The Secret of the Villa Mimosa by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

to the pay phone, dialed the hospital, identified himself, and asked to be put through to the nurses’ station on the girl’s floor.
    “The patient is sleeping, Detective Mahoney,” the nurse told him. “But Dr. Niedman has just finished his rounds. Would you care to speak with him?”
    “Sure. And thanks.”
    Niedman came on the phone, sounding harassed.
    “I won’t keep you, sir,” Mahoney said quickly. “I just wondered if you could bring me up-to-date on the progress of the Jane Doe from Mitchell’s Ravine.”
    “Ah, you mean Bea French,” Niedman said tiredly.
    “Excuse me?
Bea French?
” Mahoney almost yelled at Niedman. Nobody had bothered to contact him and tell him she had remembered who she was. “Is that her name then?”
    “Not exactly. She and Phyl Forster invented it. After Dr. Forster hypnotized her and found she spoke fluent French, they seemed to think it appropriate.”
    Mahoney felt his blood pressure rising like sap in his veins. Goddammit, good old Doc Forster had gone ahead and hypnotized the girl without so much as telling him. God knew what else she had revealed besides the fact that she spoke French. He was exploding with anger. It was the first real clue they had, and he was the last to know.
    He thanked Niedman, hung up the phone, and checked his watch. It was almost eight-thirty.
    He stalked to the parking lot, automatically eyeballing the kids loitering on the sidewalk. They quickly melted into the night. He knew a couple of the faces, and he guessed they were up to no good, hanging around in the rain, but he was off duty and in a hurry. Tonight they had gotten a break.
    His ’69 black Mustang convertible started at the first touch, and he took a couple of seconds to enjoy its finely tuned growl before taking off in a shriek of rubber and adrenaline.
    Phyl Forster lived on a very smart street in a very smart building in Pacific Heights. Mahoney parked on the double yellow and surveyed the canopied entrance, the uniformed doorman, the immaculately maintained facade. He whistled. Doc Forster was doing all right.
    Sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he sauntered toward the entrance. The doorman stared suspiciously at him until he flashed his badge, then hurriedly let him in. Mahoney took in the marble lobby covered in about an acre of oriental rug, the huge gilt-framed mirrors reflecting crystal vases filled with fresh flowers, and the antique consoles and deeply cushioned chairs. He wondered what the doctor’s monthly maintenance bill was.
    He waited while the doorman telephoned to see if Dr. Forster would see him. “You can go on up,” he finally told Mahoney reluctantly. He wasn’t used to police in his quiet, affluent building. “Apartment Ten B.”
    Mahoney strode carefully across the oriental rug into the wood-paneled elevator. He checked his appearance in the mirror as the elevator zoomed noiselessly upward. He smoothed back his hair, brushed the rain off his leather jacket, and thought about what he wanted to say to the doc about Bea French. He was still simmering with anger.
    The door to apartment 10B stood open, and he walked in. Phyl was wearing an oversize white terry robe, no makeup, and her black hair hung loosely around her shoulders. She was curled up on a black couch, and she looked drained and exhausted. She stared at him but didn’t get up.
    “To what do I owe the honor, Mahoney?” she asked wearily. “Isn’t it a bit late for the cops to come calling?”
    Unsmiling, bristling with anger, he stared back at her. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going to hypnotize the girl? Why didn’t you let me know the result? How the hell is it that I’m the last person to get to know what’s going on with Bea French?”
    Her sapphire eyes darkened to jet with sudden anger. “How dare you shout at me!” she yelled back. “Didn’t you tell me she was no longer your concern? Unless she died, of course. Then you could have had a field day.