Chapter Twenty

“We have been unable to locate your receptionist, Corinne Brown.” Signy told the psychologist, watching his expression carefully. “Any ideas as to where she might be?”

Kim Gleeson frowned. He had a runner’s build and was lean to the point of skinny. Attractive if you were into bald guys.

“No. This is the first time she hasn’t turned up for work. Usually, she’s punctual and efficient.” He pressed his thumb and index finger against his temples. “She mentioned a boyfriend in Anchorage a few times, but I think she said her mother lived here in the city. I don’t really know where.”

“When was the last time the two of you spoke?”

“When I left the office on Tuesday afternoon.”

They were standing in a small kitchenette at the back of his rented office space while he made coffee for the Evidence Techs. The whole place was painted in muted colors with large boring pieces of art on the walls.

“You left before her?”

“Yes. I don’t usually but my five o’clock cancelled so I jumped on the opportunity to duck out early. Corinne works from noon until six. If I have any clients that go longer I just lock up myself.”

“You only work afternoons?” Signy asked in surprise.

He guffawed. “I wish. No, I arranged my teaching schedule so I lecture or meet with graduate students in the mornings. I book client sessions in the afternoons and spend most of my evenings dealing with other nonsense much to my family’s annoyance.”

“Such as?”

“University administration. Grant proposals. Safety forms. Writing papers or review articles. Editing student papers to get them ready for journal submission. Not to mention the group therapy sessions at the church, which were very helpful to some people.”

“Were?” she asked sharply.

“I can’t imagine clients are going to commit to any therapy where they risk their most painful secrets becoming fodder for the public and certainly not in a location where a woman was viciously slaughtered.”

He had a point.

“We still have officers contacting local pawn shops and talking to known fences of stolen goods. With luck the thief didn’t know what they were stealing.”

“I hope so.”

The filing cabinets and cupboards had all been busted open. The camera equipment and the computer that used to sit on the reception desk were missing. The paperwork and files in Gleeson’s office had been ransacked to the point it was going to take time and effort to figure out what, if anything, was missing.

“Do you think whoever broke in here was looking for drugs?” He sounded almost hopeful.

“It’s a definite possibility.” But hell of a coincidence considering Gleeson was Darby O’Roarke’s therapist and two people she knew were dead. “Do you ever keep drugs on the premises?”

“Advil and some essential oils. I don’t prescribe pills. I send anyone who needs stronger medication either to their family doctor with a recommendation or, if the patient needs a more rigorous evaluation, I refer them to a psychiatrist.”