In Session Read online

  Table of Contents

  From the Files of Dr. Morgan Snow

  EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES

  DECISIONS, DECISIONS

  KNOWING YOU’RE ALIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE WISH YOU WELL FOUNDATION

  In Session:

  Dr. Morgan Snow with

  Steve Berry’s Cotton Malone,

  Lee Child’s Jack Reacher

  &

  Barry Eisler’s John Rain

  Written by M.J. Rose

  ______________________

  From the Files of Dr. Morgan Snow

  ______________________

  I have been privileged to be a sex therapist at the Butterfield Institute—one of New York City’s most highly respected sex clinics—for more than twelve years. In that time I’ve been given the gift of having my patients open up to me and share their deepest fears and desires, thereby affording me the opportunity to help them find out more about who they are and why they are.

  I’ve seen everything from the abused to the depraved, from the couples grappling with sexual boredom to twisted sociopaths with dark, erotic fetishes, and the Butterfield Institute is the sanctuary where I help soothe and heal these battered souls.

  Occasionally I meet people who aren’t patients but who touch my life in some special way, or who see into my own darkness and shine some light on my troubles or fears—even when they don’t know it. And to them I am eternally grateful.

  ______________________

  I

  EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES

  Cotton Malone

  ______________________

  “So how can I help you?” I asked.

  The woman sitting opposite me seemed nervous, and I could tell she wasn’t accustomed to that emotion. Everything about her whispered class and money—from the Chanel ballet slippers to the luxe cashmere jacket. She’d called two days before saying a former patient had referred her. Only in town for two weeks, she’d explained, and she really needed to see me. When I explained I was booked up with regulars, she offered to take any cancellations no matter what the time of day.

  “The problem isn’t mine,“ she said, in a slightly accented voice, Spanish or Moroccan, at the start of our first visit.

  “That’s okay.”

  And I offered an encouraging smile.

  I was used to this opening gambit. Many people who visit sex therapists are embarrassed to own the problem that’s made them seek help. I don’t mind. If by convincing themselves that the problem is their partner’s they manage to find the door to see me, that’s all that matters. So I’m more than happy to go along with the charade. Usually, after two or three sessions, they lower their guard and confess. Being patient is a prerequisite in my business. The human mind tangles reality, fantasy, fears, and wishes into convoluted knots that can take years to unravel.

  But this woman didn’t seem to have years.

  She came right to the point.

  “I’m very much in love with the man I’m seeing.”

  “Is it mutual?”

  She nodded, and I waited for her to continue. Silent pauses were common. This one lasted about forty-five seconds. I had the impression she was measuring her words carefully.

  “He’s very private and somewhat reserved. It’s affecting our … sex life.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “I’m not reserved.” She paused. “His hesitancy … in certain areas … is making me self-conscious.”

  Being able to sense when a patient is telling the truth can be a valuable trait, one that saves a lot of time. With this woman there was no doubt. She was being painfully honest.

  “Are you able to talk about it with him?”

  Soft afternoon sunlight filled my office. The dusty rays turned her swarthy skin golden and lit the auburn highlights in her hair on fire when she shook her head—no. “He really doesn’t seem able to … address it.”

  As we continued—me asking questions, her answering—she painted a picture of a fairly healthy relationship. Her issues were not yet a big problem, but she was right; in time they could fester and become disruptive. Trust is important, and when one partner is secretive and withholding, it tests the bond in a relationship.

  Sometimes to the breaking point.

  This woman was a planner. A fixer. And she cared.

  So, over the next two weeks, I saw her four more times and we made progress. At the end of the last hour I told her that her partner would be a good candidate for counseling.

  She agreed. “He needs help breaking through. Just a small crack would do it.” Her eyes appraised me with a tight gaze. “But you don’t think he’d ever agree to go to a therapist, do you?”

  “Given everything you’ve told me about him, I can’t see that happening without there being … extenuating circumstances.”

  She sat silent for a few moments.

  Another of those pauses I’d come to expect from her.

  “Maybe those can be arranged,” she said.

  ____________________________

  The psychiatric conference I’d attended in Berlin, Germany ended on a high note. My talk, about the residual ramification of Internet pornography on the partners of those addicted, had gone well and I was encouraged by the audience response. I’d planned to stay on a few days after the conference and be a tourist. My fourteen-year-old daughter, Dulcie, was away at camp. Noah Jordain, the NYPD detective whom I’d been seeing for the last few years, couldn’t get away and had stayed home. It had been a long time since I’d had a vacation, so I rented a car and drove through Germany, into Denmark, hugging the coast.

  Eventually, I found Copenhagen.

  I spent my first morning there walking its storied streets, thinking about Hans Christian Anderson and Danish kings, and feeling far away from New York City. It was easy to see why someone might escape here. That afternoon I had an appointment at one of the many rare bookstores that filled the Stroget. I collect erotica and had called the proprietor a few weeks before, after seeing online what he had for sale. There was one particular volume I’d been lusting after for a long time. It was out of my price range but, when I asked if there was room to negotiate, he’d chuckled and said there’s always room for that.

  When I arrived, the bookseller was talking to a middle-aged couple examining another book.

  “Have a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish up,” Cotton Malone said, in words softened with a clear Southern accent, one that had been less pronounced on the phone.

  I walked past the trio and glanced at what they were inspecting: A colorful volume of old maps. I sat in one of the club chairs that dotted the shop and soaked in my surroundings. Like so many antiquarian bookstores, this one smelled of aged paper and dried leather. The still air was cool and dry, the sounds from busy Hojbro Plads outside a comforting monotone.

  I felt a stare and glanced over.

  The woman examining the map book averted her eyes.

  Something about the furtive way she’d looked away concerned me.

  Then, a series of noises—books falling, glass breaking, the man, the woman, and Malone all speaking at once—startled me.

  The woman had knocked over her pocketbook, which in turn had pushed over a stack of books on the counter, breaking a glass cabinet front. An assortment of broken shards, a compact, pills, and coins lay scattered on the floor, along with all of the books that had fallen. Malone bent down to retrieve his wares.

  The couple grabbed the map book and bolted.

  Malone’s gaze came level, then he eyed the open front door.

  Too late.

  They were gone.

  He sprang to his feet and rushed after them. “Lock the door,” he called out to me. “I’ll be …”

  The
rest of his words were lost in the sounds of the crowd outside.

  I did as he asked, then inspected the mess on the floor. Nothing unusual in the clutter. Lipstick. Wallet. Comb.

  All looked fairly new.

  I walked around the store inspecting the bookshelves, the framed prints, the knick-knacks here and there used for decoration. There was something utterly personal about the place, easy to glean an insight into the man who owned it. He wasn’t flashy, but he knew quality.

  Behind his desk in a small rear office was the best ergonomic chair you could buy. The large screen computer was Apple, state of the art, the newest generation iPhone plugged into it, charging. A Dale of Norway sweater hung on a wall hook. Top quality. On a corner table lay some English biscuits, a jar of French jam, mugs, and tins of expensive tea. The water in the Krupp’s was hot so I poured myself a cup and dropped in a tea bag. The blend was rich and slightly bitter.

  With my tea I returned to perusing the shelves, walking up one aisle and down the next. There were books in all languages, on all subjects, everything perfectly organized. A volume of artwork by Jung jumped out at me. I freed it from the stacks and laid it on a table. Jung’s mandala paintings had always fascinated me. He’d developed his principal theories of archetypes, collective unconscious, and individuation at the same time he’d been painting. A creative feat that one had to admire.

  A knock on the front door caught my attention.

  Cotton Malone had returned.

  I released the lock and he stepped inside. “Sorry about that.”

  He was cradling the stolen book in his arms like a wayward child.

  “You got it back. Good job. They had a head start. How’d you do it?”

  “I almost got to them, but they tossed the book down and hauled ass.”

  A sheen of sweat coated his face and he was slightly out of breath. But not by much. From his broad shoulders and trim gut he apparently didn’t spend all of his time selling books.

  “Is it valuable?” I asked, pointing to the volume.

  “There are only a dozen known. This one isn’t even one of the best, but it’s worth over 5000 Euros.”

  “Definitely worth going after.”

  “It pisses me off when people try crap like that.”

  I nodded.

  He replaced the book on the counter. With his back to me he asked, “So you came to see the L’Adamite?”

  “Copies don’t come up often.”

  He turned back around toward me. “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

  “Not a problem. Your store is wonderful. I was more than entertained.”

  “And I see you found the tea.” He motioned to my mug on the table beside the Jung volume.

  “An excellent blend. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Compensation for your services in minding the store.”

  I smiled at his graciousness. “Have you had this shop long?”

  “A few years.”

  An expression crossed his face. Melancholy? Regret? I wasn’t sure.

  “Would you mind if I straightened up?” he asked, indicating the spilled bag and books.

  “Not at all.”

  He was a bit compulsive; the order in the store demonstrated that. Not being able to leave a mess on the floor simply confirmed it.

  He found a pair of white cotton gloves behind the counter and slipped them on. Then a plastic bag, into which he proceeded to drop the evidence from the floor.

  “You weren’t wearing gloves while you were showing the couple the map book. Don’t you always wear them?”

  “It depends on the age and condition of the book. Sometimes they can actually do more harm than good.”

  I recognized the double C logo on the lipstick container he lifted. Chanel. He dropped it into the bag. Next he lifted a comb.

  His attitude suggested he knew his way around a crime scene and I recalled what I’d been told about him. A former Navy commander and lawyer who worked for a covert unit within the Justice Department. Tired of the risks, he’d retired early and moved to Denmark, opening an old bookshop.

  He picked up the wallet and opened it. “No ID. Everything, including the pocketbook is new. Clearly a decoy. The whole thing was a set-up to distract me.”

  He’d almost finished cleaning up when the police arrived. He greeted them, then returned his attention to me. “I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition. If it is, we can reschedule our appointment?”

  “I don’t have any plans for the afternoon. Take your time.”

  He gave me a curious glance and returned to the police, who were quick and efficient. Malone was self-assured with them, being neither rattled nor in awe. He answered their questions with succinct responses.

  The police left.

  “They won’t find them,” he said, as he shut the door. “Those two are good at both stealing and disappearing.”

  “So why toss the book away?”

  “It was their way of saying, here, take it back, no hard feelings, okay?”

  I smiled. Malone was insightful, too.

  He re-locked the door. “So let me show you what you came to see.”

  He hurried up narrow steps to the second floor. Less than a minute later he returned carrying a book. Not as gingerly as the map book he’d saved, that one he’d cradled like a child—this one he held slightly away from him, like a precious object d’art.

  He laid the volume on the table in front of me.

  The word L’Adamite was spelled out in deeply incised letters still showing traces of gold leaf in the deepest recesses. The caramel leather was worn with age. Water spots dotted the exterior. The upper right-hand corner was ripped— the reason, Malone had explained in his advertisement, that the book was even on the market.

  “How long have you been collecting?” he asked.

  “About ten years. I don’t have a large erotica collection. I’m careful and go slowly. I enjoy it.”

  He nodded toward the book. “Go ahead, you can open it.”

  “No gloves?”

  “Not necessary.”

  I caressed the leather. Soft and supple.

  “This volume was supposed to have belonged to Henry Spencer Ashbee who bequeathed most of his collection—at least 1,400 erotic books—to the British Museum. But there’s no documentation. That’s another reason for the lower price.”

  Honest disclosure seemed important to him.

  “It’s hard to collect erotica and not know about Ashbee,” I said. “I once tried to view the British Museum collection, but no one gets to see that anymore.”

  I turned to the frontispiece and read the subtitle—Le Jésuite Insensible— beneath which was a date—1684. A faded outline indicated there’d once been a bookplate affixed to the facing page.

  He noticed my interest.

  “The collector who sold me this said Ashbee’s personalized bookplates fit the measurements of the glue stain exactly.”

  I turned to the next page and studied the first illustration. Pre-French revolutionary corruption of both the church and the state had made obscenity with priests and nuns easy targets. And so the goings-on in monasteries among monks and nuns became a common theme in 17th century erotica. A slap in the face to an arrogant institution. I examined the drawing of a nun kneeling at a prie dieu, bestowing a grateful priest fellatio.

  The image was both lewd and charming.

  Malone stood behind me.

  In the next illustration the nun was in a confessional, her habit raised past her thighs. She was caressing herself, fingers disappearing inside of her. Through a grate, the priest watched with a lascivious smile on his face.

  I examined more pages, imagining some proper English gentleman in his private library, gathered with friends, showing off the art to everyone’s amusement.

  I pointed to slight discolorations along the side of the page. “Can you tell me about these condition issues?”

  He hovered beside the table, barely glancing where I w
as pointing. “We’d expect some foxing on a book this old but, overall, the condition is good.”

  I turned a few more pages. Pausing at other illustrations.

  “Do you carry a lot of erotica?”

  “It’s not one of my specialties. I just happened onto this book. Is this all you collect?”