Read Online Rubbed Out by Barbara Block - Free Book Online

fighting. The au pair grabbed one of them and held him under her arm sideways like a football. The volume of screams increased. I gave the au pair my card, told her I’d be back to speak with Mrs. Goldstein, and left before I suffered permanent ear damage.
    It was wonderfully quiet outside. The snow had stopped falling. The branches of the trees were etched in white against the steel-gray sky. One by one, I watched the streetlights come on. Darkness comes early this time of year. I slogged from one house to another, my feet leaving a trail of prints, but got about as far as I had with the first place I’d visited. Either no one was home, or if they were, they didn’t know the Wilcoxes well. None of the women I spoke to even knew that Janet Wilcox was gone.
    â€œOh, my,” two of them said when they heard.
    By the time I’d covered the area, it was almost five o’clock. I got back in my car and drove over to Janet Wilcox’s psychologist on East Genesee.
    Peter Simmone’s office was a step up from Wilcox’s. Better furniture in the waiting room. Beige carpet on the floor. Neutral darker beige sofa. White walls with a hint of tan. Innocuous pictures of generic landscapes on the walls. Soft track lighting. Warm temperature. A box of Kleenex on one of the end tables. For those sudden fits of emotions?
    I hung my parka on the coatrack, sat down, and picked up the only reading matter. The book was entitled, You Can Be Your Own Best Friend. I put it down and tried to think about my strategy, but my eyes kept closing. The warmth was making me sleepy. I was on the way to dozing off when Peter Simmone opened the door to his office and beckoned me in.
    His appearance went with the soothing voice I’d heard on the phone. He was about five-eleven, in his late forties, early fifties, with a slight paunch above the belt of his brown corduroy pants. His wedge-shaped nose dominated his face. His beard was salt-and-pepper. Ditto for his hair. He looked like an easygoing kind of guy, but his eyes weighed and measured me. I had the feeling they didn’t miss much.
    â€œSo,” he said, indicating that I should take a seat on the leather sofa while he sat down in the chair across from me. “Tell me about these attacks you’ve been having.” I guess he didn’t believe in wasting time.
    I handed him my card. “Actually, I didn’t come to see you about anxiety attacks.”
    He read it slowly, his frown increasing, then reread it before handing it back to me. “Then what did you come to see me about?”
    â€œJanet Wilcox.”
    He waved his hand in the air. “I already told her husband that I can’t—”
    â€œHer husband is ready to sue,” I interrupted.
    Simmone looked at me incredulously. “Sue?”
    When in doubt, lie. That’s my motto.
    â€œFor loss of marital services.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    Now I had his full attention. “Loss of his wife’s services. He claims his wife was fine before she started seeing you. He claims that you implanted the idea that she was abused as a child and that that idea has so unsettled her that she stopped being able to function. She no longer cooks, cleans, or fulfills her marital obligations. And now that she’s run away. . .”
    â€œRun away?”
    â€œI guess you don’t keep track of your clients very well.” I tapped my card on my front teeth. “He’s hired me to find her.”
    The frown turned into a scowl. “I still don’t get what that has to do with me.”
    â€œWell, if you could help me locate her, Wilcox might be willing to drop his lawsuit.”
    Simmone glared at me. “Are you threatening me?”
    â€œHardly. I’m doing you a favor.”
    â€œEven if I did know, which I don’t, legally I’m not allowed to reveal anything.”
    I leaned forward. The sofa was too deep to sit in comfortably. “You are if