The Imposter (Alexandra Destephano Book 2) Read online

  "Alex, can you meet me? I have got to talk to you! I can't find Jack!" Monique's voice was strangely hollow and frightened.

  Alex looked at her alarm clock. It was almost 11:00 PM. She said, "Of course, Monique. Are you okay? You sound frightened. Where are you?"

  "I am frightened and I'm at home. Would you like to come here?" Monique picked up on Alex's hesitation. "I could come there, but I'm not sure that someone .…"

  "No, you stay there. I'll come over. I'll be there in about 20 minutes."

  "Thanks, Alex. I appreciate it." Monique sounded relieved.

  Alex looked at Robert, who smiled at her sheepishly. "Could I have a rain check," she asked demurely.

  He laughed. "You bet! You can have any kind of check you want. Monique okay?"

  "I think so. She said she was frightened and wanted to talk." Alex became apologetic. "If it was anything or anyone else, I would've said no, but .…"

  "Alex. It's okay. Believe me, I understand. Want me to go?"

  "No. But if I need you, I'll call. Deal?"

  "You bet. I'll drop you off."

  Robert and Alex looked at each other shyly. Robert finally said, "I won't look, if you won't look."

  "Okay, … another deal. Shut your eyes!"

  "Okay." Robert pretended to shut his eyes as his beautiful former wife bounded naked from the bed, clutching only a sheet. She had the elegance of a gazelle. She turned around and smiled at him as she ran into the master bath.

  God, she's beautiful, he thought to himself. She looks like a goddess with her alabaster skin and perfect body. She hasn't changed at all. In fact, she looks better now than she did 10 years ago. He was right. Alex's long legs and buttocks were perfectly formed. Her tiny waist was the same. If anything, she had improved. He sighed as he retreated into the guest bath to dress. Well, he thought to himself, it was almost a perfect night. It was certainly more perfect than he had ever dreamed of on his way over. Robert smiled to himself. I love her, he thought. I really love her. Please God, please make her want me back, he prayed to himself.

  Chapter 28

  Lester Whitset was having a rough evening. He was furious about Dr. Desmonde breaking into his office. He also knew that Anthony Gavette had seen him come out of Rose 's room. That had pissed him off, especially when Anthony started screaming rape while hurling obscenities and threats at him. Lester decided he really didn't give a damn about Anthony. Anthony was the least of his problems.

  The voices had been screaming at him all night, since he left the hospital and went home. He had tried to stop them, but couldn't. His head was hurting so badly, that Whitset decided on a chemical fix, something he rarely did. Sometimes it helped calm the voices down and send them away. The booze and pills made him feel mellow and he deserved it. It'd been a bad day. Then, when he was calm and could think better, he could decide what to do about that imposter shrink bitch.

  Lester went to his bar and poured himself a tumbler full of scotch whiskey. After gulping the golden liquid, he went into his tiny bathroom to look for his Xanax. Damn, the bottle was empty. He'd have to steal some tomorrow off the medication cart. He refilled his tumbler again and drank it all.

  Finally, the whiskey was helping. The voices were fading. He thought again about Rose. He knew she would be loyal to him. She had shared in his little game. He continued to think about her as he drank heavily. He suspected Rose had told Anthony about the little game they had been playing. Whitset considered Anthony his closest equal on the unit. He also knew that Anthony coveted the little waiflike patient.

  Anthony had told Lester one night, over a week ago, that he had wanted Rose for his own. Whitset had laughed at Anthony, reminding him that he was, after all, only a patient and not the administrator, like Les, who had the pick of the female patient litter. Anthony had gotten mad, but Lester calmed him down, assuring him that he liked his women tall and lush, like Angela Richelieu -- not like the skinny little waif, Rose. Eventually, Anthony had cooled off, feeling confident that Lester was telling the truth.

  Whitset had put on a real show for Anthony and had spent most of the evening watching the beautiful nurse as she worked on the unit. Anthony had watched his every move. Whitset had even followed Angie into the glassed medication room, making obscene gestures behind her back in an effort to prove his point to Anthony and the other patients watching from the day room. Anthony had seemed pretty convinced. Whitset had thought what a dumb ass Gavette was. Just a stupid, ignoramus crazy.

  Whitset smiled as he remembered how he foiled Anthony. Yes, Anthony was close to his equal, but of course, Lester was the superior being. The two men had a lot in common, but Whitset was the leader. After all, he was the administrator and Anthony was a lowly patient without any power. Lester had all the power, except some that the shrink bitch thought she had. He mustn't think about that, he told himself. Tut, tut, for Anthony Gavette. He smiled as he relived the evening. As soon as Anthony had been medicated and hauled off to bed by the psych tech, Whitset had reentered Rose's room.

  As the evening wore on and Whitset continued to drink, he daydreamed about the night with Rose. It had been good, so good. Rose was exactly what he had needed. The two had played like children, naughty children of course, for over two hours. Lester had been able to be himself with her. He was so happy when he had learned that Rose likes the simple little games of house that he had made up. He became more excited when he learned that Rose hadn't minded when the big burglar came in and killed her husband and then raped her in the special way that only Lester knew how to do. He had ignored Rose when she had cried for help. He knew she loved it.

  Whitset shook himself when he realized he had drooled all down the front of his shirt. He got up to get a towel and shuddered when he thought of Angela Richelieu. She was a big, gross, woman pig. He had hated her. Still did. She was trouble. She wasn't obedient. She never had been – like Rose. He felt grossed out at the thought of Angela. He knew he'd have to take care of her if she woke up. It kind of made him happy ... it would be a pleasant 'chore', he thought to himself.

  Whitset began to feel agitated again and poured himself another glass of whiskey, drinking it quickly. It was good. Booze really did help him. He felt better. He was calm. Whitset looked down at his pants. He had a huge hard on. He thought about Rose again and smiled to himself as he checked his watch. It was a little past nine. He knew that pretty soon it would be lights out at the Pavilion. He had just enough time to finish his drink and go to the Pavilion to sample a few more of Rose's favors. Maybe he'd get off this time! And, afterwards, maybe he'd go into Anthony's room and lord it over him. Tell him about the little game he and Rose played, about how she preferred him to the big, powerful Anthony. Lester smiled and clapped his hands in anticipation of his plans for the evening. He felt like such a naughty boy.

  His phone rang. It shrilled endlessly in the still apartment. At first, Whitset was disoriented. He had only gotten one or two phone calls in the six months he had lived in New Orleans. They had been from long distance telephone services trying to sell him cheaper long-distance rates. He picked it up. It was Don Montgomery.

  "Whitset, is that you,” Don Montgomery, demanded. “Say something to me, dammit!"

  Whitset recovered swiftly. "Don, what's up? Where are you?"

  "I'm in my car on the way home. Have you decided to hire the staff we talked about?" Don's voice was laced with static. The cell reception was terrible.

  Whitset was annoyed. He hated cell phones. He said clearly, "No, I'm not hiring anyone. I told you my decision today. We don't need all that staff. It costs too much and it's stupid."

  "Whitset," Don's voice was placating, "We have got to do something or else Desmonde will go to the press. You heard her today. Whitset, just hire them temporarily. We can get rid of them when all this quiets down. Nobody will listen to her story in two weeks or a month. I think we should give her what she wants -- at least for now." Don's voice ended in a whine.

  Whitset, hardly sobe
r, reviewed his options. "Don't worry, Don. I'll take care of Desmonde. I'll talk to her again."

  "She's not going to back down. I know the woman. You have got to give her what she wants now. Do it, Whitset, it's worth it. I promise it will be a temporary fix."

  Lester felt himself losing control. The voices were back, telling him to get the shrink bitch. He could barely talk coherently. "I said I would take care of it, Don. Don't worry. See you tomorrow." Whitset hung up the phone.

  "Whitset, you sound funny. You sure you're okay?" Don repeated his question again before he realized the administrator had hung up. The CEO said out loud in his car, "You had better take care of it, you damn asshole! If you don't, I'm canceling your contract and I'll make sure you never get another job anywhere." Don floored his gold Porsche and drove recklessly down Canal Street towards his house.

  Whitset sat on the sofa. The voices had completely taken over his head. In his mind, he again saw Dr. Desmonde turn to plastic in front of him. He was going to have to do what the voices told him to do. The imposter shrink had to be stopped. After all, wasn't that his mission? He was supposed to get rid of all the imposters. They told him so. Whitset grabbed his tie and left his French Quarter apartment.

  He wandered aimlessly for about an hour through the sultry New Orleans heat into the Vieux Carre, trying to decide what to do. He sat on a bench, holding his head, trying to argue with the voices. Nobody looked at him. After all, he was in the French Quarter of New Orleans with all kinds of people from all walks of life. He fit right into the crowd. He finally acquiesced to the voices and entered a phone booth to look for Monique's address. Phone booths were a bit of an anachronism in most cities, but New Orleans still had them. Phone booths were still around for the throngs of people who could not afford cell phones. He found no listing for Monique Desmonde.

  He was furious. Why didn't the shrink bitch have an address? Maybe imposters didn't really live in houses. They seem to appear only now and then. Perhaps they were already dead. Whitset batted this idea around in his head for a few minutes. It certainly seemed plausible to him. Finally, an idea dawned in his drunken head.

  Whitset reached for his cell phone and called CCMC information. He identified himself and the hospital operator bought his story and gave him Monique's phone number and address. He was in luck. She lived on Royal Street in the Quarter, only a few blocks away. He dialed the number and got a machine or voice mail. He was livid. He hated answering machines and voicemail. His calls were too important to be picked up by a piece of equipment. Machines represented more of the technology he hated. In frustration, he slammed the receiver down, chipping a large chunk of plastic out of his iPhone.

  The voices were loud again, screaming at him. Whitset entered a bar and ordered a double whiskey, which he downed in rapid time. He had a second drink. It was now almost 10:30 PM. He walked over to the wall phone in the bar and dialed the psychiatrist’s phone number. She answered on the first ring. He could see her cold, plastic face talking to him. Her lips were just as red as his teacher’s had been -- taut, thin, and inflexible. He would change that. Soon. She said hello three times before he hung up. He decided to have another drink or two for the road and the work ahead.

  Chapter 29

  Monique was unnerved by the hang up phone call. She pressed redial, but no one spoke or answered her repeated 'hello'. There was just a dead, ominous silence. Whitset listened on the other end of the phone, relishing the increasing panic in the shrink bitch's voice.

  Monique tried to convince herself that she was being paranoid. It could've been anybody -- even a wrong number. In desperation, she dialed Jack's home phone and cell again. No answer. Then she paged his beeper, entering her number with the 911. She waited 15 minutes for a return call, but her phone didn't ring.

  Jack, Jack, where are you, she said to herself. I'm frightened half to death. I have to find you. I have the answers you need. Monique, her hands shaking, looked up the non-emergency phone number of the NOPD in the New Orleans phone directory. Finally, after an endless amount of time, she was connected with the watch officer. He chuckled when she asked for Commander Françoise.

  The watch officer said, "The Commander sure is popular tonight, Dr. Desmonde, and you're the second person looking for him. He's out of New Orleans. He's investigating a crime over in Alabama. He's been gone and unreachable all afternoon."

  Monique was panicked. "Has he called in?"

  "Nope, not since 6 o'clock this evening. Said he would be unavailable until morning …."

  "Can you reach him? It's really urgent." Monique was working hard to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

  "No, ma'am. If the Commander could be reached, he would've left a number. If you need help, I'll send a blue and white over,” the watch officer offered, trying hard to be helpful. He felt sorry for the poor lady. He knew something was very wrong.

  "No, no. I'm all right. I'll call a friend." Monique managed to say, as she was fighting for control.

  "Listen, Dr. Desmonde, if you are in any danger, just tell me. I'll send a car over. The Commander said that if you called and needed anything, I was to give you everything you needed, plus more."

  Monique smiled at the watch officer's remarks and said, "What I need is Jack Françoise. I'll call a friend to come over. Thanks. If the Commander does call, please tell him to call me stat."

  "Huh, stat? What do you mean?" The watch officer didn't understand and he'd picked up on the frantic sound of Monique's voice.

  "ASAP. As soon as possible," Monique clarified.

  "Yes, ma'am. I will. Take care now. Good night."

  Monique laughed a little hysterically. "Yes, I will. Thank you."

  After Monique hung up the phone, the watch officer radioed the mobile unit closest to Monique's house and asked them to drive by periodically. They assured him they would. It was a good move on the part of the watch officer, a very good move. Besides, he didn't want to piss off the Commander. He'd done that once before and was, to this day, stinging from the rebuke. No one ever wanted to mess with Commander Jack Françoise -- not because he was a Commander, but because he was Jack Françoise.

  Monique decided to call Alex and was relieved that she was coming over. Alex had a good analytical mind and would help her sort out what she needed to do. Finally, after an endless period of time, she heard a knock at her door. Alex was standing on her porch. Monique noticed the silver Mercedes with the lights on out front.

  "Alex, thank goodness. I'm so glad to see you. Who's in the car?"

  "It's Robert. He dropped me off. He was over for dinner and we …."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," Monique interrupted her. She looked at her friend. Alex looked lovely. Her eyes were as blue as the denim work shirt and jeans she had hastily donned for her late-night visit. Her beautiful face was flushed and her eyes were shining. Monique didn't think she had ever seen Alex look so ravishing. She continued, "I interrupted something, didn't I?" Her voice was apologetic.

  "Monique, it's okay. I'll tell you about it later. What's up? You look scared, frightened to death. I’ve been trying to find you all evening. Where were you?"

  "I was so angry after the executive committee meeting, that I decided to go to City Park and walk off my frustrations. Then, I went over to the Art Museum to see the Monet exhibit." Monique paused for a moment, capturing in her mind again the beauty and elegance of the French artist's late works at Giverny. "It was magnificent … and sad. Alex, you really must go."

  "I will, I will. Then what happened?" Alex asked impatiently.

  "I went to the Pavilion. It's a good thing I did. One of my patients had been raped, Rose, remember her?"

  Alex's heart sank. Another attack and rape. When would it end? "Of course I know Rose. Is she okay? Who raped her?"

  "Physically she's okay. She won't tell who did it. One of the psych techs found her lying in her bed whimpering. She wasn't in the day room for supper. That's when they went to search for her and found her sobbing. I trie
d to get her to tell me who did it, but she just looked at me and cried."

  "Was it Jim or Anthony?"

  "No, impossible. Both of them were locked in seclusion. I don't know who it was. Anyway, we sent her to the emergency department. She hadn't returned to the unit when I left ...." Monique's voice trailed off.

  Alex pondered her comments. "I can't imagine who did it. With Jim and Anthony locked up, our saga has a new twist. I guess we'll know later." Alex looked at her friend. She had become very quiet. She was sitting on the sofa, twisting her hands.

  "Monique, what else happened? What else do you know? Tell me, for goodness sake!"

  "This sounds crazy, Alex. Bear with me, but it's true. Whitset is not Whitset."

  "Huh, what! What the hell are you talking about? For heaven's sake, Monique, spit it out. Make sense." Alex's voice was snappish. After all, her friend had just interrupted the first potential sex she had had in years.

  "Stop interrupting me, Alex. I'm doing my best." Monique paused for a moment, as if getting her facts straight. "This afternoon when I searched Whitset's office, I noticed the diplomas on the wall were dated 1963 and 1965. Whitset doesn't look old enough to have graduated that long ago. So, I went to my office and looked in the personnel file at his resume. He lists his date of birth as being 1950. It's inconceivable that he could have graduated with a Masters degree in 1965. Whitset is an imposter. I don't know who in the hell he is, but I'm convinced that he's parading around as a psychiatric administrator without the education."

  Alex was quiet, taking all of this in. Finally, she said, "Who do you think he is, Monique?"