Obsession

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “The yellow one sounds right for your next birthday.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “Rhino drives a Bumblebee.”

  When Tanya hadn’t gotten back by three, I tried her again.

  “Oh. Hi.” Soft voice, tense.

  “Bad time?”

  “No…I was actually going to call you. Mr. Fineman—Mommy’s accountant—asked me to look for some tax records and I found something in the bottom of the drawer.”

  “What?”

  “Um—I’m not sure what it means. Can I show it to you?”

  “Of course. One thing you should know: Your mother’s gun doesn’t match to any known crime and has been ruled out in the case we told you about.”

  “That’s great,” she said. All the emotion of a cyborg.

  “Everything okay, Tanya?”

  “Yes…I was planning to leave for campus at five. I could drop by before then. If you’re not busy.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Is four thirty okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  She clicked off midway through my good-bye.

  CHAPTER

  25

  She arrived five minutes early, clutching a padded envelope. Gray knit gloves sheathed her hands though the weather was mild.

  In the office, she tore the envelope flap, pulling out a photo and a sheet of lined paper folded twice over.

  The snapshot showed Patty and Lester Jordan standing next to each other in the dirty-custard space that was Jordan’s living room. His hair was dark, wispy, and plastered to his skull. His eyes bagged, his legs bowed. A gray sweatshirt provided bulk that fooled no one.

  Patty’s stocky body tilted toward Jordan, as if she was ready to break his fall.

  Tanya unfolded the lined paper and handed it to me. The creases were grubby and the edges were fuzzy. A note in blue ballpoint printing read:

  To the alleged Florence nightingale: I’m giving this back to you because you don’t give a damn. I don’t know why you think it’s professionally ok to do what you did. The old bastard’s rich, he can get anyone to change his diapers but who’s going to walk me around and wake-shake if I need that? I can understand others being manipulated by that a-hole’s $$$$$ but why you, Pat? You always said $$$$$ wasn’t a big deal to you. You always said honesty was everything, Pat. Obviously, all that talk about honesty was just the usual bullshit like what they shovel in all those fucking rehabs. Don’t get me wrong, Pat, I’m not p.o.’d, I’m HURT. Capital H. And you know where that leads with me, Pat. What else am I supposed to do, Pat? And whose fault will it be if I fall hard, Pat?

  Enjoy the rest of your life.

  Les

  Tanya said, “He says he’s not mad but that’s rage. Do you believe his arrogance? ‘Wake and shake’? She got him through an overdose, probably saved his life, so instead of being grateful, he guilt-trips her? And that last part—‘You know where that leads with me.’ He’s threatening to O.D. again, right? Implying it’ll be her fault. How does someone get so entitled!”

  I said, “That’s an addict focusing on his own needs.”

  “He probably became an addict because he was selfish. And weak. All those people who can’t hold it together.”

  Her cheeks were ripe cherries. Her shoulders had bunched so sharply that her lapel rode up around her ears. She shook loose a torrent of hair, grabbed a handful, and twisted.

  I sat down, motioned for her to do the same. She didn’t move, finally plopped on the couch.

  “She did take excellent care of him,” I said. “That’s the reason Kyle’s father wanted her to care for his father.”

  “The ‘A-hole with money.’ Wasn’t it his right to spend his money any way he wants? The colonel was dying, Dr. Delaware. Caring for him was good use of Mommy’s time.”

  “Jordan wasn’t.”

  “Look how he treated her, Dr. Delaware. You can’t call that rant rational. I don’t care what his problems were, there was no excuse. It’s not like he and Mommy were best friends. After seeing the picture, I vaguely remember seeing him—didn’t even know his name. Kyle barely knew him. Jordan lucked out by having a highly skilled nurse as a neighbor. When it was time to move on, he should’ve thanked her, not threatened to mess himself up.”

  She slapped her knees. “I’m just so tired of people not being fair.”

  I said, “You’re right. He should’ve been grateful.”

  “After all she did for him, from the bottom of her heart.”

  “Your mother was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met but we have learned that she got paid to look after Jordan.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Kyle’s mother told us.”

  “Her.”

  “You know her?”

  “Kyle told me what an incredibly self-centered person she is, never had time for him. Maybe it runs on that side of the family.”

  More hair-pulling. “Okay, she got paid. Why not? But that doesn’t change things. It was Mommy’s right to move on.”

  “Of course it was,” I said. “So you and Kyle have been talking regularly.”

  “We hung out on campus a couple of times and yesterday we went to Coffee Bean. And I did ask him about Jordan but like I said, he barely knew him.”

  “Has he seen the note and the photo?”

  “No. Do I have to keep it a secret?”

  “For the time being, that might be a good idea. How does Kyle feel about his father?”

  “He’s okay with him. Why?”

  “The detective investigating Jordan’s murder wants to talk to any extended family she can find. She’s been looking for Myron Bedard but hasn’t been able to locate him. Supposedly, he’s in Europe.”

  “He is,” she said. “Paris. He called Kyle yesterday, offered to fly Kyle over, but Kyle’s too busy with his dissertation. Why does the detective want to speak to extended family?”

  “That’s often where an investigation starts.”

  “I thought this was a drug murder.”

  “No one’s sure what it is, Tanya.”

  She let out a long breath. “So she got paid. Why should she donate her time?”

  “I didn’t want to upset you—”

  “You didn’t. I appreciate the honesty. It means you respect my intelligence.”

  She got up and paced the office. Tried to straighten a picture that was waxed in place, sat and jabbed a finger at the photo. “What I don’t get is why would she keep it all these years?”

  “Maybe it meant something to her.”

  “You’re saying she did feel guilty?”

  “No, but she was a compassionate person,” I said. “Jordan’s pain could’ve touched her.”

  “I guess…I’m so angry. It’s not a feeling I’m used to. I don’t like it.”

  She buried her face in her hands. Looked up. “They’re coming back—my symptoms. I feel like I’m losing control. The house is so quiet at night, it’s worse than noise, I can’t sleep. Last night I fooled with my curtains for half an hour and then I washed my hands till they got like this.”

  Tearing off a glove, she showed me knuckles rubbed raw.

  I said, “We can work on all that.”

  “Can or should?”

  “Should.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  How do you feel about hypnosis?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “It’s basically deep relaxation and focused concentration. You’d be good at it.”

  “I would? Why?”

  “You’re intelligent.”

  “I’m suggestible?”

  I said, “All hypnosis is self-hypnosis. Receptivity is a skill that gets better with practice. Smart, creative people do the best because they’re comfortable being imaginative. I think it’s a good choice for you right now because you can get some quick results and go back to the excellent progress you made when you were a kid.”

  No answer.

  “Tanya?�
��

  “If you say so.”

  I began with rhythmic, deep breathing. After the third exhalation, she opened her eyes. “Where’s Blanche?”

  “Sleeping in her crate.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hold on.” I fetched the dog, placed her on the couch next to Tanya. Tanya stroked the top of her head. We resumed the breathing exercise. Within moments, Tanya’s body had started to loosen and Blanche was asleep, flews puffing and fluttering.

  I counted backward from a hundred, using my induction monotone. Matched the rhythm of my voice to Blanche’s snorts. By seventy-four, Tanya’s lips had parted and her hands were still. I began inserting suggestions. Framing cues for each breath as an opportunity to relax.

  At twenty-six, the light on my phone blinked.

  I said, “Go deeper and deeper.”

  Tanya slumped. With the tension gone, she looked like a child.

  So far, so good. If I didn’t think too hard about the larger issues.

  When an hour had passed, I gave her posthypnotic instructions for practice and prolonged relaxation and brought her out.

  It took several tries for her eyes to stay open. “I feel…amazing…thank you. Was I hypnotized?”

  “You were.”

  “It didn’t feel…that strange. I wasn’t sure I could do it.”

  “You’re a natural.”

  Tanya yawned. Blanche followed suit. Tanya laughed, stretched, got to her feet. “Maybe one day you can hypnotize me to study better.”

  “Having problems concentrating?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. I was kidding.”

  “Actually,” I said, “being relaxed would help with exams.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, I’ll remember that.” She reached into her bag. “I’ll practice every day—you did say something about that, right?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s a little…odd. I’m looking right at you but you’re…close and distant at the same time. And I can still hear your voice in the back of my head. What else did you tell me to do?”

  “Nothing else,” I said. “You’re in control, not me.”

  She rummaged in her purse. “Hmm…I know I’ve got a check here…”

  “When would you like to come back?”

  “Can I call you?” Extracting a white envelope, she placed it on the desk. “Signed and ready to go.” Her eyes shifted to Jordan’s letter and the photo. “You can keep them, I don’t want them.”

  “I’ll pass them along to Lieutenant Sturgis.”

  She stiffened. “Mommy helped him with his addiction, I don’t see how that would relate to his murder.”

  “I don’t, either, but he might as well keep all the data. I would like to schedule another session, Tanya.”

  “You really think so?”

  “If money’s an issue—”

  “No, not at all, I’m doing great in that department, have kept right on budget.”

  “But…”

  “Dr. Delaware, I appreciate everything you’ve done—are still doing for me. I just don’t want to be too dependent.”

  “I don’t see you as dependent, at all.”

  “I’m here, again.”

  “Tanya, how many nineteen-year-olds could do what you’re doing?”

  “I’m almost twenty,” she said. “Sorry, thanks for the compliment. It’s just that…look at Jordan. All that rage because he couldn’t shake his dependency. Mommy taught me the importance of taking care of myself. I am not going to be one of them.”

  “Them?”

  “Weak, self-pitying people. I can’t afford to be that way.”

  “I understand. But all I see is someone smart enough to ask for help when she needs it.”

  “Thank you…I really feel I’m okay, what we did today was amazingly helpful.” She shook her arms to demonstrate. “Rubber girl. I’ll practice. If I forget something, I’ll get right in touch.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I promise,” she said. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  At the front door, she said, “Thanks for trusting me, Dr. Delaware. No need to walk me down.”

  I watched her descend to her van. She never looked back.

  Monday, the blinking light was a message from my service. Detective Sturgis had phoned.

  I told Milo about Lester Jordan’s angry missive.

  He said, “So the guy was an asshole, we saw that in person.”

  “Maybe it clarifies things. From the note it’s clear that Patty helped him through an O.D., but there was no hint she supplied him with anything other than TLC.”

  He said, “Great. Meanwhile, the hills are alive with the sound of suspects. I located a three-year-old black Hummer registered to Quick-Kut Music, address on the fourteen hundred block of Oriole Drive. I’m meeting Petra in an hour at Sunset and Doheny—near Gil Turner’s liquor store. Come fly with us, if you’re so inclined.”

  The bird streets worm their way into the hills above the Strip, just east of Trousdale Estates, skinny, sinuous, haphazardly paved feats of engineering.

  Mockingbird, Warbler, Thrasher, Skylark, Tanager.

  Blue Jay Way, where George Harrison sat alone in a rental house, waiting for a press agent who’d made a wrong turn, staring out at a vast table of city shrouded by night and fog.

  Easy to lose your way up there. Random cul-de-sacs and no-warning dead ends say someone in the city planner’s office had enjoyed playing darts. Grades are treacherous and jogging’s a life-threatening procedure due to the lack of sidewalks, Porsches and Ferraris buzzing the curb. The houses, many of them hidden behind hedges and walls, range from Palladian palaces to no-style boxes. They butt up against each other like rush-hour straphangers, teeter over the street. Squint a certain way on the bird streets and the hills seem to be trembling even when the ground is still.

  The good part is heart-stopping views, some of the best in L.A., and seven- to eight-figure property values.

  A twenty-eight-year-old music thief would need a serious income supplement to swing it and the obvious answer was dope. Despite that, I meant what I’d told Milo about Patty not being involved in the dope trade. Jordan’s note was personal—rage at losing an emotional safety net, not concern about being cut off from his supply.

  Patty’s sin had been doing her job too well.

  Yet she’d committed another iniquity, something serious enough to haunt her for years. And Lester Jordan had probably died because of it.

  When I got to the liquor store, Milo stepped out of his unmarked, unfolding a map and wondering out loud if the topography of Oriole Drive allowed a decent vantage spot. Taking the padded envelope without comment, he dropped it onto the passenger seat and returned to the map.

  Petra drove up in her Accord.

  The two of them studied the street grid, decided to park at the bottom of Oriole and walk. Petra’s car would be the transport vehicle because it was unobtrusive.

  “Not cool enough to be a local,” she said, tapping the hood, “but maybe they’ll think I’m a personal assistant.”

  She drove north on Doheny Drive, used her stick shift to keep it smooth.

  Milo said, “Nice gear-work, Detective Connor.”

  “Had to drive better than my brothers.”

  “For self-esteem?”

  “Survival.”

  Every second property seemed to be under construction or renovation, and the side effects abounded: dust, din, workers darting across the road, gouges in the asphalt inflicted by heavy machinery.

  As we climbed, the houses got smaller and plainer, some of the punier ones obviously subdivides of old estates. Oriole Drive began with the thirteen hundred block. We parked at the base and began a steep upward hike.

  Petra’s long, lean legs were made for climbing and my self-punishing runs made the grade no big challenge. But Milo was panting and trying hard to hide it.

  Petra kept an eye on hi
m. He forged ahead of us. Wheezed, “You…know…CPR?”

  She said, “Took a refresher last year but don’t you dare, Lieutenant.”

  Glancing at me. I threw up my hands.

  The scrape-scrape of his desert boots became our marching cadence.

  A No Outlet sign appeared at the advent of the fourteen hundred block.

  Fourteen sixty-two meant the top of the hill or close to it.

  Milo gasped, “Oh, great.” Rubbed his lower back and trudged.

  We passed a huge white contemporary house, then several plain-faced fifties boxes. What the Orwellian dialect known as Realtor-Speak would euphemize as “midcentury charmers.”

  The part about “drop-dead views” would be righteous.

  Milo pressed forward. Mopping his face with a handkerchief, he sucked in air and pointed.

  Empty space where 1462 should’ve been.

  What remained was a flat patch of brown dirt not much bigger than a trailer pad and surrounded by chain link. The gate was open. A construction permit packet hung on the fence.

  A man stood at the far end of the lot, a few feet from the precipice, staring out at smoggy panorama.

  Milo and Petra checked nearby vehicles. The closest was a gold BMW 740, parked at the crown of the cul-de-sac.

  “Car’s not much bigger than the property,” he said. “L.A. affluence.”

  Petra said, “That’s why I don’t paint landscapes.”

  Unmindful of us, the man lit a cigarette, gazed, and smoked.

  Milo coughed.

  The man turned.

  Petra waved.

  The man didn’t return the gesture.

  We walked onto the lot.

  He lowered his cigarette and watched us.

  Early forties, five eight or nine, with heavy shoulders, bulky arms and thighs, and a hard, round belly. A square, swarthy face was bottomed by an oversized chin. He wore a pale blue dress shirt with French cuffs, chunky gold cufflinks shaped like jet planes, sharply creased navy slacks, black croc loafers grayed by dust. The top button of the shirt was undone. Gray chest hair bristled and a gold chain nestled in the pelt. A thin red string circled his right wrist. A beeper and a cell phone hung from his waistband.