Head Wounds Read online

  Yet, appraising her pale, lovely face as she desultorily answered the cop’s questions, I could make out the faint marks on her cheek from the back of someone’s hand. Though he didn’t say anything, I knew that Pratt had noticed it, too.

  The younger cop had bundled Eddie Burke into the back of the patrol car and locked the door. He came over to where we three stood, his gaze zeroing in on Joy Steadman. Openly staring at the swell of her taut breasts in the lace top, nipples outlined against the thin fabric.

  With a grimace, Joy crossed her arms across her chest. Face turning to marble.

  Unfazed, the young cop turned to me, his callow smile closer to a smirk.

  “I know you.” He actually pointed at me. “You’re that shrink. Dan Rinaldi.”

  “I’m not a shrink. I’m a clinical psychologist.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And you are?”

  “Name’s McCarthy. Yeah, lotta us blues know about you. From the news and everything. You’re kinda on the job, right?”

  “I consult with the Department, yes. When I’m asked.”

  “Or even if you ain’t. Least, that’s how I hear it.” He chuckled knowingly. “Almost got your ass killed a couple times.”

  I shrugged. “You had to be there.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Therapy, eh? That shit’s for mooks and pussies.”

  I said nothing. He glanced over at his fellow officer.

  “Want me to get the Doc’s statement, too, Henry?”

  The older cop shrugged. “Fine with me. He did get his damn window shot out.”

  I gave him a questioning look. “How’d you know that?”

  Pratt laughed, and gestured toward my shattered front window. The wind had shifted, and was now sucking the drawn ends of my floor-length drapes to the outside.

  “I figured you didn’t go and shoot out your window your own self,” he said. “For the hell of it.”

  “Point taken. But look, how about I come down to the station later and give a statement? I’m on the payroll with the Department. You can be sure I’ll show up.”

  “Why not tell us what happened now and get it over with?”

  I turned to Joy Steadman, her hands dug into her jeans pocket, eyes averted. Fooling nobody. Especially not me.

  “Because I think Ms. Steadman here needs someone to sit with her for a while. Just till her nerves quiet down.”

  Her face came up, flushed, livid. “My nerves are fine, Doctor. I don’t need anything except to be left alone.”

  McCarthy cleared his throat theatrically. “Not about to happen, Miss. We’re definitely gonna need your statement. Your jagoff boyfriend was out on the street, takin’ potshots and endangerin’ citizens. Figures you’d know why.”

  “Sure I know why. Eddie and me got into a big fight, same as usual. And he was shit-faced, same as usual. Only this time he grabbed his gun and chased me out into the street. Started shooting.” A shrug. “There, that’s my statement.”

  McCarthy stiffened, about to respond. But before he could, Pratt cut him off.

  “I think the Doc here’s right. Let’s get Eddie down to the station. Ms. Steadman can come down later and swear out a complaint—”

  With this, Joy whirled and shouted over at Burke, slumped in the back of the patrol car.

  “And I will, too, you prick! I’ll see your sorry ass in jail! I hate you, I hate you, I—”

  Suddenly she doubled over, took a half-step, and vomited onto the street. A violent, retching spasm, her arms flailing.

  I raced to her side, as both uniforms instinctively backed away. McCarthy shook his head, laughing.

  I looked the young cop over. Probably third-generation Irish. Classic Pittsburgh accent. Everybody was a chooch or a jagoff. Slang that you still hear sometimes, even as the Steel City continued to morph from a blue-collar, industrial town into a gentrified, white-collar hub of business and technology.

  I turned my attention back to his partner. “Look, Officer Pratt, it’s obvious Ms. Steadman is in no shape to give a coherent statement. She’s trying like hell to fight it, but I think she’s in shock. Who wouldn’t be? Her boyfriend just tried to shoot her.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” He folded his arms wearily.

  “I told you I’d come down and give a statement—though I’d like to cover up my front window first. So what if I stay with Ms. Steadman for a while tonight, then drive us both downtown tomorrow morning? We can each give our statements then.”

  Pratt frowned skeptically.

  “Look,” I went on, “call in and ask for Angela Villanova. She’s the Community Liaison Officer.”

  “I know who she is, son.”

  “She’ll vouch for me.”

  He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to pull rank on an old beat cop, would you?”

  I grinned. “Never. My dad was an old beat cop. He’d climb out of his grave and kick my ass if I ever tried that with one of Pittsburgh’s finest.”

  The younger cop grunted. “Don’t listen to him, Henry. Doc got no rank to pull. He’s just a civilian, likes to see himself on TV.”

  Pratt turned to him. “Do me a favor, will ya, Phil? Shut your damn pie-hole.”

  Something in the older man’s voice made McCarthy do just that. Thank Christ.

  Meanwhile, Joy had straightened up, wiping her mouth with her palm. Breath coming in gasps.

  “I don’t need a baby-sitter.” Her sour squint took in both Officer Pratt and myself.

  The older man sighed. “Well, young lady, here’re your options. You either come down to the station now and file a complaint against Mr. Burke, or you get a good night’s sleep and let Dr. Rinaldi drive you down in the morning.”

  She thought it over for a few moments. Then, exhaling deeply, she finally relented.

  “Well, one thing’s for sure, I can’t be seen looking like this. Bad for a girl’s image. I just threw up on myself, and I think I peed my pants while I was hiding behind Rinaldi’s car. I’ll need to soak in the tub for a week.”

  Pratt’s gaze was steady. “Maybe. But we’ll need to see you downtown tomorrow, Ms. Steadman. Early.”

  She managed an offended scowl, which he ignored.

  Then Pratt gestured to his partner to follow and headed back to the patrol car. As he opened the driver’s side door, he peered over at me. A guarded smile.

  “Now don’t let anything happen to our star witness, okay, Doc?”

  Chapter Three

  “Why did you insist on bringing me home?”

  Joy Steadman closed her front door and waved me through the elegant foyer into the living room.

  “Just trying to be helpful.” I offered a thin smile. “No charge for the house call.”

  “Bullshit. Nobody does anything for free, Doc. I learned that a long time ago.”

  Her frank look challenged me to disagree. So I didn’t. Then she excused herself and left the room. I heard the sound of running water from a bathroom down the hall.

  As I waited for her return, I glanced around the spacious, lavishly appointed room. The work of an expensive decorator, no doubt. High-end furniture, a bit too modern for my tastes. Severe lines, steel struts, black or white leather. A Rothko on one wall. Warhol silkscreen on another. The only jarring note was the sports memorabilia—plaques and trophies, a bronzed football—displayed about the room.

  “That’s Eddie’s stuff. From when he moved in last year.”

  Joy had come back, her footsteps mere whispers on the plush carpet. She’d washed her face and changed into an oversized Yale tee-shirt and yoga pants. Luxurious hair pulled back, held with a clip. For the first time, in the well-lighted room, I registered how beautiful she was.

  She nodded at the photos of Eddie. “You know the story, Doc. Rich white gi
rl getting some jungle love to fuck with her parents. Talk about clichéd.”

  Joy chuckled derisively and gestured toward the trim sofa, sheened in white leather. But neither of us sat.

  “If you point me toward the kitchen,” I said, “I can make you some tea. Or something else, if you prefer.”

  She shook her head. “My maid, Maria, does that kind of thing. But she’s gone for the day. Besides, I’m gonna want something stronger. Bet you do, too.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  As she poured herself a bourbon from the elaborate wet bar, I spotted a row of framed photos on the near wall. Most were from Eddie Burke’s days as a college athlete, his cool good looks and muscular body accentuated by the Pitt Panthers uniform. Though one picture was different. It showed an older Burke in a Steelers hoodie and shorts, leaning against a row of lockers and cradling a football as he smiled insolently for the camera.

  “That was Eddie in the Steelers’ training camp,” Joy said. “First day there. His dream come true.”

  She brought over her drink, then let herself sink into a huge leather chair. It practically swallowed her willowy form. I sat opposite on the sofa.

  “What happened?”

  “The front office cut him after two weeks. He gave the coaches too much lip. So much for his big career in the NFL.”

  “So what’s he been doing since then?”

  “Getting high and living off me.”

  She threw back her drink and got up to make herself another. I watched her carefully. Though she didn’t seem shocky, there was something tentative about her movements. Deliberate. As though it was only sheer willpower, or some misguided stubbornness, holding her together. Proving something. To me?

  Or to herself?

  When she rejoined me, she sat forward in the chair, bare toes digging into the thick white carpet. Her gaze narrowed.

  “You know, Doctor, I have my own therapist. See him twice a week. Been in therapy since I was fifteen. I used to be on Prozac, but now I’m on Wellbutrin. Or Lexapro. One of those.”

  Another deep swallow of bourbon.

  “Why were you in treatment, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I got into trouble with this guy I was seeing. We sold dope, got into petty crimes, vandalism, that kinda thing. But he was eighteen, and super hot, and I thought I was in love. What the hell did I know? At least it was exciting. Anyway, one night we got busted by the cops. My family has money, so they were able to make it go away. But they insisted I go into therapy. ‘To get your head screwed on straight,’ my dad said.”

  She frowned at the memory. “Funny, ’cause he was the one who needed help. Totally lame, my old man. Feckless.”

  I considered this. “Not a word you hear too often.”

  “I know, I had to look it up. It’s what my mother called him. Poor Dad thought he was an entrepreneur. Always chasing after the big score. Played the stock market. Made some stupid investments in companies that went belly-up. Like I said, lame.”

  She finished her drink, then let her glance take in the opulent surroundings.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Where the hell did all this come from? A trust fund, thanks to Mother. She has all the money. Tons of it. From her wealthy family in Philadelphia. But she never divorced Dad. Why give her snooty friends something to smirk about? She just had a bunch of affairs with younger men and kept Dad around for window dressing. Still does.”

  Joy let out a rueful sigh. “See? We both ended up with losers. Must run in the family.”

  I said nothing, my thoughts drifting to my shattered front window. The jagged opening exposed to the elements, including rain, should it start to shower again.

  “What was the fight about? I never asked.”

  She unconsciously fingered the bruise on her cheek. “Same shit me and Eddie always fight about. I accuse him of spending too much of my money and he accuses me of cheating on him.”

  “Either of those things true?”

  “The first part, yeah. The second part is none of your damn business.”

  We sat in a strained silence for a long minute.

  Abruptly, Joy said, “So, you work for the cops, or what?”

  “No, I’m in private practice. But I consult with them sometimes. I see crime victims they send to me for therapy. People who’ve been assaulted, or abused. Robbed at gunpoint. Things like that. Traumatized by the violence done to them. I try to help them deal with it.”

  A knowing look. “If you’re talking about me, Doc, forget about it. I’ll be fine. After tonight, I’m kicking Eddie out. For good. Besides, like I said, I already get my head shrunk.”

  “I’m glad. We all need help sometimes.”

  “Uh-huh.” She paused. “At least now I get why you were so friendly with those cops. Bit too friendly for my tastes.”

  “I caught a break. Most cops think I’m a pain in the ass.”

  I saw that skeptical glint in her eyes again. As if another challenge was coming. Instead, rising suddenly, she stretched. Yawned.

  “Look, I appreciate your being a good neighbor and all that, but right now I just want to take a hot bath and climb under the covers.”

  I got to my feet as well.

  “If you’re sure you’re ready to be alone.”

  “No offense, but I’m sorta looking forward to it. At least for tonight.”

  “I understand. Now about tomorrow morning…”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll go downtown bright and early to give my statement. But I won’t need you to drive me. I’m a big girl, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ll get myself down there.”

  “If you say so.”

  There was another long pause. Then she gave me a wry, half-mocking smile.

  “So now what, Doc? Is this the part where we hug?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Good. I hate hugs. Mother hugs.” The smile melted from her face. “I trust you can see your way out.”

  With that, she turned and strode quickly out of the room.

  Chapter Four

  An hour later, I was standing in my kitchen, looking out the sliding glass door at the rain pounding my back deck. Like many other houses perched atop Mt. Washington, mine fronted Grandview Avenue at street level, while the rear sloped to the edge of a cliff. Beyond, a sharp drop down a forested hill gave me a perfect view of the glittering lights of downtown.

  One very different than that of my youth. New construction had changed its contours, silver-and-glass spires replacing many of the brick-and-mortar buildings of the previous century. Pittsburgh now boasted a new, modern skyline, no longer obscured by dark plumes of soot from a hundred smokestacks.

  Yet however much the city changed, it was still a patchwork of old neighborhoods and cobblestone streets—still a place where guys drank at the same bars their fathers had, played cards in the back rooms of produce stores on the Strip, got into belabored fights over football. Where ethnic pride and ethnic prejudice lived side by side.

  It’s a town nestled in the triangle formed by the Three Rivers, the Allegheny and Monongahela joining their flowing waters to feed the more sluggish Ohio. Though gone was the busy river traffic I remember from my youth, the parade of tug boats and barges hauling manufactured goods to points west and south from the mills and factories that had built this city.

  I rubbed my eyes. It was just past eleven, yet sleep was the furthest thing from my mind. Not after tonight’s events.

  After being more or less dismissed by Joy Steadman, I’d hurried back to my place. A cotton-damp closeness in the air augured more rain, so I went quickly to my attached garage and rummaged through some old wood. Luckily I found a pretty good-sized piece of plywood, one that looked broad enough to cover the jagged hole in my front window. Good thing, too. The rain had already begun by the time I managed to board up t
he window, affixing the plywood with duct tape.

  I stepped back, appraising my handiwork. Not exactly a repair worthy of This Old House, but at least it was keeping out the rain until tomorrow, when I could call a glazier to come and replace the entire window.

  Then I crossed the room to get a closer look at the slug embedded in the wall above the CD player. By now, Officer Pratt had no doubt alerted his superiors to the incident. They’d want to send one of their forensics techs to carefully extract the bullet. I had no idea what kind of case they planned to build against Eddie Burke, if any, but the slug was definitely evidence—something I knew I shouldn’t tamper with.

  Of course, after that, I’d have to get the wall repaired. Fine. I’d been thinking that all the walls needed a new paint job anyway. The whole house had been showing its age lately, the result of benign neglect on my part. In my defense, I’d been pretty busy getting mixed up in things that the cops—and my friends and colleagues—kept warning me to stay out of.

  I stroked my beard, wondering if what they described as my “hero complex” was true. That my involvement in some recent high-profile cases was my way of working out my survival guilt. A misguided attempt to make up for the fact that Barbara had died that fateful night and I hadn’t. Not that I blamed them. It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times over the years.

  Rousing myself, I pulled the heavy drapes together to cover my makeshift repair. Then I got a broom from the closet and swept up the broken glass scattered on the hardwood floor. Finally, I scooped up the binder holding the dossier I’d been reading. It had fallen to the floor, but was undamaged.

  Though wide awake, I’d wait till tomorrow to once again dig into its contents. I felt too jangly, unsettled. No surprise there. Not with that bullet still lodged in my front room wall. And, unlike Joy, I knew such a close brush with death would have a powerful effect on me. I’d been there before.

  Now, as I peered through my blurred reflection in the glass door, I noted that the rain was lessening. The staccato rattle on the wooden deck replaced by a soft, rhythmic patter.