Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “How about there,” I said. “And do you have a pay phone I could use?”

  “Right through the back.” She pointed to Dutch doors to the left of the kitchen.

  The phone was mounted on the wall between the bathrooms. After two rings, Milo’s new businesslike message kicked in. I told him I had a few things I wanted to discuss, said I’d probably be back at Melissa’s house by four. Then I dialed an art gallery in Beverly Hills that I’d dealt with before and asked for the owner.

  “Eugene De Long speaking.”

  “Eugene, it’s Alex Delaware.”

  “Hello, Alex. Nothing on the Marsh yet. We’re still looking for one in acceptable condition.”

  “Thanks. Actually I’m calling to find out if you can give me an evaluation of a piece— or two pieces really, same artist. Nothing formal, just an approximation.”

  “Certainly, if it’s something I know about.”

  “Cassatt color print.”

  Moment of silence. “I didn’t know you were in the market for that kind of thing.”

  “Wish I were. It’s for a friend.”

  “Is your friend buying or selling?”

  “Maybe selling.”

  “I see,” he said. “Which particular color prints?”

  I told him.

  He said, “Just one second,” and put me on hold for several minutes. He came back saying, “I’ve got the most recent auction figures for comparable works right here. As you know, with works on paper, condition is everything, so without inspecting it I can’t be sure. However, Cassatt’s print runs tended to be low— she was a perfectionist, had no compunctions about burnishing down her initial impressions and reworking the plates— so any decent piece would be interesting. Especially color. If you’ve indeed got the final states in excellent condition— full margins, no stains— you’ve got a couple of jewels. I could get a quarter of a million from the right client. Maybe more.”

  “Both or each?”

  “Oh, each. Especially in the current climate. The Japanese are crazy for Impressionism and Cassatt’s at the top of their American list. I expect her important paintings to be fetching solid seven figures very shortly. The prints actually reflect a blending of Western and Asian sensibilities— she was highly influenced by Japanese printmaking— that appeals to them. Even three hundred wouldn’t be out of the question for a really fine impression.”

  “Thanks, Eugene.”

  “My pleasure. Tell your friend he or she’s got a blue chip investment, but in all honesty the major appreciation probably hasn’t taken place. However, if he or she does want to sell, there’s no need to go to New York.”

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  “Bonsoir, Alex.”

  I closed my eyes and pictured zeros for a while. Then I dialed my service and found out Robin had called.

  I called her studio. When she picked up I said, “Hi. It’s me.”

  “Hi. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Pretty well. Still out here on a case.”

  “And here is?”

  “Pasadena. San Labrador.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Old money, old secrets.”

  “If you only knew how right you were.”

  “ESP,” she said. “If the world ever stops strumming, I’ll get into tea leaves.”

  “Or stock trading.”

  “No, not that! Jail isn’t my thing.”

  I laughed.

  “Anyway,” she said.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “How’s Mr. Panic’s guitar?”

  “Just a scratch, really. It wasn’t even close to an emergency. I think he’s finally going off the deep end— too much sobriety.”

  I laughed again. “I’d like to see you again, when things ease up.”

  “Sure,” she said. “When things ease up.”

  Silence.

  “Soon,” I said, though I had nothing to back that up.

  “That’s even better.”

  • • •

  I went back into the restaurant. There was a basket of bread and a glass of ice water on the table. Two of the lunching women had left; the other two were settling their check, with a pocket calculator and furrowed brows.

  The bread smelled fresh— slices of whole wheat and baguettes tinged with anise— but Madeleine’s “light” meal had stuffed me and I pushed it aside. The woman who had seated me noticed and I thought I saw her flinch. I picked up the menu. The two customers left. The woman picked up their credit slip, glanced at it, and shook her head. After wiping the table, she came over to me, pencil at the ready. I ordered the most expensive coffee listed— triple espresso with a dash of Napoleon brandy— and a bowl of jumbo strawberries.

  She brought the berries first— truth in advertising, they were as big as peaches— the coffee a few minutes later, still foaming.

  I smiled at her. She looked worried.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Great— terrific berries.”

  “We get them from Carpenteria. Would you like some fresh cream?”

  “No, thanks.” I smiled and let my eyes drift across the street. Wondering what was going on behind the Craftsman facade. Calculating the hours of therapy necessary to buy a quarter-of-a-million-dollar piece of paper. Trying to figure out how I’d deal with the Gabneys.

  When the proprietress came back a few minutes later, the level of coffee in my cup was one third lower and only two strawberries were gone.

  “Something the matter, sir?”

  “Not at all— everything’s fine.” I sipped to prove it, then speared the most gargantuan of the strawberries on my fork.

  “We import all our coffee,” she said. “Simpson and Veroni buy from exactly the same source but they charge twice as much.”

  I had no idea who Simpson and Veroni were, but I smiled and shook my head and said, “Figures.” The empathy didn’t impress her. If this was her usual interpersonal style, I could see why the public wasn’t beating a path to her door.

  I took another swallow and began working on the berry.

  She lingered for a second, went into the kitchen, and began conferring with the chef.

  I resumed looking out the window. Glanced at my watch: 2:35. Less than half an hour till show time. What would I say to Ursula Gabney?

  The busty woman came out from the kitchen with the Sunday paper under one arm, sat down at one of the tables, and began reading. As she put aside the front section and picked up the Metro, our eyes met. She pulled away quickly. I gulped down the rest of my coffee.

  Without rising, she said, “Anything else?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She brought me the check. I handed her a credit card. She took it, stared at it, returned with a slip, and said, “You’re a doctor?”

  I realized then how I must have appeared to her: clothes I’d slept in, unshaven.

  I said, “I’m a psychologist. There’s a clinic across the street. I’m on my way over there to talk to one of the doctors.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, looking doubtful.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, putting on my best smile. “I’m not one of the patients. Been working a long shift— emergency case.”

  That seemed to spook her, so I produced my license and med school faculty card. “Scout’s honor.”

  She relaxed a bit, said, “What kind of things do they do over there?”

  “Don’t really know,” I said. “Had any problems because of them?”

  “Oh, no. It’s just that you don’t see too many people going in and out. And there’s no sign telling anyone what kind of place it is. I wouldn’t have even known what it was except one of my customers told me. It just made me wonder what they do in there.”

  “I don’t know much about it myself. My specialty is working with children. One of my patients is the child of a woman who used to be treated there— maybe you noticed her. She used to come in an old Rolls-Royce— black and gr
ay.”

  She nodded. “I did see a car like that a couple of times, but I never noticed who drove it.”

  “The woman who owned it disappeared a few days ago. It’s been pretty hard on the child. I came over to learn what I could.”

  “Disappeared? What do you mean?”

  “She set out for the clinic, never showed up, and hasn’t been seen.”

  “Oh.” A new kind of anxiety, one that had nothing to do with balance sheets.

  I looked up at her, fingered the credit slip.

  “You know . . .” she said, then shook her head.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing . . . It’s probably nothing. I shouldn’t mix in, in things that don’t concern me. . . .”

  “If you know anything—”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “It’s not about your patient’s mother. Another one— of their patients— the customer I mentioned. The one who told me what kind of place it was. She used to come in here, didn’t seem as if there was anything wrong with her. She said she used to be afraid of going places— phobic— that’s why she was going for treatment, but she’d gotten a lot better. You would have thought she’d like the place— the clinic— be grateful. But she didn’t seem to— not that you should quote me on that. I really don’t need any headaches.”

  She touched the credit slip. “You still need to total and sign.”

  I did, adding a 25 percent tip.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure. What made you think this woman didn’t like the clinic?”

  “Just the way she talked— asking lots of questions. About them.” Glancing across the street. “Not right away. After she’d been coming for a while.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “How long they’d been here. I had no idea, just moved in myself. Did the doctors or any of the other patients ever come in here— that was an easy one. Not even once. Except Kathy— that was her name. She didn’t seem afraid of anything. Kind of aggressive, actually. But I liked her— she was friendly, liked my food. And she came in all the time. I really liked the idea of having a regular. Then one day, out of the blue, she just stopped.” Snapping her fingers. “Just like that. I thought it was strange. Especially because she hadn’t mentioned anything about being finished with her treatment. So when you said this other woman disappeared, it kind of reminded me of that. Though Kathy didn’t really disappear— she just stopped showing up.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  She thought. “About a month ago. First I thought it was something to do with the food, but she stopped going over there, too. I knew her car. She’d been on a regular schedule: Monday and Thursday afternoon, like clockwork. At three-fifteen she’d be in here for angel hair pasta or scallops, cappuccino royale, and a raisin croissant. I appreciated it because, to tell the truth, business has not been booming yet— we’re still establishing our presence. My husband has been I-told-you-soing for three months. I started Sunday brunch last week, but it hasn’t exactly raised the dead.”

  I clucked my tongue in sympathy.

  She smiled. “I called this place La Mystique, for mystery. He says the only mystery is when I’m going to fold— so I’ve got to prove him wrong. That’s why I especially appreciated Kathy’s patronage. I still wonder what happened to her.”

  “Do you remember her last name?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just trying to contact everyone who knew my patient’s mother. You never know what little detail might tell us something.”

  She hesitated, then: “One sec.”

  She pocketed the credit slip, went back into the kitchen. As I waited, I looked over at the clinic building. No one entered or exited. Not a hint of life behind the windows.

  She returned with a square of yellow message paper.

  “This is Kathy’s sister’s address. She gave her as a reference at the beginning, because she used to pay by check and her own checks were out-of-state. I actually thought of giving a call, but never got around to it. If you speak to her, give her my best— tell her Joyce said hi.”

  I took the paper and read it. Neatly printed letters in red felt-tip marker:

  KATHY MORIARTY

  C/O ROBBINS

  2012 ASHBOURNE DR.

  S. PAS.

  A 795 phone number.

  I put it in my wallet, got up, and said, “Thanks. Everything was great.”

  “All you had was berries and coffee. Come back sometime when you’re hungry. We’re good— we really are.”

  She walked back to her table and the newspaper.

  I got up, looked out the window, saw movement. A stately-looking gray-haired woman getting into the Lincoln. The station wagon already pulling away from the curb.

  Time for a chat with Dr. Ursula.

  But I was disabused of that notion as I reached the sidewalk. The Saab shot backwards out of the driveway, came to a short stop, and sped northward. So fast, I barely had a glimpse of the driver’s tense, beautiful face.

  By the time I got behind the wheel of the Seville, she was out of sight.

  I sat for a while, wondering what had drawn her away. Opened the glove compartment, took out my Thomas Guide, and looked up Ashbourne Drive.

  • • •

  The house was a generously proportioned used-brick Tudor on a wide, ungated lot shaded by maples and firs. A Plymouth van in the driveway shadowed a scattered collection of toy bikes and wagons. Three brick steps and a porch led to the front entrance. The door featured a tiny brass replica of itself set at eye level.

  A bell-ring, the tiny door creaked open, and a pair of dark eyes peered out. A TV cartoon soundtrack blared from within. The eyes narrowed.

  “Dr. Delaware to see Mrs. Robbins, please.”

  “Wan meen’.”

  I waited, straightening my clothes and finger-combing my hair. Hoping my dress shirt and tie would make the stubble look like intentional hip.

  West-side hip. Wrong neighborhood.

  The little door opened again. Blue eyes. Pupils contracting.

  “Yes?” Young voice, slightly nasal.

  “Mrs. Robbins?”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m trying to locate your sister Kathy.”

  “Are you a friend of Kathy’s?”

  “No, not actually. But we have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “Clinical psychologist. I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, and I’ll be happy to show you identification and some professional credentials.”

  “Yes, why don’t you do that.”

  I pulled the appropriate snips of paper out of my wallet and held them up, one by one.

  She said, “Who do you and Kathy both know?”

  “It’s something I really need to discuss with her personally, Mrs. Robbins. If you’re not comfortable giving me her number, I’ll give you mine and she can call me.”

  The blue eyes moved back and forth. The little door slammed shut again and the big one opened. A woman in her late thirties came out onto the front porch. Five six, trim, strawberry-blond hair cut in a bob. The blue eyes deep-set in a long, freckled face. Full lips, pointed chin, slightly protruding ears that the short hair flaunted. She wore a short-sleeved, boatneck top with horizontal red-and-white stripes, white canvas pants, and tennies without socks. Tiny diamonds in her ears. She could have been one of Las Labradoras.

  “Jan Robbins,” she said, looking me over. Her nails were long but unpolished. “It’s best that we talk out here.”

  “Sure,” I said, conscious of every wrinkle in my suit.

  She waited until I’d backed away a bit before closing the front door behind her. “So why are you looking for Kathy?”

  I considered how much to say. Had Kathy Moriarty’s sessions at the clinic been something she’d withheld from her sister? She’d talked openly to Joyce at the restaurant, but strangers were often seen
as the safest repositories of confidences.

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “It would really be best if I talked to your sister directly, Mrs. Robbins.”