Sneak And Rescue. Shirl Henke
clear intent. No way. She rounded the corner to the main hallway where the light was better and perused the directory. “Hmm, the shrink has an office a couple of floors up,” she murmured to herself, wondering if he was available. Maybe she’d hit the ladies’ room downstairs first and repair what she could before tackling a guy with an M.D. and Ph.D. behind his name. Half the alphabet, Roman numerals—did all rich guys have to be such pains in the ass?
Matt had come from money but he didn’t want any part of it. And she’d fallen for him. But he was part of the club when it came to the pain part. All that lovely money just going to waste in Aunt Claudia’s bank and he’d extracted a promise from Sam that she’d forgo the loot to become his wife. “He caught me in a weak moment,” she reminded herself as she rode the elevator to the main level. A weak moment all right…in bed.
Just remembering that interlude brought a silly grin to her face. She quashed it and pushed open the door marked Ladies. Once she eased up to a mirror in the washroom and inspected the damage she knew why everyone was treating her like a leper. Her hair was standing up in clumps, her suit was grease stained and ripped, and one cheek was bleeding slightly from where sharp pieces of concrete had grazed her when that goon had shot at her and hit the wall.
She wet a bunch of paper towels and set to work cleaning herself up, then went into one of the classy marble stalls and stripped off the snagged panty hose, jamming her bare feet back into the Via Spiga pumps. One knee was skinned and a dandy bruise on her shin had already begun to discolor. Oh, well. She glanced at her watch. It was late, but if she was lucky, the doc would still be in his office treating patients. Shrinks didn’t usually keep nine-to-five office hours.
Luck was with her. The receptionist, a plain middle-aged woman with a sweet smile, informed her that Dr. Reicht was with a patient at present, but would see her shortly. Upton Winchester must have called ahead. Reicht’s suite was not as large as W, G & K’s, but it still reeked of money. The smaller reception room was furnished with heavy oak chairs. To keep potentially violent patients from busting them up if they went off their meds?
The decor was all done in neutral tones of beige, tan and white as if a deliberate attempt had been made to offend no one. A wide array of magazines lay fanned across a massive coffee table. Ignoring the enticement of reading about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, she checked over her meager notes on Farley Winchester.
Age seventeen. High IQ, low self-esteem and a probable drug habit, if his father was to be believed. She’d been provided with a photo, taken several months ago, according to the harridan. He looked like a geeky kid, the kind the jocks made fun of in high school. Tall, skinny, bad complexion, even horn-rimmed glasses, for Pete’s sake! And he was dressed in some kind of weird getup with insignias on the shirt and a wide leather belt. It looked like cheap polyester fabric accessorized with plastic.
Not exactly a preppie, are you, kiddo?
Was it a “Spacer” uniform? Hopefully the good doc could give her more info before she set out to snatch the kid from Elvis’s clutches. Her perusal of the photo was interrupted when a short, stocky man opened the inner door and said, “Ms. Ballanger?”
Reicht had a fringe of graying tan hair ringing his oversize head. Sam guessed that was a requirement to hold the brains for acquiring all those initials after his name. There were pouches the size of Pony Express saddlebags under his eyes and he possessed jowls that would be the envy of an English bulldog. Reicht’s eyes were obscured by a hedge of eyebrows that flowed uninterrupted across his forehead. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket and even had a meerschaum pipe protruding from one pocket. Jeez, talk about a walking stereotype!
Sam stood up and offered her hand, which he shook heartily, grinning as he ushered her into his sanctum. “Please hold my calls, Heidi,” he said to the secretary.
The office was as cluttered as its owner, with piles of folders and loose papers scattered everywhere. She could identify with the unholy mess, but there was something about him that gave her a hinky vibe. “I assume your friend Mr. Winchester told you why I’m here,” Sam said as he offered her a seat.
“Indeed, he did. Most regrettable, most regrettable…” He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment, then continued. “Farley requires close supervision and regular medication to keep in touch with reality.”
“I don’t think Mr. Winchester pays his housekeeper for babysitting while he’s out of town.”
“Mr. Winchester and I have agreed that Farley might do well in a private clinic, but such things take time to arrange. Of course, he’s been hospitalized on several occasions in the past….” Again his voice trailed away.
“Didn’t do any good?” she suggested.
“Well, you do understand about physician-patient confidentiality, Ms. Ballanger?”
“Yes, professional ethics and all. Like attorney-client, priest-confessor or P.I.-employer. Since his father’s green-lighted me to find him, I need to know what I’m dealing with before I retrieve him.”
The doctor sighed. “Farley has been delusional since childhood. Approaching his majority, he’s shown no improvement. In fact, he’s become worse.”
“You mean the Spacie thing? How long’s he been a Space Quest fan?” she asked.
“For as long as I’ve been treating him. Nearly…eight years. All he’s ever wanted to discuss during our sessions is that show and its characters. It’s his reality and the real world has ceased to exist for him…if it ever did.”
“His father said he tripped on drugs.”
Reicht nodded. “Cocaine, heroin, even methamphetamines.”
“What—no Drano? I used to be a paramedic and we never like handling guys high on meth. Any idea who his dealer is?”
“Farley has made some…less than appropriate friends recently. I suspect one in particular.”
“Elvis Scruggs?”
The giant caterpillar of an eyebrow crinkled when Reicht frowned. “Yes. When one is young, disturbed and wealthy, one can be victimized.”
“Do you think Scruggs kidnapped him?”
The doctor shook his head. “Probably not. The boy would go along with any harebrained scheme Scruggs proposed, I’m certain. Farley’s highly suggestible, particularly when he’s high on illegal drugs.”
“Suggestible to cleaning out one of his daddy’s bank accounts?”
“If someone like this Elvis Scruggs urged him to do it, yes. You understand why you must bring him home. I’ll see that he goes back on proper medication and provide supervision. In fact—” he began rooting around on his desk, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a grunt of satisfaction “—I have the forms here for Homeside. It’s a fine facility. I’m on the staff,” he added as if that guaranteed it.
“Will his father agree to commit him?” she asked.
“Of course. We’ve been discussing it for several weeks. Oh, we don’t call it ‘commitment’ any longer. The term is too…pejorative. Homeside is just as the name implies—a home away from home for troubled individuals.”
That might explain why the kid took off. It sounded to Sam as if his father’s house and the loony bin would hold about equal appeal. Still, the poor kid couldn’t be allowed to run around the country dressed like a sci-fi movie extra high on meth, with an ex-con chauffeuring him while he fleeced him.
Unlike Winchester after her interview, Reicht didn’t dismiss her. She would’ve preferred that he had when he launched into a panegyric on Homeside and how happy poor Farley would be once he was tucked safely in the marvelous facility. When he got warmed up, the doc really loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Finally, she glanced down at her watch.
“Sorry, Dr. Reicht, but I have another appointment shortly. Gotta run.”
“You