His panic attack had started after I’d refused to meet him in our standard location: my office. He accused me of bugging the conference room, and I’d offered to postpone our meeting until next week, when my office would be back in order, but he refused, stating that he had to talk to me now because SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED. When I asked what had happened . . . well, here we were.
His gasps were starting to come back under control. I stayed in place and watched as he dropped his head back on the swivel chair and gulped for air. He always had a flair for the dramatic. During my first appointment with him, he had pounded his fist on my desk so hard that my pen cup fell over. I think his fury had been over my rates, which was amusing, given his level of wealth. Luke Attens was the eldest son of the Attens family, creator of the mega-slice pizza, forty-two thousand delivery and take-out locations worldwide. I didn’t know that stat initially, but Luke liked to scream it at random moments if he felt his manhood or authority were being questioned, which was often.
It was good for Luke that he was an Attens, because any normal individual would be in jail after what had happened with his sister. It had taken a team of attorneys to convince a judge that the fire had been an “accident,” and another team of plastic surgeons to repair the damage from the fire. Even two years later, I could see the skin grafts along the edge of his jaw and the scar around his left eye. His sister, whom he had doused with gasoline prior to lighting the match, had it worse. I had never spoken to Laura, who had moved to Florida with her fiancé and taken out a restraining order against Luke, one he’d already broken twice.
His breathing quieted, and I waited.
We were already twenty-five minutes into the session. I was still ignorant of what inciting event had occurred, but hopefully it could be wrapped up and solved in our remaining thirty-five minutes.
Another three minutes passed, and Luke wasn’t known for drawing things out. Any minute and he would—
“You know this serial killer that was caught?”
I looped my fingers together. “Yes.”
“What’s your take on it?”
I chose my next words carefully. “I don’t have a take. He’s in custody.”
“He a client of yours?” His breathing was starting to get more labored, his eyes widening, and he was losing control. This wasn’t good, and it especially wasn’t good with someone like Luke.
“No, he wasn’t a client of mine.” And still isn’t, I told myself. I was hired by Robert, not Randall.
“You know, he was my teacher.” He sneered the word.
I blinked. “He was? At Beverly High?”
That wasn’t a huge surprise. All the rich kids went to Beverly High or Montbrier. Luke was a decade older than Scott, but Randall Thompson had taught science there for almost twenty years.
Luke rose from his seat and moved toward me. I glanced through the glass walls of the conference room to find Jacob watching us. I held his gaze for a moment, then returned my attention to Luke.
He stopped before me, the buckle of his belt scraping against the conference room table as he leaned in so close that I could smell the stale odor of his breath.
“The receptionist said his name, so is he your patient?” he hissed, and spittle from his mouth peppered my jaw.
Maybe I should have just let this guy hyperventilate to death.
“Luke, you need to step away from me,” I said calmly.
“That pervert,” he said coldly, “put his—”
The door to the conference room swung open. “Everything okay?” Jacob asked. Luke turned toward him, and I took the opportunity to roll my seat back and stand.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Luke’s hands balled into fists. Escalation had begun, and while I didn’t think he would hurt me, Jacob was a different story.
“Luke, let’s finish this up another day.” I walked around the end of the table, keeping it between me and Luke as I all but shoved Jacob into the hall.
I glanced back at Luke and gave my best calm and comforting smile. “Call me if you need to continue this session today. You have my cell number, Luke.”
An angry breath hissed through his lips, and I was reminded of the press coverage after the car fire. The video of his sister, screaming out from the stretcher. I turned and walked straight through the reception area, beelining for Meredith’s office and motioning Jacob along with me. She was on the phone, and I closed her door behind us and locked it.
She immediately ended the call. “What’s wrong?”
“Potentially nothing. Still, call security and send them up here.”
She dialed the downstairs desk and relayed the message. I pressed my ear to the door and tried to hear what was happening in the hall. There was a shout and then the slam of wood. A door. I straightened, my alarm growing as I heard a louder crash. This one hadn’t been out in the lobby. It had been on the other side of Meredith’s wall.
Luke was in my office.
CHAPTER 24
My first concern was for Matthew, our third partner. The tiny psychologist had the physical presence of a field mouse. I hissed at Meredith to call his cell and hoped the man was tucked inside his office, the door locked. Luke shouldn’t go after him. If anything, as soon as he saw my wall of BH Killer notes, he’d misunderstand them and come for me.
“What’s wrong?” Meredith asked, coming to stand beside me. “I mean, aside from the obvious. You look pale.”
“He’s in my office.”
“So?”
“He’s got something against Randall Thompson. Just now, he asked if I represented him.”
“Which you don’t.”
“Yeah, but—” I waved a hand in the direction of my office. “That’s not what he’s going to think when he sees all my work in there.” The victims’ names, in chalk on the wall. The columns. The notes. Crime scene photos, pinned up in a neat grid. It’d be impossible to miss. I lifted my head, listening. Luke was quiet, probably standing in place, staring at it all.
What was taking security so long?
“Do I want to know what this guy’s kink is?” Meredith asked softly.
“I wish I had an easy answer for that.” In layman’s terms, Luke was a walking train wreck. In non-layman’s terms, he was best conceptualized as recurring patterns of covariant traits rather than a single diagnostic category.
“But he’s violent?”
“He has a temper, which he loses often.” But it wasn’t just a temper. There was premeditation behind his outbursts. The incident with his sister occurred after Luke bought two cans, filled them with gas, and then sat for two hours outside her work, waiting for her to get off. Two hours where his anger built and solidified into a firm and deadly resolution. “Yes,” I amended. “He’s violent.”
A knock rattled against the door, and we both jumped. “Don’t say anything,” Meredith whispered.
“Dr. Moore? Dr. Blankner? It’s Bart, from the front desk.”
I immediately flipped open the lock and cracked the door for the security guard. “Do you have him?”
“They stopped him just off the elevators and have him at the desk.” Bart ran a hand over his smooth head, then scratched the back of it. “He’s saying he didn’t do anything wrong, other than breaking a lamp, which he said you can bill him for.”