Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  My apartment looked dingier than ever. I avoided it, spent as much time as possible at the hospital, where the challenges of my new job helped distract me. I took on a full caseload from the waiting list, volunteered for the night shift in the Emergency Room. On the third day she showed up at my office, looking happy, almost feverish with delight.

  She closed the door. Deep kisses and embraces. She made sounds about missing me, let my hands roam her curves. Then she pulled away, flushed and laughing. “Free for lunch, Doctor?”

  She took me to the hospital parking lot, to a shiny red convertible—a brand new Alfa Romeo Spider.

  “Like it?”

  “Sure, it's great.”

  She tossed me the keys. “You drive.”

  We had lunch at an Italian place on Los Feliz, listened to opera and ate cannoli for dessert. Back in the car, she said, “There's something I want to show you, Alex,” and directed me west, to Nichols Canyon.

  As I pulled up the driveway to the gray, pebble-roofed house, she said, “So what do you think, Doc?”

  “Who lives here?”

  “Yours truly.”

  “You're renting it?”

  “No, it's mine!” She got out of the car and skipped to the front door.

  I was surprised to find the house furnished, even more surprised by the dated, fifties look of the place. These were the days when organic was king: earth tones, home-made candles, and batiks. All this aluminum and plastic, the flat, cold colors seemed déclassé, cartoonish.

  She glided around exuding pride of ownership, touching and straightening, pulled open drapes and exposed the wall of glass. The view made me forget the aluminum.

  Not a student's pad by a long shot. I thought: an arrangement. Someone had set the place up for her. Someone old enough to have bought furniture in the fifties.

  Kruse? She'd never really clarified their relationship. . . .

  “So what do you think, Doc?”

  “Really something. How'd you swing it?”

  She was in the kitchen, pouring 7-Up into two glasses. Pouting. “You don't like it.”

  “No, no, I do. It's fantastic.”

  “Your tone of voice tells me different, Alex.”

  “I was just wondering how you managed it. Financially.”

  She gave a theatrical glower and answered in a Mata Hari voice: “I haf secret life.”

  “Aha.”

  “Oh, Alex, don't be so glum. It's not as if I slept with anybody to get it.”

  That shook me. I said, “I wasn't implying you had.”

  Her grin was wicked. “But it did cross your mind, sweet prince.”

  “Never.” I looked out at the mountains. The sky was pale aqua above a horizon of pinkish brown. More fifties color coordination.

  “Nothing crossed my mind,” I said. “I just wasn't prepared. I don't see or hear from you all summer—now this.”

  She handed me a soda, put her head on my shoulder.

  “It's gorgeous,” I said. “Not as gorgeous as you, but gorgeous. Enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, Alex. You're so sweet.”

  We stood there for a while, sipping. Then she unlatched the sliding door and we stepped out onto the terrace. Narrow, white space cantilevering over a sheer drop. Like stepping onto a cloud. The chalky smell of dry brush rose up from the canyons. In the distance was the HOLLYWOOD sign, sagging, splintering, a billboard for shattered dreams.

  “There's a pool, too,” she said. “Around the other side.”

  “Wanna skinny-dip?”

  She smiled and leaned on the railing. I touched her hair, put my hand under her sweater and massaged her spine.

  She made a contented sound, leaned against me, reached around and stroked my jaw.

  “I guess I should explain,” she said. “It's just that it's involved.”

  “I've got time,” I said.

  “Do you really?” she asked, suddenly excited. She turned around, held my face in her hands. “You don't have to get back to the hospital right away?”

  “Nothing but meetings until six. I'm due at the E.R. at eight.”

  “Great! We can sit here for a while and watch the sunset. Then I'll drive you back.”

  “You were going to explain,” I reminded her.

  But she'd already gone inside and turned on the stereo. Slow Brazilian music came on—gentle guitars and discreet percussion.

  “Lead me,” she said, back on the terrace. Snaking her arms around me. “In dancing the man's supposed to lead.”

  We swayed together, belly-to-belly, tongue-to-tongue. When the music ended she took my hand and led me through a short foyer into her bedroom.

  More bleached, glass-topped furniture, a pole lamp, a low, wide bed with a square, bleached headboard. Above it, two narrow, high windows.

  She removed her shoes. As I kicked off mine I noticed something on the walls: crude, childish drawings of apples. Pencil and crayon on oatmeal-colored pulp paper. But glass-framed and expensively matted.

  Odd, but I didn't spend much time wondering about it. She'd drawn blackout drapes across the windows, plunged the room into darkness. I smelled her perfume, felt her hand cupping my groin.

  “Come,” she said—a disembodied voice—and her hands settled upon my shoulders with surprising strength. She bore down on me and lowered me to the bed, got on top of me, and kissed me hard.

  We embraced and rolled, made love fully clothed. She, sitting, with her back against the headboard, legs spread and drawn up sharply, her hands clasping her knees. I, kneeling before her, as if in prayer, impaling her while gripping the top rim of the headboard.

  A cramped, backseat position. When it was over she slid out from under me and said, “Now, I'll explain. I'm an orphan. Both of my parents died last year.”

  My heart was still pounding. I said, “I'm sorry—”

  “They were wonderful people, Alex. Very glamorous, very gracious and courant.”

  A dispassionate way to talk about one's dead parents, but grief could take many forms. The important thing was that she was talking, opening up.

  “Daddy was an art director for one of the big publishing houses in New York,” she said. “Mummy was an interior designer. We lived in Manhattan, on Park Avenue, and had a place in Palm Beach and another on Long Island—Southampton. I was their only little girl.”

  The last sentence was uttered with special solemnity, as if lacking siblings were an honor of the first rank.

  “They were active people, traveled a lot by themselves. But it didn't bother me because I knew they loved me very much. Last year they were in Spain, on holiday near Majorca. They were driving home from a party when their car went off a cliff.”

  I took her in my arms. She felt loose and relaxed, could have been talking about the weather. Unable to read her face in the darkness, I listened for a catch in her voice, rapid breathing, some evidence of sorrow. Nothing.

  “I'm so sorry for you, Sharon.”

  “Thank you. It's been very hard. That's why I didn't want to talk about them—it was just too much to handle. Intellectually, I know that's not the optimal way to deal with it, that keeping it bottled up only leads to pathological grief and raises the risk of all kinds of symptoms. But affectively, I just couldn't talk about it. Every time I tried, I just couldn't.”

  “Don't pressure yourself. Everyone goes at their own pace.”

  “Yes. Yes, that's true. I'm just explaining to you why I didn't want to talk about them. Why I really still don't, Alex.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you do.” Deep kiss. “You're so right for me, Alex.”

  I thought of the constricted way we'd just made love. “Am I?”

  “Oh, God, yes. Paul—” She stopped.

  “Paul what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Paul approves of me?”

  “It's not like that, Alex. But, yes. Yes, he does. I always talk about how wonderful you are and he says he's glad I've found someone so g
ood for me. He likes you.”

  “We've never met.”

  Pause.

  “He likes what I've told him about you.”

  “I see.”

  “What's the matter, Alex?”

  “Sounds like you and Paul have lots to talk about.”

  I felt her hand reach around and take hold of me. She squeezed gently, kneaded. This time I didn't respond and she lowered her fingers, let them rest upon my scrotum.

  “He's my faculty adviser, Alex. He supervises my cases. That means we have to talk.” Gentle stroking. “Let's not discuss him or anyone else anymore, okay?”

  “Okay. But I'm still curious about where the house came from.”

  “The house?” she said, surprised. “Oh. The house. Inheritance, of course. It belonged to them. My parents. They were both born in California, lived here before moving back East—before I was born. I was their only little girl, so it's mine now. It took time for the estate to clear, there was so much paperwork. That's the reason I couldn't go with you to San Francisco—I had to clear everything up. Anyway, now I have a house and some money—there's a trust fund, administered back East. That's how I got the Alfa. I know it's a little showy, but I thought it was cute. What do you think?”

  “It's adorable.”

  She went on for a while, talking about the car, the places we could go in it.

  But all I could think about was: a house. We could live here together. I was earning good money now, could pay the utilities—pay all the expenses.

  “You've got a lot more room now,” I said, nibbling her ear. “Enough for two.”

  “Oh, yes. After the dorm room, I'm looking forward to being able to stretch. And you can visit me up here, any time you want. We'll have fun, Alex.”

  “. . . good-sized, especially by today's standards.”

  Mickey Mehrabian was hitting her stride.

  “Tremendous decorator potential, fabulous flow, and the price includes all the furnishings. Some of these pieces are really deco classics—you could keep them or sell them. Everything's tiptop. The place is really a gem, Doctor.”

  We toured the kitchen and walked through the short foyer that led to the bedrooms. The first door was closed. She passed it by. I opened it and went in.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “This was the master bedroom.”

  The shampoo/disinfectant smell was stronger here, mixed with other industrial scents: the ammonia of glass cleaner, the malathion bite of insecticide, lye soap. A toxic cocktail. The drapes had been removed; only a tangle of cords and pulleys remained. All the furniture was gone. The carpet had been pulled up, revealing hardwood flooring marred by tacks. The two high windows revealed a view of tree-tops and power lines. But no breeze, no dilution of the chemical bath.

  No apple drawings.

  I heard a buzz. She heard it too. Both of us looked around for the source, found it immediately:

  A swarm of gnats circling the center of the room, an animate cloud, its borders shifting amoebically.

  Pinpointing the spot.

  Despite the attempts to wash away the aura of death, the insects knew—had sensed with their primitive little gnat brains—exactly what had taken place in this room. On that spot.

  I remembered something Milo had told me. Women kill in the kitchen and die in the bedroom.

  Mickey Mehrabian saw the look on my face and mistook it for squeamishness.

  “The open windows, this time of year,” she said. “No problem taking care of it. There's a motivated seller, extremely flexible. I'm sure you'll have no problem including any repairs or adjustments as contingencies during escrow, Doctor.”

  “Why is he or she selling?”

  The wide smile reappeared. “No he or she—an it, really. A corporation. They own lots of properties, turn them over regularly.”

  “Speculators?”

  The smile froze. “That's a naughty word, Doctor. Investors.”

  “Who lives here now?”

  “No one. The tenant moved out recently.”

  “And took the bed.”

  “Yes. Only the bedroom furniture belonged to her—I believe it was a woman.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know L.A., people coming and going. Now, let's take a look at the other bedrooms.”

  We left the death room. She asked, “Do you live alone, Dr. Delaware?”

  I had to think before answering. “Yes.”

  “Then you can use one of the bedrooms for a study, or even to see your patients.”

  Patients. According to the newspaper, Sharon had seen her patients here.

  I wondered about the people she treated. The impact her death could be having on them.

  Then I realized there was someone else in her life. Someone upon whom the impact would be tremendous.

  My mind went into overdrive. I wanted to be out of there.

  But I let Mickey show me around, allowed her patter to pass through me for a while before consulting my watch and saying, “Oops, I've got to get going.”

  “Do you think you'll be putting in an offer, Doctor?”

  “I need time to think about it. Thanks for showing it to me.”

  “If it's a view site you're after, I've got some other listings I could show you.”

  I tapped the watch. “Love to, but can't right now.”

  “Why don't we make an appointment for another day?”

  “Not even time for that,” I said. “I'll call you when I'm free.”

  “Fine,” she said, coolly.

  We left the house and she locked up. We walked silently to separate Cadillacs. Before she could open the door of her Fleetwood, a hint of movement caught our attention. The rustle of foliage—burrowing animals?

  A man shot out of the greenery and began running away.

  “Excuse me!” Mickey called out, struggling to stay calm, her weirdo fantasies come to life.

  The runner looked back, stared at us, stumbled, fell, and picked himself up again.

  Young. Disheveled hair. Wild-eyed. Mouth open as if in a silent scream. Terrified, or mad, or both.

  Patients . . .

  “That gate,” said Mickey. “It needs to be fixed. Better security—no problem.”

  I was looking at the runner, called: “Hold on!”

  “What is it? Do you know him?”

  He picked up speed, disappeared around the curve in the driveway. I heard an engine start, began running myself, to the bottom of the drive. Got there just as an old green pickup pulled away from the curb. Gears grinding, swerving erratically, going too fast, weaving. Some letters were painted in white on the door, but I couldn't make them out.

  I ran back to my car, got in.

  “Who is that?” said Mickey. “Do you know him?”

  “Not yet.”

  Chapter

  9

  I managed to catch up to him, flashed my brights and honked. He ignored me, was all over the road, weaving, speeding. Then more gear-grinding as he tried to shift. The truck got stuck in neutral, slowed to a coast, the engine racing as he fed gas without disengaging the clutch. He hit the brakes suddenly, came to a full stop. I stayed back, could see him through the truck's rear window, struggling, tugging.

  The truck stalled. Started, stalled again. He began coasting, picking up some speed on the downhill, then braking, sliding, reducing it to a crawl.

  At the fenced marshland he let go of the wheel and threw his hands up. The truck skidded, veered, headed straight for the chain-link fence.

  He hit it, but not hard—didn't even dent his fender. I pulled over behind him. The tires spun for a while; then the engine went dead.

  Before I had a chance to get out of the car, he was out of the truck, lurching, arms hanging gorillalike, a bottle in one hand. I locked the car. He was right next to me, kicking the Seville's tires, pressing both hands on my door. The bottle was empty. Gatorade. He raised it as if to smash my window, lost his grip and let it spin out of his hand. He followed its descent, gave up,
looked at me. His eyes were watery, swollen, rimmed scarlet.

  “Gonna . . . kill your . . . ass, man.” Slurred speech. Theatrical grimaces.

  “The fuck . . . following me?”

  He closed his eyes, staggered, fell forward, knocked his forehead on the roof of the car.

  The brain-damaged stance of a lifelong boozehound. But his life hadn't been that long—what was he, twenty-two or -three?

  He kicked the car, grabbed the door handle, missed, and stumbled. Little more than a kid. Baby bulldog face. Short—five four or five—but strong-looking, with sloping shoulders and thick, sunburned arms. Red hair, shoulder-length, coarse, uncombed. Wispy mustache and beard the color of lint. Pimples on his brow and cheeks. He wore a sweat-stained T-shirt, cutoff shorts, tennis shoes without socks.

  “Fuck, man,” he said, and scratched an armpit. His hands were blunt-edged, scarred and scabbed, caked with grime.

  He rocked on his heels, finally lost balance completely and landed on his rear.

  He stayed that way for a while. I slid across the seat and exited the Seville on the passenger side. He watched me, not moving, let his eyes drop shut again, as if lacking the strength to keep them open.

  I walked to his truck. Thirty-year-old Ford, poorly maintained. Wobbly white letters spelled out D.J. RASMUSSEN, CARPENTRY AND FRAMING on the door. Under that, a post office box in Newhall. In the truck bed were two ladders, a toolbox, a couple of blankets weighed down by metal parts.

  The interior was littered with empty bottles—more Gatorade, Southern Comfort, several brands of wine cooler.

  I pocketed the key, removed the distributor cap, and returned to where he still sat.

  “You D.J.?”

  Glazed look. Up close he smelled of ferment and vomit.

  “What were you doing up there?”

  No answer.

  “Were you paying last respects? To Dr. Ransom?”

  The glaze melted fast. Right track.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Fu-uck you.” Followed by a putrid belch that made me step back. He mumbled, tried to move an arm, couldn't. Closed his eyes, seemed in pain.

  I said, “I was a friend of hers.”