'Nothing's wrong.' Still the psychiatrist avoided looking at him.
Freeman snorted softly, a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
It had suddenly occurred to him that Brown was now in the same position as his patients normally were – sitting on the sofa, avoiding eye contact and putting up barriers. But he didn't have the time, or the inclination, to continue probing the man's psyche. 'Okay, Art. This isn't getting us anywhere. Just give me Mersiha's file and I'll be on my way.'
'Impossible,' the psychiatrist said, shaking his head. 'Out of the question. I'll send it on to whichever psychiatrist you decide on, but you can't have it. Medical records are confidential.'
'She's my daughter,' Freeman insisted.
'That doesn't make any difference,' Brown said. 'Children have rights, too. I could be sued.'
'Who's going to sue you, Art? I'm not. I'm sure Mersiha won't.
I think you're being a little paranoid.'
'Medical records are confidential,' Brown repeated.
Freeman pushed himself away from the desk and walked over to a bookcase crammed with textbooks, most of them on child psychology. 'I'm going to take over her case,' he said. 'I'll need the file.'
'You're not a psychiatrist.'
Freeman turned to look at Brown. 'I can get her to talk to me.
I'll get to the bottom of whatever it is that's troubling her.'
'You could do more harm than good.'
'You think dropping her mid-treatment is good for her, do you?' Freeman asked, raising his voice. 'You don't think that'll harm her?'
'You need a qualified psychiatrist, Tony. A specialist.'
'No. She needs someone to talk to. Someone she can trust.'
Brown sighed and rested his head on the back of the sofa. He closed his eyes as if fighting off a migraine. 'It's not as simple as that. Mersiha has highly developed defence mechanisms. You don't get through them by just talking to her. You have to know what you're doing.'
'So, I'll read the file. That'll be my map.'
Brown shook his head violently, his eyes still tightly closed.
'The file isn't a map. It's a diary. It only records where I've been, not where I'm going.'
Freeman stood looking down at the psychiatrist. He had a sudden urge to kick Brown's wounded leg. 'Give me the file, Art.'
'You're not qualified.'
'I'm more than qualified. I love her.'
'That's the worst possible qualification.' Brown licked his lips, staring at Freeman's anxious face. He slowly shook his head.
'No,' he said. 'It wouldn't work.'
Freeman struggled to stay composed. 'I'll make a deal with you, Art,' he said.
'A deal?'
'Something's bothering you, and to be honest I don't give a shit what it is. All I care about is my daughter. Let me read her file, here and now. Once I've read it, I'll be out of your hair for good.
I'll never tell anyone you showed it to me, and I'll never mention it again.'
'And the stick?'
'The stick?' queried Freeman.
'I see the carrot. What's the stick?'* Freeman smiled without warmth. 'I'll make your life miserable.
I'll hound you day and night. Something's worrying you and I'll keep digging until I find out what it is. I'll hire detectives, I'll ask questions, I'll keep on at you until I get some answers. I'll speak to whatever professional organisations you're a member of, I'll talk to the hospitals where you're employed as a consultant, I'll pester your patients and I'll speak to the press.'
'I'm not hiding anything,' Brown said defensively.
'I don't care,' Freeman said.
Brown looked at him for several seconds, then inclined his head towards a filing cabinet by the side of the desk. 'Under F. Top drawer,' he said. 'You'll excuse me if I don't get up, won't you?'
Lennie Nelson paced up and down. For the hundredth time he looked up at the announcements board. The train from New York was running ten minutes late and he had to be back in the office within the hour. The slats on the board flickered and whirred and when they stopped moving the delay had increased by another ten minutes. He cursed under his breath. Damn Amtrak and damn Ernie Derbyshire.
The private detective had sounded nervous over the telephone and had insisted on a meeting. He'd wanted to see Nelson in New York but the banker had explained that it was totally out of the question. Derbyshire had reluctantly agreed to come to Baltimore, but had insisted that Nelson pay all expenses. And he'd said that he wanted an extra two thousand dollars. Nelson had protested but the detective had said that the information he had was more than worth it. He wouldn't say any more on the phone.
Nelson decided to have his shoes shined while he waited for the New York train to arrive. It was just after eleven o'clock in the morning so the station was quiet and all three shoeshine chairs were free. Nelson sat in a high chair and opened the Washington Post as the balding middle-aged man worked on his shoes. His mind wasn't on the newspaper. Whatever Derbyshire had discovered, it had to be good for the detective to ask for a face-to-face meeting. They'd only ever met once before, several years earlier. Since then all their business had been done by phone or mail. Nelson could feel his hands sweating. Maybe Derbyshire had uncovered the evidence the bank needed to pull the plug on CRW.
Time dragged interminably, but eventually the board whirred again and announced that the train from New York had arrived.
The man gave the black Ballys a final polish and Nelson handed him a ten-dollar bill, telling him to keep the change. He climbed out of the chair as the train passengers began to walk through the station concourse. He spotted Derbyshire immediately: a tall, thin man with uncombed greying hair and a stoop. He was wearing a fawn raincoat that had seen better days, and scuffed brown loafers that had clearly never made the acquaintance of shoe polish. He nodded as he got closer to Nelson, but made no move to shake hands. 'How's it going, Lennie?' he said. He looked furtively to the left and right, as if fearing that he was being watched.
'What's wrong?' Nelson asked. 'Is someone after you?'
'Nah,' Derbyshire said. 'I need to visit the men's room.
Where is it?'
'Can't it wait?' Nelson asked impatiently. 'I've got to get back to the office, pronto.'
'Jeez, just let me take a leak, will ya? My prostate ain't what it used to be.'
Derbyshire spotted the men's room and headed for it, leaving Nelson standing by the information desk. He looked at his watch and pulled a face. Whatever Derbyshire had, it had better be good. A pretty black girl in a charcoal-grey suit walked by swinging a briefcase. She smiled at Nelson and he grinned back. As she walked outside she looked over her shoulder and gave him another smile. Nelson cursed Derbyshire again.
The private detective came out of the men's room. His hands were still wet and he wiped them on his coat. 'Is there somewhere we can go?' he asked. There were wooden seats all around the waiting area but Nelson realised that the man wanted somewhere private. He took Derbyshire out of the station and down Charles Street to a small coffee bar. Nelson ordered coffee, Derbyshire a Nelson looked at his watch pointedly. 'What's this all about, Ernie?'