Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “All you want to do is look at it, huh?” he said, pulling strands away from his lips.

  “That’s it, Richard. You can watch me every second.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Why not? At the worst, she’ll find out and get pissed and I’ll invite her to find a cheaper place.”

  He stood and stretched and shook his hair again. When I got up, he said, “Just stay right there, Phil.”

  Another trip to the kitchen. He came back too soon to have gone very far, carrying a loose-leaf notebook bound in orange cloth.

  I said, “She left it with you?”

  “Uh-uh. She forgot to take it back after she’d given it to me to look at. When I realized it, she was already gone, so I stuck it somewhere— got so much junk around here— and she never asked about it. We both forgot. Meaning it probably isn’t that important to her, right? That’s the rationale I’ll use if she gets pissed.”

  He returned to the stool, opened the notebook, and flipped pages. Clinging to his treasure for just a moment before yielding, just as he’d done with the mail.

  “Here you go,” he said. “We’re not talking racy, Phil.”

  I opened the book. Inside were forty or so double-sided pages— black paper sheathed in transparent plastic. Newspaper clippings bearing Kathleen Moriarty’s byline were inserted on each side. There was a flap on the inside front cover. I slid my hand in. Empty.

  The articles were arranged chronologically. The first few, dating back fifteen years, were from The Daily Collegian at Cal State Fresno. A score or so, spanning a seven-year period, were from the Fresno Bee. Next came pieces from the Manchester Union Leader and the Boston Globe. The dates indicated Kathy Moriarty had stayed at each of the New England papers for only about a year.

  I turned back to the beginning and checked out contents. For the most part, general interest stuff, and all local: Town meetings and personality pieces. Holiday features of the clever pet variety. An investigative trend didn’t creep in until Moriarty’s year at the Globe: a series on pollution in Boston Harbor and an exposÉ of cruelty to animals at a Worcester pharmacologic firm that didn’t appear to have gone very far.

  The last insert was a review in the Hartford Courant of The Bad Earth, her book on pesticides. Small press publisher. Good marks for enthusiasm, points off for poor documentation.

  I checked the back flap. Slipped out several folded pieces of newsprint. Skidmore was looking at his toes and hadn’t noticed. I unfolded and began reading.

  Five opinion pieces, dated last year, from a paper called The GALA Banner and subtitled “The monthly newsletter of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Discrimination, Cambridge, Mass.”

  Byline change to Kate Moriarty. Title of Contributing Editor.

  These essays were filled with rage: male domination, the AIDS plague, the penis as a weapon. A piece on identity and misogyny. Stapled to that one was a scrap of newsprint.

  Skidmore yawned. “Almost finished?”

  “One sec.”

  I read the scrap. The Globe, again, three years old. No Moriarty byline. No byline at all. Just a news summary— one of those “roundup” items papers run on page 2 of the final edition.

  DOCTOR’S DEATH TIED TO OVERDOSE

  (CAMBRIDGE) The death of a Harvard Psychiatric Fellow is believed to have resulted from an accidental or self-administered dose of barbiturates. The body of Eileen Wagner, 37, was found this morning in her office at the Beth Israel Hospital Psychiatry Department on Brookline Avenue. Time of death was estimated at some time during the night. Police would not speculate upon what led them to their conclusion, other than to say that Dr. Wagner had been suffering from “personal problems.” A graduate of Yale and Yale University Medical School, Dr. Wagner completed pediatric training at Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles and practiced medicine with the World Health Organization overseas before coming to Harvard last year to study Child and Adolescent Psychiatry.

  I looked over at Skidmore. His eyes were closed. I pulled off the article, pocketed it, closed the book, and said, “Thanks, Richard. Now how about giving me a look at her apartment.”

  His eyes opened.

  “Just to make sure,” I said.

  “Sure of what?”

  “That she’s not there— hurt or worse.”

  “No way is she there,” he said, with genuine anxiety that was refreshing. “No way, Marlowe.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I saw her drive away a month ago. White Datsun— you can get the plates, run some kind of trace, right?”

  “What if she came back without the car? You might not have noticed— you yourself said the two of you didn’t see each other often.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Too weird.”

  “Why don’t we just check, Richard? You can stand there and watch— just like with the scrapbook.”

  He rubbed his eyes. Stared at me. Got up.

  I followed him into a tiny, dark kitchen where he picked a ring of keys out of a pile of junk and pushed open a rear door. We walked across a backyard too small for hopscotch to a double garage. The garage doors were the old-fashioned hinge-type. Door-sized inserts were centered in each. Garage apartments. Literally.

  Skidmore said, “This one,” and led me to the unit on the left. The door-within-a-door was deadbolted.

  “Illegal,” he said, “converting the garage. You won’t tell on me, Marlowe, will you?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Smiling, he shuffled keys. Then turned serious and stopped.

  “What is it, Richard?”

  “Wouldn’t it smell— if she was . . . you know.”

  “Depends, Richard. You never can tell.”

  Another smile. Shaky. He fumbled with the keys.

  “One thing I’m curious about,” I said. “If you thought I was here to dun Kathy for money, why’d you let me in?”

  “Simple,” he said. “Material.”

  • • •

  Kathy Moriarty’s home was a twenty-by-twenty room that still reeked of automobile. The floor was wheat-colored linoleum squares; the walls were white plasterboard. The furniture was a twin-size mattress on the floor, sheet crumpled at the foot, revealing sweat-stained blue ticking. Wooden nightstand, round white Formica table, and three metal chairs padded at seat and back with dollops of yellow Hawaiian-print plastic. One of the far corners contained a hot plate on a metal stand; the other, a Fiberglas water closet no bigger than an airplane latrine. Above the hot plate a single bracket shelf held a few dishes and kitchen utensils. On the opposite wall was a makeshift closet frame of white PVC tubing. A few outfits, mostly jeans and shirts, hung from the horizontal tube.

  Kathy Moriarty hadn’t spent her sister’s money on interior decorating. I had an idea where the funds had gone.

  Skidmore said, “Oh, man.” The skin beneath his stubble was white and one hand was atop his head, snarled in hair.

  “What is it?”

  “Either someone’s been here or she’s packed out on me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He waved his hands, suddenly agitated. The kid with the poor attention span, struggling to make himself clear.

  “This wasn’t the way it looked when she was here. She had luggage— lots of suitcases, a backpack . . . this big trunk that she used for a coffee table.” He looked around and pointed. “Right there. And there was a pile of books right on it— next to the mattress.”

  “What kinds of books?”

  “I don’t know— I never checked . . . but one thing I’m sure of: It didn’t look this way.”

  “When’s the last time you saw it look any different?”

  The hand in his hair clawed and gathered a clump. “Just before I saw her drive away— when would that be? Maybe five weeks. Or six, I don’t know. It was at night. I brought her some mail, and she was sitting with her feet up on the chest. So the chest was there— that’s for sure. Five or six weeks ago.”

  “Any
idea what was in the chest?”

  “No. For all I know it was empty— but why would anyone take an empty trunk, right? So it probably wasn’t. And if she packed out, why would she leave her clothes and her dishes and stuff?”

  “Good thinking, Richard.”

  “Very weird.”

  We entered the room. He stood back and I began circling. Then I saw something on the floor next to the mattress. Fleck of foam. Couple more. Bending down, I ran my hand along the side of the mattress. More foam fell out. My fingers searched and I found the wound: straight as a seam, surgically neat, barely noticeable even from up close.

  “What?” said Skidmore.

  “It’s been slit open.”

  “Oh, man.” He moved his head from side to side, flapping his hair.

  He stayed in place while I got down on my knees, spread the lips of the slit, and peered inside. Nothing. I looked around the rest of the room. Nothing.

  “What?” said Skidmore.

  “Is the mattress yours or hers?”

  “Hers. What’s going on?”

  “Looks like someone’s been curious. Or maybe she was hiding something inside. Did she have a TV or stereo?”

  “Just a radio. That’s gone, too! But this isn’t about burglary, is it?”

  “Hard to tell.”

  “But you suspect nasty, don’t you? That’s why you came here in the first place, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know enough to suspect anything, Richard. Is there something you know about her that makes you think nasty?”

  “No,” he said in a loud, tight voice. “She was a lonely dyke who kept to herself— I don’t know what else you expect me to tell you!”

  “Nothing, Richard,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. I appreciate the time.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Now can I close up? Gotta go call a locksmith, put on a new bolt.”

  We left the garage. Once outside, he pointed to the driveway and said, “That’ll take you out.”

  I thanked him again and wished him luck on his private-eye essay.

  He said, “Cancel that one,” and went inside the house.

  33

  The first pay phone I found was at a mall on Santa Monica Boulevard. The shopping center was brand-new— empty storefronts, the lot freshly tarred. But the booth had a lived-in smell. Gum clots and cigarette butts littered the floor. The directory had been ripped off its chain.

  I called Boston Information and asked for the number of the GALA Banner. There was no listing for the paper, but the Gay and Lesbian Alliance had one that I dialed.

  A man answered, “GALA.” I heard voices in the background.

  “I’d like to speak to someone on the Banner, please.”

  “Advertising or editorial?”

  “Editorial. Someone who knows Kathy— Kate Moriarty.”

  “Kate doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “I know that. She’s living in L.A., which is where I’m calling from.”

  Pause. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m an acquaintance of Kate’s and she’s been missing for over a month. Her family’s concerned, so am I, and I thought someone in Boston might be able to help us out.”

  “She’s not here, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’d really like to talk to someone on the staff who knows her.”

  Another pause. “I’d better take your name and number.”

  I gave him both and said, “That’s an answering service. I’m a clinical psychologist— you can check me out in an American Psychological Association directory. You can also call Professor Seth Fiacre over at Boston U.’s psych department. I’d appreciate hearing back as quickly as possible.”

  “Well,” he said, “it may not be that quick. You’ll need to talk to the Banner’s editor. That’s Bridget McWilliams and she’s out of the city for the rest of the day.”

  “Where can she be reached?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Please try to contact her. Tell her Kate’s safety may be at stake.” When he didn’t respond to that, I said, “Mention Eileen Wagner’s name, too.”

  “Wagner,” he said, and I heard the sound of scrawling. “As in the composer— No, guess that would be Vahgner.”

  “Guess so.”

  • • •

  I’d forgotten about Seth Fiacre’s move to Boston until his name had popped into my head as a reference. The social psychologist had left UCLA for the East last year, when an endowed chair in Group Process had been thrown at him. Seth’s specialty was mind control and cults, and the Forbes 400 father of a sixteen-year-old girl rescued from a neo-Hindu apocalyptic sect living in subterranean bunkers in New Mexico had consulted Seth on deprogramming. Shortly after, the money for the chair had come available.

  Back to Boston Information. I got the number for B.U.’s psych department and dialed it, was informed by the receptionist that Professor Fiacre’s office was at the Applied Social Science Center. A receptionist there took my name and put me on hold. Seth’s voice came on a moment later.

  “Alex, long time.”

  “Hi, Seth. How’s Boston?”

  “Boston is wonderful, a real city. Hadn’t been back for any length of time since graduation— kind of a nice homecoming. How about yourself? Do any teaching like you were thinking of?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s hard to return,” he said. “Once you get out in the real world.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  He laughed. “I forgot I was speaking to a clinician. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Doing some consulting, trying to put out a monograph.”

  “Sounds admirably well-rounded. So, what can I do for you? Another bunch of true believers to check out? My pleasure. Last time I gave you data I got two abstracts and a paper in JPSP out of it.”

  “The Touch,” I said, remembering.

  “They put the touch on lots of suckers. So who’re the loony tunes this time?”

  “No cults,” I said. “What I’m looking for is some information on a colleague. Former faculty at your alma mater.”

  “The H place? Who?”

  “Leo Gabney. And wife.”

  “Dr. Prolific? Yeah, I seem to have heard he was living out there.”

  “Know anything about him?”

  “Not personally. But we’re not exactly paddling the backwaters, are we? I remember having to immerse myself in everything he’d written for my Advanced Learning Theory course. The guy was a factory. I used to curse him for turning out so much data, but most of it was pretty solid. He must be— what? Sixty-five, seventy? Little old for mischief. Why’re you checking him out?”

  “He’s a little younger than that— sixty or so. And a long way from the glue factory. He and his wife have a clinic in San Labrador specializing in phobia therapy. For the rich.” I quoted him the Gabneys’ fee schedule.

  “How depressing,” he said. “Here I was, thinking this endowment was serious money, and you’ve gone and made me feel poor again.” He repeated the numbers out loud, then said, “Oh, well . . . What do you want to know about them, and why?”

  “They’ve been treating the mother of one of my patients, and some strange things have come up— nothing I can get into, Seth. Sorry, but you understand.”

  “Sure. You’re interested in his libidinal history, and related matters, when he was back at H.”

  “That,” I said, “and any financial indiscretions.”

  “Ah . . . that can of worms. Now I’m intrigued.”

  “If you could find out why the two of them left Boston and what kinds of work they were doing during the year or so before they left, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Do what I can, though people around here don’t like to talk about money— because they lust after it so much. Also, those folks at That Place Uptown don’t always condescend to talk to the rest of us.”

  “Even alumni?”

  “Even alumni who stray too far south of Cam
bridge. But I’ll churn the chowder, see what bobs to the surface. What’s the wife’s name?”

  “Ursula Cunningham. She hyphenates it now, with Gabney. She’s a Ph.D.-M.D. Gabney was her adviser in grad school and sent her on to med school. Her faculty appointment was at the med school, Department of Psychiatry. His may have been, too, as a matter of fact.”