Page 39 of Power of the Mind
“I don’t disagree.” I wiggled my brows. “When we’re done here, I’ll be sure to get you out of your clothes.”
That shut him up. It wasn’t the late August heat and wool suit making his face red that time.
We didn’t have an appointment, nor had we called to inform William Hilty we were coming. His receptionist, a middle-aged brunette with a fixed expression of confusion behind wire-framed glasses, glanced between us. She didn’t seem to know how to proceed when I told her to let Dr. Hilty know that two men were there to chat about the Scarborough incident, and he’d know what that meant.
“The Scarborough incident?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened a day planner, picked up a pen, and wrote on an appointment card. “I’ll book you an appointment. Unfortunately, it’s not for a couple of weeks since he’s—”
“We’re seeing him right now,” Diem barked, making her jump and the pen slide.
I placed a hand on his arm and smiled placatingly at the woman. “It won’t take long. Please let him know we’re here.”
Hilty had probably gone to great lengths to bury his past. It had been over thirty-five years. Not many people in his life would likely know he was once charged with murder and fined for practicing without a license. It also meant Diem and I could potentially avoid having to identify ourselves simply by having knowledge of the man’s criminal past.
The receptionist, still flustered, held the appointment card aloft as though unsure where to put it now that she’d written it up.
I took it from her to save confusion and gestured to the phone on the desk.
“Um… Who should I say is here?” she asked, picking up the receiver.
“Old friends.”
The woman scanned us, lingering longer on Diem.
“Do you have names?”
“No,” Diem snapped.
“How about ID?”
“For what?”
“Well, if you’re with the police, then—”
“We’re not cops.” The growl in Diem’s tone intensified. “We’re nobody.”
I cleared my throat. “Just tell the good doctor we’re here. He’ll want to see us.”
The receptionist pressed the phone to her chest. “Two men who know about the Scarborough incident?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Old friends?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Diem’s chest rumbled.
The receptionist, Sally Soape, according to her nameplate, punched a few numbers into the keypad and spoke quietly, shielding her mouth and the receiver as though it would help her not be heard.
“Sorry to bother you. I have two men here who want to talk. They say it’s about the incident in Scarborough. They won’t elaborate but said you’d want to… Oh. Okay. Yes. Right away.”
She hung up and pursed her lips with disapproval. “You can go in. He’s not with anyone.”
William Hilty was balding but had gone to great lengths to cover the evidence by meticulously combing the few strands of remaining silver hair from one side of his head to the other, spreading the individual pieces in an evenly gelled layer so as little of his scalp showed as possible. I was almost fooled.