“Since it would be a while before we had a regular election, I decided to make an appointment.”
“But why Larry? He turned out to be very unethical.”
Tom twisted his lips again, this time not so subtly. “I’ve known Larry a long time. Believe me, if I had known what kind of man he was, I would never have appointed him. But we knew
each other back in the day, went to high school together in Grand Junction, and he was a licensed attorney and needed a job. None of the other attorneys here in Snow Creek wanted the job. They preferred to stay in their own private practices. So what choice did I have?”
I saw through his game again. He was trying to put me on the defensive. “Why not hold a special election?”
“This is Snow Creek, Joe, not Denver. Who the hell would turn out for a special election?”
“My brothers and I would have.”
“That’s three people. Plus Evelyn and me. Maybe Bryce if he was in town. It wasn’t a feasible solution. We needed to wait until a presidential election year. That’s the only time you see any results in a small town. I hope Jade will run next year. She’ll be a shoo-in, and we couldn’t ask for a better city attorney.”
Trying to distract me again. Jade was Talon’s girlfriend, not mine, and I wasn’t going to be sidetracked. Before I could say anything else though, Tom spoke again.
“Why all the questions about Larry? He’s locked up where he deserves to be. Case closed.”
“Why not all the questions about Larry? Aren’t you as upset about this as I am? My brother was one of his victims, and so was your nephew.”
“He was Evelyn’s nephew. Victoria Walker is her sister.”
I forced myself not to widen my eyes. Had I heard him correctly? Was he denying feeling remorse because he wasn’t Luke’s uncle by blood? What a coldhearted bastard.
I knew then that if I stood and forced this man out of his shirt, I would see that birthmark Talon had described.
I had been right in my original assessment.
Larry Wade might be a psychopath, but Tom Simpson was far worse.
He was an iceman.
Chapter Twenty
Melanie
Dr. Cates continued toward me, his right hand balled into a fist. “I’m going to see that file today, Dr. Carmichael, before I leave this office.”
I bit my lip. “The file is not here. It’s in storage.”
“What the hell kind of therapist are you?”
I shivered nervously. “The kind who doesn’t clutter up her office with obsolete records. I have followed the guidelines for storage of records for patients who are no longer active. And I couldn’t let you see it even if it was here. Those records are confidential.”
“The death of the patient ends doctor-patient confidentiality. Everyone knows that.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong. Psychotherapy notes have special protection under HIPAA.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t write the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, but I can assure you that I’m correct. I can’t give you the file, even if it was here.”
“I’m not interested in your medical and legal jargon.”
He was so close to me now that only about a foot separated us. My pulse beat hard, and nausea churned in my throat. His breath stank of alcohol. So that was it. He had been drinking.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Dr. Cates.”