FaceOff by Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein Page B
Authors: Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
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scattered about. A tingle of excitement shot up her spine when she noticed a Chinese jade horse on Samuels’s desk.
Malachai handed D.D. a crystal glass filled with ice water. He took a seat opposite her on the other side of the glass coffee table.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“We found your business card at the scene of a murder.”
“That’s terrible. Who was killed?”
“Mr. John Wen.”
Malachai’s face showed no emotion. In fact, he remained so unruffled that D.D. was instantly suspicious.
“Did you know him, Doctor?”
“I’m a therapist, Detective. Even if I did I couldn’t tell you. Everything that goes on in my office is confidential. Surely you understand that.”
“The man is dead, Dr. Samuels. His confidentiality is on the floor in a pool of blood.”
Malachai remained silent.
“Surely you understand that by not talking to me you are as good as admitting he was a patient.”
“If that’s the conclusion you want to draw, so be it. But I’m neither saying he was or wasn’t. I’m not at liberty to discuss your case with you.”
“Your business card was there when he died.”
“How unfortunate, then, for us both.”
D.D. frowned, feeling the first tinge of annoyance. Samuels was within his rights but it was going to make the case more complicated if she had to wait to get a court order.
“Last time you saw him alive?” she fished.
“Who said I ever saw him?”
Special Agent Lucian Glass had been right: Samuels was good.
D.D. went about it another way. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were a detective investigating the homicide of man who imported ancient Chinese artifacts, who would you question?”
Samuels merely arched a brow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head in the direction of the decorative mirror hanging over his left shoulder.
A Freudian slip, D.D. thought, or just the incredible arrogance of a well-respected gentleman who may or may not have gotten away with murder?
“I am sorry, Detective,” Dr. Samuels informed her, “but I cannot assist you in this matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another patient waiting.”
He stood up, and she had no choice but to follow. Show over, meeting adjourned. D.D. had wasted an entire day, not to mention a decent portion of her department’s budget, on a trip to New York that had yielded her absolutely nothing.
“Nice horse,” she said, pointing at the jade piece as she rose to stand.
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t; like many objects in this building, I inherited it. I moved it into my office, however, because I find it particularly compelling. Do you know why people collect antiques, Detective Warren?”
Aha, finally a little conversation. “They like old things?”
“Perhaps. More accurately, they identify with old things.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself. She gazed around his clearlynineteenth-century office. The good doctor didn’t appear offended, more like amused by her unspoken point.
“Mr. John Wen,” she tried one last time, “didn’t just collect antiques. By all accounts, he believed people should live with them. Such as you do.”
“Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means you’re spending too much time in the present, Detective Warren, given that you are investigating a man who was all about the past.”
Dr. Samuels granted her one last, knowing smile. Then graciously but firmly, he escorted her out the door.
AFTER THE BOSTON DETECTIVE DEPARTED, Malachai returned to his office where he poured himself an inch of forty-year-old Macallan. Lifting the heavy crystal tumbler he took a sip. Savored it. Then, drink in hand, he sat down heavily in the chair at his desk. Opening his top drawer he withdrew his Symthson notebook.
This was a private journal that he kept to record his musings on “The Search,” as he had been referring to it for the last thirty-five years, ever since he’d opened a nineteenth-century book on mesmerism that
Malachai handed D.D. a crystal glass filled with ice water. He took a seat opposite her on the other side of the glass coffee table.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“We found your business card at the scene of a murder.”
“That’s terrible. Who was killed?”
“Mr. John Wen.”
Malachai’s face showed no emotion. In fact, he remained so unruffled that D.D. was instantly suspicious.
“Did you know him, Doctor?”
“I’m a therapist, Detective. Even if I did I couldn’t tell you. Everything that goes on in my office is confidential. Surely you understand that.”
“The man is dead, Dr. Samuels. His confidentiality is on the floor in a pool of blood.”
Malachai remained silent.
“Surely you understand that by not talking to me you are as good as admitting he was a patient.”
“If that’s the conclusion you want to draw, so be it. But I’m neither saying he was or wasn’t. I’m not at liberty to discuss your case with you.”
“Your business card was there when he died.”
“How unfortunate, then, for us both.”
D.D. frowned, feeling the first tinge of annoyance. Samuels was within his rights but it was going to make the case more complicated if she had to wait to get a court order.
“Last time you saw him alive?” she fished.
“Who said I ever saw him?”
Special Agent Lucian Glass had been right: Samuels was good.
D.D. went about it another way. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were a detective investigating the homicide of man who imported ancient Chinese artifacts, who would you question?”
Samuels merely arched a brow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head in the direction of the decorative mirror hanging over his left shoulder.
A Freudian slip, D.D. thought, or just the incredible arrogance of a well-respected gentleman who may or may not have gotten away with murder?
“I am sorry, Detective,” Dr. Samuels informed her, “but I cannot assist you in this matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another patient waiting.”
He stood up, and she had no choice but to follow. Show over, meeting adjourned. D.D. had wasted an entire day, not to mention a decent portion of her department’s budget, on a trip to New York that had yielded her absolutely nothing.
“Nice horse,” she said, pointing at the jade piece as she rose to stand.
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t; like many objects in this building, I inherited it. I moved it into my office, however, because I find it particularly compelling. Do you know why people collect antiques, Detective Warren?”
Aha, finally a little conversation. “They like old things?”
“Perhaps. More accurately, they identify with old things.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself. She gazed around his clearlynineteenth-century office. The good doctor didn’t appear offended, more like amused by her unspoken point.
“Mr. John Wen,” she tried one last time, “didn’t just collect antiques. By all accounts, he believed people should live with them. Such as you do.”
“Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means you’re spending too much time in the present, Detective Warren, given that you are investigating a man who was all about the past.”
Dr. Samuels granted her one last, knowing smile. Then graciously but firmly, he escorted her out the door.
AFTER THE BOSTON DETECTIVE DEPARTED, Malachai returned to his office where he poured himself an inch of forty-year-old Macallan. Lifting the heavy crystal tumbler he took a sip. Savored it. Then, drink in hand, he sat down heavily in the chair at his desk. Opening his top drawer he withdrew his Symthson notebook.
This was a private journal that he kept to record his musings on “The Search,” as he had been referring to it for the last thirty-five years, ever since he’d opened a nineteenth-century book on mesmerism that