‘Maybe she had help,’ said Johnson. ‘Maybe she hired someone.’
‘Yeah, and maybe Angelina Jolie’s about to walk in and ask you out on a date, Mick,’ Anna Baines observed wryly as she drained her beer. ‘Theoretically possible, but not exactly likely.’
There were snorts of laughter all round.
‘Lou’s right,’ Anna added. ‘You got nothing on this shrink woman.’
Johnson stood up, pushing his chair back with an angry clatter.
‘Not yet I don’t,’ he snapped at Anna. ‘But I will. She’s got no alibi, and I think she’s lying through her straight white teeth. So you can all go screw yourselves.’ And with that he stormed out.
‘Jeesh.’ Anna turned to Goodman, open-mouthed. ‘What’s with him?’
‘I was hoping you guys could tell me,’ Goodman sighed. ‘You’ve all known him longer than I have. Mick’s obsessed with Dr Roberts. He hates the woman’s guts, but he won’t tell me why.’
‘I might have an idea,’ Pedro Sanchez said quietly.
Sanchez was a man of few words, unlike his partner Anna Baines. He rarely offered an opinion, but when he did it was usually worth listening to.
‘The Roberts woman used to get called as an expert witness from time to time.’
‘She gave psychiatric evaluations, you mean?’ asked Goodman.
‘Right. Usually on narcotics cases,’ said Sanchez. ‘She and her husband were involved with the junkies downtown – needle exchanges, counseling, all that shit. They were big-time bleeding-heart liberals.’
Mick is ex drug squad, Goodman thought. ‘Did she testify in any of Johnson’s old cases?’ he asked Sanchez.
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. But I do know the lady wasn’t a big fan of the force in general, which wouldn’t have endeared her to Mick. You know what he’s like with holding grudges.’
Without another word, Goodman left a twenty on the table and ran outside after Johnson. What Sanchez had told him was interesting, but it was another thought entirely that had just occurred to him.
‘Mick!’ he called into the darkness.
Johnson turned around. Thankfully, he’d got no farther than the parking lot, where he was swaying drunkenly in the breeze, waiting for his Uber.
Goodman cut straight to the chase. ‘Let’s say Dr Roberts is involved.’
‘She is,’ Johnson slurred. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘But what if it’s not in the way you think. What if the Doc was the intended victim?’
Johnson rolled his eyes. ‘Not this again. We’ve been over this.’
‘Lisa Flannagan was wearing her coat when she left the office that night.’
‘According to her,’ muttered Johnson. ‘Look, I was excited as you about that raincoat being a lead, but we’ve found nothing. All we have is Dr Roberts’ word for it.’
‘Yes, and why would she lie about something like that? Admit it, you can’t think of a reason.’
Johnson grunted. It was true, he couldn’t. Yet.
‘It was dark. It was raining. Lisa was leaving Dr Roberts’ office, wearing her coat. They’re the same height. Same hairstyle. If the killer approached from behind …’
‘OK, OK,’ said Johnson wearily. ‘I get it.’
‘It’s possible,’ insisted Goodman.
‘Fine. It’s possible. But what about Treyvon Raymond? Your theory doesn’t work so well with him, now does it? Six foot two, male and black as your hat?’