It was time to dig deeper into the lives of Del Fairfax’s surviving partners. Fortunately, there was no shortage of material.
“These guys generate a lot of ink,” Kylie said.
“People with no money love to read about people who have mountains of it,” I said. “The world is full of hermits, loners, and recluses, but Howard Hughes was a billionaire, so the press made him famous for it.”
We were looking for a motive for the bombing, but in article after article, interview after interview, the four founders came across as model citizens. Princeton Wells had summed it up the night before: “Nobody wants to kill the golden goose. Silver Bullet doesn’t have enemies.”
By 1:00 p.m. we had raked over their public persona, and there wasn’t enough Red Bull on the planet to get us started looking under their private rocks.
After pulling a thirty-hour shift, we punched out. I went home, slept five hours, showered, and showed up at Cheryl’s apartment at seven. The heady aroma of jambalaya hit me as soon as she opened the door.
She had a wooden spoon in her hand, so I gave her a quick kiss, and she hustled back to the stove while I made straight for the open bottle of Chardonnay on the counter.
“Can I violate one of our cardinal rules tonight?” she asked, spooning mounds of chicken, shrimp, sausage, rice, and chopped vegetables into a serving bowl.
“Just give me half a minute to inhale some of this wine, and you can violate anything you want.”
“Reel it in, lover boy. I’m talking dinner table rules.”
“You mean the one where Zach can’t use his phone at the table, but Cheryl can, because she’s a doctor?”
“That one is chiseled in stone, but I’d like to bend the no-cop-talk-at-dinner rule. I’ve been getting secondhand news about the bombing all day, and I want the unsanitized version.”
We sat down to dinner, and in between forkfuls of spicy Creole bliss and sips of chilled, fruity Chardonnay, I took her through it all—glossing over the carnage and milking absurdities like Kenda Whithouse’s post-explosion bad hair for all the laughs I could get.
By the time I got to the verbal drubbing we’d taken from Arnie Zimmer, the bottle of wine was empty. “You must be exhausted,” she said, opening another. “And you haven’t even come up with a motive for the bombing yet.”
“Plus I still have a second high-profile murder on my hands. Which reminds me: did you ever hear of a shrink named Morris Langford?”
“Morey Langford? Yes, he’s the go-to doc on psychosexual disorders. Why do you ask?”
“Kylie and I are going to see him tomorrow.”
“Oh, sweetheart, that’s wonderful,” she said, refilling my wineglass. “It’s about time you and Kylie came to terms with your issues. I’m sure Morey can help you.”
“Thanks, but I get all the therapy I need from Gerri at the diner. It’s free with breakfast whether I ask for it or not. My other homicide victim, Aubrey Davenport, was a patient of Langford’s, and he agreed to help. Didn’t throw any of the standard HIPAA bullshit at us.”
“That sounds like Morey. He’s a no-bullshit kind of guy. I had a consult with him a few months ago.”
“Are you serious? You went to see a sex therapist a few months ago, and you didn’t say anything to me?”
“Get a grip, Romeo. It wasn’t about you. I’m a department shrink. You think I only deal with PTSD and alcohol abuse? Cops have at least as many sexual impulse disorders as congressmen. It’s none of my business until they either bring it to me on their own, or someone from on high asks me to evaluate how it could impact their job.”
“Why did you consult with Langford?”
“I had a transit cop who was suffering from frotteurism, and I had zero experience with it. Langford knew it chapter and verse.”
“I never even heard of it.”
“Good, and please promise me you will continue to remain blissfully unsophisticated.”
“Unsophisticated? Come on, doc—how can you say that? You’ve seen my moves—all three of them.”
“Hmm,” she said, her eyes locked on mine, her fingers twirling a lock of raven hair. “There were three?”
I stood up, took her by the hand, and put my arms around her. “You know, I think I’m coming down with a case of sexual impulse disorder myself.”
She began kissing my neck. “I’m a doctor,” she whispered. “Why don’t you step into my office and take off your clothes? I may be able to help.”
“I think you’re helping already,” I said, rotating my hips in time with hers.
“Are you sure there were three?” she said, leading me to the bedroom. “I think I’m going to have to sign up for a refresher course.”