Her limpid, concerned eyes made him want to go Warner Bros. cartoon through a wall.
“Daniel Maguire.” She smiled as they shook. “That’s a good Irish name.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Irish, too. Dr. Laurie McAuliffe. Won’t you come in?”
Not if I have a choice. “Sure.”
The office beyond was pretty much what he expected, a lot of earthen tones and more Wonder Bread furniture, an ornamental water thingy in the corner making I’m-a-fountain noises.
“Where do you want me to sit?” he said.
“Anywhere you like.”
Danny surveyed the choices—two-seater couch, armchair, armchair, rocker—and wondered whether this was the first of the tests to determine whether he was keeping his job or not. As he couldn’t guess what it was assessing, he went with the closest armchair.
Lowering himself down, he was not surprised she took the rocker. Given the pad on the little table next to it, it seemed like it was her normal perch.
“So, do you want to talk a little about why you’re here?”
No. “I have to do this to keep my job. How long does the test take?”
“Test?”
“Yeah, I have to pass a test, right?”
The woman smiled again. “Not really.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
As her eyes narrowed, he got his first inkling that maybe things weren’t as loosey-goosey, touchy-feely as he had thought. “That’s not a lie. My job is to evaluate your mental and emotional state, but I do not do that by giving you a bunch of fill-in-the-blanks.”
“You’ve read my personnel file, right?”
“Yes. I have. It’s right over there.”
He glanced across at a desk he’d missed when he’d come in. There was a stack of books on the blotter and another pad, a mug with the Harvard crest, and a thick manila folder right in the center.
Danny shrugged. “So you know everything I’d tell you anyway. Why don’t we save time and agree I’ve got your version of PTSD. Then we can put together a therapy plan, that I won’t ultimately follow, and be on our merry ways.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s in that folder?”
Danny leveled a stare at the woman. “Mother committed suicide when I was twelve. Father was a drunk. Brother died on a job three years ago. Lost a fellow firefighter two years ago. And then . . . yeah.”
“And then what.”
He shifted his eyes to the water feature. Given that it didn’t have a cord running into a socket, he guessed it was battery operated. Or, knowing the inevitable politics of people like Dr. McAuliffe, solar powered. ’Cuz global warming—or climate change. Whatever they were calling it these days.
“Danny? And then what.”
“There was an accident at work, and whatever, no one died.”
Danny thought about Anne the night before, fully dressed but for her leggings, staring at the ceiling while he orgasmed into her. He could still feel the hard contour of her prosthesis across his lower back.
She had gotten off, too. He’d been sure of it. But he wasn’t fooling himself. She’d used him like a dildo, and he’d let her do that a thousand times again if she wanted to.
“Tell me about that accident.”
“You read the file.”
“I know the facts, not how you feel about them.”
Danny looked back at the doc. “I was thrilled that I cut Anne Ashburn’s hand off. Absolutely the highlight of my career, something I’ll look back on with pride and satisfaction. for decades to come My only disappointment is that I didn’t get some kind of commemorative plaque down at the stationhouse for it. How’s that?”
That stare narrowed again. “You do realize that if you ever want to go into another fire again that I’m going to have to sign off on it? There is a pass or fail on this, even without the pen and paper. So you’re incented to be candid as opposed to belligerent. Assuming you do want to go back to work.”
Sitting forward, Danny pegged her with hard eyes. “This is bullshit. Twenty years ago, firefighters didn’t have to sit through—”
“This psychology crap? I can guess where you’re going with this tantrum, and in the interest of saving time—which seems to be an imperative for you—I would tell you that what is bullshit to you is a field of discipline that I’ve got a PhD in and will spend the rest of my life further researching, participating in, and advocating for. So if you’re looking to persuade me that there isn’t value in what I do, you’re pushing water uphill. You’re also not changing the reality that I am the gatekeeper of the hurdle you need to get over if you want to ever hold a charged line again.”
“So what if I just lie to you and tell you what you want to hear.”
“You don’t know what I want to hear.” The woman smiled again. “So how about we start with Anne Ashburn. Tell me what happened ten months ago.”
Danny crossed his arms over his chest. And then dropped them because of the whole tantrum thing.
“Believe it or not,” Dr. McAuliffe murmured, “I want you to get back to work. I really do. It may not feel like it, but I’m here to help you. We have the same goals, you and I.”
He thought back to Anne showing up and finding him passed out on his couch the night before last. She’d thrown a lot at him, but she’d had a point. She was the one dealing with a permanent injury. He was just being a little bitch, trying to light the world on fire because he was angry at himself.
“I’m in love with her,” he said gruffly. “Anne, that is. And that should pretty much tell you what you need to know.”
chapter
23
Anne was back at her office, packing up for the day, when a sharp knock got her attention. “Yes?”
Don walked in. Her boss had his suit jacket off, and the sleeves on his business shirt rolled up. His tie was red and the city’s signature anchor was on repeat.
He looked like he was on the twelfth hour of a ten-hour shift. “We need to talk.”
“Yup, I got you something.”
As she leaned down to her bag, he muttered, “Is it Advil?”
Straightening, she held out a pink plastic bag. “Surprise.”
“You mind telling me why Charles Ripkin is on my phone.”
“Here, I’ll open it for you.” She put the bag on her desk and took out a wrapped-up object. “Unless you want to do the honors?”
“He’s threatening to go to the mayor and complain.”
She shrugged. “On what grounds?”
“He said you demanded a meeting with him? Wanted to see proof of insurance? Were harassing his executive assistant. What the hell are you doing? You think you’re a cop?”
Probably not a good time to remind Don about his pursuit-of-justice pep talk.
Anne unwrapped the white mug and turned the thing around so the black lettering faced him. “Ta-da!”
Don took the thing. “ ‘World’s Greatest Boss’?”
“You’re my Michael Scott.”
“I’m thinking about firing you again, FYI.”
“But it’s for a much better reason, right? Now you’re frustrated that I’m taking the job too seriously, so this is improvement.”
Don’s lids dropped to half-mast. “You are my punishment for sins in an earlier life.”
“More like virtues. Anyway, I went down to the registry of deeds this morning.”
“So I can expect a call from them as well? The private sector always moves faster than we in government do, which was why Ripkin got to me first about you.”
“Ripkin Development has purchased three of the six warehouse sites in the last twenty-four months. You don’t think there’s a connection?”
“He’s buying cheap real estate to develop. That’s what developers do. Hence the title of his company. And nothing devalues even depressed sites more than a good a fire.”
“He bought those warehouses before the fires.”
Don frowned. “The structures weren’t worth much. I mean, you want to make some money doing insurance fraud, you torch a mansion to the ground. Not a dilapidated warehouse.”