Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Melissa said, “That’s ridiculous. She hates the water.”

  Ramp punched buttons again, waited several moments, and hung up.

  We sipped some more.

  Ate more silence.

  Melissa put her cup down and said, “This is stupid.”

  Before either Ramp or I could reply, the phone rang.

  Melissa beat Ramp for it.

  “Yes, but speak to me, first. . . . Just do it, dammit— I’m the one who . . . What! Oh, no! What do you— that’s ridiculous. How can you be sure! That’s stupid. . . . No, I’m perfectly capable of . . . No, you listen to me, you—”

  She stood there, open-mouthed. Pulled the phone away from her face and stared at it.

  “He hung up!”

  “Who?” said Ramp.

  “Prickering! That ass hung up on me!”

  “What did he have to say?”

  Still gazing at the phone, she said, “McCloskey. They found him. Downtown L.A. The L.A. police questioned him and let him go!”

  “Christ!” said Ramp. He snatched the phone out of her hand, punched buttons hurriedly. Twisting his shirt collar and grinding his teeth. “Cliff? This is Don Ramp. Melissa said you . . . I understand that, Cliff. . . . I know she is. It’s a frightening thing, but that’s no . . . All right. I know you are. . . . Yes, yes . . .” Frowning and shaking his head. “Just tell me what happened. . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh huh . . . But how can you be sure, Cliff? This isn’t some goddam saint we’re talking about, Cliff. . . . Uh-huh . . . Yes . . . Yes, but . . . Still, wasn’t there some way . . . Okay. But what if . . . Okay, I will. Thanks for calling, Cliff. Stay in touch.”

  Hanging up, he said, “He apologizes for hanging up on you. Says he told you he was busy, trying to find your mom, and you continued to . . . lip off to him. He wants you to know he has your mother’s best interests at heart.”

  Melissa stood there, glassy-eyed. “They had him and they let him go.”

  Ramp put his arm over her shoulder and she didn’t resist. She looked numb. Betrayed. I’d seen more life in wax models.

  “Apparently,” said Ramp, “he can account for his whereabouts every minute of the day— they have no grounds to hold him. They had to release him, Meliss. Legally.”

  “The asses,” she said in a low voice. “The goddam asses! What does it matter where he was all day? He doesn’t do things himself— he hires people to do things.” Raising her voice to a shout: “He hires people! So what if he wasn’t there himself!”

  Wrenching herself away from Ramp, she grabbed her face and let out a squeal of frustration. Ramp started to approach her, thought better of it, and looked at me.

  I went over to her. She retreated to a corner of the room and faced the wall. Stood in the corner like a child being punished, sobbing.

  Ramp gave a sad look.

  Both of us knowing she could have used a father. Neither of us able to fill the bill.

  • • •

  Finally she stopped crying. But she stayed in the corner.

  I said, “Neither of you has confidence in Chickering. Maybe a private investigator’s called for.”

  Melissa said, “Your friend!”

  Ramp looked at her with sudden curiosity.

  She looked at me and said, “Tell him.”

  I said, “Yesterday, Melissa and I discussed investigating McCloskey. A friend of mine’s an LAPD detective on leave. Very competent, lots of experience. He agreed to do it. He’d probably agree to look into your wife’s disappearance as well. If she shows up soon, you might still want to consider checking out McCloskey. Of course, your attorneys may have someone else they work with—”

  “No,” said Melissa, “I want your friend. Period.”

  Ramp looked at her, then me. “I don’t know who they use— the lawyers. We never had to deal with anything like this. Is this friend of yours really good?”

  Melissa said, “He already said he was. I want him, and I’m paying.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Melissa. I’ll pay.”

  “No, I will. She’s my mother and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Ramp sighed. “We’ll talk about it later. In the meantime, Dr. Delaware, if you’d be kind enough to call your friend—”

  The phone rang again. Both of them jerked their heads around.

  This time Ramp got there first. “Yes? Oh, hello, Doctor. . . . No, I’m sorry. She hasn’t . . . Yes, I understand. . . .”

  Melissa said, “Her. If she’d called sooner, we could have started looking sooner.”

  Ramp covered his ear. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I couldn’t hear . . . Oh. That’s very kind of you. But no, I don’t see any pressing reason for you to . . . Hold on.”

  Covering the mouthpiece with his other hand, he looked at me. “Dr. Cunningham-Gabney wants to know if she should come over. Any reason she should?”

  “Does she have any . . . clinical information about Mrs. Ramp that would help locate her?”

  “Here,” he said, handing me the phone.

  I took it, said, “Dr. Cunningham-Gabney, this is Alex Delaware.”

  “Dr. Delaware.” The well-modulated voice stripped of some of its melody. “I’m very alarmed by today’s events. Did Melissa and her mother have any sort of confrontation before she disappeared?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Gina called me this morning and intimated there had been some unpleasantness— Melissa staying out all night with some boy?”

  Keeping my eyes off Melissa, I said, “That’s accurate, as far as it goes, Doctor, but I doubt it’s a causal factor.”

  “Do you? Any unusual stress could cause someone like Gina Ramp to behave unpredictably.”

  Melissa was staring straight at me.

  I said, “Why don’t you and I get together? Discuss any clinically relevant factors that might shed light on what’s happened.”

  Pause. “She’s right there, isn’t she? Hovering?”

  “Basically.”

  “All right. I don’t imagine my coming down there and provoking another confrontation is very wise. Would you like to come over to my office, right now?”

  “Sounds good,” I said, “if Melissa thinks that’s okay.”

  “That child has too much power as is,” she said sharply.

  “Maybe so, but clinically I think it’s advisable.”

  “Very well. Consult her.”

  I covered the receiver and said to Melissa: “What do you think of my getting together with her? At the clinic. To share facts— psychological data— in order to see if we can figure out where your mother is.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” said Ramp.

  “Sure,” Melissa said sourly. “Whatever.” Waving her fingers. The same offhandedness she’d used two days ago to drop clinical bombs.

  I said, “I’ll stay here as long as you want me to.”

  “No, no. You can go right now. I’ll be fine. Go talk to her.”

  I got back on the phone. “I’ll be there within the half hour, Dr. Cunningham-Gabney.”

  “Ursula. Please. At times like this a hyphen’s a damned nuisance. Do you know how to get here?”

  “Melissa will tell me.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  • • •

  Before I left, I called Milo’s home and got Rick’s voice on a machine. Both Melissa and Ramp sagged when I told them he wasn’t in, making me realize how much stake they were putting in his powers of detection. Wondering if I was doing him a favor by drawing him into the haut monde, I left a message for him to call me at the Gabney clinic during the next couple of hours; at my home, after that.

  As I got ready to leave, the doorbell chimed. Melissa jumped up and ran out of the room. Ramp followed her, walking with long, tennis-bred strides.

  I brought up the rear, to the entry hall. Melissa opened the doors and let in a black-haired boy of around twenty. He took a step toward Melissa, looked as if he wanted to hug her. Saw Ramp and stopped him
self.

  He was on the small side— five seven, slim build, olive skin, full bowed lips, brooding brown eyes under heavy brows. His hair was black and curly, worn short on top and sides, longer in back. He had on a short red busboy’s jacket, black slacks, white shirt, and black bow tie. A set of car keys jangled in one hand. He looked around nervously. “Anything?”

  Melissa said, “Nothing.”

  He moved closer to her.

  Ramp said, “Hello, Noel.”

  The boy looked up. “Everything’s okay, Mr. Ramp. Jorge’s handling the cars. There aren’t that many tonight. It’s kind of slow.”

  Melissa touched the boy’s sleeve and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Ramp said, “Where are you going?”

  Melissa said, “Out. To look for her.”

  Ramp said, “Do you really think—”

  “Yes, I do. C’mon, Noel.” Tugging at the red fabric.

  The boy looked at Ramp.

  Ramp turned to me. I played sphinx. Ramp said, “Okay, Noel, consider yourself off for the rest of the night. But be careful—”

  Before he finished the sentence the two of them were out the door. It slammed shut and echoed.

  Ramp stared at it for a few moments, then turned to me, weary. “Would you care for a drink, Doctor?”

  “No, thanks. I’m expected at the Gabney Clinic.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He walked me to the door. “Have kids of your own, Doctor?”

  “No.”

  That seemed to disappoint him.

  I said, “It can be tough.”

  He said, “She’s really bright— sometimes I think that makes it rougher, for all of us, her included. Gina told me you treated her years ago, when she was just a little kid.”

  “Seven through nine.”

  “Seven through nine,” he said. “Two years. So you’ve spent more time with her than I have. Probably know her a hell of a lot better than I do.”

  “It was a long time ago,” I said. “I saw a different side of her.”

  He smoothed his mustache and played with his collar. “She’s never accepted me— probably never will. Right?”

  “Things can change,” I said.

  “Can they?”

  He opened the door on Disney lights and cool breeze. I realized I hadn’t gotten directions to the clinic from Melissa and told him so.

  He said, “No problem. I know the way by heart. Gone there plenty. When Gina needed me to.”

  14

  On the way to Pasadena I found myself peering up driveways, checking foliage, scanning the streets for a misplaced shadow, a flash of chrome. The crumpled outline of a woman down.

  Irrational. Because the pros had been there already: I spotted three San Labrador police cruisers within a ten-block radius, one of which tailed me for half a block before resuming its prowl.

  Irrational because the streets were naked— a stray tricycle could be spotted a block away.

  A neighborhood that kept its secrets off the street.

  Where had Gina Ramp taken hers?

  Or had they been taken from her?

  Despite my words of encouragement to Melissa, I hadn’t convinced myself the whole thing was an impromptu vacation from phobia.

  From what I’d seen, Gina had been vulnerable. Fragile. Just arguing with her daughter had set off an attack.

  How could she possibly handle the real world— whatever that meant.

  So I kept searching as I drove. Spitting in the face of reason and feeling a little better for it.

  • • •

  The Gabney Clinic occupied a generous corner lot in a good residential neighborhood that had begun yielding reluctantly to apartments and shops. The building had once been a house. A big two-storied, shingle-sided, brown craftsman-style bungalow set back behind a flat, wide lawn. Three giant pines shadowed the grass. A front porch spanned the width of the structure, darkened by massive eaves. Shake roof, lots of wood-relief, stingy windows in oversized casements. Ungainly and dimly lit— some architectural hack’s sendup of Greene and Greene. No sign advertising what went on inside.

  A low wall— rock chips in cement— fronted the property. A gateless gap in the center provided access to a cement walkway. On the left, a wood-plank gate had been propped open, exposing a long, narrow driveway. A white Saab Turbo 9000 was parked at the mouth of the drive, blocking further motor access. I left the Seville parked on the street— Pasadena was more tolerant than San Labrador— and made my way up the walk.

  A white porcelain sign the size and shape of an hour cigar was nailed to the front door; GABNEY was painted on it in black block letters. The knocker was a snarling lion chewing on a brass ring, top-lit by a yellow bug bulb. I lifted it and let it fall. The door vibrated— C-sharp, I was pretty sure.

  A second porch light went on. A moment later the door opened. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney stood in the doorway wearing a burgundy-colored scallop-necked knit dress that ended two inches above her knees and accentuated her height. Vertical ribs ran through the fabric, accentuating further. High-heeled pumps were the topper.

  The perm she’d worn in the newspaper photo had been replaced by a glossy fudge-colored wedge. John Lennon eyeglasses hung from a chain around her neck, competing for chest-space with a string of pearls. The chest itself was convex and concave exactly where it should have been. Her waist was small, her legs sleek and very, very long. Her face was squarish, finely molded, much prettier than in the picture. Younger, too. She didn’t appear to be much older than thirty. Smooth neck, tight jawline, big hazel eyes, clean features that didn’t need camouflage. But she was wearing plenty: pale foundation, artfully applied blush, mauve eye shadow, deep-red lipstick. Aiming for severe and hitting the target.

  “Dr. Delaware? Come in.”

  “Alex,” I said. “Fair is fair.”

  That confused her for a moment; then she said, “Yes, of course. Alex.” And smiled. And turned it off.

  She motioned me into what would have seemed like a generous entry hall if I hadn’t just done time at Dickinson Manor. Parquet floors, architecturally paneled oak walls stained shoe-polish brown, plain-wrap craftsman benches and coat trees, a clock that said SANTA FE below the 12 and RAILROAD above the 6. On the walls was a scattering of muddy California plein-air landscapes— the kind of stuff the galleries in Carmel had been trying to palm off as masterpieces for years.

  The living room was to the left, visible through half-open sliding wooden doors. More oak walls, more landscapes— Yosemite, Death Valley, the Monterey coast. Black-upholstered straight-backed chairs arranged in a circle. Heavy drapes hid the windows. What would have been the dining room was to the right, set up as a waiting area with mismatched couches and magazine tables.

  She stayed a couple of steps in front of me, heading for the rear of the first floor. Quick, deliberate steps. Tight dress. Fluid glutei. No chitchat.

  She stopped, opened a door, and held it.

  I stepped into what had probably been a maid’s room. Small and dim and gray-walled, with a low ceiling. Furnished with simple contemporary pieces: a low-backed pine and gray-leather stenographer’s chair behind a pine table-desk. Two side chairs. Three bracketed shelves full of textbooks on the wall behind the desk. Diplomas filling the wall to the left. A single window on a side wall was covered by a gray pleated shade.

  A single piece of art, next to the shelves. Cassatt drypoint etching. Soft color. Mother and child.

  Yesterday I’d seen another piece by the same artist. Another simple gray room.

  Therapeutic rapport taken to the nth?

  Chicken-egg riddles jumped into my head.

  Ursula Cunningham-Gabney went behind the desk, sat, and crossed her legs. The dress rode up. She left it that way. Put on her glasses and stared at me.

  She said, “No sign of her yet?”

  I shook my head.

  She frowned, pushed the glasses higher on her thin, straight nose. “You’re younger than
I expected.”

  “Ditto. And you squeezed in two doctorates.”

  “It really wasn’t that remarkable,” she said. “I skipped two grades in elementary school, started Tufts at fifteen, went to Harvard for grad school at nineteen. Leo Gabney was my major professor and he guided me through— helped me avoid some of the nonsense that can trip a person up. I did a double major in clinical and psychobiology— had taken all the premed courses as an undergrad. So Leo suggested I go to med school. I did my dissertation research during the first two years, combined my psych internship with my psychiatric residency, and ended up with licensure in both fields.”