Gaits of Heaven

I climbed to the third floor, rapped on the door, protected my hearing from Willie’s barking by putting my hands over my ears, and subsequently distracted him from my ankles by tossing a rawhide flip chip across the room.
    “Rita,” I said, “we have to talk. I respect your professional and personal ethics, I really do, but when a threat to life is involved, you’re allowed to make exceptions. Stop! I’m not asking you to say anything. But you do have to listen.“
    “Cold sober?” she asked. “I’ve had a long day.” For once, she was less than perfectly groomed. Her navy linen suit was wrinkled, her face was shiny, and her mouth showed faded traces of lipstick. She had, I thought, been running her hands through her usually neat cap of carefully streaked hair. “I had emergencies with two patients. I just got off the phone.“
    “Have you had dinner? We have leftovers. I’ll—“
    “Thanks, Holly, but I had a snack, and I’m really too tired to eat.”
    “Gin?” I suggested. “Gin and tonic? Scotch? Vodka? A Manhattan. Let me fix you a Manhattan. Or a Rob Roy.” In giving a precise report of what I said, I do not mean to suggest that Rita is some sort of lush. She isn’t. On the other hand, she’s no teetotaler, either.
    “I’d keel over.”
    “Hot chocolate?”
    “Ugh. I’m not that far gone.”
    “Wine,” I said. “A little therapeutic glass of wine. I’ll go downstairs and get some. Red or white? Rita, I’m sorry, but this is important. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother you.”
    “You’re not bothering me. I'm sorry to be so frazzled. And I have wine.”
    “I’ll be succinct. I promise. I’m not asking for advice. All I need is to pass along some information. I’m worried. I think that Wyeth is dangerous.”
    Five minutes later, we were settled in Rita’s living room. In moving, she’d kept only her best pieces of furniture, mainly end tables and lamps. The upholstered couch and two chairs, all three new, were upholstered in fabrics that looked tweedy but didn’t itch. It occurred to me that if Sammy were locked in that living room, he could easily do $20,000 worth of damage in the first ten minutes.
    Rita was stretched out on the couch with her stockinged feet propped up. Eager to show that I’d be quick, I perched on the edge of one of the armchairs.
    “Wyeth,” I said. “You already know about the episode with the computer. Ted’s ankle is broken. If the computer or the monitor or the printer had landed on his head? In just the wrong spot? Well, the latest is that Johanna, Wyeth’s mother, felt so sorry for him after what he’d been through in that episode that she bought him a new car. A Land Rover. Brand-new, I think.”
    “You can’t tell one make of car from another.”
    “I can if I read what’s written on them. Anyway, Ted said it was a Land Rover. I think they’re expensive.”
    “An understatement.”
    “I’ll spare you the details. What happened late this afternoon is that Caprice was walking Dolfo from Ted’s to Barbara Leibowitz’s. Ted can’t manage anything. Barbara is taking care of Dolfo. So, Caprice and Dolfo were on the sidewalk in front of Ted’s driveway, an empty spot in this sort of parking area he has, when Wyeth came zooming down the street in his new car, turned in, and ran into Caprice.”
    “Dear God! Is she all right?”
    “Yes. Her knee is sore. Fortunately, she fell on Dolfo, and he broke her fall. But the point is, Rita, that when I saw what was about to happen, I was screaming and running, but I got a good look at the expression on Wyeth’s face, and, Rita, I swear to you, he deliberately ran that car into her. For all I know, he intended to hit Dolfo, too. It was no accident.” I was tempted to tell Rita about the contents of the disc I’d removed from Wyeth’s computer. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, I’d probably have broken my vow to ignore information I had no right to possess. Besides, sneaking into therapy offices wasn’t an act of violence, and I was principally concerned with just that: violence. “After it happened,” I continued, “Ted and Johanna got into a raging fight about Wyeth. They were accusing each other of ruining him. With him right there! That was the word they used: ruined. So, if he wants to kill people, it’s no wonder. And the fight was verbal violence, if there is such a thing.“
    “There is,” Rita said.
    “Wyeth is on his mother’s side. She hated Eumie. So did Wyeth. And