Second Honeymoon Part 49

But all I was finding was one DeLorean after another, whether it was wooden, plastic, or metal.

Until I reached the bottom.

There, lying facedown, was a small picture frame. Even before I picked it up and turned it over, I knew whose picture I was about to see.

Nora Sinclair.

I wiped away some dust on the gla.s.s and stared. She looked every bit as stunning as I remembered. The high cheekbones and full lips. The radiant eyes and sun-kissed skin.

Yep: by far the most beautiful serial killer I'd ever slept with.

"How's it going?" Sarah yelled up. "Anything?"

Freud would've had a field day with the way I suddenly fumbled with the frame, as if I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't have been doing.

"Not yet," I yelled down, putting the frame back on the bottom of the chest.

Almost immediately, though, I picked it up again.

It wasn't Nora's picture I was staring at now. It was the back of the frame, where it opened.

I'm not exactly sure why I did what I did next. Was it my once reading about a guy who discovered a copy of the Declaration of Independence behind a painting he bought at a yard sale? Was it the way my grandmother used to add new photos of me to her frames while leaving the old ones behind them?

All I knew was that something made me open the back of that frame.

Chapter 77

ALL OF A SUDDEN, Sarah was calling out again, only her call wasn't aimed at me.

"Don't move!" I heard her yell.

I immediately reached for my s.h.i.+n holster and raced out of the room, flying down the stairs. Landing with a thud in the foyer, I saw him from behind, his hands up. Sinclair? Really? No, it couldn't be!

Instinctively, he turned around at the sound of me, his eyes popping wide with terror as he realized his predicament. Sarah was in front of him; I was at his back.

"Who are you?" demanded Sarah.

He turned to face her. Every nervous word tripped over his tongue. "I'm...uh, I'm...my name is Dr. Bruce Drummond. I'm...um, a psychiatrist."

"Why are you here?" she asked-no, demanded.

"The news," he said. "When I...uh...got home from work, I saw it on the news."

Sarah and I both lowered our guns at the same time. Just like that, we'd already filled in the blanks.

"You treated Ned Sinclair?" she asked.

"Yes, for a year," he answered, breathing for the first time. "Are you the police? I hope you're the police."

"FBI," she said, flas.h.i.+ng her badge. "I'm Agent Sarah Brubaker and that's my partner, John."

Cleverly, she avoided saying my last name. That would've surely confused the already shaky psychiatrist. As it was, he had more pressing concerns.

"Can I put my hands down now?" he asked.

"Sure," said Sarah. "In fact, you can do a heck of a lot more than that. You can help us."

We walked into Ned's living room, where the theme of "spa.r.s.ely furnished" had been carried even further. There was one couch, one armchair. That was it. The idea of a coffee table had apparently been deemed superfluous.

Not that we were offering Dr. Bruce Drummond any coffee. No drinks or hors d'oeuvres, either. Ixnay on the c.o.c.ktail weenies, too-all we wanted to do was pump him for information.

"To start with, why are you here?" asked Sarah. "Have you been in contact with Ned?"

"Not for a couple of years," he explained. "On the off chance that he was here, though, I was hoping to get him to surrender. The door was open when I arrived."

"You didn't think of first going to the police?" I asked.

Drummond folded his legs. "Ned never would have surrendered to the police," he said matter-of-factly. He was calmer now, more composed; his scholarly aura began to a.s.sert itself.

Sarah clearly picked up on this and softened her tone. Smart cookie: she wanted to make Drummond feel appreciated for what he'd been trying to do. That was the best way to get him to open up about Ned.

"It's understandable you would care about his well-being," she said. "How long ago were you his psychiatrist?"

"He became my patient about five years ago, right after his sister was killed. The chair of the math department at UCLA, a friend of mine, had suggested that Ned see me."

"For grief counseling?" I asked. I certainly had a little experience in that area.

"Yes, he was very close with his sister," said Drummond. Then he tacked on something under his breath, almost by accident. "Too close."

If there was ever a line that begged for a follow-up question, that was it. "What does that mean?" I asked.

Drummond hesitated. "Have you seen Ned's personnel file from the university? Do you know why he left?"

"Yes," said Sarah. "It said he was fired based on consistently poor student feedback."

"That figures," said Drummond. "It would've been a PR nightmare otherwise."

"What would have?" I asked.

"The truth," he said.