Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I’m saying McCloskey should definitely be looked into. By a professional. To find out why he came back, what he’s up to. If he’s judged to be dangerous, there are things that can be done.”

  “Like what?”

  “Restraining orders. Security precautions. Is your home well guarded?”

  “I guess. There’s an alarm system and gates. And the police patrol regularly— there’s so little crime in San Labrador the police are basically just like rent-a-cops. Should we be doing more?”

  “Have you told your mother about McCloskey?”

  “No, of course not! I didn’t want to freak her out— not with how well she’s been doing.”

  “What about your— Mr. Ramp?”

  “No. No one knows. No one asks me my opinion about anything anyway, and I don’t volunteer.”

  “Have you told Noel?”

  She gave an uncomfortable look. “Yes. He knows.”

  “What does he say?”

  “To just forget about it. But that’s easy for him— it’s not his mother. You didn’t answer my question, Dr. Delaware— is there something else we should be doing?”

  “I’m not the one to say. There are professionals who specialize in that kind of thing.”

  “Where do I find them?”

  “Let me check,” I said. “I might be able to help you with that.”

  “Your court connections?”

  “Something like that. In the meantime, why don’t we proceed as planned. I’ll contact the Gabneys and see if it’s okay for me to meet with your mother. If it is, I’ll let you know and you can set up an appointment for me to come by. If it isn’t, we’ll take another look at our options. In either event, you and I should be talking some more. Want to make another appointment?”

  “How about tomorrow?” she said. “Same time. If you’ve got the time.”

  “I do.”

  “Thank you— and sorry if I got too hot under the collar just now.”

  “You’re fine,” I said, and walked her to the door for the second time.

  “Thanks, Dr. Delaware.”

  “Take care of yourself, Melissa.”

  “I will,” she said. But she looked like a kid overloaded with homework.

  • • •

  After she was gone, I thought about the way she’d dropped a crumb-trail of crucial facts: her mother’s remarriage, the young man in her life, Dutchy’s death, McCloskey’s return. All of it delivered parenthetically. With an offhandedness that screamed self-defense.

  But given everything she had to deal with— loss, ambivalence, crucial decisions, the erosion of personal control— self-defense was damn reasonable.

  The control issue had to be especially hard for her. An inflated sense of personal power was the logical legacy of all those years of raising her parent. She’d used it to guide her mother to the brink of change.

  Playing matchmaker. Referral service.

  Only to be defeated by her own success: forced to stand back and surrender authority to a therapist. To share affection with a stepfather.

  Add to that the normal strains and doubts of young-adulthood and it had to be crushing.

  Who, indeed, was taking care of Melissa?

  Jacob Dutchy had once filled that role.

  Though I’d barely known the man, thinking of him gone saddened me. The faithful retainer, ever protective. He’d had a certain . . . presence.

  For Melissa, that amounted to paternal loss number two.

  What did that bode in terms of her relationships with men? The development of trust?

  If her comments about Don Ramp— and Noel Drucker— were any example, that road hadn’t been smooth, so far.

  Now the folks from Cambridge, Mass., were demanding a decision, raising the specter of further surrender.

  Who was really afraid of separation?

  Not that her fears were totally without foundation.

  A Mikoksi with acid.

  Why had McCloskey come back to L.A., nearly two decades after his conviction? Thirteen years of imprisonment plus six on parole made him fifty-three years old. I’d seen what prison years could do. Wondered if he was nothing more than a pallid, weary old con, seeking out the comfort of like-minded losers and dead-end haunts.

  Or perhaps he’d used the time at San Quentin to let his rage fester. Nursing acid-and-blood fantasies, filling his bottle . . .

  A discomfiting sense of self-doubt began nagging at me, the same feeling of missing the mark that I’d experienced nine years ago— bending all my rules to treat a terrified child.

  A feeling of not really having a grip on the core of the problem.

  Nine years ago, she’d gotten better despite that.

  Magic.

  How many rabbits were left in the hat?

  • • •

  A machine answered at the Gabney Clinic, listing numbers and emergency beeper codes for both doctors. No other staff members were named. I left a message for Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, identifying myself as Melissa Dickinson’s therapist and requesting a call-back as soon as possible. During the next few hours several calls came in, but none from Pasadena.

  At ten after seven Milo arrived, wearing the same clothes he’d had on that morning, but with grass stains on the pants and sweat stains under the armpits. He smelled of turf and looked tired.

  I said, “Any holes in one?”

  He shook his head, found a Grolsch in the fridge, popped it, and said, “Not my sport, sport. Chasing a little white blur around the crab grass drives me crazy.”

  “Putts you crazy. We’re talking short-distance, guy.”

  He smiled. “The only putz is me, for thinking I could go suburban.” Tilting his head back, he guzzled beer. When the bottle was empty he said, “Where to, dinner-wise?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  “Well,” he said, “you know me, always pining for the haut monde. See, I even dressed for success.”

  • • •

  We ended up at a taco stand on Pico near Twentieth, in the bad part of Santa Monica, inhaling traffic fumes and sitting at a knife-scarred picnic table, eating soft steamed tortillas filled with coarse-ground pork and marinated vegetables, and drinking Coca-Cola Classic over crushed ice out of waxed-paper cups.

  The stand stood on a corner patch of devastated asphalt, between a liquor store and a check-cashing outlet. Homeless people, and a few people who wouldn’t live in homes if they had them, loitered and scrounged nearby. A couple of them watched us collect our food at the counter and find our seats. Panhandling fantasies or worse brightened their clouded eyes. Milo kept them at bay with policeman’s looks.

  We ate looking over our shoulders. He said, “Basic enough for you?” Before I could answer, he was up and heading toward the order counter, one hand in his pocket. A filthy, emaciated, mat-bearded man around my age seized the moment and approached me, grinning and flapping toothless gums incoherently as he waved randomly with a short-circuited arm. The other limb was drawn up to his shoulder, frozen stiff and bent like a chicken wing.

  I held out a dollar bill. The mobile arm snapped it up with crustacean precision. He was off before Milo returned with a cardboard carton full of yellow-papered parcels.

  But Milo’d seen it, and scowled as he sat down. “What’d you do that for?”

  “The guy was brain-damaged,” I said.

  “Or faking it.”

  “Either way, he’d have to be pretty desperate, wouldn’t you say?”

  He shook his head, unwrapped a taco, and bit into it. When the food had traversed his gullet he said, “Everyone’s desperate, Alex. Keep doing that and they’ll be all over us like fungus.”

  It didn’t sound like something he would have said three months ago.

  I looked around, saw the way the rest of the street people were regarding him, and said, “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  He pointed at the food parcels. “Go ahead, this is for you, too.”

  I said, “Maybe in a l
ittle while,” and drank Coke that had turned insipid.

  A moment later I said, “If you wanted information about an ex-con, how would you go about it?”

  “What kind of information?” he said, forming the words around a mouthful of pork.

  “How the guy behaved in prison, what he’s up to now.”

  “This con on parole?”

  “Post-parole. Free and clear.”

  “A paragon of rehabilitation, huh?”

  “That’s the question mark.”

  “How long’s Mr. Paragon been free and clear?”

  “ ’Bout a year or so.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “Assault, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder— he paid someone to damage someone else.”

  “Paid for it, huh?” He wiped his lips.

  “Paid with the intent of doing serious damage or worse.”

  “Then just assume he’ll continue to be scum.”

  “What if I wanted something more specific?”

  “To what end?”

  “It’s related to a patient.”

  “Meaning hush-hush confidential?”

  “At this point.”

  “Well,” he said, “it’s really no big deal. You— meaning a cop, ’cause a civilian’s gonna have a hell of a time doing any of this— you follow the chain. The past is the best predictor of the future, right? So first link is the guy’s sheet. NCIC and local. You talk to any cops who knew him back in the bad old days. Preferably the ones who busted him. Next you eyeball the D.A.’s packet— there’ll be sentencing recommendations in there, shrink stuff, whatever. Step three is talk to the prison staff— find out what kind of time he served. Though the ones who’ll really know him best are the assholes who served it with him. If you’ve got a hook into any of them, you tug. Then check out his parole officer— problem there is caseload and turnover. Lot of what they do is rubber-stamping; the chance of getting anything meaningful is slim. Final step is locating some of his current K.A.’s— known associates— the scum he’s been socializing with since he’s been out. Finis. Nothing profound, just legwork. And in the end it won’t tell you much. So if you’ve got a patient who’s worried, I’d tell him or her to be careful. Buy a big gun and learn how to use it. Maybe a pit bull.”

  “The trace you just described— could a private attorney do it?”

  He eyed me over a taco. “Your average attorney? No. Not in any reasonable length of time. One with access to a good private eye could pull it off, but it would still take a private guy longer unless he’s got great police connections.”

  “Like an ex-cop?”

  He nodded. “Some of the private guys are vets. All of them bill by the hour and this kind of thing is going to build lots of hours. So having a rich client would help.”

  “Sound like the kind of thing you’d be interested in?”

  He put his taco down.

  “What?”

  “A little private consultation, Milo. A real hobby. Are you allowed to work while on suspension?”

  “I’m Joe Citizen, can do whatever I want. But why the hell would I want?”

  “Better than chasing blurs on crab grass.”

  He grunted. Picked up his taco, finished it, and began unwrapping another.

  “Hell,” he said, “I wouldn’t even know what to charge.”

  “That mean you’re considering it?”

  “Mulling. This patient of yours— is he or she the victim?”

  “Victim’s daughter,” I said. “Eighteen years old. I treated her years ago, when she was a kid. She’s been accepted at a college out of town and isn’t sure about going, even though it’s probably the best thing for her.”

  “Because of the scumbag being back?”

  “There are other reasons for her to have doubts. But the scumbag’s presence makes it impossible to deal with any of those. I can’t encourage her to go away with this guy lurking in the background, Milo.”

  He nodded and ate.

  “The family’s got money,” I said. “That’s why I asked about attorneys— if they don’t already have a battalion on retainer, they could hire one. But with you doing it I’d have confidence it was being done properly.”

  “Aw, shucks,” he said, and took a few more bites of taco. He pulled up his shirt collar and gave a furtive look. “Milo Marlowe, Milo Spade . . . which do you think is catchier?”

  “What about Sherlock Sturgis?”

  “What’s that make you? The New Age Watson? Sure, go ahead, tell the family if they want to go that route I’ll check him out.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problema.” He picked his teeth and looked down at his sweat-stained clothes. “Wrong climate for a trench coat— any such thing as a trench shirt?”

  “Go all the way,” I said. “L.A. Vice. Armani.”

  We drained our drinks and polished off more food. On our way to the car, another of the panhandlers approached us— a heavy man of indeterminate race and creed, wearing a shit-eating grin while doing a palsied boogaloo. Milo glared at him, then reached into his pocket and came up with a handful of pocket change. Thrusting the money at the vagrant, he wiped his hands on his pants, turned his back on the man’s gibbered benedictions, and cursed as he reached for the door handle. But the epithets lacked conviction— I’d heard much better out of him.

  • • •

  Dr. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney had called back while I was gone, leaving a number where she could be reached for the rest of the evening. I dialed it, got a throaty, well-modulated female voice.

  “Dr. Cunningham-Gabney?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Dr. Delaware. Thanks for returning my call, Dr. Gabney.”

  “Is this by any chance Dr. Alexander Delaware?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I’m familiar with your research—pavor nocturnus in children. My husband and I included it in a bibliography on anxiety-mediated disorders we compiled last year for The American Journal of Psychiatry. Very thought-provoking.”

  “Thanks. I’m familiar with your work, too.”

  “Where do you practice, Dr. Delaware? Children are outside of our bailiwick, so we do have occasion to make frequent referrals.”

  “I’m on the west side, but I don’t do therapy. Just forensic work. Short-term consultations.”

  “I see. The message I got said you were someone’s therapist.”

  “Melissa Dickinson. I was her therapist years ago. I remain available for my old patients. She came in to see me recently.”

  “Melissa,” she said. “Such a serious young woman.”

  “She has a lot to be serious about.”

  “Yes. Of course she does. The family pathology is deep-rooted. I’m glad she’s finally reached out for help.”

  “Her main concern seems to be her mother,” I said. “Separation. How her mother will deal with her going away to Harvard.”

  “Her mother is very proud of her. And eager for her to go to Boston.”

  “Yes, Melissa’s told me that. But she’s still worried.”

  “No doubt she is,” she said. “But those worries are Melissa’s alone.”

  “So there’s no chance of her mother’s relapsing if Melissa goes away?”

  “Hardly, Dr. Delaware. In fact, I’m sure Gina— Mrs. Ramp— would appreciate her newfound freedom. Melissa’s a bright girl and a devoted daughter, but she can get a bit . . . cloying.”

  “Is that her mother’s term?”

  “No, Mrs. Ramp would never say it that way. But she feels it. So I hope you’ll be able to confront Melissa’s ambivalence head-on and do it quickly enough for her to make the break. I understand there’s a deadline involved. Harvard tends to be impatient— I know from experience. So she’s going to have to commit. One would hate to see a technicality get in the way of forward movement.”

  Thinking of McCloskey, I said, “Does Mrs. Ramp have any other worries that might be transmitting th
emselves to Melissa?”

  “Transmitting? As in emotional contagion? No, I’d say it’s just the opposite— the risk is of Melissa’s anxiety transmitting itself to her mother. Mrs. Ramp presented as one of the most severely phobic patients we’ve ever treated, and we’ve treated many. But she’s made extraordinary progress and she’ll continue to do so. Given the chance.”