswriters. The news photographers. The people in the neighborhood. The conversations.

  “They say they killed Dr. Reynolds.”

  “No. Not Reynolds. They killed his girlfriend.”

  “No. They killed the nurse.”

  “The nurse is the girlfriend.”

  I can see in my head what is coming, a spectacle for a summer’s night in New York City.

  I tell Burke that I will take her home to her apartment, and, to my mild surprise, she does not object. She does, however, remain completely silent as the patrol car takes us from SoHo to her apartment in the East 90s.

  At her apartment door we step over the messy pile of shoes, boots, and magazines.

  “What sort of alcoholic beverages do you have here?” I ask.

  “There’s a bottle of Dewar’s in the cabinet over the fridge, and there’s some Gallo Hearty Burgundy next to it,” she says. She cannot see the disgust on my face when she mentions the wine. But this, of course, is hardly a time for humor, even between such great friends. Also, these are the first words she has spoken since we left the mad c
arnival in Dr. William Reynolds’s office. Reynolds has been taken to the precinct. Burke has been brought to her home. All has ended the way it should. Yet the air is heavy with misery.

  Burke pauses only a few feet into the apartment. She stands perfectly still. Her hands hang at her side.

  “K. Burke, what can I do to help you?” I ask. “We have had no nourishment since luncheon. I will order something. A little soup, some bread, some pastry.”

  “Nothing,” she says. Her voice is soft.

  “Do you need to refresh yourself? Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

  Burke turns her head toward me. She speaks, “‘Draw me a bath.’ You said ‘Draw me a bath.’ That’s so old-fashioned. So foreign. So…Moncrief-like.”

  “Well, what is your answer? A bath? A shower? A Dewar’s on the rocks?”

  It looks as if a small smile is creeping onto her face. I am delighted. The breaking of the ice, as they say. But I’m very wrong. The smile continues without a stop. It curves up and over her cheeks. Her eyes squint hard. Her entire face becomes contorted into sadness. Tears. Loud. Shaking shoulders. Hands to face. Then through her tears comes her ragged voice.

  “I think she would have shot me, Moncrief. Do you think so? Moncrief, tell me that you think if I had waited she would have killed me.”

  I grab her by the arms. And I speak sternly.

  “You do not have to ask me or torture yourself. You did what your job called for you to do.”

  She leans onto my shoulder. She sobs, but the sobs do not last long.

  “I want to take a shower,” she says.

  “That is wise,” I say. “Perhaps it will help to wash the day away.”

  “Perhaps,” she says. Then, “Thank you for helping. You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

  “No,” I say. “I will wait until you are ready for sleeping. I will have a Dewar’s waiting for you when you come out of your shower.”

  Before she enters her tiny bathroom K. Burke turns to me. Her smile is small, but it is real. She speaks. “Draw me a bath? I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me.” She closes the bathroom door.