Loving Time by Leslie Glass Page B

authority of her walk on nice slender legs, her flawless makeup, the comma of her dark hair. April was impressed. This woman looked very young to have such a high position.
    “I’m Dr. Treadwell,” she told them in a soft voice.
    “Sergeant Sanchez and Detective Woo,” Mike murmured.
    The doctor glanced from one to the other and sat down ather desk. Her second-in-command with the fading blond hair and exemplary cheekbones didn’t have to be told what to do. He had retreated to the door and left without saying good-bye.
    “You have some information?” Dr. Treadwell said.
    “We found the body of Raymond Cowles in his apartment this morning,” Mike told her.
    The sharp intake of Dr. Treadwell’s breath drew some saliva down the wrong tube. She began coughing.
    “Would you like some water?” April asked, thinking this was the second woman today to gag over the death of Raymond Cowles.
    Dr. Treadwell raised her hand, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. This is a shock.… ”
    “Take your time. I can imagine it must be very difficult to lose a patient like this,” Mike said.
    Dr. Treadwell frowned. “What are you talking about?”
    “The wife of the deceased told us you were his psychiatrist.”
    Clara Treadwell shivered. Her tufted leather chair swung around toward the window. When the chair swung back, her face was composed. She reached into a drawer of her desk, brought out a pocket-size tape recorder, placed it in the middle of her desk.
    “Please sit down and tell me what happened.” She indicated the two chairs opposite her.
    April glanced at Mike. He smiled at her, inclining his head toward the tape recorder. They sat.
    “November first. I’m with Sergeant Sanchez and Detective Woo,” Dr. Treadwell said, her eyes on Mike. “I’d like to establish a record, if you don’t mind, Sergeant.”
    The thing was voice-activated. Dr. Treadwell did not touch it. Mike lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. He scratched the ear that had been burned the worst in the explosion last spring. This sure was a switch. Usually they put the tape recorder on the desk and did the interviewing.
    “Sergeant, you may begin now.”
    Mike said, “At ten-thirty this morning we received a call from Mrs. Cowles.”
    Mike told Dr. Treadwell as much as he felt she needed to know, which wasn’t much. He held a lot of information back for a later date. The doctor stopped him from time to time for clarification, as her colleague, Dr. Dickey, had done. But Mike wasn’t telling any more than he absolutely had to. They didn’t have the autopsy yet, didn’t know the cause of death.
    As he spoke, Dr. Treadwell’s hand flew up to her eyes, stretching her fingers to cover them both. To April, a person’s eyes were the doors of knowledge. Between the eyes was the pathway to the soul. Dr. Treadwell’s stretched fingers between knowledge and soul could not shield her deep distress from April’s view. The Centre’s director’s face could be blank, but never so deeply blank as those of Asians, who had a much longer history of
save the face or lose the neck
. What April saw behind Dr. Treadwell’s fingers was fear, just as, earlier, April had seen fear in the widow. What was it about the deceased that scared these women so much?
    When Mike stopped talking, Dr. Treadwell dropped her hand to the table. Now the eyes were open and sincere in the front, and closed only from behind.
    “I want to cooperate with the police in every way,” she told them.
    “Thank you. That will make things easier.” Mike smiled.
    Dr. Treadwell went on. “But I’m a little uncertain what I’m at liberty to reveal in a matter like this … the ethics of confidentiality … I’ll have to consult a lawyer.”
    That was it. Interview over. April glanced at Mike.
    “The deceased was your patient,” he said.
    Dr. Treadwell shook her head. “Not at the time of his death. As Director of the Centre, I can’t take private patients. Ray Cowles was a patient of