McNeal didn’t give a shit about any of that. He would much rather be doing what he was paid to do.
He signed in at the desk, showed his ID, and the doorman escorted him to the elevator.
McNeal rode alone to the ninth floor. He walked along a carpeted corridor. The apartment he was looking for sat at the end. He checked his watch. He was one minute late. He knocked and the door opened.
The woman wore black. “Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said. “Belinda Katz.”
McNeal shook her hand and followed her down a hallway. He couldn’t help admiring the lacquered herringbone flooring. He considered how much per square yard that had set her back.
He was shown into a huge drawing room. A few large lamps added extra warmth.
She motioned for him to sit in a dark-brown leather armchair. “Glad you could make it.”
Jack McNeal slumped down. His gaze wandered around the room. It was painted white, with large pieces of modern art adorning the walls. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf held everything from Freud to books on Eastern philosophy. Outside, rain lashed against the window.
The woman sat down in an Eames chair opposite him and put on her glasses. She began flicking through some papers on her lap before looking up and smiling. Her nails were painted dark red, matching her lipstick. “So, let’s try and ease ourselves into this, Jack,” she said. “Firstly, I don’t come cheap.”
McNeal smiled at the quip.
“But that’s not your problem. Bob Buckley is a good friend of mine.”
“Lucky you.”
Katz gave a grim smirk. “He’s not to everyone’s taste, I know.”
“He’s fine. Intense. But fine.”
“Okay. Let’s get started. You have been sent as a referral. Do you have any idea why you’re here or what led to this referral, Jack?”
“I was hoping you could answer that.”
Katz scribbled some notes. “People who care about you say you have serious issues.”
McNeal readjusted his weight. He wasn’t comfortable talking about himself. “Most people I work with have serious issues. Actually, most people I know have serious issues. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“I understand,” she said. “It is a highly stressful job.”
McNeal said nothing.
“I can imagine Internal Affairs gets its fair share of complex and difficult cases.”
“It is what it is. Some weeks are better than others. And that affects mood and behavior.”
“I want to explore that, if you don’t mind.”
McNeal sighed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why exactly am I here?”
“There’s been some cause for concern. People are worried about you.”
McNeal went quiet.
“It has been noticed by a few of your colleagues, and your boss, that you don’t seem yourself. Really, really not yourself. And you haven’t for quite some time.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
The psychologist smiled. “It’s okay to be defensive. These colleagues of yours are concerned that you appear, as they put it, increasingly isolated. And they say that’s been noticeable over the last six months.” She flicked through her papers again. “They also mentioned increased hostility. Anger issues. Does this sound like something you’re familiar with?”
McNeal leaned forward in his seat.
“I was reading your file. And I believe I might be able to help you.”
“No disrespect, but I just want to do my job and get on with my life.”
Katz nodded and pursed her lips. “I would like to talk about something that happened five years ago, Jack.”
McNeal’s insides tightened.
“Would you like to talk about that?”
“Not really.”
“I deal with a lot of cops, and it’s invariably the same. There are signs of acute stress. The drinking. The blackouts. Infringements of NYPD rules. Obsessiveness with work. Guilt over what happened. And sometimes, we’re talking about people having suicidal thoughts. Bottling it all up is not the way to go.”
“That’s not me.”
“Isn’t it?” The psychologist’s gaze lingered on him longer than was comfortable. “Jack, you’re a human being like all of us. It’s important we explore these feelings.”
“What if I don’t want to explore those feelings? What about that?”
The psychologist scribbled some notes. “I’ve met a lot of people like you, Jack. But most want to work with me.”