“What are you doing?”
He looked up, unperturbed by my tone. “I thought you said you were Brooke’s friend.”
I entered the office, my anger growing at his lack of apology. “These are confidential patient files.”
“Confidential patient files for John Abbott.” He tapped the page. “John was a patient of yours?”
“You need to leave,” I snapped, my warm and fuzzy feelings fleeing at the thought of what he had seen. What was the liability here? I’d left patient files out in the open, but in the privacy of my own home. Had he broken any laws? Had I?
He dropped the file and stepped away from the desk.
“What are you doing in here?” I closed the file and wrapped a rubber band around it. “Is this what you do? You sleep with someone and then go through all their things?”
“I had to check my work messages. My cell’s battery is dead.” He nodded to the phone on my desk. “I didn’t have a charger, and you don’t have a phone in the kitchen. This was the first room where I found one. I’m sorry. His name caught my eye.”
I opened my drawer and pushed the folder into it. “You should go. I can order a car for you if your phone is dead.”
He didn’t move, and my frustration grew.
“You know what confidentiality I’m bound to. You have a very similar one with your clients,” I said.
“You should have told me that you were John’s shrink.”
“Why?” I gave a strangled laugh. “You were a stranger in a bar. I didn’t owe you confidential information about a client.”
“A dead client,” he pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter. My legal obligations don’t change.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
“Okay,” he said finally, his jaw tight. “Fine. No need to call me a car. Thank you for the hospitality.”
He picked up his jacket from where he’d folded it over a chair and walked into the hall. I stayed in place and listened as his dress shoes sounded down the hall and out the front door. There was a quiet click as it latched back into place. From the kitchen, something wafted smoke in the air.
I picked up the phone’s receiver and listened to the dial tone. I studied the bank of buttons, then reached forward and pressed the redial button. An unknown number with a 310 area code displayed. Holding my breath, I listened as the phone rang once and then went to a voice mail for Cluster & Kavin Law Firm.
I hung up. So, he had called his office. Cluster & Kavin . . . I paused halfway through to the hall and inhaled sharply, suddenly aware of who Robert was.
Robert Kavin. The father of Gabe.
CHAPTER 7
Robert Kavin stopped at the end of Gwen’s driveway and looked to either side, surveying the quiet neighborhood. It was well established, the yards neatly tended to, the cars all tucked behind garage doors. He’d liked her house, liked the perfect order and care it held. It was a home with character, her style elegant with an edge. The skull paperweight tucked into her bookcase. The framed blood-spatter prints hanging in her powder room. The rich navy walls. Books everywhere. Art that seemed to have a story behind every piece. He wanted to know those stories, wanted to unlock the brilliant and sexy woman who had crawled on top of him in the back seat of the cab with an infectious laugh that had contrasted with her professional exterior.
His warm feelings toward her had dissolved the moment he saw that file on her desk. He’d only had a chance to read a few pages before she had interrupted him, but it had been enough to know that her sessions with John Abbott had been highly personal in nature. Personal and full of violence.
He glanced back at the two-story Tudor and headed left down the street, cursing himself for his phone’s dead battery. He hadn’t paid attention to his bearings when the taxi took them home last night, but he headed north, hoping the road would lead to a neighborhood exit, preferably one with a gas station or strip mall nearby. He fisted his jacket in his left hand and moved to the shaded side of the street. Even in October, the California heat was a bitch.
If his son were here, he’d laugh at him. Gabe would make some crack about Robert getting literally screwed. He’d ask why he’d stormed off instead of talking things out with Gwen. And if Robert would say that he tried to, and she had clammed up and spouted about confidentiality, Gabe would point out that he’d have done the same thing.
Which was true. Twenty years of dealing with clients—some really terrible clients—and he’d never broken their confidence. Granted, a one-night stand had never gone through his case files, either. He grimaced at the thought of what his reaction would be if one did. Calm reactions weren’t his strong suit.
A Volvo with Stanford decals passed, and he watched it go, reluctant to flag down a stranger. Ahead, a cart path sign said CLUBHOUSE with a small arrow. That couldn’t be too far.
The neighborhood felt familiar, like the one Gabe’s first girlfriend had lived in. Her parents had thrown a Fourth of July party and all but forced him to attend. It had been in the middle of the Zentenberg trial, and he’d barely had the energy to stand, but he’d gone. Talk about a painful three hours. The same conversation over and over again about the Chargers, then the forest fires, then the election. A nonstop circle of dull conversation.
If Natasha had been alive, she would have gone to that party with him. She liked that stuff. She could stand there, a drink in hand, and laugh at stupid comments as if they were the wittiest thing she’d ever heard. And it didn’t come across as fake, which was commendable, considering that she always ripped apart the person as soon as they were out of earshot. It was one thing he hadn’t missed about her. The backbiting and judgment that never seemed to stop.
Around the curve, the golf clubhouse appeared. He stepped over a curb and turned down the wide drive, his pace quickening at the prospect of a phone and air-conditioning. He glanced at his watch, wondering if the bar would be open, despite the early hour.
Right now, what he really needed was a drink.
The bar was open and empty, his scotch order taken with a grunt. Leaning back on the stool, he stretched his back, sighing as something popped into place. He was too old for marathon sex, and last night had been the first time in a while that he had been so . . . active.
Gwen had been a surprise in bed. Passionate and needy, but also confident. She hadn’t covered herself up when he looked at her, or apologized for the cellulite along her thighs. Maybe that confidence came from sitting across from killers all day.
His mood darkened, and he pulled the drink closer.
“. . . a tearful reunion.”
He glanced at the television and caught the tail end of a video with a family embracing. His mood soured further.
“Crazy stuff, right?” The bartender leaned against the bar, his palms tucked underneath his armpits.
“Yep.” Robert stared into the glass. Scott Harden and his miraculous escape was the last thing he wanted to hear about.
“You heard about this, right? That missing kid—you know, the one they thought was taken by that serial killer? He escaped from the guy.”
The missing kid. Not Gabe, who hadn’t been able to escape. Scott Harden. Lucky Scott Harden.
Robert’s emotions rose as the television announcers recapped the escape and reunion. The camera cut to a summary of the BH history, and he downed the rest of the watered-down drink. Gabe’s name was mentioned, and he slammed down the tumbler. Pulling out his wallet, he retrieved a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the bar. “Thanks.”