though, what the “Dr.” was for, and whether it was a degree in psychiatry.
He rang the bell next to the double French doors, and a single chime sounded deep inside the building. He and Butts both agreed it would be better to surprise the good doctor, to gauge his unprepared reactions and prevent him from concocting a story, should he prove to be involved in Ana’s death.
There was a long pause, and they were about to turn and leave when they heard the sound of footsteps and a man’s voice calling from within the house.
“Coming—just a moment!”
The long white lace curtains on the French doors fluttered. There was the sound of a lock being unlatched, and the door was flung open. On the other side of it stood a man of singular appearance. He was tall and thin, about fifty, Lee guessed, with slicked-back, jet-black hair and a goatee to match. He wore a black three-piece suit with tiny gray pinstripes so old fashioned that it looked like a costume from a Victorian-era drama. Dangling from his vest was a gold watch fob. His immaculate shoes were soft black leather and of a style and cut similar to shoes Lee had seen in period movies—they, too, appeared to be heirlooms. Everything about his appearance was so theatrical that his arrival at the door was like the entrance of a character in a stage play.
He greeted them with a cordial but formal smile.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Perkins. And who might you be?”
The voice was British, self-consciously posh, but with a suggestion of a regionalism—West Country, perhaps? Lee’s knowledge of English dialects was fair—because of his Scottish ancestry he had traveled in the U.K. a fair amount.
“I’m Lee Campbell, and this is Detective Leonard Butts, NYPD.”
“Detective, is it? Oh dear me, to what do I owe this honor?”
Perkins looked rather pleased, and his voice held a note of suppressed excitement. Lee waited a moment before responding, half-expecting Perkins to apologize for his odd attire and give some explanation about being an actor in a local production or something. But when no explanation was forthcoming, Lee said, “Could we have a few minutes of your time? It’s about Ana Watkins.”
“Is something the matter?” Perkins’s face immediately assumed an expression of concern—so quickly that Lee didn’t trust it.
“Can we come in?” Butts said, looking over his shoulder—or rather trying to, as he was at least half a foot shorter than Dr. Perkins.
“Oh, yes, yes—of course!” Perkins said, sweeping them into a spacious and graciously furnished drawing room. A grand piano covered with a cream-colored antimacassar, upon which sat a heavy blue vase filled with white tea roses, presided over the room. He motioned them to a pair of blue and white wing chairs in front of a marble fireplace. Butts complied slowly, taking in the room with some astonishment, judging by the expression on his face. Lee guessed that as a homicide detective in the Bronx, he seldom did interviews in dwellings like this one.
“Please, sit down,” said Perkins.
“This is a very nice place you have here,” Butts said, lowering his bulk into one of the armchairs carefully, as if afraid he might crush it.
“Thank you, but I really can’t take any credit for it—it’s all my sister’s doing, you see,” Perkins replied with a flip of an immaculately manicured hand. “She’s the one with the artistic eye. I just live here.” He pulled up a straight-backed chair in between the armchairs and settled himself in it.
Even his movements were theatrical. He looked not so much like a man at home in his drawing room as an actor playing the part of a man at home in his drawing room.
“Now then,” he said, straightening his starched white cuffs, “what’s this about Ana?”
“We understand Miss Watkins was a patient of yours,” said Butts. It was a common interrogative technique to get as much information out of subjects as you could before giving them anything in return.
“You said she ‘was’ a patient,” Perkins observed. “Has something happened?”
“Was there anything in the course of her treatment that might lead you to believe she was suicidal?” Butts continued, ignoring the question. This too was standard operating procedure—never give away information to a potential suspect unless you find it necessary.
Perkins leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m afraid that comes under doctor–patient confidentiality,” he said primly. “In fact, I can’t even confirm that Miss Watkins was—is my patient until you tell me what this is about.”