Free Vengeance by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

bad.”
    “Try Ed’s and we’ll talk later.”
    I got back in the Metro but before I could close the door Beryl Tree said, “You need more money?”
    “I’m fine,” I said. “You’re way ahead on retainer.”
    “And I get an itemized bill when you find Adele.”
    “To the last penny,” I said.
    I left them standing on the sidewalk and drove the five blocks to the office of Geoffrey Green, Psychiatrist. I made it with ten minutes to spare.
    There was a space in front of Carigulo’s Restaurant between a green Saab and a blue Rolls-Royce. The Rolls had a For Sale sign in the window.
    The narrow passageway between Golden Fleece Antiques and Robintine’s Fine Oriental Rugs and Carpets led to a brightly tiled, small, open courtyard with a bubbling fountain in the center. To the right of the fountain was a large wooden door with a golden handle. The sign next to the door said FERGUS & SONS. I wondered what Fergus and his sons did and how they paid the rent. To the left of the fountain was a similar door marked GEOFFREY GREEN, M.D., PH.D. I opened the door and found myself in a carpeted waiting room twice the size of the two rooms I worked and lived in. A sliding glass window stood open in front of me. I told the matronly receptionist who I was and she asked me to have a seat. The only other person in the large green-carpeted waiting room was a nervous young woman, about twenty, who hadn’t done much to look her best. Her hair was short and dark. Her brown skirt didn’t really go with her gray blouse. She ruffled through a magazine, looked up at the clock on the wall and over at a tank of colorful tropical fish and then back at her magazine. I was halfway through an article about Clint Eastwood in Entertainment magazine when
Green’s office door opened and he stepped out. There was no one with him. If he had a patient, the patient had gone discreetly out another door.
    Geoffrey Green was in his late thirties. He wore a dark suit, had dark hair and was ruggedly good-looking. I’d bet he climbed mountains or skied when he wasn’t tending to his patients.
    “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Dorothy,” he said to the nervous woman, who nodded, frowning.
    “Mr. Fonesca?” he said, looking at me. “Please come in.”
    I followed him into his office. He opened his drapes and let in the sun and a view of a very small, lush garden and a colorful tiled wall.
    The office wasn’t large compared to the waiting room, but it would do. There was a desk, a chair, a small sofa and two armchairs. The colors were all subdued blues with a touch of gold. A painting on the wall showed a woman standing on a hill looking into a valley beyond the ruins of a castle. Her face wasn’t visible.
    “Like it?” Green asked, sitting behind his desk and offering me the choice of couch or one of the chairs. I took a chair.
    “The painting? Yes,” I said.
    “One of my patients did it,” he said. “An artist. A man. We spent a lot of time talking about that painting.”
    “It’s …” I said.
    “Gothic, haunting,” he said. “Yes.”
    “I was going to say melancholy.”
    “Yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Fonesca, but I’m going to have to get right to your questions. I have a patient waiting.”
    “I understand. Melanie Lennell Sebastian …”
    “I can’t give you any information about why she was seeing me or what was said,” he said softly.
    “What can you tell me about her?”
    He sat back, picked up a well-sharpened pencil, put
it down, looked out the window and made a decision.
    “Melanie Sebastian is a remarkable woman,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s been through a great deal in her life. The town where she grew up—”
    “Ogden, Utah,” I said.
    “Ogden, Utah,” he repeated. “Her mother was sick, recurrent brain tumors from what I understand. Melanie took care of her. Every day from the time she was about ten she came home and relieved her father, who worked evenings. I think he was a