“With family life.”
“We had a fine family. If my sister was a poor fit, all the pity for her. But a child shouldn’t be made to suffer.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“Fine people. Working people.”
“What kind of work?”
“Father was a teamster, Mother did bookkeeping.”
“You all got along pretty well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard different?”
“Tell me how you remember family life.”
Her arms clamped across her chest. One foot pushed the briefcase farther to the side. She said, “Fine, but that’s no excuse for her behavior. There were three of us, only one turned out immoral.”
“What’s no excuse?”
“Drinking. They both drank. Not during the day, it never impeded their work, they supported us in fine form during our entire childhoods. We had food on the table, clean clothes, the home was beautifully kept. Mother was a first-rate homemaker. Back when that meant something.”
“They drank recreationally.”
“They drank to wind down after long, grueling workdays. Yes, it was excessive. No, it doesn’t excuse her lifestyle choices. I grew up in the same environment and I am a teetotaler. Furthermore, I’ve never seen Connor indulge in more than a single beer, cocktail, or glass of wine. He says so, explicitly, when waiters attempt to peddle a refill. ‘I’m a one-drink guy.’ So don’t let her avoid responsibility by blaming Mother and Father.”
“Did your parents’ behavior change when they drank?”
“Not really,” she said.
I said nothing.
“I’m telling you, there were no drastic changes, Doctor. Not in a way one would consider unexpected.”
“The change was predictable.”
“She went to sleep. He did, as well.” Tug on a hair wave. “Except for those very few times when his mood got the best of him. In any event, that’s not relevant to the current issue: my sister’s fitness. Or lack thereof.”
I pictured her, sitting at her desk, trying to study. Wondering if tonight books would get turned into confetti.
I’d lived through worse, could well understand wanting to block that out. If she hadn’t decided to wrest her sister’s child away, she’d never have been forced to confront the past.
But …
I said, “Your father’s moods changed when he drank.”
“Wouldn’t anybody’s?” she said. “All right, he could get a bit … surly. But never violent. No matter what you’ve heard.”
“No child abuse.”
“Not one instance. Did she claim that?”
“Still,” I said, “that kind of unpredictability can be frightening to a child.”
“It wasn’t unpredictable, Doctor. One knew that when he drank there was a distinct possibility of some sort of mood upset.”
Now her lips did cooperate and she flashed me a wide, engaging smile.
“In fact,” she said, “the entire issue made me curious. The precise rate of mood upsets. I decided to approach the question scientifically. Began keeping records and attained a result. Thirty-two point five percent of the time he’d grow surly.”
“About a third of the time.”
“Not about, Doctor. Precisely thirty-two point five. My data collection was meticulous. I went over it, trying to see if I could find a pattern. Day of the week, time of day, any other variable. I came up with nothing and I believe it was at that point that I decided to devote myself to science on a cellular level rather than deal with anything as imprecise as human behavior. So you see, Father did me a favor. By directing me to what has turned out to be a rewarding career path, he proved extremely helpful.”
“Lemons into lemonade.”
“Now contrast that, Doctor, with her. Blaming everyone but herself for her deficiencies. It’s fortunate that we’re talking about this because it allows you to delineate the difference between myself and my sister: I face reality, she escapes. Well, this is one time she’s not going to find that quite so easy, eh? Now, what else can I help clarify?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She flinched. Smiled. “I’ve given you more facts than you expected? Well, that’s fine. And here’s a written record of all the background material I’ve just presented verbally, so you can take your time, study carefully, really educate yourself.”
A black-bound folder emerged from the briefcase. She placed it next to my appointment book, squaring the volume’s edges with those of the desk. “This has been a very profitable hour. Good day.”
CHAPTER
7
Next step: a home visit to Cherie Sykes and her daughter.
She lived in a studio apartment near Western and Hollywood, a five-hundred-square-foot share of a not-so-great ten-unit building in a marginal neighborhood.
She was ready at the door, beckoning me inside with a flourish. The air smelled of Lysol and I assumed she’d prepped for the appointment.
Not much to tidy. A foldout bed was covered by a thin white spread and dressed up by a couple of batik pillows that looked brand-new. Nearby stood a crib. A well-worn tweed love seat crowded the rest of the tiny room. A two-seater folding table straddled the kitchenette and the front room. Propped up against a space-saver fridge was a vacuum cleaner. In front of the sink was a plastic high chair.
Much of the floor was taken up by a neat stack of toys. A closet door left open revealed stacks of disposable diapers, jars of baby food and “beginner” toddler victuals, boxes of graham crackers and organic “healthy apple juice,” a collapsible stroller.
“Kid Central,” said Ree Sykes. The tremor in her voice would’ve done a Hammond organ proud. The drowsy child in her arms stirred.
I said, “Is she about to nap or just waking up?”
“Waking,” she said. “She does it slowly, never cries. Sometimes I wake up and she’s standing in her crib, just looking at me. I hold her for a while, let her blossom like a flower.”
She stroked dark, wavy hair. What I could see of Rambla Pacifico Sykes’s face was plump-cheeked, slumber-pink, dewy with sweat. She had on pink pajamas patterned with cats, polka-dot hats, and beach balls. The way she molded to her mother’s chest compressed her face, turning full lips into rosebuds.
I made mental notes. Pretty child. Average size. Well nourished. Relaxed.
Her tiny chest heaved as she sighed. One hand touched Ree Sykes’s chin. Ree kissed her fingers. Rambla’s eyes remained closed.
Ree said, “This is my heart.”
I sat on the tweed love seat and Ree perched near the edge of the foldout bed, Rambla still molded to her. The child’s breath quickened, then slowed, as she sank into deeper sleep.
“Guess she’s still tired,” said Ree. “She’s a great sleeper, made it through the night at two months.”
“That’s great. Any change when you picked her up from Connie?”
“You mean did she get worse being with Connie? I’d like to say yeah, but honestly no, she was fine. She was real happy to see me, she like jumped into my arms. Which I wasn’t sure would happen, you know like maybe she forgot me? But she didn’t.”
“She reconnected instantly.”
“Yup.” Her eyes shifted to the ceiling. “That’s not exactly true. She was quieter than usual. I’d try to kiss her and she’d turn her head. But that didn’t last long, maybe half a day and then she was herself.”
Medea Wright would probably use that to show Connie Sykes had done a great job of interim parenting. If Myron Ballister was smart, he’d skew it as evidence of the durable attachment between Ree and her child.
I’d note the facts and save interpretation for later.
Ree bit her lip. “I have to say this, Doctor. So you won’t think I’m crazy or cruel: I screwed up, okay? By leaving in the first place. By staying away that long. Connie kept telling me everything was fine, it was the first time we—me and Connie—ever did anything together, you know? I liked th
at. Not just was Rambla taken care of but me and Connie, we … whatever.”
“You felt Rambla had brought you and Connie closer.”
“I could hope. Because we never … she always made me feel stupid. I know she’s the smart one, but … I guess I coulda studied harder but it didn’t come easily. Reading, numbers. Everything. It was hard. I did my best but it was hard. Still, she didn’t have to make me feel stupid.”
Her eyes grew moist. She began rocking Rambla. A small hand grasped the braid and squeezed. “She loves it. My hair. Kind of a security thing, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“Anyway …”
“You were hoping Connie and you could be closer.”
“Because she was acting different. I know now it was phony but how could I tell at the time? I’m a trusting person.”
“Different, how?”
“Paying attention to me, Dr. Delaware. Talking to me like I was a grown-up—like normal sisters. So when she offered to care for Rambla and then she’d always tell me when I called that Rambla was doing great, I deserved a vacation, just go have a good time—it was like she approved of me. For the first time in my life.”
“You were encouraged.”
“I’m not saying that excuses it. Staying away from my baby-love so long. And yeah, I wasn’t being totally honest with you, Rambla didn’t jump into my arms, at first she looked scared and my heart just dropped to my feet, like Girl, you really screwed up, this time. One thing in your life that you love and now you screwed it up. More like she accepted me but she was quiet. But it didn’t take long and she was like melting against me just like she’s doing now.”
Her eyes lowered to her shoulder. “Touching my braid just like she’s doing now. It’s like the flame needed to be turned on but once it was, it just kept burning.”
She kissed a plump cheek. “I just love you, I love love love you.”
Rambla stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled lazily at her mother.
Spotting me, she gripped Ree tighter. Began whimpering.
Appropriate attachment. Expected separation anxiety for the age.
Ree said, “I usually give her a snack when she wakes up.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
I sat there and watched Rambla eat, keeping my distance, careful not to intrude. Ree broke the food up into tiny pieces while delivering an ongoing commentary. (“Organic, Dr. Delaware, no preservatives.”) Eventually, Rambla permitted herself several glances in my direction.
I smiled.
The fourth time she smiled back. I got up, crouched low within inches of her face.
She yelped and gripped her mother.
I retreated.
Ree Sykes said, “It’s okay, baby—I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, she must be still half asleep.”
Appropriate, appropriate, appropriate.
The great yeah-sayer.
Rambla quieted but avoided eye contact.
Five minutes later, she allowed me to show her the picture I’d drawn. Smiling face, bright colors.
She beamed. Giggled. Snatched the paper and crumpled it and threw it to the floor and thought that was just hilarious.
For the next ten minutes, I sat next to her high chair and we giggled together.
When I got up, she waved.
I blew a kiss. She imitated.
I said, “Bye bye.”
“Bah bah.” Plump hand to mouth, flamboyant wave.
I headed toward the front room.
“Now what?” said Ree.
“Nothing,” I said, “I’ve seen enough.”
I gave her hand a squeeze and left.
That night I wrote my report. Shortest draft I’ve ever sent a judge.
The first sentence read, “This well-nourished, well-functioning sixteen-month-old female child is the object of a guardianship dispute between her birth mother and her maternal aunt.”
The final sentence read: “There appears to be no reason, based on either psychological factors or legal standards, to alter the child’s status. A strong recommendation is made to reject Dr. Constance Sykes’s request.”
A few paragraphs in between. Nothing that required a Ph.D., but education’s what they pay me for.
A week after I sent my findings to Nancy Maestro, I returned home after a run and found Connie Sykes out on my front terrace, sitting in one of the wicker chairs Robin and I leave there when we want to catch sunrise over the trees.
Warm morning; I was sweaty, breathing hard, wearing a sleeveless tee and shorts.
She said, “Nice muscles, Doctor.”
“What can I do for you, Connie?”
“Obviously, I’m pretty crushed.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I understand,” she said, in a softer voice than I’d ever heard. But still, that strange, digital spacing. As if every word needed to be measured prior to delivery. “I knew at the outset that it was a long shot. May I come in?”
I hesitated.
“Just for a little support? You are a psychologist.”
I glanced at my watch.
“I won’t take up much of your time. I just need to … integrate. To talk about my own plans. Maybe adopting a child of my own?”
“Was that something you’d thought about before?”
Her shoulders heaved. “Can we talk? Please? Just briefly but I’ll pay you for a full session.”
“No payment necessary,” I said. “Come on in.”
This time she allowed me to lead. Settled in a different spot on the couch. Placed her leather purse to her right and her hands in her lap.
I said, “Morning.”
She smiled. “I guess things work out the way they’re supposed to. Though I wish I could be more confident about the poor child.”
“Rambla.”
“She really is in danger, Doctor. You may not be convinced of it, the court may not be convinced of it. I’m not even sure my own lawyer was convinced of it. But I’ve got superior analytic powers. Always have. I can see things—sense things—that elude other people.”
Gone was the soft voice.
Something new in her eyes. A sputter of … irrationality?
“So,” I said, “you’re considering adopting.”
She laughed. “Why would I do that? Why would I assume the risk of ending up with something genetically inferior? No, that was just … I suppose you’d call it an icebreaker. Gaining rapport in order to build up trust, so you’d let me in. That’s your thing, right? Rapport. You sure pulled a fast one on me. Convinced me you understood me and then you went and wrote that I had absolutely no case. Very ethical, Doctor.”
“Connie—”
“Dr. Sykes to you,” she snapped. “You’re ‘Doctor,’ I’m ‘Doctor.’ Okay? It’s the least you can do. Show me some respect.”
“Fair enough,” I said, keeping my eye on her every movement. “Dr. Sykes, I never—”
“You never, you never, you never,” she snapped. “You’re Doctor Never. And now that poor child is destined to never lead the life she deserves.”
Smoothing black gabardine slacks, she lifted her right hand, stroked the purse’s fine, whiskey-colored leather.
“I’m not going to shoot you, Dr. Delaware. Even though I should.”
Tapping the bag, she ran her finger over a swell in the leather and smiled wider and waited.
Master-of-timing comedian, pausing to see if the audience got it.
When I didn’t respond, she tapped the bag harder. Something beneath the leather gave off a dull thud.
Something hard and dense. Implying she’d come with a weapon.
If she had and decided to use it, I was too far away to stop her, blocked by the desk.
Bad situation; I’d let down my guard, broken every rule, allowed her to catch me off guard.
No way to predict something like this.
Lots of victims probably thought that. No excuse for me; the whole point of my training was expecting the unexpected. I’d
always figured myself pretty good at that.
The worst kind of assumption: blithe and arrogant.
I studied the flat-eyed, weird woman sitting across from me.
Serene stare from her. Icy contentment. She’d evoked fear, knew it. Had gotten what she’d come for.
The threat was the first time she’d used my name.
A new form of intimacy.
I kept silent.
Connie Sykes laughed. Then she got up and left the office and continued up the hall and I scurried to lock myself in, feeling like nothing but prey.
CHAPTER
8
My true love is a gorgeous, thoughtful, intense woman who cherishes solitude and makes her living transforming wood into guitars and mandolins of great beauty. Sequestered in her studio, she plays her own ensemble of instruments: routers, chisels, gauges and knives, band saw, jigsaw. A roaring table saw that rips through rosewood and ebony like a hungry predator.
Soft flesh versus razor-edged metal. A single slip can lead to horror and Robin lives with hazard every day. But it’s my work that has led us to danger.
I sat at my desk, wondering what to tell her about Connie Sykes.
We’ve been together for a long time and how much I divulge about the terrible things has always been an issue. Robin knows better than to ask about therapy patients. But the other stuff—court work, the murders Milo brings like bloody gifts—is open territory and I fight the urge to overprotect.
I’ve finally figured out an approach that seems to work: assess how receptive she really is, divulge no more than she wants to know, temper the details.
Working with power tools and avoiding people doesn’t mean you lack insight and sometimes she offers an opinion that leads to a solution.
That’s the way it is, now.
Years ago, a psychopath burned our house down. After the shock wore off, Robin recouped quickly, the way she always does, designing and supervising the building of the eye-filling white structure we eventually learned to call home.
Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 6