Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes

by Private Eyes(Lit)

  The precise images she'd described nine years ago.

  The place she'd never slept.

  The only concession to young adulthood was a desk to the right of the bed bearing a personal computer, dot-matrix printer, and a pile of books.

  I inspected the books. Two manuals on preparation for the SAT.

  The College Game: Planning Your Academic Career: Fowler's Guide to American Universities. Information brochures from half a dozen firstrate colleges. The one from Harvard, dogeared, a bookmark inserted in the Psychology section.

  Manuals for the future in a room that clung to the past. As if her mind had developed while the rest had stagnated.

  Had I been fooled, nine years ago, into believing she'd changed more than she had?

  I left the room, considered looking for her on the second and third floors, and realized how daunting that would be.

  I went downstairs and stood alone in the entry hall. Man without a function. A ten-foot marble clock, with a face almost too ornate to read, said 11:45. Gina Ramp had been gone almost nine hours.

  I'd been hanging around for more than half of it.

  Time to catch some sleep, leave the detecting to the pros.

  I went to tell the pro I was leaving.

  He was standing behind the desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled carelessly mid-forearm, phone tucked under his chin, writing rapidly.

  "Uh-huh... Is he generally reliable? He does? Didn't know you guys were doing that well.... That so?.. - Really... Maybe I should be thinking about that, yeah. Anyway, what time was this?.

  .

  . Okay, yeah, I know where it is. I appreciate your talking to me at this stage of the game. Yeah, yeah, officially, though I don't know that they're actively involved San Labrador is..

  Yeah, I know. Just for strokes, though -. Yeah, thanks. Appreciate it. Bye."

  He hung up, said, "That was the Highway Patrol. Looks like my freeway theory's getting some validation. We've got a possible sighting of the car. Three-thirty this afternoon, on the 210, heading east, out near Arura. That's about a ten-mile drive from here, so it makes sense time-wise.

  "What do you mean "possible sighting,' and why did it take so long to find out if it was spotted that long ago?"

  "The source is an off-duty motorcycle guy. He was hanging out at home, listening to his scanner, happened to hear the bulletin and called in.

  Seems at three-thirty he'd pulled some speeder off onto the left shoulder of the westbound 210, was in the process of writing out a ticket when he happened to notice the Rolls, or one just like it, zip by on the eastbound. It happened too fast for him to get the plates, other than to notice they were English. That answer both your questions?"

  "Who was driving?"

  "He didn't see that either. Not that he would've if it was her, because of the smoked windows."

  "Did he notice smoked windows?"

  "Nope. It was the car he was looking at. The body-style. Seems he's some sort of collector, has a Bentley from around the same period."

  "Cop with a Bentley?"

  "That was my reaction, too. The guy I was just talking to sergeant at the San Gabriel chippy station-is a buddy of the first guy. The call came in to him, personally-he's also a motorhead, collects Corvettes.

  Lots of cops are into wheels-they work extra jobs to pay for their toys. Anyway, he informs me that some of the old Bentleys aren't that expensive. Twenty grand or so, cheaper if you buy a wreck and fix it up yourself. Rolls from the same year cost more cause they're rarer-only a few hundred of those Silver Dawns were made. That's why the first guy noticed it."

  "Meaning it's probably hers."

  "Probably. But not definitely. The guy who saw it thought it was black over gray, but he couldn't be sure it might have been all black or dark gray over light gray. We're talking a sixty-mile-an-hour zip-by."

  "How many old Rolls would there be driving around, that time, that place?"

  "More than you might imagine. Apparently, a hell of a lot of them ended up in L.A. back when the dollar was worth something.

  And there are plenty of collectors concentrated in the Pasadena-San Labrador area. But yeah, I'd say we've got a ninety-percent-plus chance it was her."

  "East on the 210," I said, picturing the wide-open highway.

  "Where would she be heading?"

  "Anywhere, but she'd have had to make a decision fairly soon the freeway ends around fifteen miles from there, just short of La Verne.

  North is Angeles Crest and I don't see her as the type to rough it.

  South, she could have caught any number of other freeways the 57 going straight south. Or 10, in either directipn, which would take her anywhere from the beach to Vegas. Or she could have continued on surface streets up into the foothills, checked out the sights at Rancho Cucamonga what the hell is out there, anyway?"

  "I don't know. But my guess is she'd probably stay near civilization.

  He nodded. "Yeah. Her type of civilization. I'm thinking Newport Beach, Laguna, La Jolla, Pauma, Santa Fe Springs. Still doesn't narrow it much. Or maybe she turned around and headed for her own place in Malibu."

  "Ramp called there twice and she didn't answer."

  "What if she wasn't in the mood to pick up the phone?"

  "Why would she go in one direction, then reverse herself?"

  "Let's say the whole thing started out impulsively. She's just driving, for the hell of it. Gets on the freeway, gets swept along going east by chance. Maybe it's just a matter of it being the first onramp she sees. When the freeway ends she decides upon a specific destination. Closest thing to home: home number two. Or let's say she was heading east intentionally. That means Route 10 and a whole bunch of other possibilities: San Berdoo, Palm Springs, Vegas. And beyond.

  The great beyond, Alex she could drive all the way to Maine, if the car held up. If it didn't, with her dough she could've ditched it, gotten another one fast. All you need to chew up the open road is time and money, and neither of those is her problem."

  "An agoraphobic doing the scenic route?"

  "You said yourself she was in the process of getting cured.

  Maybe the freeway helped it along all that blacktop, no stoplights.

  It can make you feel powerful. Make you wanna forget about the rules.

  That's why people move out here in the first place, isn't it?"

  I thought about that. Thought of my first time on the open road, heading west for college at sixteen. The first time I'd driven over the Rockies, seeing the desert at night, thrilled and terrified. My first view of the dirt-brown haze looming over the L.A. basin, heavy and threatening but incapable of dimming the gilded promise of the city at twilight.

  "Guess so," I said.

  He came around from behind the desk.

  I said, "What now?"

  "Deliver the news, then get the bulletin expanded it's better than even money she's out of the county by now."

  "Or the car is.

  He raised his eyebrows. "Meaning what?"

  "It is possible that something happened to her, isn't it? That someone else is behind the wheel."

  "Anything's possible, Alex. But if you were a bad guy, would I at be the car you'd rip off?"

  "Who was it told me long ago it's only the stupid ones you catch?"

  "You wanna think foul play, fine. At this point I'd have to see something ugly to consider it anything more than an adult runaway.

  And not one that's likely to turn me into a hero."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Runaways are the hardest m.p."s to locate under any circumstances.

  Rich ones are the worst of the worst. Because the rich get to make their own rules. Buying for cash, avoiding jobs, credit unions all the stuff that leaves a paper trail. What just happened with Ramp and the kid is a perfect example. Your average husband would be a hell of a lot more in touch with his wife's credit cards and social security number. Your average couple shares. These people live separately at least where money
's concerned. The rich know the power of the buck they rope their funds off and protect them like buried treasure.

  "Separate bank accounts and separate bedrooms," I said.

  "Real intimate, huh? He doesn't seem to know her. Wonder why she married him in the first place the kid has a point."

  "Maybe she liked his mustache."

  He gave a short, sad smile and walked to the door. Looking back at the windowless room, he said, "Designed for concentration. I couldn't spend too much time here without going stir-crazy.

  I thought of another windowless room, said, "Speaking of interior design, when I was over at the Gabney Clinic, I was struck by the similarity between Ursula Gabney's office decor and the way Gina furnished that sitting room upstairs. Exact same color scheme same style of furniture. And the only art in Ursula's office was a Cassatt lithograph. Mother and child."

  "So what's it mean, Doctor?"

  "I don't know exactly, but if the print was agift, it was a hell of a generous one. The last time I checked an auction catalogue, Cassatt prints in good shape were pricey."

  "How pricey?"

  "Twenty to sixty grand for black-and-white. A color one would go for more.

  "The doctor's print is a color one, too?"

  I nodded. "Very similar to Gina's."

  "Sixty grand plus," he said. "What's the current wisdom on therapists accepting gifts?"

  "It's not illegal but it's generally considered unethical."

  "You think there's some kind of Svengali thing going on?"

  "Maybe nothing that ominous " I said. "Just overinvolvement possessiveness. Ursula seems resentful of Melissa the way one sibling might resent another. Almost as if she wants Gina all to herself.

  Melissa sensed it. On the other hand, maybe it's just professional pride. The treatment's been intensive. She's brought Gina a long way-changed her life."

  "Changed her furniture, too."

  I shrugged. "Maybe I'm overinterpreting. Or seeing it backwards.

  Patients influence therapists, too. It's called countertransference.

  Ursula could have bought her Cassatt because she saw Gina's and liked it. With the fees the clinic charges, she could sure afford it.

  "Big bucks setup?"

  "Megabucks. When both Gabneys work, they bill five hundred an hour per patient. Three for his time, two for hers."

  "Didn't she ever hear of equal pay for equal work?"

  "Her work's more than equal-my impression is she does most of the actual therapy while he sits back and plays mentor."

  He clucked his tongue. "She's not doing too bad as a mentee, is she?

  Five hundred." He shook his head. "Sweet deal. Get a handful of rich folk in serious psychic pain and you wouldn't need much else to fuel the gravy train.

  He took a step, paused. "You think this Ursula's holding back?"

  "Holding back what?"

  "Knowledge of the whole thing. If they were as close as you're suggesting, Gina could have let her in on her plans for the great escape. Maybe old Ursula even thought getting away would be good for her therapeutic. Hell, maybe she even helped plan it Gina disappeared on the way to the clinic."

  "Anything's possible," I said. "But I doubt it. She seemed genuinely upset by the disappearance."

  "What about the other one the husband?"

  "He mouthed the right words but didn't come across too stressed. He claims he doesn't worry. Trained himself not to."

  "Doctor heal thyself, huh? Or could be he's just not as good an actor as his wife."

  "The three of them in cahoots?" I said. "Thought you didn't like conspiracy theories.

  "I like what fits not that any of it does at this point. We're just head-tripping."

  "There are two other women in Gina's group," I said. "If she did plan to run away, she might have mentioned it to them. When I suggested to Ursula that they be interviewed, she got really defensive: told me Gina didn't socialize with them they couldn't be any help. If she is hiding something, that could have been stonewalling."

  He gave a small smile. "Stonewalling? I thought you guys called it confidentiality?"

  I felt myself go hot.

  He patted my shoulder. "Now, now, what's a little reality between friends? Speaking of which, I'd better deliver the news to my clients."

  We found Ramp sitting and drinking in the rear room with the painted beams. The drapes were drawn across the French doors and he was staring off into space, eyes half-closed. His face had taken on a ruddy glow and his shirt was wilting around the edges. When we came in he said, "Gentlemen?" in a hearty, greeter's voice.

  Milo asked him to get Melissa and he called her room, using an intercom on the phone. When she didn't answer, he tried several other rooms without success, then looked up helplessly.

  Milo said, "I'll catch her later," and told him about the car being sighted.

  "The 210," said Ramp. "Where would she be going?"

  "Can you think of anything?"

  "Me? No, of course not. None of this makes any sense toWhy would she be driving the freeway? She just started driving, period. This is just crazy.

  Milo said, "It would be a good idea to have that bulletin expanded statewide."

  "Of course. Go ahead, do it.

  "It's got to come from a police agency. Your local cops have probably been informed of the sighting by now, may have requested it already.

  If you want, I can call to confirm."

  "Please," said Ramp. He got up and walked around the room. A shirttail had come loose in front. It was monogrammed with a red DNR.

  "Driving the freeway," he said. "That's nuts. They're sure it was her?"

  "No," said Milo. "The only thing they're sure of is that it was a car just like hers."

  "So it had to be her. How many damned Silver Dawns could there be?"

  He looked down, tucked in his shirt hastily.

  Milo said, "The next step would be to call airline companies, then get to the bank tomorrow morning and take a look at her financial records."

  Ramp stared at him, groped like a blind man along the edge of a nearby armchair, and lowered himself into it, still staring. "What you said at the beginning-about this being... about her running away. You think that for certain now, don't you?"

  "I don't think anything yet," Milo said with a gentleness that surprised me and raised Ramp's head a couple of inches higher. "I'm taking it step by step-doing the things that need doing."

  A door slammed somewhere in the house.

  Ramp bounded up and left the room, returning a few moments later trailing Melissa.

  She had on a khaki safari vest over her shirt, and boots encrusted with mud and grass.

  "I had Sabino's boys check the grounds," she said. "Just in case."

  A brief glance at Ramp. "What's going on?"

  Milo repeated what he'd learned.

  "The freeway," said Melissa. One of her hands found the other and kneaded.

  Ramp said, "It doesn't make any sense, does it?"

  She ignored him, put her hands on her hips, and faced Milo.

  "Okay, at least she's all right. What next?"

  Milo said, "Phone work till morning. Then I head over to the bank."

  "Why wait till morning? I'll call Anger right now and tell him to get down here. It's the least he can do all the business this family's given him."

  "Okay. Tell him I'll need to go over your mother's records."

  "Wait here. I'll go call him right now."

  She left the room.

  Milo said, "Yes, ma'am."

  "No offense."

  "I'll call you if I need you," she said.

  "No problem."

  "Sayonara," said Milo, heading for the door.

  I said, "I'll walk out with you."

  She came back with a scrap of paper and handed it to Milo. "He'll meet you there here's the address. I had to tell him what it was about, let him know I expected him to keep it to himself. What should I do while you're gone?"

 
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