X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

Hers was suite 100 on the ground floor. I went in and found myself in a small, comfortably furnished waiting room complete with an apartment-size, chintz-covered love seat and two small easy chairs. The color scheme was a soothing blend of blues and greens, probably designed to calm clients whose emotional tendencies ran to upset and agitation. There were no windows and only one other door, which I assumed opened into her office proper.

To the right of the door was a glowing red light. I took this to mean she was currently occupied. It was dead quiet. I checked my watch, hoping I hadn’t missed the boat altogether. It was 5:25. It was my understanding that therapists operated on a fifty-minute hour, but I had no idea when the hour began. I sat down, noting that she subscribed to six women’s magazines, all current. I picked up a copy of House & Garden and turned to an article about easy Easter-themed entertaining for eight, then realized I don’t know eight people, let alone eight who’d suffer my cooking even if I invited them.

After fifteen minutes passed, I got up and tiptoed to the door, listening for sounds from within. No comforting murmur of conversation, no shrieks or sobs. I sat down again. Having arrived without an appointment, I didn’t feel I had the right to bang on the door and complain. It was always possible she’d left for the day, but surely she’d have locked the front door. At ten minutes of six, the light switched abruptly from red to green. No one emerged. There must be a separate outside exit so a loony-tunes patient was never subjected to the indignity of crossing paths with another nut job.

At six, the door to her office opened and a young woman appeared at a brisk pace. She stopped dead when she caught sight of me. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t know anybody was out here.” She turned and glanced at the room behind her in dismay. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t. I stopped by on the off chance I might catch you before you left for the day. Are you Ms. Sizemore?”

She held out her hand. “Taryn, yes.”

“Should I have said ‘Doctor’ Sizemore?”

“Taryn’s fine. Even with a PhD, I don’t call myself ‘doctor’ anything. It seems pretentious.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as the two of us shook hands. “Do you have a few minutes?”

I watched her make a quick decision. “I have to be somewhere at seven, but I can give you until six thirty if that helps.”

“That would be great.”

“Come on in.”

She turned on her heel and I followed her into her office, waiting while she closed the door behind us.

She was tall and lean, towering over me in black high-heeled boots. She wore a short white knit top over jeans that were belted low on her hips. A strip of bare midriff flashed when she moved. Her pant legs were long enough to break across her instep, which made her slim legs look even longer. I took in the rest of the picture as she crossed to the telephone and activated the message machine. Dark eyes, shoulder-length brown hair arranged in a messy tumble. Big hoop earrings, red lipstick.

I did a visual survey of my surroundings. This room had the same homey feel as the reception area. Instead of a desk, she had a refectory table, bare except for a low vase filled with drooping pink and yellow roses that had opened to the full. I could see a leather-bound appointment book, a tidy row of ballpoint pens, and color-coded file folders in an upright rack. Bookshelves lined the walls on two sides, with two windows dead ahead and an exterior door that opened onto the side of the building. One arm of the walkway probably circled to the street and the other to a parking area in the rear. If she had file cabinets, I saw no sign of them.

She offered me a choice of a couch, a sleek chair of leather and chrome, or one of two chairs upholstered in a blue-and-green floral print. I chose one of the two matching chairs, and she elected to settle on the couch with the coffee table between us. I wondered if my selection was psychologically significant, but decided not to fret about the point. Her nails were clipped short and without polish. No wedding ring and no other jewelry except a loose, bracelet-style watch that she adjusted with her free hand. I saw her flick a practiced glance at the watch face, noting the time. She seemed open, waiting for me to set the subject and tone of the conversation.

I hadn’t thought about how to summarize the story, so I was forced to jump right in. Really, I should mend my careless ways. This was the third time I’d been caught without a story prepared in advance. Oh, what the hell, I thought. “I’m a private detective looking for information. The story’s complicated, and if I stop to spell it out, it’s only going to slow us down. I thought I’d lay out the situation and you can tell me if you need anything clarified before you reply. Assuming you’re willing to answer questions.”