Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  A whispered yes.

  “Then you’ll have to hold on long enough for me to get out there. It will take at least half an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re sure? I can stay on the phone until you’re settled.”

  “No . . . Yes. I’m okay. Please come. Please.”

  “Hang in there,” I said. “I’m out the door.”

  13

  Empty streets made lonelier by the darkness. As I drove up Sussex Knoll, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror and remained there, constant as the moon. When I turned off at the pine gates of Number 10, a blinking red light appeared over the two white ones.

  I stopped, switched off the engine, and waited. An amplified voice said, “Out of the car, sir.”

  I complied. A San Labrador police cruiser was nudging my rear bumper, its brights on, its engine running. I could smell the gasoline, feel the heat from its radiator. The red blinker colored my white shirt pink, erased it, colored again.

  The driver’s door opened and an officer got out, one hand on his hip. Big and wide. He lifted something. A flashlight beam blinded me and I raised an arm reflexively.

  “Both hands up in the air where I can see them, sir.”

  More compliance. The light traveled up and down my body.

  Squinting, I said, “I’m Dr. Alex Delaware— Melissa Dickinson’s doctor. I’m expected.”

  The cop stepped closer, caught some of the light from the halogen fixture over the left gatepost, and turned into a young white man with a heavy, prognathous jaw, baby skin, and pug features. His hat was pulled low over his forehead. On a sitcom he’d be called Moose.

  “Who’s expecting you, sir?” The beam lowered, illuminating my trousers.

  “The family.”

  “What family?”

  “Dickinson— Ramp. Melissa Dickinson called me about her mother and asked me to come over. Has Mrs. Ramp shown up yet?”

  “What’d you say your name was, sir?”

  “Delaware. Alex Delaware.” With a tilt of my head I indicated the talk box. “Why don’t you call over to the house and verify that?”

  He digested that as if it were profound.

  I said, “Can I put my hands down?”

  “Move to the rear of your car, sir. Put your hands on the trunk.” Keeping his eyes on me, he advanced to the box. Push of a button and Don Ramp’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “This is Officer Skopek, San Labrador police, sir. I’m down by your front gate, got a gentleman here who claims to be a friend of the family.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mr. Delaware.”

  “Oh. Yes. It’s okay, officer.”

  Another voice came out of the box, loud and dictatorial: “Anything yet, Skopek?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “Yes, sir.” Skopek touched his hat and turned off his flashlight.

  The pine gates began sliding inward. I opened the door of the Seville.

  Skopek followed me and waited until I’d turned the ignition on. When I put the Seville in gear, he stuck his face in the driver’s window and said, “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir.” Not sounding sorry at all.

  “Just following orders, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  • • •

  Spotlights and low-voltage accent beams set among the trees created a nightscape Walt Disney would have cherished. A full-size Buick sedan was parked in front of the mansion. Rear searchlight and lots of antennas.

  Ramp answered the door wearing a blue blazer, gray flannels, blue-striped button-down shirt with a perfect collar roll, and wine-colored pocket square. Despite the fashion statement, he looked drawn. And angry.

  “Doctor.” No handshake. He walked ahead of me, fast, leaving me to close the door.

  I stepped into the entry. Another man stood in front of the green staircase, examining a cuticle. As I got closer, he looked up. Looked me over.

  Early sixties, just under six feet and hefty, with a big, hard paunch, thin, gray, Brylcreemed hair, meaty features filling a broad face the color of raw sweetbreads. Steel-rimmed glasses over a fleshy nose, bladder jowls compressing a small, fussy mouth. He had on a gray suit, cream shirt, gray-and-black striped tie. Masonic stickpin. American flag lapel pin. VFW lapel pin. Beeper on his belt. Size thirteen wingtips on his feet.

  He kept scrutinizing.

  Ramp said, “Doctor, this is our police chief, Clifton Chickering. Chief, Dr. Delaware, Melissa’s psychiatrist.”

  Chickering’s first look told me I’d been the topic of discussion. The second one let me know what he thought of psychiatrists. I figured telling him I was a psychologist wouldn’t alter that much, but I did it anyway.

  He said, “Doctor.” He and Ramp looked at each other. He nodded at Ramp. Ramp glared at me.

  “Why the devil,” he said, “didn’t you tell us that bastard was back in town?”

  “McCloskey?”

  “Do you know of some other bastard who’d want to harm my wife?”

  “Melissa told me about him in confidence. I had to respect her wishes.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Ramp turned his back on me and began pacing the entry hall.

  Chickering said, “Any particular reason for the girl to keep it confidential?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I did. She says she didn’t want to alarm her mother.”

  “Then you’ve got your answer.”

  Chickering said, “Uh-huh,” and shot me the kind of look vice-principals reserve for teenage psychopaths.

  “She could have told me,” said Ramp, stopping his pacing. “If I’d known, I’d have looked out for her, for God’s sake.”

  I said, “Is there evidence McCloskey was involved in the disappearance?”

  “Christ,” said Ramp. “He’s here, she’s gone. What more do you need?”

  “He’s been in town for six months.”

  “This is the first time she’s been out on her own. He hung around and waited.”

  I turned to Chickering. “From what I’ve seen, Chief, you keep a pretty tight lid on things. What’s the chance McCloskey could have been hanging around the neighborhood for six months— stalking her without being noticed?”

  Chickering said, “Zero.” To Ramp: “Good point, Don. If he’s behind it, we’ll know it soon enough.”

  Ramp said, “Why all the confidence, Cliff? You haven’t found him yet!”

  Chickering frowned. “We’ve got his address, all the particulars. He’s being staked out. When he surfaces, he’ll be snapped up faster than a free turkey dinner on Skid Row.”

  “What makes you think he’ll surface? What if he’s off somewhere, with—”

  “Don,” said Chickering. “I understa—”

  “Well, I don’t!” said Ramp. “How the hell is staking out his address going to do a damn thing when he’s probably long gone!”

  Chickering said, “It’s the criminal mind. They tend to return to roost.”

  Ramp gave a disgusted look and resumed pacing.

  Chickering went a shade paler. Parboiled sweetbreads. “We’re interfacing with LAPD, Pasadena, Glendale, and the Sheriffs, Don. Got everyone’s computers on the job. The Rolls’ plates are on all their alert lists. There’s no car registered to him, but all the hot sheets are being scrutinized.”

  “How many cars on the hot sheets? Ten thousand?”

  “Everyone’s looking, Don. Taking it seriously. He can’t get far.”

  Ramp ignored him, kept pacing.

  Chickering turned to me. “This wasn’t a good secret to keep, Doctor.”

  Ramp muttered, “That’s for damn sure.”

  I said, “I understand how you feel, but I had no choice— Melissa’s a legal adult.”

  Ramp said, “What you did was legal, huh? We’ll see about that.”

  A voice from the top of the stairs said, “Just get off his case, Don!”

  Melissa stood on the
landing, dressed in a man’s shirt and jeans, her hair tied back carelessly. The shirt made her look undernourished. She came down the curving flight fast, swinging her arms like a jogger.

  Ramp said, “Melissa—”

  She stood before him, chin up, hands fisted. “Just leave him alone, Don. He didn’t do anything. I was the one who asked him to keep it secret, he had to listen, so just lay off.”

  Ramp drew himself up. “We’ve heard all tha—”

  Melissa screamed, “Shut up dammit! I don’t want to hear this crap anymore!”

  Ramp’s turn to go pale. His hands quavered.

  Chickering said, “I think you’d best calm down, young lady.”

  Melissa turned to him and shook her fist. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do. You should be out doing your job— getting your stupid rent-a-cops to find my mother instead of standing around with him, drinking our scotch.”

  Chickering’s face tensed with rage, then settled into a sick smile.

  “Melissa!” said Ramp.

  “ “Melissa’!” She mimicked his outraged tone. “I don’t have time for this crap! My mother’s out there and we have to find her. So let’s stop looking for scapegoats and just figure out how to find her!”

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing, young lady,” said Chickering.

  “How? With neighborhood patrols? What’s the point? She’s not in San Labrador anymore. If she was, she would have been spotted long ago.”

  A moment’s pause before Chickering answered. “We’re doing everything we can.”

  It sounded hollow. He knew it. The look on both Ramp’s face and Melissa’s drove it home.

  He buttoned his coat. Tight across the midriff. Turned to Ramp. “I’ll stay as long as you need me, but in your interests, I should be out on the streets.”

  “Sure,” said Ramp dispiritedly.

  “Chin up, Don. We’ll find her, don’t you worry.”

  Ramp shrugged and walked away, disappearing into the innards of the mansion.

  Chickering said, “Good to meet you, Doctor.” His index finger pointed like a revolver. To Melissa: “Young lady.”

  He saw himself out. When the door closed, Melissa said, “Idiot. Everyone knows he’s an idiot— the kids all call him Prickering behind his back. There’s basically no crime in San Labrador, so no one challenges him. It’s not because of him, though— just that outsiders stick out like sore thumbs. And the police roust anyone who doesn’t look rich.”

  Talking rapidly but fluently. Just a slight raise of pitch— a tinge of the panic I’d heard over the phone.

  I said, “Your basic small-town setup.”

  She said, “That’s what this place is. Hicksville. Nothing ever happens here.” She lowered her head and shook it. “Only now it has. It is my fault, Dr. Delaware. I should have told her about him!”

  “Melissa, there’s no indication McCloskey has anything to do with this. Think of what you just said about the police rousting outsiders. The chance of anyone being able to stalk her without being spotted is nil.”

  “Stalk.” She shivered, let out breath. “I hope you’re right. Then where is she? What happened to her?”

  I chose my words carefully. “It’s possible, Melissa, that nothing happened to her. That she did this on her own.”

  “You’re saying she ran away?”

  “I’m saying she may have taken a drive and decided to prolong it.”

  “No way!” She shook her head vehemently. “No way!”

  “Melissa, when I talked to your mother I got the sense she was chafing at the bit— really yearning for some freedom.”

  She kept shaking her head. Turned her back on me and faced the green staircase.

  I said, “She talked to me about being ready to take giant steps. Of standing before an open door and having to walk through. She spoke of this house as stifling her. I got the distinct impression she wanted out and was even considering moving once you’d gone away.”

  “No! She didn’t take anything with her— I checked her room. All the suitcases are there. I know everything in her closet and she didn’t take any of her clothes!”

  “I’m not saying she planned a trip, Melissa. I’m talking about something spontaneous. Impulsive.”

  “No.” Another sharp head shake. “She was careful. She wouldn’t do this to me.”

  “You are her main concern. But maybe she got . . . intoxicated by her newfound freedom. She insisted on driving by herself today— wanted to feel in control. Maybe once she got out on the road, driving her favorite car, it felt so good she just kept going. That has nothing to do with her love for you. But sometimes when things start to change, they change fast.”

  She bit her lip, fought back tears, and said in a very small voice, “You really think she’s okay?”

  “I think you need to do everything possible to try to locate her. But I wouldn’t assume the worst.”

  She took several breaths, punched her sides. Kneaded her hands. “Out on the road. And she just kept going. Wouldn’t that be something.” Wide-eyed. Fascinated by the possibility. Then fascination gave way to injury. “No, I just can’t see it— she wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “She loves you dearly, Melissa, but she—”

  “Yes, she does,” she said, crying. “Yes, she does love me. And I want her back!”

  Footsteps sounded on the marble to our left. We turned toward it.

  Ramp was standing there, blazer over one arm.

  Melissa used her bare hands to dry her eyes hastily and ineffectually.

  He said, “I’m sorry, Melissa. You were right— there’s no sense blaming anybody. Sorry if I offended you, too, Doctor.”

  I said, “No offense taken.”

  Melissa turned away from him.

  He came over and shook my hand.

  Melissa was tapping her foot, finger-combing her hair.

  Ramp said, “Melissa, I know how you fee— The point is, we’re in this together. We’ve all got to hang together. To get her back.”

  Melissa spoke without looking at him. “What do you want from me?”

  He gave a concerned look. It seemed genuine. Paternal. She ignored it. He said, “I know Chickering’s a moron. I don’t have any more confidence in him than you do. So let’s put our heads together. See if we can come up with something, for God’s sake.”

  He held out his hands. Frozen in supplication. Genuine pain on his face. Unless he was better than Olivier.

  She said, “Whatever.” Sounding that bored had to be a strain.

  He said, “Look, there’s no sense standing around out here. Let’s go in, stay near the phone. Can I get you something to drink, Doctor?”

  “Coffee, if you’ve got it.”

  “Sure bet.”

  We followed him through the house, settled in the rear room with the French doors and painted beams. The gardens and rolling lawns and tennis court were bathed in emerald light. The pool was a lozenge of peacock blue. All but one of the doors to the car stable were closed.

  Ramp picked up a phone on an end table, punched two digits, and said, “Pot of coffee in the rear study, please. Three cups.” Hanging up, he said, “Make yourself comfortable, Doctor.”

  I settled in a sun-cracked club chair the color of a well-used saddle. Melissa perched on the arm of a cane-backed chair nearby. Scratched her lip. Tugged at her ponytail.

  Ramp remained standing. Every hair in place, but his face showed the strain.

  A moment later Madeleine came in with the coffee and set it down without comment. Ramp thanked her, dismissed her, and poured three cups. Black for me and himself, cream and sugar for Melissa. She accepted it but didn’t drink.

  Ramp and I sipped.

  No one spoke.

  Ramp said, “Let me call Malibu again.” He picked up the phone and punched in a number. Held it to his ear for several moments before putting it back in its cradle. Treating the apparatus with special care, as if it held his fate.

 
I said, “What’s in Malibu?”

  “Our . . . Gina’s beach house. Broad Beach. Not that she’d go there, but it’s the only thing I can think of.”