TWO P.M. on a Sunday and Marcus Livingstone’s waiting room is jammed. The state of mental health in the community of Saddle River, NJ, must, indeed, be dire. Declining an offer by reception to be seated and be comfortable, Melissa and I instead stand in the outer-office looking as conspicuous as possible.
Patients fidget in their seats, give us the stink eye as if we’re the Thought Police.
After thirty minutes, we’re escorted by an assistant into the doctor’s inner-office to wait for him there. We’re seated by the assistant on a sectional sofa arranged around a low glass-top table. Opposite, are two high-back leather chairs. We accept the offer of refreshment, me coffee, Melissa a guava-pear fruit juice combination. I feel like an invited guest.
On one side of Livingstone’s office is a floor to ceiling, wall-to-wall picture window overlooking a narrow treed valley winding its way like a serpent out of sight beyond the horizon. When people think of New Jersey, mostly they think of the industry and fuel storage tanks of Trenton. In truth, they don’t call it the Garden State for nothing.
There is a tall bookcase on an opposing wall stacked with what appear to be volumes of medical and mental health journals. On a third wall are framed diplomas and certificates of achievement issued by various institutions: Harvard, Yale, and a document from the New York-Presbyterian University Hospital of Columbia and Cornell. There are photographs of Livingstone with former New Jersey Governor Chris Christie, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and former Presidents George W. Bush and Obama.
Livingstone lives life at an elevated altitude, I decide, high enough to not want his whack-job of an alcoholic ex-wife disrupting his well-ordered world seeking visitation, support or—even worse—fighting for full custody of the children. Or, maybe he doesn’t care if she does, knowing he can squash her like a pesky bug if she makes too much noise.
After ten more minutes waiting, Marcus Livingstone enters the room from a side door. As Gabby said, he is handsome, stands a shade over six-foot tall. He’s lean and athletic with a full head of sandy brown hair stylishly brushed back off a high forehead. He wears a tailored suit with a snappy neck-tie to match. He carries himself with the grace of a professional dancer.
As a suspect, Dr. Marcus Livingstone is a gem.
We haven’t yet confirmed his alibi to satisfaction. To me, he could be the guy we see entering Miranda’s apartment in the Porsche security video.
We stand as he enters. I extend a hand.
Reciprocating, Livingstone says, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
His blue eyes twinkle as he speaks and crinkle as he smiles. Melissa smiles back. I fear she will be charmed into submission when the time comes to ask the tough questions. First the manager at Bumpers and now Livingstone.
Melissa Johns: Flirt. Who’d a thought?
“I make myself available to my patients one Sunday a month,” Livingstone says as if he owes me an explanation. “To me, this time is precious. Please, let’s not waste it. Sit, and we’ll get started.” He settles in a high-back leather chair opposite, giving him the advantage of height over Melissa and me. “Has there been a development?”
“I didn’t mean to suggest there was,” I say.
Livingstone looks annoyed. “I assume you wouldn’t be here if there weren’t. I told the other detective—Fernandez?—everything I know.”
Conspicuously, he glances at his wristwatch.
I debate how quickly I should get to the point. Livingstone is a trained therapist, by all accounts very successful at what he does. I could toss the ball of yarn back-and-forth with him all afternoon and still end up pulling at the short end of the string.
So, I making a decision, I tug at the long end instead.
“We’ve spoken with Miranda’s co-workers and friends, Dr. Livingstone. We know she had quit drinking, returned to AA, and was in the process of seeking to restore visitation with the children, if not file for joint custody.” (A small white lie the likes of which cops are perfectly willing and permitted to tell.) “Did Miranda speak with you directly about her plans?”
Livingstone flashes a condescending grin: Not in this lifetime she wasn’t it seems to say.
Instead, he says, “No, she did not. She was always making plans, Detective. She’d been in and out of rehab, therapy, and AA for years. As I said to the other detective, I haven’t spoken to my ex-wife in…I can’t say how long.”
Ex-wife: he utters the word like an expletive.
“You weren’t concerned she would make good on her—” I’m about to say threat; instead I say, “Intention?”
Again, the grin. The debit-column is piling up against him. “No, not at all. If she was, I didn’t know it. If she were, it would never have happened. So, no, I wasn’t worried, because I didn’t know.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Her own parents didn’t believe in her capacity to change. Why would I?”
“Her father thought she might.”
Livingstone softens. “Do you have children, Detective?”
“No.”
“A father can see only what’s best in a daughter, sugar and spice and all that’s nice. It may be fanciful, but when it comes to the fathers of daughters, we’re all romantics at heart. Johnny is no different. He was willing to give Miranda a pass no matter what.” Livingstone shifts his gaze to Mel. “I’m sure you understand, Detective.”
“My father was an abusive alcoholic, doctor. I was brought-up in foster care.”
Before Livingstone can respond, I say, “No concern Miranda would one day show up on the doorstep to walk away with the kids?”
Livingstone responds like a teacher lecturing a dull student. “There are two schools of thought in my profession, Detective. One where perception is reality and another where reality is reality; I subscribe to the latter. I don’t believe it’s in a patient’s best interest to perpetuate false constructs. I feel it’s my mission to help them to see their world as it is, not as they imagine it. I suspect it’s much the same in your line of work: Just because you hold strongly to a belief, doesn’t make it so. It’s why we have courts, isn’t it?”
“And Stella?”
“Stella is a realist. She made a choice; she chose Josh and Maddie.”
“So,” Melissa says, “Stella is an ally?”
The question seems to put him off stride. “I wouldn’t say an ally, but we both want what’s best for the children.”
Melissa makes to be riffling through notes on her tablet stopping when she finds what she’s looking for. “According to Mr. Walker, Stella spends a lot of time at your home, helping to care for the children.”
It comes out like an accusation.
“Stella often helps with the children, yes.”
“How often?”
Livingstone’s eyes no longer twinkle; they are hard as rock candy. “Mostly, every day unless she has other commitments. We both agree they shouldn’t be left too long in the care of a nanny.”
“Overnight?”
Melissa warms to the interrogation. Livingstone calculates a proper response. Jump on the insinuation and come off as being defensive, or play dumb?
“Sometimes when I’m away; not often,” he says, choosing dumb. We know he’s anything but.
“Anything else she helps out with?”
Livingstone’s face goes tight. “Such as?”
“Groceries, meals?”
“I have staff to look after those things.”
“Would you consider yourself close to Mrs. Walker beyond the relationship with your children?”
Evidently, it’s time for Marcus to become defensive because he says, “If you’re suggesting Stella and I are romantically involved, you’re being ridiculous. If you’re suggesting this relationship caused us to conspire in the murder of her only child, my ex-wife, the mother of my children, you’re beyond being ridiculous. You’re delusional.”
“Stella is a beautiful woman. In the children, you and she share common cause,” I say piling on.
The insinuation is left to dangle between us. Livingstone works his jaw, gnashes his teeth. I can almost hear his molars grind. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant.”
“This is a murder investigation, doctor, everything is relevant,” I say ominously, trying on my best TV-cop persona for size, trotting out the old cliché, sounding ridiculous even to myself. “We have co-workers, friends, even Miranda’s father, who are on record to say Miranda was planning to request access to the children, possibly even shared custody. She was attending AA, she was clean. This would upset any parent. You understand we need to ask the questions.”
Marcus Livingstone exhales, runs a hand back through his long but stylishly-cut hair, relaxes his jaw. “Fair enough. I appreciate you’re just trying to do your job. But think about it. If it were true, I have enough money to keep her tied up in the courts for a lifetime. If I were colluding with Stella, between us, we could tie her up in court for an eternity. We can afford the best attorneys. Given her track record, Miranda wouldn’t qualify for legal aid. Or, we could buy her off. We’ve done it before. If she was serious about contacting the kids, it wasn’t for access. At best, it was a crazy plan to extort me. At worst, to hurt me. Believe me when I say this, Detectives, after all these years away the woman could not give a fuck about her children. As for suggesting a relationship between Stella and me?” Livingstone shoots daggers at Mel. “That’s just a product of your dirty imaginations.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Outside in the parking lot, I clock the Cobalt-blue, three-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley with the vanity plate: LVNGSTRNG. I now hate Dr. Marcus Livingstone officially.
Melissa says, “That was a blast.”
“Don’t enjoy it too much. First rule is to remain objective.”
“Did I come on too strong?”
“No, but he knows we have squat, that we’re out here fishing for fiddle-sticks in beautiful Saddle River harassing the husband because it’s what cops do on TV.”
“You don’t think he’s involved?”
“Let’s wait for the evidence to say one-way-or-the-other. Man is a dick-head, and rich to boot. Doesn’t prove he killed his ex-wife.”