Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

and it became real. There was nothing between Tabitha and Brian. She had trouble recognizing what was true and what wasn’t.”
    “I don’t believe it, Jerry. She was pretty convincing.”
    “Rona, you and I both know she was obsessed with him. She wouldn’t leave him alone. She followed him around. She was driving him crazy.”
    “Are you saying Tabitha Ann is pathological?” Smith crossed her legs in the opposite direction.
    “I had them both up here Thursday night. I thought I could help her cut through to reality.”
    “The poor kid,” Rona said. “What happened?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Come on, something must have happened,” Smith said. “What did she say?” She narrowed her eyes, finger to her nose. “Did you tape the session?”
    Dr. Jerry blanched. “How would you know about that?”
    “Good thinking, partner,” Wetzon said.
    “I know a lot of therapists who do,” Smith said placidly. “Where is the tape?”
    “I destroyed it.”
    “You—tape—our—sessions, Jerry?” Rona was weighing each word carefully. She didn’t sound happy.
    “It’s standard procedure, dear,” Smith said.
    “I’m not talking to you, Smith. Stay out of this. Jerry?”
    Jerry dimpled and looked embarrassed. “Rona, she’s right. It is standard procedure—”
    Rona cut him off. “We’ll talk about this in private, if you don’t mind.”
    “Let’s stick with Tabitha’s tape, please,” Wetzon interceded. “What did she say on it that made you destroy it? Or was it something Brian said?”
    The doctor sighed. “What I’m going to tell you is confidential. Can I trust that you will not repeat it to anyone?”
    “Of course,” Smith vowed. Somehow she managed to look like Joan of Arc, palms together piously under her chin.
    “Agreed.” Wetzon wondered if detectives worked the way lawyers and the confessional did. What a client told you could never be repeated. One thing for sure, Smith had no such compunctions.
    Jerry looked unhappy. He rose, and the chair rose with him; he peeled it off and set it back on the floor. “Brian told Tabby Ann there was nothing between them. She took it very badly.”
    “What did she say?” Smith insisted.
    Reluctantly, he said, “She didn’t mean it.” His kindly eyes were miserable.
    “Oh, for pitysakes!” Smith threw up her hands.
    “She said, ‘I’ll kill you for this.’”

23.
    “N ONSENSE !” R ONA EXCLAIMED . “She didn’t mean it.”
    “I understand,” Wetzon said, without reservation, “that Penny Ann has a drinking problem.”
    Rona’s eyes flew to Dr. Jerry.
    “I’ve been counseling her,” Dr. Jerry admitted.
    “Did she abuse her daughter?”
    “Wetzon, what is this?” Rona demanded.
    Jerry held up his hand. “Have you seen Tabitha? Did she tell you that?”
    Wetzon shook her head. “No. Tony Maglia told me. I think she’s with the Maglias.”
    “Jerry—” Rona hesitated. “We should tell them.”
    “Keeping secrets from us?” Smith said, a sharp sting in her voice. “We’re only working extremely hard on your behalf—”
    The doorbell rang.
    Surprisingly graceful for so big a man, Dr. Jerry Gordon moved with swift giant steps. He opened the door and held out his arms to Penny Ann, who fell into them. Behind Penny Ann was someone Wetzon recognized instantly from television interviews, magazine profiles, and newspaper coverage of his trials. Richard Hartmann was a criminal lawyer of the blame-the-victim school and the media’s darling because his clients were usually notorious drug dealers, mafia dons, and uncommon murderers. A consummate performer, he was rumored to have a major PR firm on his payroll.
    “Richard, come in. You know Rona Middleton. This is Xenia Smith and Leslie Wetzon.” Jerry was petting Penny Ann’s head, gradually moving her into the room. Big Daddy again, Wetzon thought.
    “I’m Xenia Smith.” Simple words, but coming from Smith it oozed seduction.
    “Dick Hartmann.” Hartmann shook Smith’s hand, then Wetzon’s. “Ms. Wetzon.” He was looking over her shoulder, but she saw it was not intentional. There was something wrong with one of his eyes. “Jerry, she’s in your hands. I promised the judge she wouldn’t leave the city.”
    “She can stay here. The sofa opens up. How about it, my dear? Hotel service and everything.”
    “Dr. Jerry, you’re so good to me,” Penny Ann sniffled. “What would I do without you?” Her eyeglasses were askew, and her hair hung in straggles. She