Page 91 of Ballistic

A receptionist greeted me in the lobby, a pudgy older woman with friendly eyes and cup of coffee in her hands.

“How can I help you?” she asked with a smile.

I didn’t even know whom to ask for. “I’m … here to see someone.”

“I figured that. Didn’t think you were here to admit yourself, or something.” She giggled as she lowered the coffee cup and set her hands to a computer keyboard. “Name?”

“Mister Wolfe?”

The familiar tone raised my gaze toward the man I’d seen back at Sharky’s weeks ago, only instead of a black trench coat, he wore a white lab coat over a three-piece gray suit with Doctor Emberle stitched above a pocket.

With one hand tucked at his side, he walked toward me, extending his other hand.

Not a single scar marred the surface of his skin.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked without shaking his hand.

“Come with me, Mister Wolfe. Perhaps I can shed a small bit of light on what must be utterly confusing at the moment.” Not a trace of the accent, either.

“Yeah. Perhaps you can.” I followed after him, into the crowded elevator, and up to the third floor, keeping him in my sights as the doors opened to a long corridor of offices. Each one we passed bore names on their door, all of them followed by a string of credentials.

Not a single word exchanged between us, until we reached the door that read Doctor Michael Emberle, M.D.

“You’re a quack?” Trailing behind him, I glanced around the office, where a large desk sat in front of a window overlooking the city, with two bookshelves lined in medical reference books at either side.

He offered one of the two leather chairs set in front, and rounded the desk to the larger leather reclining seat behind it. “I prefer headshrinker. Has a nicer ring to it.”

“Not a crime lord, then.”

“Not since I last checked my police record, no.”

“A smartass, though.” I plopped onto the chair, my body stiff and wary and probably in all kinds of shock. Made sense, seeing as he hadn’t convinced me back at Sharky’s that he was anything special. Just didn’t carry himself like a criminal.

“My apologies, it comes with the territory, I suppose.” He pointed to a crystal liquor decanter set off to the side. “Would you like a drink? Might loosen your muscles up a bit. Keep you from punching me in the face.”

“I’ll take one. You first, though.”

He pushed up from his chair, pausing for a moment. “You’re welcome to pour them, if you’d like. Though, if I was going to poison a man like yourself, I probably wouldn’t offer bourbon in the middle of the day.”

“I’ll get my own, thanks.” I strode across the room, glancing back at the bastard for any tricks he might’ve pulled. Tipping the decanter, I poured the amber liquid into two snifters and returned to my seat.

He held the glass up like a toast. “Bottoms up,” he said, tipping it back, and he swallowed it in one gulp.

More at ease, I did the same and settled back into the chair as the liquor warmed my muscles.

“Why’d you tell me you were Dmitry back at Sharky’s?”

“Would you have met with me if I’d told you I was a psychiatrist, or quack, as you so eloquently put it?”

“Probably.”

Brows lifted, he set the snifter onto the desk. “Noted. I’ll try to remember that next time.” Entwining his fingers, he sat back in his chair, seemingly more relaxed, as if he’d needed the drink more than I had. “I’ll admit, the first night I met you in that bar, I was pissing my pants. I brought two of the orderlies with me in case things went south.”

“What do you mean by next time? Next time, what?”

“I’m thinking the best thing is if I give you a little background on Eden.” Even if that was her real name, it sounded strange coming from him. “I’m not supposed to divulge patient information, due to confidentiality, but I’m assuming you’ve had relations with her in the past week, and for the sake of you not coming back to gun down my office, I’m going to bend the rules a little.” His cheeks puffed, and he blew out a breath. “Where to start? I’ve known her since she was fourteen years old. She was admitted here following a nervous breakdown that resulted in a failed attempted suicide. At the time, I was assigned to her, and I spent a good six months trying to get her to speak. She’d become aphasic, or mute, rather, and suffered from an intense fear of water, particularly bathtubs.”

I’d only recently learned of her fear for water, and I supposed if she’d not been so hopped up on Hedonic that first week I’d taken care of her, I might’ve learned sooner rather than later.