Obsession

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Heard what?” I said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What kind of static is the department getting about privacy?”

  “Mario Fortuno,” she said.

  “Private eye to the stars,” I said. “That was what, three years ago?”

  “Three and a half is when they got him on the explosives charge but the larger issue is his wiretapping and what I hear is the fallout from that is just beginning.”

  “What do illegal taps have to do with Isaac’s crime stats?”

  “Fortuno gained access to personal data, had people stalked and harassed and generated some not-so-subtle threats to citizens who’d offended his honcho clients. One way he got the info—and once again you never heard it from me—is by bribing sources at DMV, the phone company, various banks. And the department.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Oh, indeed. If Fortuno ever opens up, there are Hollywood honchos and big-time criminal defense lawyers who could find themselves in the defendant’s chair.”

  “Code of silence, so far?”

  “In the beginning he put out the omerta line, guy loves the whole Mafia intrigue thing. But what I hear is he’s got six more years on a nine-year sentence and prison life hasn’t been fun. Whatever happens or doesn’t, the brass hears ‘computer disk,’ there’s a stampede to the little boys’ room.”

  “Is there anything stopping me, as a concerned private citizen, from talking to Doctor-Doctor Gomez who is now a concerned private citizen?”

  “Gee,” she said, “that’s an interesting question. Here’s his phone number.”

  “Thanks, Petra. Good talking to you.”

  “Same here,” she said. “I think I’ll cut out early and get file dust out of my hair.”

  Isaac Gomez answered at his parents’ Union district apartment.

  “Hey, Dr. Delaware.”

  “Congratulations, Dr. Gomez.”

  “Dr. Gomez is some guy with gray hair and bifocals,” he said. “Though if you ask my mother, I’ve already earned tenure and it’s only a matter of time before the Nobel committee knocks at our door.”

  “Your mother’s cooking might clinch the award,” I said. “Getting ready for med school?”

  “I’m not sure you can ever be ready. I sat in on a few classes last semester and after grad school it seemed regressive, everyone sitting in one room, no curriculum flexibility. One factor might make it more enjoyable. My girlfriend will be in the class.”

  “Congrats again.”

  “Yes, it’s great.”

  Heather Salcido was a tiny, dark-haired beauty whom Isaac had saved from a killer. As good a foundation as any for romance.

  “She’d already taken the premed courses studying for her RN. I convinced her to take the MCATS. She scored high, applied, got in. She’s still a little apprehensive but I’m certain she’ll excel. We’re hoping seeing each other daily will help ease the process. So why are you calling?”

  I told him.

  He said, “Making you a copy of the disks—there are two—is no problem. But they’re encrypted and fairly inaccessible unless you’ve had experience decoding.”

  “Not since I worked with the Navajos and unlocked secret Nazi transmissions.”

  “Ha. Why don’t you give me the specific addresses on your list and I’ll check for straightaway matches. If I don’t find any, I’ll program a search function that pulls up loci in a steadily widening concentric net where we can adjust for radius. Do you have any geographical criterion in mind?”

  Close by.

  I said, “Not yet.”

  “Okay, so we’ll adopt an empirical approach. Swing the net—like a seine—and analyze which patterns emerge. I could do it in, say in a couple of days?”

  “That would be great, Isaac. I really appreciate it.”

  “One complication, Dr. Delaware. Heather and I are taking a trip to Asia—last vacation before the grind. Once we’re there, I won’t be available because Myanmar—what used to be Burma—is part of our itinerary and the government there has been known to confiscate computers and refuse entry to anyone trying to bring one in.”

  “Maybe that’ll be good for you,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Pure vacation, no encumbrances.”

  “That’s what Heather says, but to me a computer’s no encumbrance. The notion of traveling without one feels like leaving an arm or a leg at home. It’ll be interesting to see how I adapt.”

  Talking about himself as a research subject. I thought of Patty’s detachment. The partitions we all build.

  He said, “Meanwhile, give me those streets and I’ll play around.”

  Two hours of my own computer games produced no citation or image of Patty Bigelow, no crimes at any of the four addresses.

  I made a grilled cheese sandwich that I shared with Blanche. When I poured coffee, she opened her mouth and panted. A coffee-coated fingertip placed on her tongue caused her to back away, shake her head, and spit.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” I said. “Next time I’ll brew espresso.”

  I tried Robin’s cell, got her voice on message tape. After wondering some more about Patty’s housing choices, I tried Tanya.

  “No malpractice,” she said. “Dr. Silverman’s sure?”

  “He is.”

  “Okay…have you been able to learn anything?”

  “Detective Sturgis is going to do some introductory investigation.”

  “That’s great,” she said. Flat voice.

  “Everything okay, Tanya?”

  “I’m a little tired.”

  “When you have more energy, I’d like to talk to you again.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Eventually.”

  “I don’t mean therapy,” I said. “I’d like to find out more about all the places you and your mother lived. For background.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Sure, I can do that. I’ve some straightening up to do, then it’s back to campus for study group. Summer school’s supposed to be more mellow but the profs don’t seem to realize that. And with the quarter system, you barely have time to buy books before midterms…could we do it late, say nine thirty? No forget that, I don’t want to impose.”

  “It doesn’t need to be tonight, Tanya.”

  “I hate having things pile up, Dr. Delaware. If you had time, so would I, but of course that’s not right. You need your evenings—”

  “Nine thirty’s fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Could we make it nine forty-five, just to be safe? I could come back to your office or you could come to my house—maybe you’d like to see the home Mommy made.”

  “I would.”

  “Great!” she said. “I’ll make coffee.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  At nine twenty, as I was crating Blanche, my private line rang.

  A welcome voice said, “I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Having fun?”

  “I’m coming home a day early. The lectures were good but it’s starting to feel like school. I sold that F5 replica, some dot-com guy kept upping the ante.”

  Robin had spent a year acquiring the aged fiddle-grain maple and red spruce billets for the elaborately carved mandolin, had worked on tapping and shaving and shaping for another twelve months, brought the finished product to Healdsburg for display only.

  “Must’ve been a nice ante?” I said.

  “Twenty-one thousand.”

  “Whoa. Congratulations.”

  “I hated to part with it, but a girl has her price. I guess…I figure to set out early Sunday morning, be back by evening. What’s your schedule like?”

  “Flexible.”

  “Has the little blonde moved in on my territory, yet?”

  “The little blonde eats kibble and sleeps all day.”

  “The quiet ones,” she said, “they always bear watching.”

  I drove to Tanya’s house, thinking ba
ck to the first time I’d met her.

  Skinny little blond girl wearing a dress, anklet socks, and shiny sandals. Back pressed to the wall of my waiting area, as if the carpet was bottomless water.

  When I’d stepped out of the office, Patty had touched Tanya’s cheek gently. Tanya’s nod was grave, a movement so brief it bordered on tic. Fingers as delicate as fettuccini gripped her mother’s chunky hand. A shiny foot tapped. The other was planted on the imaginary shoreline.

  I bent to child’s eye level. “Nice to meet you, Tanya.”

  Murmured reply. All I could make out was “you.”

  Patty said, “Tanya chose her outfit. She likes to dress up, has excellent taste.”

  “Very pretty, Tanya.”

  Tanya mouth-breathed; I smelled hamburger and onion.

  I said, “Let’s go in there. Mom can come, too, if you’d like.”

  Patty said, “Or I don’t have to.” She hugged the little girl and stepped away. Tanya didn’t move.

  “I’ll be right here, honey. You’ll be okay, I super-promise.”

  Tanya looked up at her. Took a deep breath. Gave another grim little nod and stepped forward.

  She surveyed the props on the play table. Open-sided dollhouse, family-member figurines, pencils, crayons, markers, a stack of paper. Prolonged eye contact with the paper.

  “Do you like to draw?”

  Nod.

  “If you feel like drawing now, that’s fine.”

  She picked up a pencil and drew a slow, wispy circle. Sat back, frowned. “It’s bumpy.”

  “Is bumpy okay?”

  Pale green eyes studied me. She put the pencil down. “I came here to break my habits.”

  “Mom told you that?”

  “She said if I want to, I should tell you.”

  “Which habits bother you the most, Tanya?”

  “Mommy told you all of them.”

  “She did. But I’d like to know what you think.”

  Puzzled look.

  “They’re your habits,” I said. “You’re in charge over them.”

  “I don’t want to be in charge.”

  “You’re ready to let go of the habits.”

  Mumble.

  “What’s that, Tanya?”

  “They’re bad.”

  “Bad like scary?”

  Head shake. “They make me busy.”

  The pencil was an inch from where it had lain originally and she rolled it back. Adjusted the tip, then the eraser. Readjusted and tried, without success, to smooth a curling corner of paper.

  “That bumpy circle,” I said, “could be the start of a person’s face.”

  “Can I throw it out?”

  “Sure.”

  Folding and unfolding the sheet lengthwise, she ripped slowly along the crease. Repeated the process with each of the halves.

  “Where, please?”

  I pointed at the wastebasket. She dropped the pieces in, one by one, watched them drop, returned to the table.

  “So you want to break your habits.”

  Nod.

  “You and Mommy agree on that.”

  “Yup.”

  “You and Mommy are a team.”

  That seemed to puzzle her.

  “You and Mommy agree most of the time.”

  “We love each other.”

  “Loving means agreeing.”

  “Yup.”

  She drew a pair of circles, one twice the diameter of the other. Squinted and hunched and added primitive features.

  “Lumpy again,” she pronounced. Another trip to the trash can.

  “You really don’t like lumpy,” I said.

  “I like it to be good.”

  Selecting a third piece of paper, she put the pencil down and traced circles with her finger. Looked up at the ceiling. Tapped the fingers of one hand, then the other.

  “What kinds of things do you and Mommy do together?”

  She retrieved the pencil. Twirled it. “There was a mother when I was a baby. She was too weak and Mommy wanted to take care of me…she was Mommy’s sister.”

  “The other mother.”

  “She was called Lydia. She died in a accident. Mommy and I get sad when we think about her.”

  “Do you think about her a lot?”

  Flicking the paper stack, she selected a female figurine, placed it in the house’s living room. “We also have a fish.”

  “At home?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “In a tank?”

  “Uh-uh a bowl.”

  “A goldfish?”

  “Uh-uh goldfish are too dirty, the man said.”

  “What man is that?”

  “From the fish store. Mr. Stan Park.”

  “What kind of fish did Mr. Park sell you?”

  “A guppy. Real small.”

  “Does the guppy have a name?”

  “We thought it was a girl but it got color on the tail.”

  “So it’s a boy.”

  “We changed the name.”

  “From a girl name to a boy name?”

  “He was Charlotte, now he’s Charlie.”

  “How does Charlie feel about being a boy instead of a girl?”

  “He’s a fish. He doesn’t think.”

  “He never thinks about anything? Like ‘I wonder when Tanya will change my water?’”

  “His brain is too little for words.”

  “So he just swims back and forth and doesn’t worry about anything,” I said.

  Silence.

  “Do you worry?”

  “Fish also don’t have stomachs,” she said. “Food goes in and out so don’t feed them too much.”

  “You know a lot about fish.”

  “I read a book.” Tiny hands drifted to the stack of paper, squared the corners.

  “I have some fish, too.”

  “Guppies?”

  “No, they’re called koi. Kind of like giant goldfish but all different colors.”

  Skeptical stare. “Where?”

  “Outside in a pond. Want to see?”

  “If Mommy lets me.”

  We walked out to the van. Patty looked up from her newspaper. “So soon?”

  “He has giant fish, Mommy.” Tanya’s arms spread.

  “Really.”

  “Outside in a giant pond.”

  “We’re going to feed them,” I said. “Want to come along?”

  “Hmm,” said Patty. “No, I’ll just let the two of you get to know each other.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  At Beverwil and Pico, less than a mile from Tanya’s house, my service beeped in.

  “It’s Flora, Doctor. Detective Sturgis called. He’ll be out for a while but you can try him in a couple of hours.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No, Doctor. It was just him being him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You know,” she said. “The way he always is, Mr. Jokey. He told me with my voice I should be on the radio selling beachfront condos in Colorado.”

  “You do have a nice voice, Flora.”

  “I used to,” she said. “If only I could quit smoking. He sounds kind of cute. Is he?”

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  Canfield Avenue was narrow and dark and quiet, but no sign of anything remotely ominous.

  No reason for there to be. I’d slipped into thinking this was real.

  Point me at a puzzle and aim.

  Years ago, I’d been the perfect therapist for Patty and Tanya. They hadn’t known the real reason why, never would.

  Alexander is very bright but he seems to feel a need for absolute perfection that can lead to some emotion in the classroom. I rarely label a child overly conscientious but that may apply, here.

  Alexander needs to understand that not everyone in 3rd grade learns as quickly as he does and that making mistakes is acceptable.

  Alexander is doing well in junior high but he needs to work on exhibiting more self
-control when projects don’t go as planned.

  Alex is an excellent student, particularly in science, but he doesn’t seem to endorse the concept of group work. Hopefully high school will teach him to accept himself as a member of a team…

  Year after year of well-meaning teachers, leaving conferences with my parents, convinced their insights were beneficial.

  He’s so hard on himself, Mr. and Mrs. Delaware.

  Dad responding with the jovial, knowing grin. Mom at his side, docile, silent, ladylike in a clean dress and the one pair of shoes with heels.

  How could any of those teachers have known that when Dad wasn’t feeling jovial, imperfection could result in rages as predictable as snakebites.

  That falling short meant a beefy workingman’s belt scourging a child’s narrow back, next day’s welts and bruises concealed by shirts and sweaters and silence.

  No way for the teachers to grasp that when too much discussion filled the house, Mom had been known to lock herself in her bedroom for days. Leaving Dad, banished, fuming, reeking of beer-and-shots, lurching through the four remaining rooms of the house in search of someone to blame.

  My sister, Em, the sib I hadn’t spoken to in years, had been quick to sniff the air and get away, an ace escape artist. I’d thought her selfish because the rules made her safe: You didn’t hit girls, at least not with a strap.

  Boys were another matter…

  Enough nostalgia, mawkish fellow, self-pity’s a lousy aperitif.

  Besides, I’d put it all behind me, courtesy of the training therapy required by my doctoral program.

  A stroke of good luck: random assignment to a kind, wise woman. The mandatory six months stretching to a year, then two. Then three.

  The changes I saw in myself reaffirmed my career choice: If you knew what you were doing, this psychotherapy stuff worked.

  By my final year of grad school, the cognitive starbursts and compulsive corrections were gone. Farewell, also, to rituals, invisible or otherwise.

  Death of the near-religious belief that symmetry was all.

  Which wasn’t to say vestiges didn’t crop up from time to time.

  The occasional bout of insomnia, the sudden stabs of inexplicable tension.