Sibs. Part 27

Gates had a whole townhouse to himself. That took bucks. Big bucks.

Rob flipped the cigarette b.u.t.t out the window.

Come on, Lazlo Gati. Lock up your castle and go to bed.

Just then the front door opened and Gates came down the steps. He started toward Seventh Avenue, just as he had last night. He was heading back to his office.

Muttering under his breath, Rob started his car and prepared to follow.

Ed flipped the light switch in the padded cell. A fluorescent tube flickered to life behind a metal grille in the ceiling. There was no furniture, just the door, four walls, floor and ceiling, all padded.

It was the d.a.m.nedest thing. Whoever heard of a padded cell in a psychiatrist's office? What for? In case someone went berserk during a session? Ed smiled. Maybe it was for after they got the doc's bill.

Seriously, though, what kind of people did this Dr. Gates treat that he needed a padded cell?

And who cared, anyway? This wasn't helping him help Kara.

As Ed turned to go, he noticed a row of b.u.t.tons on the inside of the door. He recognized it immediately as an electronic combination lock. Six push-b.u.t.ton numbers, and a "Lock" b.u.t.ton.

It struck him as odd that there would be a "Lock" b.u.t.ton on the inside. He could see providing a way to let yourself out should you get locked in accidentally, but why would you want to lock yourself in in here? Weirder and weirder. here? Weirder and weirder.

But again, this wasn't what he had come here for. He turned off the light and returned to the consultation room, making sure to leave the door closed behind him, just as he had found it.

It was time to get out of here.

He entered the waiting area and closed the consultation room door behind him. As he started toward the outer door, the glowing blip on the computer screen caught his eye.

I wonder...

He slipped behind the desk and looked at the screen. One word glowed in the upper left next to the blinking cursor.

READY?.

Ed typed in YES and hit the Return key.

The screen beeped and replied with: CODE?

Oh, sure. Didn't that figure. Everything else was locked up tight, so why shouldn't Gates have access codes for his computer files.

For the h.e.l.l of it, Ed typed in GATES and hit Return. He was rewarded with: INELIGIBLE COMMAND.

CODE?.

Ed tried again with LAWRENCE, LARRY, MD, NUTS and made a final stab with s.h.i.+T. Each was answered with the same message as the first. He was about to give up when he remembered that reference book in the library, the one used by all shrinks to code their diagnoses. The DSM-III-R. He racked his brain trying to remember the code for Multiple Personality Disorder. He'd read it so many times he could almost picture it in his mind. In fact, he could could picture it. And the code number was 300.14. He punched that in. picture it. And the code number was 300.14. He punched that in.

The screen beeped and a list of names popped up.

Now we're cookin!

He hit the Scroll b.u.t.ton and searched for "Wade" as the list of names slid up the screen.

Rob pulled into the curb half a block down from the Kramer building and waited for Gates to catch up. The only way this sort of move could backfire was if Rob had guessed wrong and Gates was not going to his office.

Nope. There he came. Striding along like he was out for his morning const.i.tutional.

c.r.a.p. Another long night.

Ed was flabbergasted. He hadn't actually counted, but a big part of Gates' practice was diagnosed as Multiple Personality Disorder. All were women, and most were in their twenties and thirties. The books Ed had reviewed had said the disorder was rare. If that was true, Dr. Gates had tapped into a rich vein of multiple personalities.

But that wasn't all that had disturbed Ed. He had scrolled through Kara's file and then Kelly's. They'd been very similar. That was to be expected, he guessed, what with their being twins with the same disorder, but a number of paragraphs appeared word for word in both files. That bothered him. He picked a few other names at random from the list.

They all had the same psychiatric history. Cla.s.sic Multiple Personality Disorder. Their histories were described each time in almost the exact same wording. It was almost as if Dr. Gates were using a computer boilerplate method for his medical charts, the way Ed's legal department used computers to piece together the paragraphs of various contracts.

The more Ed read, the more he became convinced that the psychiatrist was doing just that.

And then he heard the key slipping into the lock on the outer door and turning.

Oh, Jesus!

Ed slid from the chair and ducked behind the desk, so terrified that he was sure he was going to wet his pants. What was he going to-?

The flashlight!

He popped his head up, saw it, grabbed it, and dropped back down just as the lights went on. He crouched there, holding his breath and praying, promising G.o.d that he'd start going back to church every Sunday instead of just Christmas, Palm Sunday and Easter as he did now. He was in the middle of promising to receive communion every Sunday for the rest of his life, and trying to think of something else to promise, when whoever it was who had come in walked straight through the waiting area and into the consultation room, closing the door behind him.

Ed gave him thirty seconds. He watched his Movado count them off one by one, then he rose to his feet and tiptoed to the door. He unlocked it, slipped out into the hall, and eased it closed behind him. He debated half a second about relocking it, then decided to h.e.l.l with it. He headed for the stairs at a brisk walk. It was all he could do to keep from sprinting.

Rob was slipping into a doze when his beeper went off. "What the h.e.l.l-?" He got out of the car and went to the booth on the corner. He called the precinct house and learned that Tommy Doyle was looking for him.

"Been trying to reach you all night, Harris. You on a plant or somethin'?"

"What is it, Tommy?" Rob said, yawning.

"The print report you were waiting for on that electric bill came in. They made a match on the third set of prints."

Rob was suddenly wide awake.

"Anyone we know?"

"No name, but it matched the partials they found in the hotel room on that Kelly Wade case you've been hauling around."

Rob's insides tightened. He thought he had been blowing the threat in the letter out of proportion to keep Kelly's case open. But now there was a direct link to Kelly on the night she died. So maybe this wasn't from a harmless kook. Maybe there was real danger to Kara.

"Thanks for finding me, Tom. I-d.a.m.n!"

Someone in coveralls had just come out of the Kramer building and had taken off down the street at a run. It hadn't been Gates-too short, hair too dark.

Rob hung up and started after him, but he was already out of sight, up one of the side streets. He was tempted to follow, but that would leave Gates unattended. And Gates was the one he was really interested in.

Rob returned to his car and settled back with his eyes fixed on the entrance to the Kramer building.

Ed ducked into the first alley he found and shucked his coverall. The February night air cut through his flannel s.h.i.+rt but he didn't care. He wanted to be rid of that thing.

He hurried up to Sixth Avenue and looked for a bar. A place called Edwin's beckoned from across the street. He hurried over. It was dark and smoky and almost full. Perfect. He ordered a double Absolut on the rocks. They didn't carry Citron, so he told the bartender to squeeze a lime in it.

Sweet Jesus, what a night!

Who'd have thought that Gates-he a.s.sumed that had been Gates who'd come in-would return to his office after midnight?

I could have been caught!

But he hadn't hadn't been caught. In and out with no one the wiser. He'd been caught. In and out with no one the wiser. He'd done done it. His own it. His own Mission Impossible Mission Impossible.

He sipped the drink and wondered what to do with what he had learned. But what what had he learned? had he learned?

Why would a psychiatrist be manufacturing medical histories for his patients? It didn't make sense, and he didn't know what he could or should do about it. But one thing was for sure: He had to tell Kara. And soon.

Why not now? She might be asleep, but he had to unburden himself. He had to share what he had done and learned with somebody else. He went to the pay phone and called her.

Her voice when she answered was cautious but alert.

"It's me. Ed."

"Ed?" She almost sounded as if she didn't know who he was.

"Yes. Look, I know it's late, but I've just come across some really important things that I've got to tell you about."

"Tonight? Now?"

"Yes. Can I come over?"

"I'm very tired, Ed. I don't think-"

"It's about Dr. Gates."

There was a long pause on the other end, then: "What about Dr. Gates?"

"I've just learned something about him. I think there's something funny going on."

"I'd very much like to hear about this, Ed. Where are you?"

"In a dive on Sixth, but you don't want to come here."

"Can I meet you someplace convenient for both of us?"

Ed faced through a mental list of places that would be comfortable for Kara and wouldn't turn him away in his present state of dress.

"How about the bar at the Warwick? It's on Fifty-fourth and Sixth, about halfway between us."

"I'll meet you there in half an hour."

"Great."

Ed hung up and wondered why his previous elation seemed to have faded. If anything, it should have been boosted by the prospect of meeting Kara tonight. She'd certainly agreed readily enough after he said it had to do with Dr. Gates, but she'd sounded strange. Distant.

Well, she'd said she was tired. It had to be that.

He finished his drink and went out to the street to see if he could find a late cruising cab, otherwise it was going to be a long cold walk up to the Warwick.

Rob watched the entrance to the Kramer building and pondered the ident.i.ty of the owner of the third set of prints on the electric bill. Whoever had left them had been in the Plaza with Kelly on the night she died. He was getting closer. A key to the mess was dancing somewhere beyond the edges of his consciousness, just past his reach.

He also wondered who had come out of the building a while ago. That, too, gnawed at him. If only he'd been in his car at the time, he would have had a better look. All Rob could say now was that he'd carried a vague resemblance to that guy Ed who'd been hanging around Kara.

Ed... there was a strange bird. Didn't seem to be a threat. Actually seemed to be helping with the legal details. Nice of him to bring over those estate papers for Kara on Thursday. Or maybe he had the hots for her.

Rob jolted upright.

Thursday! Ed had been with Kara when she got that letter! He could have touched it. He must must have touched it! He'd read it! have touched it! He'd read it!

"s.h.i.+t!"

And Ed had known Kelly! So he could have been with her the night she died! He was the guy who could fill in all the blanks.

Rob jumped out of the car and ran back to the phone. He called Kara's number. If she knew where Ed lived, or even had his home phone number, Rob could haul him in for questioning. Now Now!

As Kara's phone began to ring, Rob glanced up at the Kramer building. Gates be d.a.m.ned! Let him doodle around up there till sunrise. He could wait. This was the first real lead on this case and he wasn't going to waste any time getting to it.

Kara's phone kept on ringing. And ringing.

Tiny pulses of apprehension scattered through him. He knew she was taking sleeping pills, but the phone was right next to the bed. And he knew she was there- he'd spoken to her around midnight.

Something was wrong.

He made a quick call to Doyle, told him to pull the personal effects bag on Kelly Wade and have it ready, then he ran for his car.