“Not enough,” I said, and left it at that. I didn’t want Hoffmann’s arrest to color any of Langford’s comments.
He shook his head and escorted us into his office. It was warm and inviting, with curtained windows, upholstered furniture, and a deep red Persian rug, and in lieu of the usual ego gallery of framed diplomas and degrees, the walls were decorated with vintage movie posters. I stopped to admire the one behind his desk.
“Ah,” he said. “The proverbial elephant in the room.”
It was indeed an elephant—Walt Disney’s Dumbo, to be specific. “I saw the movie as a kid,” I said, “but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what a flying elephant has to do with sex therapy.”
He laughed. “Not all my patients are dealing with sexual dysfunction, but virtually every one of them has self-esteem issues. I hung the posters because I’m a film buff, and they cheer the place up. But Dumbo turned out to have a not-so-subliminal message. He symbolizes the power of belief. If we believe, we try; if we don’t believe, we give up.”
“What can you tell us about Aubrey?” Kylie asked.
“Here are her files,” he said, sliding an envelope across his desk. “But a doctor’s notes can be dreadfully clinical. I can probably be more helpful if you ask me some questions.”
“For starters, you prescribed Paxil and Zoloft,” I said. “What were you treating her for?”
“Both drugs are SSRIs—in layman’s terms, antidepressants—and if you check the dates on the bottles, you’ll see that I prescribed them months apart. I started her on the Paxil, but she complained that it was making her gain weight, so I transitioned her to Zoloft.”
“Did it help with the depression?”
“Depression wasn’t her problem. Aubrey had compulsive sexual thoughts and behavior that led her into liaisons that could have had life-threatening consequences. One of the most common side effects of SSRIs is diminished sexual desire. I used the pills to try to squelch her libido, but that was a Band-Aid. The real work was being done in our weekly sessions, yet clearly I failed her.”
“Doc,” I said, “cops know a thing or two about survivor guilt trips. You were trying to help her. Somebody strangled her to death. Not your fault.”
“You’re good, Detective,” he said. “And you’re right. Aubrey was deeply mired in her addiction when we first met. For her, sex had to be loveless and punishing, and like any addict, she kept chasing bigger and better highs. The men she had sex with became more dangerous. She stopped saying her safe words. Twice she was left for dead. She wanted to end the madness, but she couldn’t. That’s why she came to me. I won’t say I failed, but I accept that I didn’t succeed. The best thing I can do now is help you catch the bastard.”
“The file you gave us should help,” I said. “Does it name names?”
“Detective, Aubrey lived in a netherworld where men and women freely exchange bodily fluids, but not identities. If she saw the same men on more than one occasion, she would help me keep track of them by saying things like ‘the one from Queens who breathes like Darth Vader,’ or ‘the Puerto Rican guy I picked up on the L train who gave me the black eye.’ However, there is one real name in the file. She mentioned him often. Janek Hoffmann. He was her cameraman.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Kylie asked.
“Nobody terrified her more than Janek.”
“Why? What did he do that the others didn’t?”
“You may find this hard to understand, but after years of having men treat her like she was a worthless, unlovable piece of shit, Janek did the unthinkable.” Langford inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “He told her he loved her.”
CHAPTER 21
A stillness fell over the room as we processed Dr. Langford’s last statement. Psychiatrists, of course, are totally comfortable sitting in silence. Kylie is not.
“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Aubrey told you that Janek Hoffmann physically and mentally abused her.”
Langford nodded.
“And she kept going back for more.”
Another nod.
“But when he told her he loved her, that scared the hell out of her?”
“Welcome to the world of psychosexual disorders, Detective MacDonald. I’ve written several books on the subject. Would you like one?”
“I’ll pass, thank you, but we’ve arrested Janek Hoffmann. There’s no smoking gun, so the DA will need your testimony to help make a case.”
“Absolutely. But make sure the DA knows that I never met Mr. Hoffmann. I have no idea if he’s guilty of murder, but I can testify that from everything Aubrey told me about him, he was certainly capable.”
We thanked him. He walked us to the door, and we went back to our car.
“I liked him,” Kylie said. “Cheryl’s a better judge of character than I thought. Tell her she’s now batting five hundred.”
I ignored the dig.
“Do you know what he gets paid to testify as an expert witness in a sex trial?” she said.
“No, but I’m sure it’s plenty.”
“There was a piece online about a case in Dallas. The defense flew him down and paid him a hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“That’s insane.”
“Pricey, but it wasn’t crazy. The defendant walked. Sex is free, Zach. Sex therapists are expensive.”
Her cell phone rang. It was sitting between us, and we both saw the caller’s name come up on the screen. Shelley Trager, Spence’s former boss.
Kylie tapped the Speaker button. “Shelley, I’m in the car with Zach, and you’re on speaker. Is this about Spence?”
“No, it’s about me. I thought you’d be off shift by now. You and Zach are still working?”
“Around the clock.”
“Good. I need a cop. Better yet, I need two cops. I’ve been robbed.”
“We’ll be right there. Where are you—the apartment? The studio?”
“The Mark hotel on Seventy-Seventh and Madison. I was hosting a private poker game when two guys with guns broke in and got away with eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“My God, Shelley, are you okay?”
“No. None of us are okay. We can all afford the money, but none of us can afford the publicity. The News and the Post will have a field day with a story about eight rich assholes pissing away a hundred K apiece while millions of real New Yorkers are eating Big Macs and buying lottery tickets. We wanted to keep it quiet, but before they broke in, they chloroformed Bob Reitzfeld, who was on security duty outside the door.”
“Is Bob okay?”
“He’s fine—more embarrassed than anything. He said they’re amateurs and he never should have gotten suckered. Anyway, they duct-taped his mouth shut and tied him to a pipe in the stairwell. We could have kept it under the radar, but some goddamn Good Samaritan saw Reitzfeld trussed up like a Christmas goose and called 911.”
“Are there uniforms on the scene now?”
“Damn right there are. They’re coming out of the woodwork!”
“Well, then it sounds like NYPD’s got it under control.”
“It’s not under control, Kylie! Why do you think I’m calling you? We’ve got a bunch of cops walking around asking us questions we don’t want to answer.”
“I understand. But what can Zach and I do?”
“Get over to the Mark hotel and get rid of these goddamn nosy cops.”
CHAPTER 22
“The hotel is two blocks from your apartment,” Kylie said as we headed east across Central Park. “This is a nonevent. Why don’t I drop you off and spare you the bullshit?”
“Better yet,” I said, “why don’t you find the turnip truck you think I fell off and throw me back on? Do I look like I woke up stupid this morning? Since when is an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar armed robbery a nonevent?”
“Come on, Zach, you heard what Shelley said. He’d be embarrassed if this went public. He wants it to go away.”
“And if this were 1987, I’m sure we could make that happen. But if we try it today, we’ll be lucky if we get to spend the rest of our careers writing parking tickets in the Bronx.”
“Shelley’s been like a father to me and Spence. I’m willing to risk it—just me—on my own. If I get caught, your ass won’t be in a sling.”