Woman Chased by Crows by Marc Strange Page B

came to see you. Can you tell me what he was asking? That wouldn’t violate anything, would it?”
    â€œWe talked about jazz. He told me he played piano. I told him I once met Oscar Peterson. That was about it. We arranged to meet. After that we didn’t talk all that much.”
    â€œDid he mention a Russian man who was found dead in Toronto last week?”
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. We didn’t talk about his cases. Except for questions about my patient, which I couldn’t answer.”
    â€œAnd the questions about your patient? What did he want to know?”
    â€œHe wanted to know if she was delusional.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you stay at the restaurant? Was there someone you knew?”
    â€œThere’s always someone. I was an idiot to think we’d be invisible.” She wiped her hand across her mouth as if to remove a lingering taste of something bitter. “I just wanted a little romantic interlude. The first time I’d ever done anything remotely like that.”
    â€œI was just wondering if it was someone who might have told your husband.”
    â€œNo. Just some people who could have recognized me.” She opened another drawer. Closed it sharply. “I was very stupid. Very stupid.”
    â€œCan you tell me anything about Mr. Delisle’s weapon? Did he take it off at any point?”
    â€œI told him I hated guns. He put it in his suitcase. Is it important?”
    â€œProbably not.” Stacy made a note. “Your patient, Anya Daniel, I know you can’t tell me anything about your private communication, and I wouldn’t want you to, but I’m trying to determine if there is any connection between Ms. Daniel and the dead Russian. I don’t suppose there’s anything you could help me with there, without breaking the doctor/patient restriction?”
    â€œNot really. She talks about Russia in very general terms. Her years with the ballet. Evidently she was destined to be a big star back there, but for some reason she had to defect. She won’t go into that.”
    â€œWhat year are we talking about? That she had to defect?”
    â€œIn 1981. She was touring in the United States and Canada.”
    â€œDid something bad happen at home?”
    â€œAs far as I can make out, there was some political upheaval going on. New people coming into power. I’m afraid I don’t know much about Russian political history.”
    â€œThat makes two of us.”
    â€œShe does say that they were all thieves back there. The big shots. She seems to have a special hate for someone named Chernenko. Do you know who that is?”
    â€œI think he’s dead,” Stacy said.
    â€œNot to hear her talk about him.”
    â€œI see. I’ll let you get back to your packing then.”
    â€œI feel a deep sense of responsibility for what happened. If I hadn’t been so stupid that man would be alive.”
    Stacy couldn’t argue that point. “Try not to beat yourself up too much, Doctor,” she said.
    No, she wouldn’t be beating herself up. Not over something so completely preposterous. Harold in the role of killer, of jealous vengeful murderer, was beyond preposterous — it was inconceivable, it went against anything rational. What happened to the red-haired detective was a horrible mistake, a grotesque aberration. She had other things to beat herself up over, sloppy session work, taking too long to do what she should have done a long time ago. But not this. This was not her fault. But it was a catastrophe. This could ruin all her good work.

    There was the knocking again. That woman was back.
    â€œMs. Daniel? Dockerty Police. I’m Detective Crean. Like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
    She’ll go away after a while. Just sit still. There’s no need to open the door. If she wants in badly enough she can kick it down the way they like to do.
    â€œMs. Daniel. I know you’re in there, I