Free The Ties That Bind by Warren Adler Page B

eliminate
everything but the most microscopic clues.
    "There still might be some latents," Gail said
hopefully.
    "Long shot," Fiona murmured.
    Gail frowned.
    "You're giving this man lots of credit," she
said, concentrating on studying the photographs of Phyla Herbert's body that
she had gathered from the Eggplant's desk. Lost in thought for a long time, she
finally raised her eyes from the pictures.
    "No way," she sighed.
    "No way what?" Fiona asked.
    "With respect, Sergeant," Gail began, her
yellow-flecked eyes meeting Fiona's.
    "I'm a big girl, Gail."
    "Your entire theory is based on the idea that the
victim was mostly to blame for her own murder."
    Fiona did not lower her eyes, perhaps plumbing the depths
of Gail Prentiss for whatever vulnerabilities lay inside of her. Finally, she
turned away and shrugged.
    "It's only a theory," Fiona said again. She could
tell that, barring proof positive, Gail would never buy it.

6
    The following morning Fiona sat in Dr. Benson's office
drinking hot black coffee and hoping it would help chase the effects of a
sleepless night. Gail Prentiss had gone to the Justice Department to see the
person that had interviewed Phyla Herbert. In light of the heavy load of
investigative work on the case, they had agreed on dividing up the tasks.
    Fiona looked at her watch. It was nine. In less than an
hour she would be confronted by Thomas Herbert, who would have to go through
the horrifying process of identifying his daughter's body. It would be awful.
Gail had promised to return by then and meet her in Dr. Benson's office.
    Dr. Benson studied Fiona with his Cajun blue eyes, his long
fingers constructing a graceful cathedral, the pinnacle of which was placed
just under his chin. He was a handsome man, still on the better side of sixty,
with steel gray hair and skin the color of soft beige leather.
    She had long ago appointed him her surrogate father and he
had led her through the darkness of many an emotional valley. For her part, she
was always there for him as well, especially when the numbing and often
depressing nature of his job would coincide with recurring bouts of deep
grieving for his beloved wife, who had died five years before. In Dr. Benson's
case, time was not the vaunted healer it was supposed to be.
    Throughout the previous night, she had debated whether or
not to tell him about her experience with Farley Lipscomb and her theory that
he could be the killer of Phyla Herbert. But every time her imagination reached
the brink of revelation, she faltered.
    She had no doubt about his reaction. He would be enormously
sympathetic, fully understanding of her agony and guilt, totally supportive and
reassuring. But she feared that he might not agree with her theory, on the
grounds that she was letting personal trauma interfere with her better
judgment.
    Between them was a deep and enduring father-daughter type
of relationship, full of love and sharing. She had heard most of his
confessions and he had heard most of hers. But there was a point where few
humans, however loving, were willing or even capable of transcending.
    She could not bring herself to reveal the deep complexities
of her sexual nature. It was a subject deliberately evaded between them, which
was probably the norm in most relationships between people of different
generations and genders. She hadn't even summoned the courage, if that's what
it took, to reveal deeply personal sexual secrets to a shrink.
    Earlier, she had considered herself cured of any residual
bad side effects of her experience with Farley Lipscomb, like the two-year
attack of frigidity that had afflicted her during her last two years of
college. Last night, however, she had sensed the beginning of a reoccurrence.
    As he always did since the beginning of their relationship,
Harrison Greenwald had called late in the evening. She had soaked for a long
time in a hot bath, normally an excellent stress chaser. It had little effect
last night.
    For the past six months, they