Free The Fregoli Delusion by Michael J. McCann Page A

had
listened with amusement as Hank smoothed the man’s ruffled feathers. When Hank
put away his phone she’d had a pretty good crack on the tip of her tongue, but
Hank had switched subjects to explain what had happened to Amelda Peralta in
Chinatown, and the joke disappeared. Now she was ready to change the subject
back to cavemen and their private caves.
    “No women at all?”
    “None at all. No female members,
no female employees, no female guests.”
    “Unbelievable.” She turned onto
Woodfern Avenue. The entrance of the country club was only two blocks away.
    Hank was flipping through the
pages of his notebook. “According to DMV, Holland drives a 2011 Ferrari 599
GTO, Maryland tag two juliet tango bravo forty-six.”
    “Nice ride. Silver?”
    “Silver.”
    Brett Parris had told them he’d
seen Holland running to a silver sports car. He didn’t know what kind of car it
was and hadn’t seen the license plates.
    “Probably has a navigation system
that can tell you everywhere it’s been.”
    “Could be.”
    They reached a t-intersection that
marked the end of Woodfern Avenue. The entrance of the country club was
straight ahead. Karen drove through the massive stone gate and started up the
driveway. They passed a short spur on the right in which a yellow and black car
sat nose-out.
    “Rent-a-cops,” she remarked.
    She parked in the half-empty
parking lot. As they walked toward the club house, Karen amused herself by
pointing out cars. “Porsche. Lexus. Lamborghini. Horvath would love this place.
He’s such a wannabe.”
    She spotted Holland’s Ferrari.
“Wow. Nice.”
    Hank stared in through the
driver-side window. “Look at this stuff. I’d have no idea how to drive it. What
are all those round things for?”
    Karen shielded her eyes from the
sun as she bent down on the passenger side. “They’re just control knobs and air
vents, Lou. Just like any other car. Your problem is, you’re car illiterate.”
    “Car illiterate?”
    She walked around the car and
patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You can still have a full and
productive life.”
    They were met at the door by a man
in his middle forties wearing a navy blazer and gray trousers. He held out his
hand to Hank. “Lieutenant Donaghue? Good to see you again. Mr. Holland’s
waiting for you in the grill room.”
    Hank shook his hand. “Thanks. This
is Detective Stainer. Mr. Tate Bernhardt.”
    Without so much as a glance at
Karen, Bernhardt swiveled on his heel. “This way, please.”
    Karen showed Hank a sardonic grin
as they fell into line behind Bernhardt. They walked through an open lounge
with comfortable furniture and a two-sided fireplace. Karen noticed that people
were staring at her. A uniformed waiter missed a step and juggled an armload of
folded white towels.
    The grill room came equipped with
a maitre d’ who nodded at Bernhardt. He took one look at Karen and turned away,
disappearing somewhere into the back.
    There were men scattered about at
six or seven tables in the grill room, in groups of twos and fours. Bernhardt
led them to the bar, which was deserted. Hank and Karen sat on stools. The
bartender took one look at them and walked away.
    “Here’s Mr. Holland,” Bernhardt
said. “I’ll be outside in the corridor when you’re finished your meeting.”
    As Bernhardt left, Richard Holland
slid onto the bar stool next to Karen and grinned at them. “Lieutenant Donaghue
and Detective Stainer, I take it.” He held out his hand to Karen, who shook it,
then he reached behind her to shake Hank’s hand. “This is something of a
historic event, and all for little old me. I’m flattered.”
    He was thirty-eight years old,
about five feet ten inches tall, and one hundred and eighty pounds. He had well-groomed,
mousy blond hair, smooth chubby cheeks, and small blue eyes that glittered at
Karen with amusement. He wore a pale blue golf shirt and tan trousers. He had a
large, expensive watch, a ruby ring on his right hand,