“Guess so,” I said.
He came around from behind the desk.
I said, “What now?”
“Deliver the news, then get the bulletin expanded— it’s better than even money she’s out of the county by now.”
“Or the car is.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Meaning what?”
“It is possible that something happened to her, isn’t it? That someone else is behind the wheel.”
“Anything’s possible, Alex. But if you were a bad guy, would that be the car you’d rip off?”
“Who was it told me long ago it’s only the stupid ones you catch?”
“You wanna think foul play, fine. At this point I’d have to see something ugly to consider it anything more than an adult runaway. And not one that’s likely to turn me into a hero.”
“What do you mean?”
“Runaways are the hardest m.p.’s to locate under any circumstances. Rich ones are the worst of the worst. Because the rich get to make their own rules. Buying for cash, avoiding jobs, credit unions— all the stuff that leaves a paper trail. What just happened with Ramp and the kid is a perfect example. Your average husband would be a hell of a lot more in touch with his wife’s credit cards and social security number. Your average couple shares. These people live separately— at least where money’s concerned. The rich know the power of the buck— they rope their funds off and protect them like buried treasure.”
“Separate bank accounts and separate bedrooms,” I said.
“Real intimate, huh? He doesn’t seem to know her. Wonder why she married him in the first place— the kid has a point.”
“Maybe she liked his mustache.”
He gave a short, sad smile and walked to the door. Looking back at the windowless room, he said, “Designed for concentration. I couldn’t spend too much time here without going stir-crazy.”
I thought of another windowless room, said, “Speaking of interior design, when I was over at the Gabney Clinic, I was struck by the similarity between Ursula Gabney’s office decor and the way Gina furnished that sitting room upstairs. Exact same color scheme, same style of furniture. And the only art in Ursula’s office was a Cassatt lithograph. Mother and child.”
“So what’s it mean, Doctor?”
“I don’t know exactly, but if the print was a gift, it was a hell of a generous one. The last time I checked an auction catalogue, Cassatt prints in good shape were pricey.”
“How pricey?”
“Twenty to sixty grand for black-and-white. A color one would go for more.”
“The doctor’s print is a color one, too?”
I nodded. “Very similar to Gina’s.”
“Sixty grand plus,” he said. “What’s the current wisdom on therapists accepting gifts?”
“It’s not illegal but it’s generally considered unethical.”
“You think there’s some kind of Svengali thing going on?”
“Maybe nothing that ominous,” I said. “Just overinvolvement— possessiveness. Ursula seems resentful of Melissa— the way one sibling might resent another. Almost as if she wants Gina all to herself. Melissa sensed it. On the other hand, maybe it’s just professional pride. The treatment’s been intensive. She’s brought Gina a long way— changed her life.”
“Changed her furniture, too.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I’m overinterpreting. Or seeing it backwards. Patients influence therapists, too. It’s called countertransference. Ursula could have bought her Cassatt because she saw Gina’s and liked it. With the fees the clinic charges, she could sure afford it.”
“Big bucks setup?”
“Megabucks. When both Gabneys work, they bill five hundred an hour per patient. Three for his time, two for hers.”
“Didn’t she ever hear of equal pay for equal work?”
“Her work’s more than equal— my impression is she does most of the actual therapy while he sits back and plays mentor.”
He clucked his tongue. “She’s not doing too bad as a mentee, is she? Five hundred.” He shook his head. “Sweet deal. Get a handful of rich folk in serious psychic pain and you wouldn’t need much else to fuel the gravy train.”
He took a step, paused. “You think this Ursula’s holding back?”
“Holding back what?”
“Knowledge of the whole thing. If they were as close as you’re suggesting, Gina could have let her in on her plans for the great escape. Maybe old Ursula even thought getting away would be good for her— therapeutic. Hell, maybe she even helped plan it— Gina disappeared on the way to the clinic.”
“Anything’s possible,” I said. “But I doubt it. She seemed genuinely upset by the disappearance.”
“What about the other one— the husband?”
“He mouthed the right words but didn’t come across too stressed. He claims he doesn’t worry. Trained himself not to.”
“Doctor heal thyself, huh? Or could be he’s just not as good an actor as his wife.”
“The three of them in cahoots?” I said. “Thought you didn’t like conspiracy theories.”
“I like what fits— not that any of it does at this point. We’re just head-tripping.”
“There are two other women in Gina’s group,” I said. “If she did plan to run away, she might have mentioned it to them. When I suggested to Ursula that they be interviewed, she got really defensive: told me Gina didn’t socialize with them— they couldn’t be any help. If she is hiding something, that could have been stonewalling.”
He gave a small smile. “Stonewalling? I thought you guys called it confidentiality?”
I felt myself go hot.
He patted my shoulder. “Now, now, what’s a little reality between friends? Speaking of which, I’d better deliver the news to my clients.”
• • •
We found Ramp sitting and drinking in the rear room with the painted beams. The drapes were drawn across the French doors and he was staring off into space, eyes half-closed. His face had taken on a ruddy glow and his shirt was wilting around the edges. When we came in he said, “Gentlemen?” in a hearty, greeter’s voice.
Milo asked him to get Melissa and he called her room, using an intercom on the phone. When she didn’t answer, he tried several other rooms without success, then looked up helplessly.
Milo said, “I’ll catch her later,” and told him about the car being sighted.
“The 210,” said Ramp. “Where would she be going?”
“Can you think of anything?”
“Me? No, of course not. None of this makes any sense to— Why would she be driving the freeway? She just started driving, period. This is just crazy.”
Milo said, “It would be a good idea to have that bulletin expanded statewide.”
“Of course. Go ahead, do it.”
“It’s got to come from a police agency. Your local cops have probably been informed of the sighting by now, may have requested it already. If you want, I can call to confirm.”
“Please,” said Ramp. He got up and walked around the room. A shirttail had come loose in front. It was monogrammed with a red DNR.
“Driving the freeway,” he said. “That’s nuts. They’re sure it was her?”
“No,” said Milo. “The only thing they’re sure of is that it was a car just like hers.”
“So it had to be her. How many damned Silver Dawns could there be?”
He looked down, tucked in his shirt hastily.
Milo said, “The next step would be to call airline companies, then get to the bank tomorrow morning and take a look at her financial records.”
Ramp stared at him, groped like a blind man along the edge of a nearby armchair, and lowered himself into it, still staring. “What you said at the beginning— about this being . . . about her running away. You think that for certain now, don’t you?”
“I don’t think anything yet,” Milo said with a gentleness that surprised me and raised Ramp’s head a couple of inches higher.
“I’m taking it step by step— doing the things that need doing.”
A door slammed somewhere in the house.
Ramp bounded up and left the room, returning a few moments later trailing Melissa.
She had on a khaki safari vest over her shirt, and boots encrusted with mud and grass.
“I had Sabino’s boys check the grounds,” she said. “Just in case.” A brief glance at Ramp. “What’s going on?”
Milo repeated what he’d learned.
“The freeway,” said Melissa. One of her hands found the other and kneaded.
Ramp said, “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
She ignored him, put her hands on her hips, and faced Milo. “Okay, at least she’s all right. What next?”
Milo said, “Phone work till morning. Then I head over to the bank.”
“Why wait till morning? I’ll call Anger right now and tell him to get down here. It’s the least he can do— all the business this family’s given him.”
“Okay. Tell him I’ll need to go over your mother’s records.”
“Wait here. I’ll go call him right now.”
She left the room.
Milo said, “Yes, ma’am.”
18
She came back with a scrap of paper and handed it to Milo. “He’ll meet you there— here’s the address. I had to tell him what it was about, let him know I expected him to keep it to himself. What should I do while you’re gone?”
“Call airlines,” said Milo. “See if anyone bought a ticket to anywhere using your mom’s name. Say you’re her daughter and it’s an emergency. If that doesn’t work, embellish it— someone’s sick, you really need to know for medical reasons. Check departures from LAX, Burbank, Ontario, John Wayne, and Lindbergh. If you want to be really thorough, check under your mom’s maiden name, too. I’ll only come back here if something profound happens at the bank. Here’s my number at home.”
Scrawling on the back of the paper she’d just handed him, he tore off half and gave it to her.
“Call me if you learn anything,” she said. “Even if it seems unimportant.”
“Will do,” said Milo. Turning to Ramp, he said, “Hang in there.”
Ramp remained in his chair and gave a dull nod.
I said to Melissa, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No,” she said. “No, thanks. I don’t really feel like talking. I want to do something— no offense, okay?”
“No offense.”
“I’ll call you if I need you,” she said.
“No problem.”
“Sayonara,” said Milo, heading for the door.
I said, “I’ll walk out with you.”
• • •
“If you insist,” he said, coasting down the driveway. “But if I had a chance at some shuteye, I’d grab it.”
He’d brought Rick’s white Porsche 928. A portable scanner had been mounted on the dash since the last time I’d seen the car. He had the volume on low and the machine emitted a steady stream of mumbles.
“Hoo hah,” I said, tapping the box.
“Christmas gift.”
“From whom?”
“From me to me,” he said, accelerating. The Porsche hummed in agreement. “I still think you should go to sleep. Ramp’s already looking wilted and the kid’s running on adrenaline. Sooner or later you’re gonna be back here doing your thing.”
“Not tired,” I said.
“Too keyed up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’ll hit you tomorrow. Just in time for a panic call.”
“No doubt.”
He chuckled and gunned the engine.
The gates to the property were open. He turned left on Sussex Knoll, then left again. Giving the Porsche’s wheel a rightward turn, he oversteered a bit and had to straighten before turning onto Cathcart Boulevard. The businesses along the commercial strip were all dark. The streetlights cast an opaline light that expired before it reached the grassy median.
“Yeah, there it is, all lit up,” he said, pointing across the street to a floodlit one-story Greek Revival building. White limestone. Boxwood hedges, small lawn with a flagpole. FIRST FIDUCIARY TRUST BANK, FDIC in gold letters over the door.
I said, “Doesn’t look big enough to store cookie-sale proceeds.”
“Quality, not quantity, remember?”
He pulled up in front of the bank. To the right was a twenty space parking lot fronted by twin iron posts and a chain that had been lowered to the ground. A black Mercedes sedan sat alone in the first spot on the left side. As we got out of the Porsche, the black car’s door opened.
A man exited, closed the door, and stood there, one hand on the roof of the car.
Milo said, “I’m Sturgis.”
The man came forward into the streetlight. He had on a gray gabardine sack suit, white shirt, yellow tie with blue dots. Matching handkerchief in his breast pocket, black wingtips on his feet. Quick midnight dresser.
He said, “Glenn Anger, Mr. Sturgis. I hope Mrs. Ramp’s in no danger.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Come this way.” Pointing toward the bank’s front door. “The security system’s been disarmed but there are still these to contend with.”
Pointing to a quartet of deadbolt locks arranged in a square around the doorknob. He pulled out a ring crammed with keys, fingered one, inserted it in the upper right-hand lock, turned, and waited until a click had sounded before pulling it out. Working quickly and efficiently. I thought of a professional safecracker.
I took a good look at him. Six feet, 160, gray crewcut, long face that would probably show tan in the daylight. Nub of nose, skimpy mouth, diminutive close-set ears. As if he’d purchased his features on sale and had settled for one size too small. Thick, dark eyebrows made his pale eyes look even tinier than they were. His age was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. If he’d been roused from sleep, he’d made a good recovery.
Before inserting the fourth key, he stopped and looked up and down the deserted street. Then at us.
Milo’s return look communicated nothing.
Anger turned the key, pushed the door open an inch. “I’m very concerned about Mrs. Ramp. Melissa made it sound quite serious.”
Milo gave a noncommittal nod.
Anger said, “What exactly is it you think I can do for you?” Then he looked at me.
Milo said, “This is Alex Delaware.” As if that settled it. “The first thing you can do is get me the numbers on her credit cards and her checking accounts. The second is you can educate me about her general financial situation.”
“Educate you,” said Anger, his hand still on the knob.
“Answer a few questions.”
Anger moved his lower jaw back and forth. Curving his arm around the jamb, he reached in and turned on some lights.
Inside the bank was polished cherry wood, royal-blue carpeting, brass fixtures, and a ceiling with a relief of a bald eagle at the apex. Three teller’s stations and a door marked SAFE DEPOSIT took up one side; three desk-and-chair sets filled the other. In the center of the room was a service kiosk.
The place smelled of lemon wax and ammonia and money so old it had begun to grow mold. Seeing it empty made me feel like a burglar.
Anger pointed forward and took us to a door at the rear that said W. GLENN ANGER, CHAIRMAN AND PRESIDENT over a seal that looked awfully similar to the one Ronald Reagan had just stopped using.
Two locks on this one.
Anger opened them and said, “Come on in.”
His office was small and cool and smelled like a new car. It was furnished with a squat desk— bare except for a gold Cross pen and a black-shaded lamp— and two brown tweed chairs with a low square table between them. Several leather-bound books sat on the table. To the right of the desk was a personal computer on a wheeled stand. Family photos filled the rear wall, each featuring the same brood: blond wife resembling Doris Day after six months of
overeating, four blond boys, two beautifully groomed golden retrievers, and a grumpy-looking Siamese cat.
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