Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [79]
I slowed the car and turned right by a small, tasteful sign that read Crestwood Home. I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the ignition.
Crestwood was a Victorian home made of large brown stones, with two turrets on either side like mountain peaks. On the vivid green front lawn, a few men played croquet, while a woman sat in a chair watching them, her hands flat on her knees. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought it was a private club.
I got out of the car and walked the pebbled path to the front doors. Inside, the place was like a hotel lobby, decorated with soothing Monetesque oil paintings and thick gray carpeting, which blocked out any sound. I gave the receptionist my name and took a seat in an upholstered, high-backed chair.
After a minute, the woman rose from her seat and called to me, “Dr. Adler will see you now. Third door on your right.” She pointed down the center hallway that led away from the reception area.
My footsteps fell silent on the carpeting. I pricked up my ears, listening for any noises. I wasn’t sure what I expected to hear. Screams or cries maybe? Laughter or discussion? According to their Web site, Crestwood Home usually housed a hundred residents. But only an unnatural quiet rang back. I stopped and knocked when I reached the third door, which was closed and unmarked.
“Come in,” I heard.
Dr. Adler’s large office was furnished with overstuffed leather couches with worn, flannel blankets tossed over them. A wood desk with numerous nicks and scratches sat at the far end of the room. Above it, prints with bleak landscapes hung on the wall. If the rest of the home seemed like an upscale hotel or a club, Dr. Adler’s office appeared more like a lodge in Colorado.
A man stood from behind the desk, buttoning his tan jacket. I had expected a bookish, older man in a white lab coat, but Dr. Adler was tall and lean, his high cheekbones and pointed chin giving his face an elfin appearance. His brown hair was beginning to gray at the temples, and I guessed that he was in his late forties.
“Miss Sutter.” He moved around the desk and clasped my hand. “I’m Dr. Adler. It’s a pleasure.”
“You, too. I really appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course. This is one of my working weekends, so I was here when you called.” He raised a hand and gestured toward the couch along the far wall. “Would you like to lie down?”
I looked at the couch and back to his face again. “I don’t think that’s…I’m not here for…”
He gave me another half smile. “Just a little psychiatric joke.”
“Oh.” I laughed a little then, startled by the attempt at humor.
“Please,” he said, this time pointing to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.
I sank into it, the soft chair engulfing me until I felt ten inches lower than Dr. Adler, who was now back behind his desk. I shifted, trying to position myself higher, wondering if he had bought the chairs like that on purpose.
“Dr. Adler,” I said, scooting forward. “I’m here to talk about my sister, Caroline Sutter.”
He gave a slight bow of his head. “My assistant mentioned that, and that’s why I agreed to see you today. The Portland police have contacted me, as well, so I know that Caroline is missing.”
“Really?” I remembered what Matt had said about the police being relatively unhelpful.
“Yes. I’m very concerned about her, as I’m sure you are, but I wanted to explain to you in person that, without Caroline’s express permission, I can’t divulge anything about her or her care to you.”
“And why is that?” Jesus. He had gotten me all the way out here, and he wasn’t going to give me anything?
“Because of physician/patient privilege. Are you familiar with what that means?” His voice held a trace of condescension.
“Yes, I’m an attorney. I know what the physician/patient privilege is.”
Dr. Adler spread his hands wide as if to show the futility of my being there.
“Well,” I said, “I’m sure you know