“Do you have any clinical impressions that would explain what’s happened?”
“Mrs. Ramp is a nice lady,” he said. “Very sweet. Instinctively, one wants to help her. And clinically, her case is fairly simple, a textbook case of classically conditioned anxiety strengthened and maintained by operant factors: the anxiety-reducing effects of repeated avoidance and escape strengthened by the positively reinforcing qualities of reduced social responsibility and increased altruism of others.”
“Conditioned dependency?”
“Exactly. In many ways she’s like a child— all agoraphobics are. Dependent, ritualistic, routinized to the extent that they cling to primitive habits. As the phobia endures, it gains strength, and their behavioral repertoire drops off sharply. Eventually they become frozen by inertia— a sort of psychological cryogenics. Agoraphobics are psychological reactionaries, Dr. Delaware. They don’t move unless prodded sharply. Every step is taken with great trepidation. That’s why I can’t see her gaily running off in search of some ill-defined Xanadu.”
“Despite her progress?”
“Her progress is gratifying but she has a ways to go. My wife and I have each mapped out extensive plans.”
That sounded more like competition than collaboration. I didn’t comment.
Unwrapping another stick of gum, he slid it between his lips. “The treatment is well thought out— we offer full value in return for our appalling fees. In all probability, Mrs. Ramp will return to the roost and avail herself of it.”
“So you’re not worried about her.”
He chewed hard, made squirting noises. “I’m concerned, Dr. Delaware, but worrying is counterproductive. Anxiety-producing. I train my phobics to stay away from it and I train myself to practice what I preach.”
15
He walked me to the door, talking about science. As I made my way across the lawn I noticed the Saab had been moved forward into the driveway. Behind it was a gray Range Rover. The windshield was dusty, except for wiper arcs.
I visualized Gabney behind the wheel, forging through the mesquite, and drove away thinking what an odd couple the two of them were. At first glance she was an ice queen. Combative, accustomed to fighting for her rights— I could see why she and Melissa had raised each other’s hackles. But the frost was so thin it melted on scrutiny. Underneath, vulnerability. Like Gina’s. Had that formed the basis for an exceptional empathy?
Who’d introduced whom to small gray rooms and the art of Mary Cassatt?
Whatever the reason, she seemed to care. Gina’s disappearance had shaken her up.
In contrast, her husband seemed intent upon distancing himself from the whole affair. Shrugging off Gina’s pathology as routine, reducing pain to jargon. Yet, despite his nonchalance, he’d zipped down to L.A. all the way from Santa Ynez— a two-hour drive. So perhaps he was as worried as his wife and simply better at concealing it.
The old male-female split.
Men posture.
Women bleed.
I thought of what he’d told me about losing his son. How he’d told me. The ease with which he’d spun his tale suggested he’d mouthed it a thousand times before.
Working it through? Desensitization?
Or maybe he really had mastered the art of putting the past behind him.
Maybe one day I’d call him up and ask for lessons.
• • •
It was nine-fifty by the time I got back to Sussex Knoll. A single police cruiser was still patrolling the streets. I must have passed inspection because no one stopped me from pulling up to the gates.
Over the talk box Don Ramp’s voice was dry and tired.
“No, nothing,” he said. “Come on up.”
The gates yawned. I sped through. More outdoor bulbs had been switched on, creating a false daylight, bright and cold.
No other cars in front of the house. The Chaucer doors were open. Ramp stood between them in his shirtsleeves.
“Not a damned thing,” he said, after I’d climbed the steps. “What’d the doctors say?”
“Nothing significant.” I told him about Ursula’s call regarding Melvin Findlay.
His face fell.
I said, “Have you heard anything more from Chickering?”
“He called about half an hour ago. Nothing to report, she’s probably fine, not to worry— it’s not his wife out there. I asked him about contacting the FBI. He claims they won’t get involved unless there’s evidence of abduction, preferably something involving interstate transport of the victim.”
He threw up his hands, let them fall limply. “The victim. I don’t even want to think of her as that, but . . .”
He closed the doors. The entry hall was lit, but beyond it the house was in darkness.
He headed for a light switch on the other side of the entry, making scuffing sounds as he crossed the marble.
I said, “Did your wife ever say why McCloskey did it?”
He stopped, half-turned. “Why do you ask?”
“In terms of understanding her— how she dealt with the assault.”
“Dealt with it in what way?”
“Victims of crime often go on fact-finding missions— wanting to know about the criminal, his motives. What turned them into victims. In order to try to make some sense out of it and protect themselves from future victimizations. Did your wife ever do that? Because no one seems to know what McCloskey’s motive was.”
“No, she didn’t.” He resumed walking. “At least not as far as I know. And she had no idea why he did it. Frankly, we don’t talk much about it— I’m part of her present, not her past. But she did tell me that the bastard refused to say— the police couldn’t get it out of him. He was a drinker and a drug-fiend, but that doesn’t explain it, does it?”
“What kind of drugs did he use?”
He reached the switch, flicked, illuminated the huge front room in which Gina Ramp and I had waited yesterday. Yesterday seemed like ancient history. A swan-necked decanter filled with something amber and very clear sat alongside several old-fashioned glasses on a portable rosewood bar. He held out a glass to me. I shook my head. He poured a finger for himself, hesitated, doubled it, then stoppered the decanter and sipped.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Drugs were never my thing. This”— raising the glass—“and beer is about as daring as I get. I never knew him very well— just a bit from the studios. He was a hanger-on. Hung around Gina like a little leech. A nothing. Hollywood’s full of them. No talent of his own, so he got girls to pose for pictures.”
He walked farther into the room, stepped on carpeting that dampened his footsteps and restored the house to silence.
I followed him. “Is Melissa back yet?”
He nodded. “Up in her room. She went straight up, looked pretty beat.”
“Noel still with her?”
“No, Noel’s back at the Tankard— my restaurant. He works for me, parking cars, busing, some waiting. Good kid, real up-from-the-bootstraps story— he’s got a good future. Melissa’s too much for him, but I guess he’ll have to learn that for himself.”
“Too much in what way?”
“Too smart, too good-looking, too feisty. He’s madly in love with her and she walks all over him— not out of cruelty or snobbery. It’s just her style. She just forges straight ahead, not thinking.”
As if trying to compensate for the criticism, he said, “That’s one thing she isn’t— a snob. Despite all this.” Waving his free hand around the room. “Christ, can you imagine growing up here? I grew up in Lynwood when it was still mostly white. My dad was an independent truck driver with a bad temper. Meaning there were plenty of times nobody hired him. We always had enough to eat, but that was about it. I didn’t like having to scrounge, but I know now that it made me into a better person— not that Melissa’s not a good person. Basically she’s a real good kid. Only she’s used to having her way, just plows ahead when she wants something, regardless of what anyone else wants. Gina’
s . . . situation made her grow up fast. Actually it’s kind of amazing she developed as well as she did.”
He sat down heavily on an overstuffed couch. “Guess I don’t need to tell you about kids— I’m just going on because frankly I’m pretty rattled by all this. Where the hell could she be? What about this detective— you reach him yet?”
“Not yet. Let me try again.”
He sprang up and brought back a cellular phone.
I dialed Milo’s home, got the recorded message, then heard it break.
“Hello?”
“Rick? This is Alex. Is Milo there?”
“Hi, Alex. Sure. We just got in— saw a bad movie. Hold on.”
Two seconds, then: “Yeah?”
“Ready to start early?”
“On what?”
“Private-eyeing?”
“It can’t wait till morning?”
“Something’s come up.” I looked over at Ramp. Staring at me, haggard. Choosing my words carefully, I recounted what had happened, including McCloskey’s questioning and release, and the news of Melvin Findlay’s death in prison. Expecting Milo to comment on either or both. Instead, he said, “She take any clothes with her?”
“Melissa says no.”
“How can Melissa be sure?”
“She says she knows the contents of her mother’s closet, could tell if anything was missing.”
Ramp looked at me sharply.
Milo said, “Even a skimpy little negligee?”
“I don’t think it was anything like that, Milo.”
“Why not?”
I shot a glance over at Ramp. Still staring, his drink untouched. “It doesn’t fit.”
“Ah. Hubby at close proximity?”
“Correct.”
“Okay, let’s switch to another lane. What have the local cops done, other than drive around?”
“That’s it as far as I know. No one’s too impressed with their level of competence.”
“They’re not known as stone geniuses out there, but what else should they be doing? Going door to door and antagonizing the trillionaires? Lady staying out late isn’t Judge Crater. It’s only been a few hours. And with the kind of car she’s driving, someone might actually see it. They put out bulletins— for what they’re worth?”
“The police chief said they did.”
“You hobnobbing with police chiefs now?”
“He was here.”
“The personal touch,” he said. “Ah, the rich.”
“What about the FBI?”
“Nah, those guys won’t touch it unless there’s definite evidence of a crime, preferably one that will make the headlines. Unless your affluent friends have heavy-duty political connections.”
“How heavy-duty?”
“Someone in a position to call Washington and lean on the director. Even then, she’s gonna have to be missing for a couple of days for the Feds— for anyone— to take it seriously. Without some kind of evidence of a bona fide crime, what they’ll do is eventually send over a couple of agents who look like actors, to take a report, march around the house in their junior G-man shades, French-kissing their walkie-talkies. What’s it been, six hours?”
I looked at my watch. “Closer to seven.”
“It doesn’t scream major felony, Alex. What else have you got to tell me?”
“Nothing much. I just got back from talking to her therapists. They had no major insights.”
“Well,” he said, “you know those types. Better at asking questions than answering them.”
“You have any you want to ask?”
“I could go through some motions.”
Ramp was sipping and eyeing me over the rim of his glass. I said, “That might be useful.”
“I guess I could make it over there in a half-hour or so, but basically it’s going to be a placebo routine. Because the kind of stuff you want to do in a real missing-persons case— financial searches, credit-card checks— have to take place during working hours. Anybody think of checking hospitals?”
“I assume the police have. If you’d like to—”
“No big sweat making a few calls. In fact, I can do plenty from right here rather than spend thirty minutes getting over there.”
“I think it would be a good idea to do it face-to-face.”
“You do, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Lots of shaky knees? Power of placebo?”
“Yup.”
“Hold on.” Hand over receiver. “Yeah, okay, Dr. Silverman’s not happy but he’s being saintly about it. Maybe I can even get him to pick out my tie.”
• • •
Ramp and I waited without talking much. He, drinking and sinking progressively lower into one of the overstuffed chairs. Me, thinking about how Melissa would be affected if her mother didn’t return soon.
I considered going up to her room to see how she was doing, remembered what Ramp had said about her being beat, and decided to let her rest. Depending on how things turned out, she might not be sleeping well for a while.
Half an hour passed, then another twenty minutes. When the chimes sounded I got to the door ahead of Ramp and opened it. Milo padded in, dressed as well as I’d ever seen him. Navy hopsack blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, maroon tie, brown loafers. Clean-shaven and he’d gotten a haircut— the usual lousy one, cropped too close at the back and sides, the sideburns trimmed to mid-ear. Three months off duty and he still looked like the arm of somebody’s law.
I did the introductions. Watched Ramp’s face change as he got a good look at Milo. Eyes narrowing, mustache twitching as if plagued by fleas.
Flinty suspicion. Marlboro Man staring down rustler varmints. Gabney’s cowboy suit would have looked better on him.
Milo must have seen it, too, but he didn’t react.
Ramp stared a while longer, then said, “I hope you can help.”
More suspicion. It had been a while since Milo’s picture had been on TV but maybe Ramp had a good memory. Actors— even stupid ones— often did. Or perhaps his memory had been prompted by good old-fashioned homophobia.
I said, “Detective Sturgis is on leave from the Los Angeles Police.” Pretty sure I’d mentioned that before.
Ramp stared.
Milo finally began to return the favor.
The two of them remained locked in a stare-fest. I thought of rodeo bulls in adjacent pens, snorting and pawing and butting the boards.
Milo broke first. “This is what I’ve been given so far.” He repeated, almost word for word, what I’d told him. “Accurate?”
“Yes,” said Ramp.
Milo grunted. Pulling a note pad and pen out of a jacket pocket, he turned pages, stopped, pointed with a thick finger. “I’ve confirmed that the San Labrador police put out countywide bulletins on her. Which is usually a waste of time, but with this car, maybe not. They’ve got the car listed as a 1954 Rolls-Royce sedan, license plate AD RR SD, Vehicle Identification Number SOG Twenty-two. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Color?”
“Black over shell-gray.”
“Better than a Toyota,” said Milo, “in terms of conspicuousness. Before I came out I called a few of the local emergency rooms. No one fitting her description’s been brought in.”
“Thank God,” said Ramp. Sweating.
Milo looked up at the ceiling, lowered his eyes and took in the front rooms with one sweeping glance. “Nice house. How many rooms?”
The question caught Ramp off guard. “I’m not really sure— never counted. About thirty, thirty-five, I guess.”
“How many does your wife actually use?”
“Use? Basically, she just uses her suite. It’s three rooms— four including the bathroom. Sitting area, bedroom, plus a side room with bookshelves, a desk, some exercise equipment, a refrigerator.”
“Sounds like a home within a home,” said Milo. “Do you have one, too?”
“Just one room,” said Ramp, coloring. “Right next to
hers.”
Milo wrote something down. “Any reason you can think of why she decided to drive to the doctor alone?”
“I don’t know— that wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to go with her. We were going to leave at three. She called me at two-fifteen— I was at my restaurant— and told me not to bother coming home, she’d be driving herself. I questioned it, but she said she’d be fine. I didn’t want to weaken her confidence, so I didn’t press the matter.”
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