Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Where’d this other person go?”

  “Into the great beyond— the forest is huge. You once told me it’s a prime dumping ground for bodies.”

  “Didn’t know you listened so carefully.”

  “All the time.”

  He crumpled some more papers and ran his hand over his face.

  “Alex, all these years on the job, you don’t have to talk me into seeing the worst in people. But so far nothing screams out foul play. Give me a who and a why.”

  “Who do you usually suspect first when a rich woman dies?”

  “The husband. But this one doesn’t profit, so what’s his motive?”

  “Maybe he does profit. Despite what Anger and the lawyer said, prenuptials can be challenged. With an estate this size, even if he ended up with one or two percent it would be significant. And insurance policies can be taken out without lawyers and accountants— or the insured— knowing. Also, he’s got another secret.” I told him what I’d learned at Malibu.

  He pushed the chair back to the bookshelves, stretched without appearing to achieve comfort. “Old macho Don. Living in a big old walk-in closet.”

  I said, “It could explain why he was so hostile when he first met you. He knew who you were from TV, was worried you might possibly know about him.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Common contacts in the gay community?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Mr. Activist. Direct line to the gay community.”

  “He’d have no way of knowing unless he himself was involved in the gay community. Given the fact that he serves food to San Labrador folk, I think that’s unlikely. Or maybe it wasn’t rational. Maybe it was just a gut response— your being there threatened him. Reminded him of his secret.”

  “Threatened,” he said. “You know, it occurred to me, too— that he knew something about me. I thought he was just being a homophobe fascist, came this close to saying fuck you and walking. Then he just seemed to forget about it, so I did, too.”

  “Once he could see you were focusing on Gina and not him, he figured his secret was safe.”

  He gave a sour smile. “Didn’t take long to bust his secret.”

  “Now that I think back, it was probably on his mind from the beginning. He was the first one to mention the beach house. Called over there himself. Twice. Figuring that would take care of it. He had no way of knowing I’d go out there. Even after I did, it was a fluke I found out. If Nyquist hadn’t overdone it with those two girls and if I hadn’t run into them later, I wouldn’t have suspected a thing.”

  “What’s this Nyquist like, besides being an overacter?”

  “Blond, good-looking, pumps iron, surfs. The girls said he has guys in and out all the time. Claims to be training them.”

  “Golden hustler,” he said. “What a clichÉ.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” I said. “Back when I suspected Gina of fooling around with him.”

  That raised his eyebrows. “When was this?”

  “Right at the beginning, but I didn’t put it into focus till yesterday. The first time I was here, Gina and I were downstairs, looking for Melissa, after their blowup. Ramp and Nyquist came in from playing tennis. Then Ramp left to shower, and Nyquist hung around for no apparent reason. Kind of casually snotty. He asked Gina for something to drink and somehow made it sound lascivious. Nothing explicit— it was the way he said it. She must have heard it, too, because she put him in his place right away. He didn’t like it but he kept his mouth shut. The whole interchange took less than a minute— I forgot about it until I saw Nyquist play stud with the beach bunnies. Then the girls told me about him and Ramp and I realized it was just a front.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe Todd’s a creative fellow.”

  “Playing both ends?”

  He smiled. “It’s been known to happen.”

  I’d been standing since we’d entered the room. Realized it and sat down in an armchair.

  “Money and jealousy and passion,” I said. “A whole slew of classic motives for the price of one. Remember how Melissa said Gina told her she prized kindness and tolerance in a man? Maybe what she liked about Ramp was that he was tolerant of more than her phobia. Maybe she was referring to his acceptance of her fooling around with Nyquist and/or some other sexual explorations. But what if that tolerance wasn’t mutual? Infidelity’s one thing— crossing sexual preference lines is another. If Gina found out she was sharing Todd with Ramp, it could have blown her mind.”

  “Even if she and Nyquist had nothing going, learning Ramp was gay or bisexual could have blown her mind,” said Milo.

  “Whatever the specifics, she learned something that led her to decide she’d had enough. Time to make her escape, psychologically and physically. Take a giant step through an open door.”

  “Big change for Ramp if she boots him out.”

  I nodded. “No more mansion, no more beach house, no more tennis court— people do get accustomed to a certain standard. And if her reason for divorcing him ever got out, he’d lose a lot more than luxuries. He’d be finished in San Labrador.”

  “Outing him,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “Dragging him out of the closet whether he wanted it or not. It’s something angry people do, and hell hath no fury.”

  “True,” I said, “but the only thing is, I haven’t picked up any exceptional hostility between Gina and Ramp. Neither has Melissa, and you can bet she’d be looking for it.”

  “Yeah,” said Milo, “but both of them used to act, right? They’d be good at faking marital bliss. Isn’t that the San Labrador way? Heavy starch on the upper lip?”

  “True. So where do we go with it?”

  “Go?” he said. “If you’re asking, could I convince Chickering or the Sheriffs to investigate Ramp on the basis of his having a secret sex life, you know the answer to that. Should I do a little research on him and Golden Boy? What could it hurt?”

  “Another day at the beach?” I said.

  “Remind me to bring my boogie board.”

  “Did you get over to see McCloskey again?”

  “This afternoon. He was sleeping when I got there. The priest didn’t want me to bother him, but I snuck up the back way, went to his room. He didn’t even look surprised to see me— resigned, the way old cons get.”

  “Learn anything?”

  He shook his head. “Just the same old religious crap. I tried all my cop tricks. Nothing fazed him. I’m starting to think the guy’s a genuine head case.” He tapped his cranium. “Nada aqui.”

  “But that doesn’t preclude his hiring someone to get her.”

  He didn’t answer, looked preoccupied.

  “What is it?”

  “You got me going— on Ramp. It would be nice to know how much Gina actually knew about his sexuality. Think she discussed it with those therapists?”

  “Quite possibly, but I don’t see them breaking confidentiality.”

  “Are dead people entitled to confidentiality?”

  “Ethically, they are. I’m not sure about the legal end of it. If foul play was suspected they could probably be forced to open their records eventually. But without that, I don’t see them being too forthcoming. Any publicity can only hurt them.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Patient in the lake doesn’t shout Nobel Prize for medicine.”

  My mind drifted to black water and stayed there. A hundred plus feet of muck. “If she is at the bottom of the reservoir, what’s the chance of finding the body?”

  “Not terrific. Like the diver said, visibility’s lousy, the area’s huge— you can’t drain it the way you could a lake. And a hundred and twenty-five’s getting close to maximum scuba depth before you need to get into deep-sea equipment. We’re talking major expense, major time commitment, with little chance of success. The Sheriff’s guys weren’t jumping to fill out the requisition forms.”

&n
bsp; “Sheriff’s got sole jurisdiction?”

  “Uh-huh. Chickering was happy to punt. The prevailing wisdom was to let nature take its course.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Wait for her to float.”

  I thought of a gas-filled, suppurating lump rising to the surface of the dam. Wondered what comfort I’d be able to dredge up for Melissa if and when that happened.

  Wondered what I’d tell her when she woke up . . .

  “Despite the prevailing wisdom,” I said, “do you think there’s any chance she escaped from the car and made it back to shore?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Abandoning your murder/mayhem scenario?”

  “Exploring alternatives.”

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t she just wait by the side of the road until someone came by? It’s not well-traveled, but eventually she would have been found.”

  “She might have been in shock, disoriented— maybe she even suffered a head injury, wandered off, and lost consciousness.”

  “No blood traces were found.”

  “Closed head injury. You don’t need blood for a concussion.”

  “Wandered off somewhere,” he said. “If you’re searching for a happy ending, that ain’t it. Not if the copters don’t find her damned soon. We’re talking fifty-plus hours of exposure. If I had a choice of which way to die, I’d opt for the lake.”

  He stood again. Paced.

  “Can you handle more ugly?” he said.

  I spread my arms, thrust my chest forward. “Hit me.”

  “There are at least two other scenarios we haven’t considered. One: She got to shore, waited by the road, and someone did pick her up. Someone nasty.”

  “Psycho motorist?”

  “It’s an alternative, Alex. Good-looking woman in a wet dress, helpless. It would appeal to a certain . . . appetite. Lord knows we see it often enough— women stranded on the freeway, Good Samaritans turning out not to be.”

  I said, “That is ugly. No one deserves to suffer that much.”

  “Since when has deserving had anything to do with it?”

  “What’s Two?”

  “Suicide. Gautier— the sheriff brought it up. Right after you and Melissa left, Chickering started explaining to everyone that you were her shrink, got into this little monologue about Gina’s problems— bad genetics. About San Labrador having lots of eccentrics. He may guard the rich folk’s palaces, but he doesn’t have much affection for them. Anyway, Gautier said, given all that, why not suicide? Apparently they’ve had other people jump in the reservoir. Chickering loved it.”

  “What did Ramp have to say about that?”

  “Ramp wasn’t there— Chickering wouldn’t have mouthed off in front of him. He didn’t even realize I was listening.”

  “Where was Ramp?”

  “Up on the highway. He started to look queasy— the paramedics took him to the ambulance for an EKG.”

  “He okay?”

  “EKG-wise he is. But he looked pretty shitty. When I left he was still getting tea and sympathy.”

  “Acting?”

  He shrugged.

  “Chickering’s psychological insights notwithstanding,” I said, “I don’t see suicide. When I talked to her there was no evidence of depression— not even a hint of it. On the contrary, she was optimistic. She had twenty years of pain and misery to contemplate doing away with herself. Why would she do it just at the point where she was looking forward to some freedom?”

  “Freedom can be scary.”

  “Just a couple of days ago, you had her getting high on freedom— driving to Vegas to whoop it up.”

  “Things change,” he said. Then: “You always have a way of complicating my life.”

  “What better basis for friendship?”

  25

  We went to check on Melissa. She was lying on her side, face to the sofa back, the blanket twisted around her in a tight cocoon.

  Madeleine sat at the foot of the sofa, only a small portion of her substantial buttocks making contact with the cushion. Crocheting something pink and formless and concentrating on her hands. She glanced up as we entered.

  I said, “Has she been up at all?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  Milo said, “Has Mr. Ramp come home yet?”

  “Non, monsieur.” Her fingers stilled.

  I said, “Why don’t we put her to bed.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  I lifted Melissa, carried her up the stairs to her room, Madeleine and Milo behind me. Madeleine turned on the light, dimmed it, and drew back the covers of the four-poster. She spent a long time tucking Melissa in, then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. Reaching into a dressing-gown pocket, she drew out her crocheting and placed it in her lap. Sitting motionless, careful not to rock.

  Melissa shifted position under the covers, moved again so that she was on her back. Her mouth was open and her breathing was slow and steady.

  Milo watched the rise and fall of the comforter for a moment, then said, “I’m gonna get going. How about you?”

  Remembering a small child’s night terrors, I said, “I’ll stay for a while.”

  Milo nodded.

  “I stay also,” said Madeleine. She engaged her yarn, looped it around her needle, and began dipping and tilting.

  “Good,” I told her. “I’ll be downstairs. Call me if she wakes up.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  • • •

  I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and thought about things that kept me awake. The final time I checked my watch, it was just after 1:00 A.M. I fell asleep, still sitting, and awoke stiff and cotton-mouthed, my arms tattooed.

  Dazed and confused, I jerked upright. The tattooing shifted kaleidoscopically.

  Luminous blue and red and emerald and amber splotches.

  Sunlight sieved through lace curtains and daubed by stained glass.

  Sunday.

  I felt sacrilegious. As if I’d dozed off in a church.

  Seven-twenty.

  Silent house.

  Overnight, a stale smell had settled in. Or maybe it had been there all along.

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to clear my head. Stood, with some pain, straightened my clothes, ran my hand over my stubbled face, and stretched until it was obvious that the ache wasn’t ready to depart.

  In a guest bathroom near the entry hall, I splashed water on my face, massaged my scalp, and headed upstairs.

  Melissa was still asleep, hair spread on her pillow, too perfectly arranged to be accidental.

  It reminded me of a Victorian funeral photo. Angelic children in lace-edged coffins.

  I worked my way past that, smiled at Madeleine.

  The pink thing was still formless but had stretched to a couple of feet. I wondered if she’d slept at all. Her feet were bare, bigger than mine. A pair of corduroy slippers was arranged neatly on the floor next to the rocker. Next to them was a telephone that she’d removed from Melissa’s nightstand.

  I said, “Bonjour.”

  She looked up, clear-eyed and grim, began working her needle faster.

  “Monsieur.” She reached down and replaced the phone.

  “Did Mr. Ramp come home?”

  Glance at Melissa. Shake of the head. The movement made the chair creak.

  Melissa opened her eyes.

  Madeleine shot me an accusing look.

  I approached the bed.

  Madeleine began rocking. The chair complained louder.

  Melissa looked up at me.

  I smiled down at her, hoping it didn’t look ghoulish.

  She widened her eyes. Moved her lips, seemed to be struggling.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I— what—” Her eyes darted, unable to settle. Panic crossed her face. She pushed her head forward, fell back. Closed her eyes and opened them again.

  I sat down and took her hand. Soft and hot. Felt her forehead. Warm, but not feverish.

  Madeleine rocked
faster.

  Melissa was squeezing my fingers. “I— Wha— Mama.”