“Yes.”
* * *
The Five Cloud Professional Center was a four-story stone building.
Kozak and Carillo stood in the lobby reading the directory that showed locations of a pharmacy, a lab, a physiotherapist, accountants, law offices, dentists, architects, and several more tenants.
“Ready for more sleuthing, Ned?”
“No, but let’s go.”
They began on the ground floor, going from office to office, showing their badges and Jennifer Griffin’s photo, asking if she was a customer or a client. It was needle-in-a-haystack work as they went floor to floor. While a number of people recognized Jennifer’s face from news reports, most inquiries ended with apologetic headshakes.
“I’m thinking this could be a dead end,” Kozak said as they came to one of the last offices on the third floor.
“What was that you were saying about perseverance, Claire?”
They entered the offices of Century & Dilling Architects through the double glass doors. The receptionist greeted them and within seconds had seized their attention.
“Yes, the missing mom. So sad.”
“You’ve seen her on the news?” Carillo said.
“Yes, and on this floor.”
“This floor?”
“She comes regularly, maybe every week—I mean she used to.”
“She came to this office?” Kozak asked.
“No, the one at the end of the hall. I bumped into her a couple of times in the bathroom. She’d be changing, looked like for yoga. Do you know what happened to her?”
“Thank you,” Kozak said.
* * *
The office at the end of the hall was for Dr. Anna Bernay and Dr. Stuart Maynart, Psychologists.
It had dark polished floors. The receptionist looked up from her desk. A painting, a large landscape of mountains, filled the wall behind her. The smile she greeted Kozak and Carillo with melted when they identified themselves and showed her Jennifer Griffin’s photo.
“Is Jennifer Griffin a client here?”
“I—um—I can’t. One moment, please. Have a seat.”
The receptionist left her desk, went down the hall, knocked softly on a door, entered, and closed it behind her. The investigators stood, waiting near a sectional couch but not for long. The door opened and a woman in a well-cut navy skirt suit, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, met them.
“I’m Dr. Anna Bernay. How can I help you?”
“Is Jennifer Griffin a client here?” Kozak said.
Bernay looked at the photo Kozak held out on her phone, then at Kozak and Carillo.
“Please come into my office.”
The walls were lined with books, certificates, and degrees. A framed photo of Bernay, a man, and two girls laughing on a beach, stood on her clean desk next to a computer screen. She offered the investigators the sofa chairs in front. There was no couch.
“As you know, communication between a registered psychologist and patient is privileged,” Bernay said, tapping her pen on her desk.
“Yes,” Kozak said. “But the statute states there are exceptions.”
Bernay nodded slowly.
“I can confirm Jennifer Griffin is a client of this office. That’s basic information, but that’s about all I can tell you.”
Kozak leaned forward.
“Doctor, the privilege of confidentiality is not absolute. You’re aware about your ‘duty to warn’ as it pertains to harmful acts.”
“Quite aware.”
“Are you aware of her location?”
“I’m afraid I cannot answer that question.”
“Dr. Bernay, you know Jennifer Griffin’s disappearance is the subject of a serious investigation?”
“I am.”
“We have reason to believe that she could’ve been harmed, and if you’re in possession of information, such as her location, or treatment records, anything that could have direct bearing on her case, then withholding it could be problematic for you.”
“Revelation of such information and records violates a client’s right to privacy, violates professional ethics, and could lead to malpractice action and loss of certification.”
“And you could face civil action from her family if you do not share information that could help us locate her safely.”
Bernay steepled her fingers.
“We can subpoena your records, Doctor,” Carillo added.
“What were you treating Jennifer Griffin for?” Kozak asked.
Bernay pursed her lips, placed her pen on her desk then ever so slightly moved her framed photo.
“She’s not my client.”
“Excuse me?” Kozak said. “But you just said—”
“Leave your cards with me and I’ll discuss this with my husband. He’s not here at the moment.”
“Your husband?”
“Dr. Maynart. Jennifer Griffin is his client.”
Forty-Two
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
Dark grayish powder had been smudged and streaked on doorknobs, window frames, walls, banisters, and counters as if malevolent forces had battled throughout Greg’s home.
The state police crime scene team had processed the house, looking for more evidence. When Greg returned with Jake, Vince, and Kat, he was taken aback by the aftermath, its intrusiveness, the implication compounding the mental toll of events.
After the polygraph ended, Greg went straight to Kat’s house where he refused to answer her questions about it. Kat didn’t push things. She made him coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich. He couldn’t eat. The stress was gnawing at him. Sometime later, Carillo had called, saying the house had been released and he could go home to Trailside where a patrol unit was waiting with his key. Greg was thankful no media were camped at the house when they’d arrived.
Now, walking through the main floor of his home, he was shocked by the disarray, by how the furniture had been moved slightly, and how investigators had rummaged through their belongings.
Greg sat on the lower steps of the staircase, trying to recover, while Jake tore past him and up the stairs to his bedroom like he was looking for something amid the chaos.
“Everything okay, Jake?” Kat called after him.
“Leave him,” Greg said.