Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes

by Private Eyes(Lit)

  "Non, monsieur.

  Milo said, "Has Mr. Ramp come home yet?"

  "Non, monsieur." Her fingers stilled.

  I said, "Why don't we put her to bed."

  "Oui, monsieur."

  I lifted Melissa, carried her up the stairs to her room, Madeleine and Milo behind me. Madeleine turned on the light, dimmed it, and drew back the covers of the four-poster. She spent a long time tucking Melissa in, then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat.

  Reaching into a dressing-gown pocket, she drew out her crocheting and placed it in her lap. Sitting motionless, careful not to rock.

  Melissa shifted position under the covers, moved again so that she was on her back. Her mouth was open and her breathing was slow and steady.

  Milo watched the rise and fall of the comforter for a moment, then said, "I'm gonna get going. How about you?"

  Remembering a small child's night terrors, I said, "I'll stay for a while."

  Milo nodded.

  "I stay also," said Madeleine. She engaged her yarn, looped it around her needle, and began dipping and tilting.

  "Good," I told her. "I'll be downstairs. Call me if she wakes up.

  "Oui, monsieur."

  I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and thought about things that kept me awake. The final time I checked my watch, it was just after 1:00 A.M. I fell asleep, still sitting, and awoke stiff and cottonmouthed, my arms tattooed.

  Dazed and confused, I jerked upright. The tattooing shifted kaleidoscopically.

  Luminous blue and red and emerald and amber splotches.

  Sunlight sieved through lace curtains and daubed by stained glass.

  Sunday.

  I felt sacrilegious. As if I'd dozed off in a church.

  Seven-twenty.

  Silent house.

  Overnight, a stale smell had settled in. Or maybe it had been there all along.

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to clear my head. Stood, with some pain, straightened my clothes, ran my hand over my stubbled face, and stretched until it was obvious that the ache wasn't ready to depart.

  In a guest bathroom near the entry hall, I splashed water on my face, massaged my scalp, and headed upstairs.

  Melissa was still asleep, hair spread on her pillow, too perfectly arranged to be accidental.

  It reminded me of a Victorian funeral photo. Angelic children in lace-edged coffins.

  I worked my way past that, smiled at Madeleine.

  The pink thing was still formless but had stretched to a couple of feet. I wondered if she'd slept at all. Her feet were bare, bigger than mine. A pair of corduroy slippers was arranged neatly on the floor next to the rocker. Next to them was a telephone that she'd removed from Melissa's nightstand.

  I said, "Bonjour:" She looked up, clear-eyed and grim, began working her needle faster.

  "Monsieur." She reached down and replaced the phone.

  "Did Mr. Ramp come home?"

  Glance at Melissa. Shake of the head. The movement made the chair creak.

  Melissa opened her eyes.

  Madeleine shot me an accusing look.

  I approached the bed.

  Madeleine began rocking. The chair complained louder.

  Melissa looked up at me.

  I smiled down at her, hoping it didn't look ghoulish.

  She widened her eyes. Moved her lips, seemed to be struggling.

  "Hi,"Isaid.

  "I-what-" Her eyes darted, unable to settle. Panic crossed her face.

  She pushed her head forward, fell back. Closed her eyes and opened them again.

  I sat down and took her hand. Soft and hot. Felt her forehead.

  Warm, but not feverish.

  Madeleine rocked faster.

  Melissa was squeezing my fingers. "I- Wha- Mama."

  "They're still looking for her, Melissa."

  "Mama." Tears. She closed her eyes.

  Madeleine was there with a tissue for her and a look of reproach for me.

  A moment later Melissa was sleeping again.

  I waited around until her slumber deepened, got what I needed from Madeleine, and went downstairs. Lupe and Rebecca were downstairs, vacuuming and scrubbing. When I passed, they averted their eyes.

  I left the house, stepping out into sooty light that grayed the forest shielding the mansion. As I opened the door to the Seville, a white Saab Turbo came roaring up the drive. It came to a short stop, the engine quieted, and both Gabneys got out, Ursula from the driver's side.

  She had on a snugly tailored gray sharkskin suit over a white blouse and less makeup than she'd worn at the clinic. It made her look tired but younger. Every hair in place, but her coiffure lacked luster.

  Her husband had exchanged cowboy duds for a brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, beige slacks, chocolate suede wingtips, white shirt, and green tie.

  She waited until he took her arm. The difference in their heights seemed almost comical but their expressions killed the joke. They walked toward me, matching each other step for step, looking like pallbearers.

  "Dr. Delaware," said Leo Gabney. "We've been calling the police department regularly, just received the terrible news from Chief Chickering." His free hand wiped his high brow. "Terrible."

  His wife bit her lip. He patted her arm.

  "How's Melissa?" she said, very softly.

  Surprised by the question, I said, "Sleeping."

  "Oh?"

  "It seems to be her major defense right now."

  "Not uncommon," said Leo. "Protective withdrawal. I'm sure you're aware of how important it is to monitor, because sometimes it's a prelude to prolonged depression.

  I said, "I'll be keeping an eye on her."

  Ursula said, "Has she been given anything? To make her sleep?"

  "Not to my knowledge," I said.

  "Good," she said. "It's best that she not be tranquilized. In order to..." She bit her lip again. "God, I'm so sorry. I reallyThis is just.

  She shook her head, folded her lips inward, and looked at the sky.

  "What can you say at a time like this?"

  "Horrible," said her husband. "You can say it's damned horrible and feel the pain while resigning yourself to the inadequacy of language."

  He patted some more. She gazed past him, at the big house's peach facade. Her eyes seemed unfocused.

  He said, "Horrible," again, a professor trying to foment discussion.

  Then, "Who can account for the way things work out?"

  When neither his wife nor I responded, he said, "Chickering suggested suicide-playing amateur psychologist. Pure nonsense, and I told him so. She never displayed an iota of depression, masked or overt. On the contrary, she was a robust woman, considering what she'd been through."

  He stopped again, meaningfully. Somewhere, from the trees, a mockingbird imitated a jay. Gabney gave an exasperated look and turned to his wife. She was somewhere else.

  I said, "Did she ever mention anything in therapy that would explain why she drove up to that reservoir?"

  "Nothing," said Leo. "Not a thing. Driving off by herself in the first place was total improvisation. That's the hell of it-had she adhered to the treatment plan, none of this would have happened.

  She'd never been anything but compliant before."

  Ursula continued to say nothing. She'd loosened her arm from her husband's grip without my noticing.

  I said, "Was there any unusual stress she was undergoingapart from the agoraphobia?"

  "No, nothing," said Gabney. "Her stress level was lower than ever before. She was progressing beautifully."

  I turned to Ursula. She continued looking at the house but shook her head.

  "No," she said. "Nothing."

  "Why this line of inquiry, Dr. Delaware?" said Gabney. "Surely you don't believe it was suicide." Pushing his face closer to mine. One of his eyes was a paler blue than the other. Both were clear and unwavering. Less combative than curious.

  "Just trying to make some sense of it."

  He pl
aced a hand on my shoulder. "I understand. That's only natural.

  But I'm afraid the sad sense of it boils down to the fact that she overestimated her progress and deviated from the treatment plan.

  The sense of it is that we'll never make any sense of it."

  He sighed, wiped his brow again, though it was dry. "Who knows better than we therapists that human beings persist in their annoying habit of being unpredictable? Those of us who can't deal with that should study physics, I suppose."

  His wife's head made a sharp quarter-turn.

  "Not that I'm blaming her, of course," he said. "She was a sweet, well-meaning woman. Suffered more than anyone should. It's just one of those unfortunate... things." Shrug. "After enough years in practice, one learns to accommodate to tragedy. One definitely learns."

  He reached for Ursula's arm. She allowed him to touch her for a moment, then moved away and walked quickly up the limestone steps. Her high heels clattered and her long legs seemed too decorative for top speed. She looked sexy and awkward at the same time. At the front door she placed her palms flat upon the Chaucer carving and stood there, as if the wood had healing powers.

  "She's soft," said Gabney, very quietly. "Too caring."

  "Didn't know that was a fault."

  He smiled. "Give yourself a few more years." Then: "So, are you taking responsibility for the emotional well-being of this family?"

  "Just Melissa."

  He nodded. "She's certainly vulnerable. Please don't hesitate to consult with us if there's anything we can do."

  "Would it be possible to review Mrs. Ramp's chart?"

  "Her chart? I suppose so, but why?"

  "Same answer as before, I guess. Trying to make sense out of it."

  Professorial smile. "Her chart won't help you with that. There's nothing... juicy in it. Which is to say we avoid the typical anecdotal pitfalls-compulsively detailed descriptions of the patient's every twitch and blink, those lovely Oedipal recollections and dream sequences movie writers are so fond 0o My research has shown that that kind of thing has little to do with therapeutic outcome. Typically, the doctor scrawls in order to feel he's being useful, never bothers to actually go back and read any of it, and when he does, none of it's useful. So we've developed a method of record-keeping that's highly objective. Behavior-based symptomology. Objectively defined goals."

  "What about records of the group sessions?"

  "We don't keep those. Because we don't conceptualize the groups as therapy I unstructured group sessions have very little direct treatment value. Two patients presenting identical symptoms may have arrived at their pathology along totally different pathways.

  Each has developed a unique pattern of faulty learning. Once the patient has changed, it may be appropriate for him to talk to others who've experienced progress. If for no other reason than as a social reinforcer."

  "Socializing as a reward for doing well?"

  "Exactly. But we keep the discussion on a positive track. Don't take notes or do anything else to make it seem too clinical."

  Remembering what Ursula said about Gina's planning to talk about Melissa in group, I said, "Do you discourage their talking about their problems?"

  "I'd prefer to see it as reinforcing positivity."

  "Guess you'll be facing a challenge now. Helping the others deal with what happened to Gina."

  Keeping his eyes on me, he reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of chewing gum. Unwrapping two pieces, he stuck them together and got to work on them.

  "If you want to read her chart," he said, "I'd be happy to make you a copy.

  "I'd appreciate that."

  "Where shall I send it?"

  "Your wife has my address."

  "Ah." Glancing at Ursula again. She'd moved away from the door, was coming slowly down the steps.

  "So," he said, "the daughter's sleeping?"

  I nodded.

  "How's the husband doing?"

  "He hasn't come home yet. Any psychological insights on him?"

  He moved his head to one side, shifting into the sunlight, and his white hair became a nimbus. "Seems a pleasant enough fellow.

  Somewhat on the passive side. They haven't been married long, so he's a Johnny-come-lately, in terms of the pathology."

  "Was he involved in the treatment?"

  "As involved as he could be. He followed through on the little that was expected of him. Excuse me.

  Turning his back on me, he walked briskly toward the steps and took his wife's hand as she descended. Tried to put his arm around her shoulder but was too short to pull it off. Grasping her waist instead, he ushered her toward the Saab. Holding the passenger door open for her, he helped her in. His turn to drive. Then he walked over to me and offered his soft hand.

  We shook.

  "We came to help," he said, "but it doesn't seem as if there's much for us to do right at this moment. Please let us know if that changes.

  And good luck to the child. She'll certainly need it."

  Madeleine's directions were precise. I found the Tankard without any trouble.

  Southwestern stretch of Cathcart Boulevard, just below the San Labrador city limits. Same mix of pricey shops and service establishments, lots of self-conscious mission architecture. The pistachio trees ended at the Pasadena border and were replaced by jacarandas in full bloom. The median was beautifully littered with purple blossoms.

  I parked, spotting other non-Labradoran features: a cocktail lounge at the end of the block. Two liquor stores-one billing itself as a wine merchant, the other a PURVEYOR OF FINE SPIRITS. Window banners announcing premium French and California varietals on special.

  The Tankard and Blade was a modest-looking establishment.

  Two stories, maybe a thousand square feet, set on a quarter-acre lot that was mostly parking space. Coarse-troweled white stucco, brown crossbeams, leaded windows, and mock-thatch roofing. A chain blocked the lot. Ramp's Mercedes was on the other side, parked toward the rear, confirming my powers of deduction. (Where the hell was the deerstalker hat and calabash?) A couple of other cars sat farther back: twenty-year-old brown Chevrolet Monte Carlo with a white vinyl top peeling at the seams, and a red Toyota Celica.

  The front door was panes of bubbly colored glass set into distressed oak. A hand-printed cardboard sign hanging from the knob said SUNDAY BRUNCH CANCELED. THANK YOU.

  ?KI VA It t I t I ) I " I knocked, got no answer. Pretended I had a right to intrude and rapped until my knuckles grew sore.

  Finally the door opened and an irritated-looking woman stood there, keys in hand.

  Mid-forties, five five, 135. Figure in the hourglass mode, made ostentatious by what she had on: Empire I waisted, bodice-topped, puffed long-sleeve maxi-dress with a square neckline low enough to display a swelling hand's-breadth of freckled cleavage. Above the waist the dress was white cotton; below, wine-and-brown paisley print.

  Platinum hair drawn back and tied with a wine-colored ribbon. A black velvet choker centered with an imitation coral cameo encircled her neck.

  Someone's idea of Ye Olde Serving Wench.

  Her features were good: high cheekbones, firm square chin, full crimson-glossed lips, small uptilted nose, wide brown eyes framed by too-dark, too-thick, too-long lashes. Hoops the size of drink coasters hung from her ears.

  Protected by barroom light or booze-softened consciousness, she would have been a knockout. Morning assaulted her beauty, pouncing upon overly pancaked skin, worry seams, a loosening around the jowls, pouches of despair tugging her mouth into a frown.

  She was regarding me as if I were the taxman.

  "I'd like to see Mr. Ramp."

  She back-rapped the sign with crimson nails. "Can't you read?"

  She flinched as if asserting herself hurt.

  "I'm Dr. Delaware-Melissa's doctor."

  "Oh The worry lines deepened. "Hold on a second-just wait here."

  The door closed and locked. A few minutes later she opened it.

 
"Sorry, it's just... You should have met Bethel." Shooting her hand forward. Before I could take it, she added, "Noel's mom."

  "Good to meet you, Mrs. Drucker."

  Her expression said she wasn't used to being called Mrs. She dropped my hand, looked up and down the boulevard. "C'mon in."