Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

neurasthenia,” she said.
    “Neurasthenia?” Dix said.
    “That’s what the man told me,” I said.
    “For crissake,” Dix said. “That’s like saying it’s being used to treat the vapors.”
    “I’ve explained that to him,” Susan said.
    “Who is this doctor,” Dix said. “Is he a shrink?”
    “His M.D. is urology,” Susan said. “He bills himself as a therapeutic counselor.”
    “Rosselli,” Dix said.
    “You know him?” I said.
    “Emil Rosselli,” Dix said. “That’s who it is, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” I said. “What do you think of him?”
    “Dope dealer to the rich and famous,” Dix said. “He’s a fucking disgrace.”
    “Don’t get too technical on me,” I said.
    “I simply strive for accuracy,” Dix said.
    He scanned the list.
    “There’s some vitamins here,” he said, “which probably do no harm, and the rest are psychotropic drugs.”
    “Like sedatives?” I said.
    “Some,” he said. “There’s an assortment to get you up, calm you down, get a balance between. All of them have legitimate uses, but they are not normally used in this amount or these combinations.”
    “Pills?” I said.
    “Some pills, some injectables, some that come in either form,” Dix said. “I can’t tell from the list how often the patient received this stuff.”
    “He went there every two weeks,” I said.
    “Doesn’t tell me if he gave her the same thing every time,” Dix said.
    “The more he went, I suppose, the more money he made.”
    “Most Feelgoods use injections,” Dix said. “Patient can take pills himself, but the doc can jack up the price if the patient thinks he always has to get a shot.”
    “Maybe he also did counseling,” I said.
    “I hope not,” Dix said.
    “What would be the effect of these drugs on the recipient?” I said.
    “It can vary,” Dix said. “But certainly it would dull her response to the phenomenological world.”
    “How about on a young woman who had been sexually molested and attempted suicide.”
    “Palliative at best,” Dix said.
    “Harmful?” I said.
    “The actual drugs? Can’t say without more information. Butif she is suffering severe post-molestation psychopathology, it’s like putting a Band-Aid over gangrene.”
    “The pathology will continue to fester,” I said.
    “A bit dramatic maybe,” Dix said, “but yes. She will continue to need help.”
    “But not from Emil Rosselli,” I said.
    “First do no harm,” Dix said.
    “I think Rosselli is governed by a different code,” I said.
    Dix smiled.
    “Show me the money,” he said.

 
    In the late afternoon
, Hawk and I sat with Valerie Lessard in a big wooden booth in the taproom at the Nassau Inn in Princeton. The room looked like it was supposed to, with dark wood and murals. Valerie had some white wine; Hawk and I drank beer.
    “The thing about poor Maurice,” Valerie said, “is he was gay.”
    “Was he out?” I said.
    “Not around my parents,” Valerie said.
    “They didn’t know?”
    Valerie, as she talked, was obliquely studying Hawk.
    “He didn’t want them to,” Valerie said.
    “Would they disapprove?” I said.
    “I don’t think so,” Valerie said. “Plus, hell, they knew. Anyone who spent time with my brother would know.”
    “They talk with you about it?”
    Still appraising Hawk, Valerie nodded her head.
    “Sure,” she said. “Not, did I think he was gay? More, did I know his friends? Did he have any girlfriends? Was he happy?”
    “You and your brother get along?”
    “Yeah,” Valerie said. “I liked him. He was really sweet. We could talk. More like having a sister than a brother, I guess. Except we didn’t have to compete for dates.”
    “Did he date?”
    “No.”
    “Men or women?”
    “No. I don’t know for sure if he ever had sex with anyone,” she said.
    “Did he tell you he was gay?”
    “Not in so many words,” Valerie said. “But we both knew that we both knew, if you know what I’m saying.”
    “I do,” I said. “How did he end up with Adelaide Van Meer?”
    “School. He was a junior when she was a freshman. They got to be friends. Not boyfriend, girlfriend. Just friends. Except for me, she might have been his first close friend. Two lost souls, I guess …”
    Valerie stopped for a moment and looked at the tabletop. Her eyes were teary, but she didn’t cry.
    “Poor Maurice,” she said finally.
    “Adelaide was lost, too?” I said.
    “Yeah. She was sort of withdrawn and, like, fearful, and mad, all at