Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She knelt before him.

  The camera concentrated on his face.

  Real passion.

  They were up on the table.

  The camera concentrated on his face.

  He was lost in her, she in control.

  The camera concentrated on his face.

  Hidden camera.

  A documentary—real peep-through-the-window stuff. I closed my eyes, thought of something else.

  The blond beauty working like a pro.

  Sharon's twin—but from another time. His Alfalfa hairdo and pencil mustache authentic.

  Contemporary . . .

  “When was this made?” I called back to Gordon.

  “1952,” he said in a choked voice, as if resenting the interruption.

  The doctor was bucking and gritting his teeth. The blond woman waved him like a flag. Winked at the camera.

  Blank screen.

  “Sharon's mother,” I said.

  “I can't prove it,” said Gordon, returning to the front of the room. “But with that resemblance she'd have to be, wouldn't she? When I met Pretty Sharon, she reminded me of someone. I couldn't remember who, hadn't seen this film in a long time—years. It's quite rare, a real collector's item. We try to avoid exposing it to unnecessary wear and tear.”

  He stopped, expectant.

  “We appreciate your showing it to us, Mr. Fontaine.”

  “My pleasure. When I saw Kruse's finished product, I realized who she'd reminded me of. Kruse must have realized it too. We gave him full access to our entire collection, and he spent a lot of time in the vault. He discovered Linda's film and set out to ape it. Mother and daughter—an intriguing theme, but he should have been truthful about it.”

  “Did Sharon know about the first film?”

  “That I can't tell you. As I said, I only met her once.”

  “Linda who?” said Larry.

  “Linda Lanier. She was an actress—or at least wanted to be. One of the pretty young things who flooded Hollywood after the war—still do, I guess. I believe she got a contract at one of the studios, but she never actually worked.”

  “Wrong kind of talent?” said Larry.

  “Who knows? She didn't stick around long enough for anyone to find out. That particular studio was owned by Leland Belding. She ended up being one of his party girls.”

  “The basket-case billionaire,” I said. “The Magna Corporation.”

  “You're both too young to remember,” said Gordon, “but he was quite a guy in his day, Renaissance man—aerospace, armaments, shipping, mining. And the movies. He invented a camera that they still use today. And a no-shimmy girdle based on aircraft design.”

  I said, “By party girl, you mean hooker?”

  “No, no, more like hostesses. He used to throw lots of parties. Owning the studio gave him easy access to beautiful girls and he hired them as hostesses. The bluenoses tried to make a thing of it, but they never could prove a thing.”

  “What about the doctor?”

  “He was a real doctor. The film was real, too—the vérité is almost overwhelming, isn't it? This is the original print, the only remaining one.”

  “Where'd you get it?”

  He shook his head. “Trade secret, Doctor. Suffice it to say I've had it for a long time and it cost me plenty. I could make copies and recoup all my original investment plus, but that would open the floodgates for multiple reproduction and dilute the historical value of the original, and I refuse to bend my principles.”

  “What was the name of the doctor?”

  “I don't know.”

  A lie. Fanatic and voyeur that he was, he wouldn't have rested before gleaning every last detail about his treasure.

  I said, “The film was part of a blackmail ploy, wasn't it? The doctor was the victim.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “What else, then? He didn't know he was being filmed.”

  “Hollywood practical joke,” he said. “Old Errol Flynn bored peepholes in the walls of his bathrooms, used a hidden camera to film his lady friends on the commode.”

  “Tacky,” muttered Larry.

  Gordon's face darkened. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Dr. Daschoff. It was all in the spirit of fun.”

  Larry said nothing

  “Never mind,” said Gordon, walking to the door of the vault and holding it open. “I'm sure you gentlemen have to get back to your patients.”

  He ushered us through the black room and to the elevator.

  “What happened to Linda Lanier?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” he said. Then he began to prattle about the relationship between cultural norms and erotica, and continued the lecture until we left his house.

  Chapter

  17

  “Never saw him like that,” said Larry, when we were back on the sidewalk.

  “His belief system's under assault,” I said. “He likes to think of his hobby as something benign, like stamp collecting. But you don't use stamps to blackmail.”

  He shook his head. “It was weird enough watching Sharon, but the second one was something else—really evil. That poor guy humping away, all the while he's making his cinematic debut.”

  Another shake of the head. “Blackmail. Shit, this is getting curiouser and curiouser, D. To make things worse I got a call this morning from an old fraternity brother. A guy Brenda and I both knew in college, also ended up a shrink—behavior therapist, had a huge practice out in Phoenix. Screwed his secretary, she gave him the clap; he passed it on to his wife and she kicked him out, started bad-mouthing him all around town, destroyed the practice. Couple of days ago he walks into the house, blows her brains out and then his own. Doesn't say much for our profession, does it? Know how to take tests, write a dissertation, and you graduate. Send in your check, renew your license. No one checks for psychopathology.”

  “Maybe the psychoanalysts have the right idea,” I said. “Making their candidates go through long-term analysis before being allowed to qualify.”

  “Come on, D. Think of all the analysts you've met who are total weirdos. And all of us had our training therapies. Someone can be therapized up the ying-yang and still be a rotten human being. Who knows, maybe we're suspect from the beginning. I just read this article, study of psychologists' and psychiatrists' family histories. A whole bunch of us had severely depressed mothers.”

  “I read it too.”

  “Sure fits me,” he said. “How about you?”

  I nodded.

  “You see, that's it. As kids we had to take care of our mommies so we learned to be hyper-adult. Then, when we grow up we look for other depressives to take care of—that in itself isn't bad, if we've worked through all our personal shit. But if we don't . . . Nah, there ain't no simple answer, D. Let the buyer goddam beware.”

  I walked him to the station wagon. “Larry, could Sharon's film have had anything to do with Kruse's research?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “What about the University forms Gordon saw?”

  “Bogus,” he said. “And illogical—even back then, no university would put itself out on a limb like that. Kruse showed him some piece of bullshit; Gordon believed it because he wanted to. Besides, Kruse never bothered to use any forms for anything—he and the department had a mutual apathy going. They took the bread he brought in, gave him a basement lab no one was using, didn't want to know what he was up to. Compared to all the deception experiments the social psychologists were doing, his stuff seemed benign.” He stopped, looked troubled. “What the hell was he after, filming her like that?”

  “Who knows? The only thing I can think of is some sort of radical therapy. Working through the sins of the mothers.”

  He thought about that. “Yeah. Maybe. That kind of weirdness would be right up his alley: total control of the patient's life, marathon sessions, regression hypnosis—break down the defenses. If in the process she found out that her mom was a bimbo, he'd have her vulnerable.”

  “What if she f
ound out because Kruse told her?” I said. “He had access to the Fontaines' film vault, could have been looking through it and discovered Linda Lanier's loop. Her resemblance to Sharon was striking—he put it together. Then he researched Lanier, learned some nasty details—maybe even about blackmail. Sharon told me some bogus story about rich, sophisticated parents. Looks like she was hiding from reality. Kruse could have shown her the film when she was under hypnosis, used it to break her down completely, put her completely under his control. Then he suggested a way she could work through the trauma by making a film of her own—cathartic role-playing.”

  “Fucking bastard,” he said. Then: “She was a smart girl, D. How could she fall for it?”

  “Smart, but screwed up—those borderline characteristics we talked about. And you yourself told me how persuasive Kruse was—he had radical libbers believing whipping his wife was something noble. Those were women he knew casually. He was Sharon's supervisor, her training therapist, and she stayed with him after she got her doctorate, as his assistant. I never really understood the relationship between them, but I knew it was intense. The film was made soon after she came to L.A., which means he was monkeying with her head right from the beginning.”

  “Or maybe,” he said, “he knew her from before.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Therapy plus cum shots.” He looked grim. “Our esteemed department head's a real prince.”

  “Do you think the University should be apprised of his methods?”

  “A little fling at whistle-blowing?” He worried his mustache. “Brenda tells me the slander laws are pretty damned convoluted. Kruse's got money—he could keep us in court for years—and no matter how it turned out, we'd be raked over in the process. Are you ready for something like that?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Well, I'm not. Let the University do its own damned detective work.”

  “Let the buyer beware?”

  He put his hand on the door handle, looked peeved. “Look, D., you're semi-retired, your own man, got plenty of time to run around looking at dirty movies. I've got five kids, a wife in law school, high blood pressure, and a mortgage to match. Forgive me for not wanting to play Crusader Rabbit, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Take it easy.”

  “I try to, believe me, but reality keeps squeezing my nuts.”

  He got in the car.

  “If I do anything,” I said, “I'll keep you out of it.”

  “Good idea.” He looked at his watch. “Got to roll. Can't say it's been a yuck a minute but it certainly has been different.”

  Two films. Another link to a dead billionaire.

  And one amateur movie producer, masquerading as a healer.

  I drove home determined to reach Kruse before I left for San Luis the next day. Determined the bastard was going to talk to me, one way or the other. I tried his offices again. Still no answer. I was about to phone his University exchange when the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Dr. Delaware, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Dr. Delaware, this is Dr. Leslie Weingarden. I've got a crisis on my hands that I thought you might be able to help me with.”

  She sounded tightly strung.

  “What kind of crisis, Dr. Weingarden?”

  “Related to our previous conversation,” she said. “I'd rather not discuss it over the phone. Could you see your way clear to come down to my office sometime this afternoon?”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” I said.

  I changed shirts, put on a tie, called my service, and was told Olivia Brickerman had called.

  “She said to tell you the system's down, Doctor,” said the operator. “Whatever that means. She'll try to get you what you want as soon as it's up again.”

  I thanked her and hung up. Back to Beverly Hills.

  Two women sat reading in the waiting room. Neither appeared in good humor.

  I rapped the glass partition. The receptionist came around and let me in. We passed several examining rooms, stopped at a door marked PRIVATE, and knocked. A second later it opened partially and Leslie slipped out. She was perfectly made up, every hair in place, but she looked haggard and frightened.

  “How many patients out there, Bea?”

  “Just a couple. But one's a nagger.”

  “Tell them an emergency came up—I'll be with them soon as I can.”

  Bea left. Leslie said, “Let's get away from the door.”

  We moved down the hall. She leaned against the wall, blew out her breath, knitted her hands.

  “Wish I still smoked,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “What's up?”

  “D.J. Rasmussen. He's dead. His girlfriend's inside, totally coming apart. She walked in half an hour ago, just as I got back from lunch, and broke down in the waiting room. I hustled her in here fast, before the other patients arrived, and I've been tied up with her ever since. I gave her a shot of IM Valium—ten milligrams. That seemed to calm her down for a while but then she started falling apart again. Still want to help? Think you can do anything by talking to her?”

  “How did he die?”

  “Carmen—the girlfriend—said he'd been drinking heavily for the last few days. More heavily than usual. She was frightened he was going to get rough with her, because that was his usual pattern. But instead he got weepy, deeply depressed, started talking about what a bad person he was, all the terrible things he'd done. She tried to talk to him but he just got lower, kept drinking. Early this morning she woke up and found a thousand dollars in cash on his pillow, along with some personal snapshots of the two of them and a note that said ‘Goodbye.' She jumped out of bed, saw he'd taken his guns out of the cabinet but couldn't find him. Then she heard his truck starting and ran out after him. The truck was full of guns and he'd already started drinking—she could smell it on him. She tried to stop him but he shoved her away and drove off. She got in her car and followed him. They live out in Newhall—apparently there are lots of canyons and winding roads there. He was speeding and weaving, going over ninety. She couldn't keep up and missed a turn. But she retraced, stayed with him, and saw him go over an embankment. The truck rolled around, landed at the bottom, and exploded. Just like TV, she said.”

  Leslie chewed on a fingernail.

  “Do the police know about this?”

  “Yes. She called them. They asked her a few questions, took her statement, and told her to go home. According to her, they didn't seem very concerned. D.J. was known locally as a troublemaker, history of driving under the influence. She claims she heard one of them mutter, ‘Fucking streets are safer now.' That's all I know. Can you help?”

  “I'll try.”

  We entered her private office—small, book-lined, furnished with a pine writing desk and two chairs, decorated with cute posters, plants, souvenir mugs, photo cubes. In one of the chairs sat a chubby young woman with a poor complexion. She wore a white blousy shift, brown stretch pants, and flat sandals. Her hair was long and black, blond-streaked and disheveled; her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy. When she saw me she turned away and buried her face in her hands.

  Leslie said, “Carmen, this is Dr. Delaware. Dr. Delaware, Carmen Seeber.”

  I sat in the other chair. “Hi, Carmen.”

  “Carmen, Dr. Delaware's a psychologist. You can talk to him.”

  And with that, Leslie left the room.

  The young woman kept her face hidden, didn't move or speak. After a while, I said, “Dr. Weingarden told me about D.J. I'm very sorry.”

  She started to sob, humped shoulders heaving.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Carmen? Anything you need?”

  More sobs.

  “I met D.J. once,” I said. “He seemed a very troubled person.”

  A rush of tears.

  “It must have been hard for you, living with him, all the drinking. But even so, you miss him terribly. It's hard to believe he's gone.”

  She bega
n swaying, clutching her face.

  “Oh, God!” she cried out. “Oh, God! Oh, God, help me! Oh, God!”

  I patted her shoulder. She shuddered but didn't move away.

  We sat that way for a while, she calling out for divine help, me absorbing her grief, feeding her small bites of empathy. Providing tissues and a cup of water, telling her none of it was her fault, that she'd done the best she could, no one could have done better. That it was okay to feel, okay to hurt.

  Finally she looked up, wiped her nose, and said, “You're a nice man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My papa was a nice man. He ya know died.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “He left a long time ago, when I was in ya know kindergarten. I came home with stuff we made for Thanksgiving—ya know paper turkeys and Pilgrim hats—and I saw them take him away in the ambulance.”

  Silence.

  “How old are you, Carmen?”

  “Twenty.”

  “You've dealt with a lot in twenty years.”

  She smiled. “I guess so. And now Danny. He was ya know nice, too, even though he was a mean one when he drank. But deep down, nice. He didn't ya know give me no hassles, took me places, got me ya know all kinds of stuff.”

  “How long did you know each other?”

  She thought. “'Bout two years. I was driving this catering truck—ya know, the roach wagon. Used to drive by all these ya know construction sites and Danny was working at one, framing.”

  I nodded encouragement.

  “He liked burritos,” she said. “Ya know meat and potato but no beans—beans made him toot which made him ya know mean. I thought he was kinda cute so I gave him freebies; the boss never knew. Then we started ya know living together.”

  She gazed at me, childlike.

  I smiled.

  “I never, ever thought he'd really ya know do it.”

  “Kill himself?”

  She bobbed her head. Tears ran down her pimpled cheeks.

  “Had he talked about suicide, before?”

  “When he drank and got all p.o.'d, ya know, he'd go on about how ya know life sucked, it was better to be dead, ya know, he was gonna do it some day, tell everyone the f-word off. Then when he hurt his back—ya know the pain, out of work—he was real low. But I never thought . . .” She broke down again.