Bad Love

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Is Shirley an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”

  “Um—one second—a Ph.D. She's a clinical psychologist.”

  “But no Harvey?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have any old rosters on hand? Lists of staff members who've retired?”

  “There may be something like that somewhere, sir, but I really don't have the time to search. Now if you'll—”

  “Could I have Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt's number please?”

  “One moment.”

  I copied it down, called Manhattan information for a listing on Harvey Rosenblatt, M.D., learned there was none, and dialed Shirley, Ph.D.'s exchange.

  A soft, female voice with Brooklyn overtones said, “This is Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt. I'm in session or out of the office, and can't come to the phone. If your call is a true emergency, please press one. If not, please press two, wait for the beep, and leave your message. Thank you and have a lovely day.”

  Mozart in the background . . . beep.

  “Dr. Rosenblatt, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, from Los Angeles. I'm not sure if you're married to Dr. Harvey Rosenblatt or even know him, but I met him several years ago at a conference out here and wanted to touch base with him on something—for research purposes. If you can help me reach him, I'd appreciate your passing along my number.”

  I recited the ten digits and put the phone back in its cradle. The mail came a half hour later. Nothing out of the ordinary, but when I heard it drop into the bin, my hands had clenched.

  CHAPTER

  5

  I went down to feed the fish, and when I got back the phone was ringing.

  The operator at my service said, “This is Joan, Dr. Delaware, are you free? There's someone on the line about a dog, sounds like a kid.”

  “Sure.”

  A second later a thin, young voice said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Dr. Delaware.”

  “Um . . . this is Karen Alnord. My dog got lost and you said in the paper that you found a bulldog?”

  “Yes, I did. He's a little French bulldog.”

  “Oh . . . mine's a boxer.” Dejected.

  “Sorry. This one's not a boxer, Karen.”

  “Oh . . . I just thought—you know, sometimes people think they're bulldogs.”

  “I can see the resemblance,” I said. “The flat face—”

  “Yeah.”

  “But the one I've found's much smaller than a boxer.”

  “Mine's a puppy,” she said. “He's not too big yet.”

  I put her age at between nine and eleven.

  “This one's definitely full-grown, Karen. I know because I took him to the veterinarian.”

  “Oh . . . um . . . okay. Thank you, sir.”

  “Where'd you lose your dog, Karen?”

  “Near my house. We have a gate, but somebody left it open and he got out.”

  “I'm really sorry. Hope you find him.”

  “I will,” she said, in a breaking voice. “I've got an ad, too, and I'm calling all the other ads, even though my mom says none of them are probably the right one. I'm paying a reward, too—twenty dollars, so if you do find him you can get it. His name's Bo and there's a bone-shaped tag on his collar that says Bo and my phone number.”

  “I'll keep an eye out, Karen. Whereabouts do you live?”

  “Reseda. On Cohasset between Sherman Way and Saticoy. His ears haven't been cropped. If you find him, here's my phone number.”

  I wrote it down, even though Reseda was over the hill to the north, fifteen or twenty miles away.

  “Good luck, Karen.”

  “Thank you, sir. I hope your bulldog finds his owner.”

  That reminded me that I hadn't yet called the Kennel Club. Information gave me the number in New York and another one in North Carolina. Both answered with recorded messages and told me business hours were over.

  “Tomorrow,” I told the bulldog.

  He'd been observing me, maintaining that curious, cocked head stance. The fact that someone was probably grieving for him bothered me, but I didn't know what else to do other than take good care of him.

  That meant food, water, shelter. A walk, when it got cool enough.

  A walk meant a leash.

  He and I took a drive to a pet store in south Westwood and I bought a lead, more dog food, biscuits in various flavors, and a couple of nylon bones the salesman assured me were excellent for chewing. When we returned, it seemed temperate enough for a stroll if we stayed in the shade. The dog stood still, tail wagging rapidly, while I put the leash on. The two of us explored the Glen for half an hour, hugging the brush, walking against traffic. Like regular guys.

  When I got back, I called my service. Joan said, “There's just one, from a Mrs. Rodriguez—hold on, that's your board . . . there's someone ringing in right now.”

  I waited a moment, and then she said, “I've got a Mr. Silk on the line, says he wants to make an appointment.”

  “Thanks, put him on.”

  Click.

  “Dr. Delaware.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Silk?”

  No answer. Just as I was about to hang up and redial the service, a low sound came through the receiver. Mumbles—no. Laughter.

  A deep, throaty giggle.

  “Huh huh huh.”

  “Who is this?” I said.

  “Huh huh huh.” Gloating.

  I said nothing.

  “Huh huh huh.”

  The line went dead.

  I got the operator back on the line.

  “Joan, that guy who just called. Did he leave anything other than his name?”

  “No, he just asked if you treated adults as well as children and I said he'd have to speak to you about that.”

  “And his name was Silk? As in the fabric?”

  “That's what I heard. Why, doctor, is something wrong?”

  “He didn't say anything, just laughed.”

  “Well that's kind of crazy, but that's your business, isn't it, doctor?”

  Evelyn Rodriguez answered on the first ring. When she heard my voice, hers went dead.

  “How's everything?” I said.

  “Fine.”

  “I know it's a hassle for you, but I would like to see the girls.”

  “Yeah, it's a hassle,” she said. “Driving all the way out there.”

  “How about if I come out to you?”

  No answer.

  “Mrs. Rodriguez?”

  “You'd do that?”

  “I would.”

  “What's the catch?”

  “No catch, I'd just like to make this whole thing as easy as possible for you.”

  “Why?”

  To show Donald Dell Wallace I can't be intimidated. “To help the girls.”

  “Uh-huh . . . they're paying for your time, right? His . . . bunch a heathens.”

  “The judge made Donald Dell responsible for the costs of the evaluation, Mrs. Rodriguez, but as we talked about the first time, that doesn't obligate me to him in any way.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Has that been a problem for you?” I said. “The fact that he's paying?”

  She said nothing for a moment, then: “Bet you're charging plenty.”

  “I'm charging my usual fee,” I said, realizing I sounded like a Watergate witness.

  “Bet it includes your driving time and all. Door to door, just like the lawyers.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Good,” she said, stretching the word. “Then you can drive instead of me—drive slow. Keep your meter running and make them devils pay.”

  Angry laughter.

  I said, “When can I come out?”

  “How 'bout right now? They're running around like wild Injuns, maybe you can settle 'em down. How about you drive out here right this minute and see 'em? You ready for that?”

  “I can probably be there in forty-five minutes.”

  “Whenever. We'll be
right here. We're not taking any vacations to Hono-lulu.”

  She hung up before I could ask for directions. I looked up her address in my case file—the ten thousand block of McVine Terrace in Sunland—and matched it to my Thomas map. Setting the dog up with water, food, and a bone, I left, not at all unhappy about running up the Iron Priests' tab.

  The 405 freeway deposited me in a scramble of northbound traffic just beginning to clot, facing hills so smogged they were no more than shrouded, gray lumps on the horizon. I did the L.A. stop-and-go boogie for a while, listening to music and trying to be patient, finally made it to the 118 east, then the 210, and cruised into the high desert northeast of the city, picking up speed as both the road and the air got clearer.

  Exiting at Sunland, I hooked north again and got onto a commercial stretch of Foothill Boulevard that ran parallel to the mountains: auto parts barns, body shops, unfinished furniture outlets, and more roofers than I'd ever seen in one area.

  I spotted McVine a few minutes later and turned left. The street was narrow, with grass growing down to the curb instead of sidewalks, and planted haphazardly with eucalyptus and willow. The curb grass was dry and yellow. The houses behind it were small and low, some of them no more than trailers on raised foundations.

  The Rodriguez residence was on a northwest corner, a boxcar of mocha stucco with a gutterless, black composition roof and a flat, porchless face broken by three metal-sashed windows. One of the windows was blocked by a tilting sheet of lattice. The squares were broken in spots, warped in others, and a few dead branches wormed around them. A high, pink block wall enveloped the rear of the property.

  I got out and walked up a hardpack lawn stippled with blemishlike patches of some sort of low-growing succulent and split by a foot-worn rut. Evelyn's plum-colored Chevy was parked to the left of the pathway, next to a red half-ton pickup with two stickers on the bumper. One sang the praises of the Raiders, the other dared me to keep kids off drugs. A stick-on sign on the door said R AND R MASONRY.

  I pressed the bell and a wasp-buzz sounded. A woman opened the door and looked at me through the smoke vining upward from a freshly lit Virginia Slim.

  In her late twenties, five seven and lanky, she had dirty blond hair gathered in a high, streaked ponytail and pale skin. Slanted, dark eyes and broad cheekbones gave her a Slavic look. The rest of her features were sharp, beginning to pinch. Her shape was perfect for the hardbody era: sinewy arms, high breasts, straightedge tummy, long legs leading up to flaring hips just a little wider than a boy's. She wore skintight, low-riding jeans and a baby-blue, sleeveless midriff top that showcased an apostrophe of a navel some obstetrician should have been mighty proud of. Her feet were bare. One of them tapped arrhythmically.

  “You the doctor?” she said, in a husky voice, talking around the cigarette, just the way I'd seen Evelyn Rodriguez do.

  “Dr. Delaware,” I said, and extended my hand.

  She took it and smiled—amusement rather than friendliness—gave a hard squeeze, then dropped it.

  “I'm Bonnie. They're waiting for you. C'mon in.”

  The living room was half the width of the boxcar and smelled like a drowned cigar. Carpeted in olive shag and paneled with knotty pine, it was darkened by drawn drapes. A long, brown corduroy sofa ran along the back wall. Above it hung a born-again fish symbol. To the left was a console TV topped with some sort of cable decoder and a VCR, and a beige velveteen recliner. On a hexagonal table, an ashtray brimmed over with butts.

  The other half of the front space was a kitchen–dining area combo. Between the two rooms was an ochre-colored door. Bonnie pushed it open, letting in a lot of bright, western light, and took me down a short, shagged hall. At the end was a den, walled in grayish mock birch and backed by sliding glass doors that looked out to the backyard. More recliners, another TV, porcelain figurines on the mantel, below three mounted rifles.

  Bonnie slid open a glass door. The yard was a small, flat square of scorched grass surrounded by the high pink walls. An avocado tree grew at the rear, huge and twisted. Barely out of its shade was an inflatable swimming pool, oval and bluer than anyone's heaven. Chondra sat in it, splashing herself without enthusiasm. Tiffani was in a corner of the property, back to us, jumping rope.

  Evelyn Rodriguez sat between them in a folding chair, working on her lanyard and smoking. She had on white shorts, a dark blue T-shirt, and rubber beach sandals. On the grass next to her was her purse.

  Bonnie said, “Hey,” and all three of them looked up.

  I waved. The girls stared.

  Evelyn said, “Go get him a chair.”

  Bonnie raised her eyebrows and went back into the house, putting some wiggle in her walk.

  Evelyn shaded her face, looked at her watch, and smiled. “Forty-two minutes. Couldn't ya have stopped for coffee or something?”

  I forced a chuckle.

  “Course,” she said, “don't really matter what you actually do, you can always say you done it, right? Just like a lawyer. You can say anything you please.”

  She stubbed her cigarette out on the grass.

  I went over to the pool. Chondra returned my “Hi” with a small, silent smile. Some teeth this time: progress.

  Tiffani said, “You write your book yet?”

  “Not yet. I need more information from you.”

  She nodded gravely. “I got lots of truth—we don't want to ever see him.”

  She grabbed hold of a branch and started swinging. Humming something.

  I said, “Have fun,” but she didn't answer.

  Bonnie came out with a folded chair. I went and took it from her. She winked and went back into the house, rear twitching violently. Evelyn wrinkled her nose and said, “Well, does it?”

  I unfolded the chair. “Does it what?”

  “Does it matter? What actually happens? You're just gonna do what you want to, write what you want to anyway, right?”

  I sat down next to her, positioning myself so I could see the girls. Chondra was motionless in the pool, gazing at the trunk of the avocado.

  Evelyn humphed. “You ready to come out?”

  Chondra shook her head and began splashing herself again, doing it slowly, as if it were a chore. Her white pigtails were soaked the color of old brass. Above the pink walls the sky was static and blue, bottomed by a soot-colored cloud bank that hid the horizon. Someone in the neighborhood was barbecuing, and a mixture of scorching fat and lighter fluid spread its cheerful toxin through the autumn heat.

  “You don't think I'll be honest, huh?” I said. “Been burned by other doctors, or is it something about me?”

  She turned toward me slowly and put her lanyard in her lap.

  “I think you do your job and go home,” she said. “Just like everyone else. I think you do what's best for you, just like everyone else.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “I'm not going to sit here and tell you I'm some saint who'd work for free or that I really know what you've been going through, 'cause I don't—thank God. But I think I understand your rage. If someone had done it to my child, I'd be ready to kill him, no question about it.”

  She took her Winstons out of her pocket and knocked a cigarette loose. Sliding it out and taking it between two fingers, she said, “Oh you would, would you? Well that would be revenge, and the Bible says revenge is a negational action.”

  She lit up with a pink disposable lighter, inhaled very deeply, and held it. When she let the smoke out, her nostrils twitched.

  Tiffani began jumping very fast. I wondered if we were within her earshot.

  Evelyn shook her head. “Gonna break her head one of these days.”

  “Lots of energy,” I said.

  “Apple don't fall far.”

  “Ruthanne was like that?”

  She smoked, nodded, and started to cry, letting her tears drip down her face and wiping them with short, furious movements. Her torso pushed forward and for a moment I thought she was going to leave.

  “Ruthan
ne was just like that when she was little. Always moving. I never felt I could . . . she had spirit, she was—she had . . . wonderful spirit.”

  She tugged her shorts down and sniffed.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait right here.” She went into the house.

  “Hey, girls,” I called out.

  Tiffani kept jumping. Chondra looked up. Her mouth hung slightly open and water droplets bubbled her forehead, like oversized sweat.

  I went over to her. “Swim a lot?”

  She gave a very small nod and splashed one arm, turning away and facing the avocado tree. Young fruit hung from the branches, veiled by a cloud of whiteflies. Some of it was blackened with disease.

  Tiffani waved at me. Then she began to chant in a loud voice:

  “I went to the Chinese restaurant,

  to get a loaf of bread bread bread,

  a man was there with a big mustache,

  and this is what he said said said.

  El eye el eye chicholo beauty, pom-pom cutie . . .”

  Evelyn came back holding a couple of mugs. Bonnie marched behind her carrying a small plate of sugar wafers. The look on her face said she'd been created for better things.

  I walked back to the lawn chairs.

  Bonnie said, “Here you go,” handed me the plate, and sashayed off.

  Evelyn gave me a mug. “Black or cream?”

  “Black.”

  We sat and sipped. I balanced the cookie plate on my lap.

  “Have one,” she said, “or are you one of those health-food types?”

  I took a wafer and chewed on it. Lemon-flavored and slightly stale.

  “I dunno,” she said, “maybe I shoulda been a health fooder, too. I always gave my kids sugar and stuff, whatever they wanted—maybe I shouldn'ta. Got a boy went AWOL over in Germany two years ago, don't even know where he is, the baby don't know zero about what she wants to do with her life, and Ruthie . . .”

  She shook her head and looked over at Tiffani. “Watch your head on that branch, you!”

  “Bonnie's the baby?” I said.

  Nod. “She got all the brains and the looks. Just like her daddy—he coulda been a movie star. Only time I ever went gaga for the looks, and boy, what a mistake that was.”