Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [63]
“These families are fractured. Marriages are strained. Parenting bonds are twisted. Sibling bonds are corrupted. The whole family requires healing, not just the ‘problem child.’ Another weakness, of course, of the modern medical system that studies only the weak link, but never the entire chain.”
“What about their doctors?” Alex interjected. “Surely they have opinions about your work with their patients?”
Lightfoot shook his head. “Very few. In my mind, the spiritual, physical, and mental are not mutually exclusive. All should be tended. My expertise is spiritual. I leave the doctors and therapists to the rest.”
“You just told us you help people choose not to be sick,” D.D. countered. “That sounds like doctoring to me.”
“But these kiddos do not have a disease,” Lightfoot retorted. “They suffer from an onslaught of negativity that requires spiritual bolstering.”
“Or pharmaceuticals.”
“Most of the children I see have been prescribed plenty of those already.”
“Meaning you don’t think they work.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you tell the families that?”
“If they ask.”
“I’m gonna guess doctors don’t take that well.”
“I’m gonna guess you’re right.”
D.D. studied him. “What else do you recommend? Beyond ‘spiritual exercises’?”
“Detox. You’re a detective; it might interest you to know that a study of prison inmates found they had significantly higher levels of heavy metals in their blood than the national average. High levels of mercury, in particular, have been known to exacerbate moodiness and increase rage. So I recommend a seven-day healthy-eating program to lower heavy metals and reduce inflammation. Feed the body, feed the soul.”
“Feed the body, feed the soul,” D.D. repeated. “You’re good with the one-liners.”
“I teach workshops, as well,” he replied without blinking. “Again, AndrewLightfoot.com…”
D.D. glanced over at Alex. The dog was still asleep in his arms, but Alex had adopted the blank expression of a detective thinking many things at once.
“And the Harringtons,” D.D. asked finally, looking for a reaction on Lightfoot’s face. “What did you prescribe for them?”
“No,” Lightfoot said firmly. He didn’t appear distressed or anxious. Just firm.
“No what?” D.D. asked carefully.
“I may not be a traditional medical practitioner, but I still respect the privacy of my clients. Anything you want to know about a specific patient, you must ask them.”
D.D. decided to go fishing. “If I dialed Denise and Patrick Harrington right now, told them we were with you, and asked them to grant you permission, would you honor that?”
“I would need to call them myself,” Lightfoot said after a moment. “To ensure it was the same Harringtons. But yes, if they say it’s okay to speak with you, I’ll honor that.”
“Call them,” D.D. said softly.
Lightfoot got up, crossed to an antique Chinese chest on the other side of the room, picked up a cordless phone, punched in numbers. D.D. glanced at Alex, who was stroking Tibbie’s ears.
“He doesn’t know,” Alex murmured.
“Or is a good actor.”
“He’s very charming.”
“I’m sure it works for him.”
“Does it work for you?” Alex asked.
D.D. wouldn’t dignify that with a response. Lightfoot returned, holding out the phone apologetically. “Doesn’t appear they’re home,” he informed them.
“They’re not,” D.D. agreed.
“You knew that?”
“Yep.”
Lightfoot wasn’t smiling anymore. “Sergeant, I believe I have had enough of this conversation. What is it you want to know?”
D.D. went with the obvious. “Why you helped Ozzie Harrington kill his family.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“Inner angel, my ass,” D.D. muttered twenty minutes later. They’d made it to the car, were pulling out of Lightfoot’s driveway. It was after noon. Her blood pressure was too high, her blood sugar too low. She threw the car into gear and went grinding out into the summer traffic, heading for Rockport.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked. He had the window down, hand cupped over the top of the window frame for better leverage as she