Multiple Wounds Page 10

  Acting hard to get, Mary Beth said, “And I suppose if I was Bulgarian you’d be claiming that nationality as well?”

  “I could only hope to somehow be related to you, Mary Beth.”

  “With that kind of blarney you’ve got to be Irish. What’s the name?”

  “Helen Olympia Troy,” he said. “That’s Helen Troy as in Tom Ray Orville Yogi.”

  “Is this on the level?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any aliases?”

  Cheever almost laughed. Helen’s whole life was an alias. “Why don’t you try Holly Troy as well?”

  “Got a birth date or social security number or anything that will make the search easier?”

  “She’s around twenty-five, a local, stands five feet eight, and weighs around one-fifteen.”

  “And now she’s a missing person, right? Last seen on a hijacked love boat heading for Troy?”

  “If you get a Bingo on her,” said Cheever, “I’d appreciate your telling me ASAP.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to run a search on Cleopatra while I’m at it?”

  Cheever resisted joining in her wordplay. “How soon can you do the background?”

  “In just a little Nile,” she said.

  Mary Beth marched out of the room with alacrity. Sergeant Falconi caught the door before it closed. Both their timing was good. Cheever wasn’t sure if the room could have held the three of them.

  “Anything?” Falconi asked.

  “Same old,” Cheever said. “I’m thinking of letting Jackson go before he puts in his dinner order and bankrupts the city.”

  The sergeant didn’t offer any second guesses, just nodded. “Circle five o’clock on your desk calendar,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For Rollo Adams. I just got off the phone with him. He’s coming to visit us. Wants to make sure we’re all operating on the same wavelength. And rowing in the same direction. Those are his quotes.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “He wants an interface between the Carnation Fund and our investigation.”

  “His word?”

  “Yep,” Falconi said. “And your assignment.”

  The sergeant left the room before Cheever could tell him what he thought of that. Before he could offer his own word. It wouldn’t have been interface.

  Cheever went back to monitor watching. The Kid was trying to get Dr. Denton to remember everything the mystery lady had said. “You said she acted like she was drunk,” he said. “Talked and walked like she was under the influence. What made you think that?”

  “Been around lots of drunks. Guess you can say I’m an expert witness—”

  The Kid stepped on his comedy act. “Tell me what she said and how she said it.”

  “Kept shouting, ‘No.’ Said something like, ‘Stop it, you bastard.’ Said ‘son of a bitch’ coupla times. Most the time it looked like she was waving around a sword.”

  “A sword?”

  “The make-believe kind. Like the people around her. She kept lunging, you know. Fell down a few times.”

  Cheever listened with half an ear. He wished he’d run Helen through the computer earlier. As Eris, she had referred to the police in a familiar, if not exactly fond, manner. If the feeling was mutual...

  “You said after the woman fell down she acted hysterical.”

  Dr. Denton nodded. “She was crying and screaming.”

  “What was she saying?”

  “Kept yelling stuff like, ‘No, oh my God, no.’ Things like that.”

  “Did she sound like she was drunk then?”

  “Sounded like she was damn sorry about something.”

  “Tell me about when she became silent.”

  “Not much to say. One moment she be carrying on, down on her knees, hitting the ground and crying and stuff, and then all of a sudden she’s quiet as death. Not a sound.”

  “What then?”

  “Got up like there was nothing wrong and then walked away.”

  “You said something about a bag.”

  “Already told you. She picked up a bag before leaving.”

  Cheever thought about Helen Troy and how she had been carrying a bag when they first met. Mary Beth’s sudden entrance added to his gnawing suspicions. She walked into the tape room, threw down a printout in front of Cheever, and announced, “Trojan War, part two.

  “And,” she added, handing him a folder, “anticipating your request, I also dug out the crime and arrest reports.”

  He waved his appreciation. Computers usually only tell half a story. They don’t have the notations by the officers or the names of witnesses or addresses of the next of kin. Whenever possible, Cheever liked the real paperwork in front of him.

  Helen Troy’s arrest sheet showed she wasn’t a stranger to SDPD. There were no wants or warrants on her at the moment, but that looked more the exception than the rule. There were three pages to her criminal curriculum vitae. She had a string of arrests over the last seven years, had been booked mostly for disturbing the peace and being drunk and disorderly, but there had been other more serious charges, including soliciting, assault, possession of narcotics, and carrying a concealed weapon. Besides spending time in the drunk tank, she had been able to plea her way out of jail time, her felony arrests either getting dropped or kicked down to misdemeanors. Her most recent citation had been for indecent exposure. That had happened less than three months ago.

  Cheever wondered if Helen’s so-called multiple personalities were a great front, a wonderful way for excusing her behavior. Maybe she had decided they allowed her to murder with impunity.

  He walked back to his desk, his anger growing with every step. Mostly he was mad at himself, but the shrink’s deliberate misdirection in his investigation had him seeing red. The shrink could have told him about Helen’s criminal history in a noncondemning way, could have said, “Oh, by the way, Helen has an arrest record that runs about as long as the Iliad,” but what Rachel Stern had chosen to do instead was to lie by omission.

  Cheever called her at home, got her machine, gave up on that, then dialed her office. A receptionist who was running interference told him the doctor was with a patient, but Cheever interrupted her rote speech to say this was police business. The hold music was classical, but it didn’t make the wait any shorter or improve his temper. When the receptionist finally came back on the line she sounded apologetic and also sounded like she figured he’d chew her head off.

  “Detective Cheever,” she said, “Dr. Stern regrets that she can’t talk with you now, but says that if you give me your number she will call you back in fifteen minutes. Or, if that’s not convenient, I’d be glad to take a message.”

  He swallowed back several messages, decided it wasn’t fair to behead the messenger, and managed to give her his number without saying anything else.

  Rather than just wait for the doctor’s return call, and getting more frustrated by the minute doing so, Cheever went back to looking at Helen’s paperwork. There were others besides the doctor who knew Helen, people without agendas. One of them was Paul Rodriguez, the officer who’d had the latest run-in with Helen Troy. Over the phone, he remembered her well.

  “Strange lady,” Rodriguez said, but was quick to add, “hell of a figure, though,” as if that excused everything.

  “A nearby business owner said his employees were wasting too much time catching this naked babe’s act, and he wanted us to do something about it. We checked it out, and there she was, up in this window buck naked. Thing was, you couldn’t be sure she wasn’t a mannequin, ’specially with all these other statues around her.

  “My partner had some binocs, so we took us a close look. Sure enough, she was blinking every so often. That’s the only thing that gave her away.

  “She was up on the third, fourth floor. We got a tenant to let us in, walked up some stairs, and knocked on the door to her loft, which set off this dog that sounded meaner than hell. From inside we hear her calming the dog
and saying she’ll be out in just a minute.

  “When she answers the door she’s tied the dog up and thrown some clothes on and acts like she’s all prim and proper. We tell her that we’re going to have to cite her for indecent exposure, and she gets indignant. There’s no way she’d parade around naked, she says. My partner gets a little wise, says he can describe her moles in detail if she wants. Then she gets all quiet and acts embarrassed, looks like she wishes she was wearing winter clothes. We didn’t take her in, just passed her some paper and warned her that if she got a hankering for walking around without clothes that she should do it with the shades drawn.

  “Funny,” said Rodriguez, taking a moment to think. “She acted like she got caught with her pants down. Which she did. But it was like she didn’t know it.”

  “Thanks,” said Cheever.

  “She been doing her mooning act anywhere else lately?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “It’s a show worth seeing,” said Rodriguez.

  Cheever hung up the phone. Now he had a precedent for Helen making like a statue. For doing her Galatea thing. According to her paperwork, she’d done worse, had been arrested for soliciting at the Cha Cha Club, a strip joint on El Cajon Boulevard. Cheever was reading that arrest report when his phone rang. He picked up the receiver, identified himself.

  “This is Dr. Stern returning your call.”

  Returning frostbite by the sound of it. Cheever didn’t thank her for calling back. “Helen Troy’s not a vestal virgin, is she?”

  “That’s not one of her personalities and not one of my claims.”

  “Are you aware of her criminal record?”

  “Of course.”

  “But telling me about it slipped your mind?”

  “I thought there were more important things to tell you in the short time we had.”

  “Does she still strip, hook, and do drugs?”

  “I don’t like the tone of that question.”

  “I don’t like having to ask it a day late.”

  “Helen works at her art full time. She has never taken money for sex, your zealous police department assertations notwithstanding, but she has worked as an exotic dancer to support herself. At this time, the primary drug she abuses is alcohol. She’s given up speed and cocaine, but she still takes Ecstasy, especially during raves. Is that all, because—”

  “No. You said some of her personalities scare you—”

  “I didn’t use the word scare. I did, however, imply a certain volatility—”

  “Volatile enough to kill?”

  “I make it a rule not to answer such hypothetical questions.”

  “You seem to have a lot of rules,” said Cheever.

  “I also have another patient whose session is due to begin.”

  “I’d like to talk more about a patient named Helen.”

  “Now isn’t a good time.”

  “When is?”

  “Any time after six thirty.”

  “All right. Six thirty-one. Your office?”

  “Yes.”

  He hung up and then dialed Helen’s home telephone number. She had told Cheever she was between cell phones. There was no answer, not even a machine to talk to. Maybe she was making like a statue again and didn’t hear the ringing. He considered driving over to her place, but feared it would be a waste of time. Not for the first time Cheever wished he could be two places at the same time. That wasn’t possible. But could you be two people, or more, inhabiting the same body?

  Cheever’s jury was still out on that question. As for Helen Troy, supposedly she had enough personalities to be both judge and jury.

  And, he considered, executioner.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  “Mr. Troy?”

  “Given a choice of titles,” the man said, “I prefer Professor Troy. But I’ve been known to answer to almost anything. Detective Cheever, I presume.”

  The professor offered his hand and a weak grip. He was around five foot eight and plump. His cheeks were red and his eyes were blue, giving him an elfin appearance. He had dark hair and didn’t show enough gray for a man who was supposed to be in his late sixties. Grecian Formula, thought Cheever. Or maybe it was the Grecian gods.

  He motioned for Cheever to come inside and led him to the living room. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined two of the long walls. The room was decorated with replicas of antiquities: classical vases and urns, marble busts of emperors and poets, reproductions of paintings with mythological scenes and characters, and miniatures of such landmarks as the Acropolis and the Colosseum.

  “Rome sweet Rome,” said Cheever.

  The professor rubbed his hands and laughed. “I like that,” he said, “even if it’s not geographically complete. Let’s get comfortable, shall we? May I get you something to drink?”

  Cheever shook his head and sat down on a sofa. Professor Jason Troy chose a love seat, crossed his legs, and faced Cheever with pert attention. Mary Beth had come up with the professor’s address out of records. Cheever had called him, figuring that Jason Troy might be able to provide answers about Helen. The professor had been extremely amenable, had even suggested that Cheever visit.

  “As I mentioned on the phone, Professor, your daughter might or might not have been at the scene of a very heinous crime. In questioning her, I’ve found her answers to be—cryptic.”

  “Cryptic? I like your choice of words very much, very much indeed. Cryptic originally came from the Greek word kruptos, to hide. Maybe you should be thankful for Helen’s responses, Detective, for cryptic answers are sometimes the most revealing. Oracles knew to give cryptic responses. They were aware that we needed our enigmas to truly think.”

  “But aren’t answers from oracles always suspect?” Cheever asked. “Aren’t their replies invariably ambiguous?”

  “There is that,” the professor said, “but I daresay the blame is mostly human, with the questions asked not specific enough and the interpretation not skilled enough.

  “The Sibyl was the greatest of all oracles, and she well knew the need to be specific. When Apollo wanted to press his love upon her, she demanded a wish, asking that all the granules of sand she held in her hand be the years of her life. Apollo granted her that, but not her youth. Her body soon wasted, leaving only her voice and her prophecies.”

  The professor enjoyed talking in the affected manner some academics assume and was enamored with theatrics and dramatic mannerisms. He liked to use his eyes, opening them wide and closing them slowly, and conducted his speech with operatic hands and an exclamatory voice.

  “Before blaming the oracles, Detective, be suspicious of the interpreters. Priests and priestesses translated from birds and rustling leaves. They divined from babbling humans at the Oracle of Delphi. To be certain of the message, I fear you’ll have to learn the tongue of the gods.”

  “But who gods the gods?” Cheever asked.

  Jason Troy gave him a delighted look. “A classical pun,” he said, amazed. “You surprise me, Detective. I am reminded of what Dr. Johnson said of a dog’s walking on his hind legs: ‘It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.’”

  “Wouldn’t a dog say the same thing if he saw a human walking around on all fours?”

  Troy laughed again. “Please don’t take umbrage,” he said, “but it’s just that the constabulary that Helen’s youthful antics brought into my life were uninspired sorts, bureaucrats really, with the sensibilities of troglodytes. You’re older and wiser. I sense your philosophy is not based in its entirety on the funny pages.”

  “Not entirely. Sometimes I read the sports too.”

  “You’re being modest.”

  “No, I’m attempting humor.”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I came here to learn about your daughter.”

  “Alas,” Jason said, “conversation seems to be a forgotten art, with pedestrian interests always elbowing aside true discours
e. Though I suppose it is your job...”

  It was difficult for Cheever to determine where the professor’s academia concluded and his dissembling began. “You were saying about Helen.”

  Sighing, “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, I fear.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Helen takes after my deceased wife. Delores was not very stable. She tried to medicate herself through a liquor store prescription. It didn’t work. She was institutionalized a number of times and ultimately committed suicide.”

  “How old was Helen when that happened?”

  “Seven or eight.”

  “You’re aware that Helen has been diagnosed as having multiple personality disorder?”

  The professor clucked a little, then held his hands up to show both his helplessness and his skepticism. “Over the years a slew of analysts have pronounced their weighty diagnoses. She, like her mother before her, has been called, among other things, a borderline personality, a dissociative hysteric, and a pathological overreactor. I’ve been told she suffers from delusions and hallucinations. The mental health people said many of the same things about her mother.”

  “Her therapist believes her disorder occurred before the age of eight and began as early as when she was five.”

  “You mean her current therapist. Who knows what her next one will conjecture.”

  “Most of Helen’s personalities appear to be linked to characters out of Greek myths. It surprised me that such a young girl could identify with mythology.”

  “That, at least,” Troy said, “is a natural enough offshoot. I read Helen myths from the time she was very young. We didn’t have any Dr. Seuss around. We had Ovid and Homer and Bulfinch and Edith Hamilton and myths aplenty. Helen always wanted more. She was a sponge.”