Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [79]
It felt good to be wearing a suit again, even if he was still deep undercover. And it felt even better to be on the offensive, to be doing something other than just running. The fear and uncertainty that had been eating away at him were almost gone, replaced—after an initial period of knee-jerk panic—with a clear and decisive plan. One that would solve his Pendergast problem once and for all. But just as important, his plan satisfied them. They were going to help him. Finally.
You get to a man through his bitch.
Excellent advice, if rather crudely expressed. And finding the “bitch” had been easier than Esterhazy had hoped. The next challenge was to find a way to access said bitch.
Walking over to the building’s directory, he noted that the Division of Mental Hygiene was located on the seventh floor. He stepped up to a bank of elevators, entered a waiting car, and pressed the button marked “7.” The doors slid shut and he began to ascend.
His knowledge of medical databases had proven invaluable. In the end, it had taken only a few hits to get the information he needed, and from that to form the plan of attack. The first hit had been an involuntary commitment proceeding in which Pendergast had been called as an interested person but—perversely—elected not to appear. The second had been a paper by one Dr. Felder, not yet published but submitted to the medical community for peer review, about a most interesting case, temporarily incarcerated in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women but due for transfer to Mount Mercy Hospital. While the identity of the patient had of course been withheld, given the commitment proceedings it was a trivial matter to determine her identity.
Exiting the elevator, Esterhazy asked directions to the office of Dr. John Felder. The psychiatrist was at work in his neat and diminutive office, and he rose as Esterhazy entered. He was as small as his office, neatly dressed, with short mouse-colored hair and a trim Van Dyke beard.
“Dr. Poole?” he said, extending his hand.
“Dr. Felder,” Esterhazy said, shaking the proffered hand. “A pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Felder, waving his guest to an empty chair. “To meet someone with prior experience treating Constance is an unexpected boon to my work.”
To my work. It was exactly as Esterhazy had figured. He glanced around the impersonal office, at the textbooks and studiously neutral paintings. From his own observations, it was clear that being a court-appointed psychiatrist must be a pretty thankless job. Half the patients one saw were run-of-the-mill sociopaths; the other half were faking symptoms in order to beat a rap. Esterhazy had gotten a strong whiff of Felder’s aspirations just by reading the peer-review version of his paper: here was a case one could sink one’s teeth into, perhaps even make one’s career on. He was clearly a trusting fellow, eager, open, and, like many intelligent people, a bit naive. A perfect mark.
Even so, he had to plot his course with care. Any hint of his own true ignorance of the patient and the case would immediately arouse suspicion. The trick would be to twist that ignorance to his own advantage.
He waved a hand. “Hers is a unique presentation, at least in my experience. I was delighted to see your paper, because not only is this an interesting case, but I think it could be an important one. Perhaps even a benchmark. Although I myself have no interest in publication—my interests lie elsewhere.”
Felder simply nodded his understanding, yet Esterhazy saw a brief glimmer of relief in the psychiatrist’s eyes. It was important Felder realize his guest was no threat to his ambitions.
“How many times have you spoken with Constance?” Esterhazy asked.
“I’ve had four consultations so far.”
“And has she manifested amnesia yet?”
Felder frowned. “No. Not at all.”
“It was the part of her treatment that I found most challenging.