Bad Love

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Cruel,” she said. “Heartless and cruel.”

  “Sounds like a law firm. Heartless, Cruel, and Horny—think I'll put 'em on retainer.”

  The dog posted himself at the bathroom door as Robin stepped into the suds. She soaped up, and I picked him up and carried him, grumbling, to his towel bed. The moment I put him down, he tried to escape. I closed the kitchen doors and gave him a Milk-Bone and as he began chewing, I snuck out.

  He fussed for a while, attempting a sonorous rendition of the old-man-choking bit, but I applied sound behavior theory principles and ignored him, while trying to suppress my guilt. After a minute or so he calmed down and soon I heard him snoring in two-four time.

  When I got back, Robin looked at me reproachfully. Her hair was up and the water's soapy surface reached just below her nipples.

  “He's fine.” I got out of my clothes. “Enjoying the slumber of the truly virtuous.”

  “Well,” she said, putting her arms behind her head and watching, “I suppose it's best.”

  “Forgiven?” I said, sinking into the heat of the bath.

  She contemplated. Breathed in. Smiled.

  “I don't know . . .”

  I kissed her. She kissed back. I touched one breast, kissed a soapy nipple.

  “Umm,” she said, breaking away. “Well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  “You can forget Mr. Cruel and Mr. Heartless, but I think it's time to take a meeting with their partner—what's his name?”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Thursday morning she was up and out of the shower by six-fifteen. When I got to the kitchen I expected to see her dressed for work, that restless look in her eyes.

  But she was still in her robe, drinking coffee and reading ArtForum. She'd set out food for the dog and only a few bits remained. He was at her feet and looked up at me only briefly before returning his head to the side of her leg.

  She put the magazine down and smiled up at me.

  I kissed her and said, “You can get going, I'll be fine.”

  “What if I just want to be with you?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Of course, if you have other plans . . .”

  “Nothing till the afternoon.”

  “What's then?”

  “Patient appointment out in Sun Valley at three-thirty.”

  “Making a house call?”

  I nodded. “Custody case. Some resistance and I want to see the kids in their natural environment.”

  “Three-thirty? That's good. We can hang out together till then.”

  “Terrific.” I poured myself a cup, sat down, and pointed to the magazine. “What's new in the art world?”

  “The usual foolishness.” She closed it and pushed it aside. “Actually I have no idea what's going on in the art world or anywhere else. I can't concentrate, Alex. Woke up in the middle of the night, thinking about everything that's been happening to you and that poor psychiatrist up in Seattle. Do you really think there is a connection?”

  “I don't know. It was a hit-and-run, but he was eighty-nine and couldn't see or hear well. Like Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar—did you get any sleep?”

  “A bit.”

  “Was I snoring?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if I was?”

  “Yes!” She gave my hand a gentle cuff.

  “Why didn't you wake me to talk?” I said.

  “You were deep asleep. I didn't have the heart.”

  “Next time wake me.”

  “We can talk right now, if you want. This whole thing's giving me very definite creeps the more I think about it. I'm worried about you—what will the next call or mail delivery bring?”

  “Milo's looking into it,” I said. “We'll get to the bottom of it.”

  I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back hard. “You can't think of anyone who'd want to get back at you? Out of all the patients you've known?”

  “Not really. When I worked at the hospital, I saw physically ill kids. In practice, it was basically normal children with adjustment problems.” The same kinds of patients Grant Stoumen had treated.

  “What about your legal cases? All that custody garbage?”

  “Anything's possible, theoretically,” I said. “But I've gone through my files and found nothing. The conference has to be the link—bad love.”

  “What about that madman—Hewitt? Why was he shouting it?”

  “I don't know,” I said.

  She let go of my hand. “He killed his therapist, Alex.”

  “Guess I could switch careers. But I'm really not good for anything else.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Okay—what happened to Becky Basille is the extreme. It's a long way from tapes and a crank call and a mangled carp to murder.”

  The look on her face made me add: “I'll be careful—scout's honor. I'll call an alarm company—get a referral from Milo.”

  “You won't consider moving out—just for a while?”

  “Let's just see what happens over the next few days.”

  “What are you waiting for, Alex? Things to get worse? Oh, never mind, let's not bicker.”

  She got up, shaking her head, and went to the coffeepot for a refill. Stayed there drinking and looking out the window.

  “Honey, I'm not trying to tough it out,” I said. “I just want to see what Milo comes up with before I shake up our lives completely. Let's at least give him a day or two to look into it, okay? If he doesn't, we'll move to the studio temporarily.”

  “A day or two? You've got a deal.” The dog padded over to her. She smiled at him, then at me. “Maybe I'm overdoing it. Was the tape that bad?”

  “Bizarre,” I said. “Like some kind of sick gag.”

  “It's the sick part that bothers me.”

  The dog snorted and jangled his collar. She took some cheese out of the fridge, told him to sit, and rewarded his obedience with small bites. He gobbled noisily and licked his flews.

  “What do you call this?” she said. “Operant conditioning?”

  “A-plus,” I said. “Next week's topic is stress management.”

  She grinned. The last bit of cheese disappeared amid the soft folds of the dog's mouth. Robin washed her hands. The dog continued to sit and stare at her. “Shouldn't we give him a name, Alex?”

  “Milo calls him Rover.”

  “Figures.”

  “I've stuck with “hey, you' because I keep expecting someone to call and claim him.”

  “True . . . why get attached . . . are you hungry? I can dish something up.”

  “Why don't we go out?”

  “Go out?”

  “Like normal people.”

  “Sure, I'll go change.”

  The sparkle in her eyes made me say, “How about changing into something semi-fancy and we can hit the Bel Air?”

  “The Bel Air? What are we celebrating?”

  “The new world order.”

  “If only there was one. What about him?”

  “Milk-Bone en le kitchen,” I said. “I don't have a suit that fits him.”

  She put on a silver crepe de chine blouse and a black skirt and I found a lightweight sportcoat, brown turtleneck, and khaki slacks that looked decent. I told my service where I'd be and we took Sunset to Stone Canyon Road and drove up the half mile to the Bel Air Hotel. Pink-shirted valets opened our doors and we walked across the covered bridge to the main entrance.

  Swans glided below in the still, green pond, cutting through the water with blissful ignorance. A white lattice marriage canopy was being set up on the banks. Huge pine and eucalyptus umbrellaed the grounds, air-conditioning the morning.

  We passed through the pink stucco arcade hung with black-and-white photos of monarchs gone by. The stone pathways had been freshly watered, the ferns dripped dew, and the azaleas were in bloom. Room service waiters rolled carts to sequestered suites. An emaciated, androgynous, long-haired thing
in brown velvet sweats walked past us unsteadily, carrying The Wall Street Journal under one atrophied arm. Death was in its eyes, and Robin bit her lip.

  I held her arm tighter and we entered the dining room, exchanged smiles with the hostess, and were seated near the French doors. Several years ago—soon after we'd met—we'd lingered right here over dinner and seen Bette Davis through those same doors, gliding across the patio in a long, black gown and coronation-quality diamonds, looking as serene as the swans.

  This morning, the room was nearly empty and none of the faces had a measurable Q-rating, though all looked well tended. An Arab in an ice cream suit drank tea, alone, at a corner table. An elderly, dewlapped couple who could have been pretenders to a minor throne whispered to each other and nibbled on toast. In a big booth at the far end, half a dozen dark suits sat listening to a crewcut, white-haired man in a red T-shirt and khakis. He was telling a joke, gesturing expansively with an unlit cigar. The other men's body language was half humble servant, half Iago.

  We had coffee and took a long time deciding what to eat. Neither of us felt like talking. After a few moments, the silence began to feel like a luxury and I relaxed.

  We finished a couple of fresh grapefruit juices and put in our breakfast order, holding hands until the food came. I'd just taken the first bite of my omelet when I spotted the hostess approaching. Two steps ahead of someone else.

  A tall, broad someone, easily visible over her coiffure. Milo's jacket was light blue—a tint that clashed with his aqua shirt. Pigeon-gray pants and brown-and-blue-striped tie rounded off the ensemble. He had his hands in his pockets and looked dangerous.

  The hostess kept her distance from him, clearly wanting to be somewhere else. Just before she reached our table, he stepped ahead of her. After kissing Robin, he took a chair from another table and pulled it up perpendicular to us.

  “Will you be ordering, sir?” said the hostess.

  “Coffee.”

  “Yes, sir.” She walked away hastily.

  Milo turned to Robin. “Welcome home. You look gorgeous, as ever.”

  “Thank you, Milo—”

  “Flight okay?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Every time I'm up in one of those things I wonder what gives us the right to break the law of gravity.”

  Robin smiled. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  He ran his hand over his face. “Has he told you about what's going on?”

  She nodded. “We're thinking of moving into the shop until things clear up.”

  Milo grunted and looked at the tablecloth.

  The waiter brought the coffee and a place setting. Milo unfolded the napkin over his lap and drummed a spoon on the table. As the coffee was being poured, he glanced around the room, lingering on the suits in the far booth.

  “Meals and deals,” he said, after the waiter left. “Either showbiz or crime.”

  “There's a difference?” I said.

  His smile was immediate but very weak—it seemed to torment his face.

  “There's a new complication,” he said. “This morning I decided to have a go at the computer, tracking down any references to “bad love' in the case files. I really didn't expect to find anything, just trying to be thorough. But I did. Two unsolved homicides, one three years old, the other five. One beating, one stabbing.”

  “Oh God,” said Robin.

  He covered her hand with his. “Hate to spoil your breakfast, kids, but I wasn't sure when I'd be able to catch both of you. Service said you were here.”

  “No, no, I'm glad you came.” She pushed her plate away and gripped Milo's hand.

  “Who got killed?” I said.

  “Does the name Rodney Shipler mean anything to you?”

  “No. Is he a victim or a suspect?”

  “Victim. What about Myra Paprock?”

  He spelled it. I shook my head.

  “You're sure?” he said. “Neither of them could have been old patients?”

  I repeated both names to myself. “No—never heard of them. How does “bad love' figure into their murders?”

  “With Shipler—he was the beating—it was scrawled on a wall at the crime scene. With Paprock, I'm not sure what the connection is yet. The computer just threw out “bad love' under “miscellaneous factors'—no explanation.”

  “Did the same detectives work both cases?”

  He shook his head. “Shipler was in Southwest Division, Paprock over in the valley. Far as I can tell, the cases were never cross-referenced—two years apart, different parts of the city. I'm going to try to get the actual case files this afternoon.”

  “For what it's worth,” I said, “I spoke to Dr. Stoumen's associate last night. The accident was a hit-and-run. It happened in Seattle, in June of last year.”

  Milo's eyebrows rose.

  “It may have just been a hit-and-run,” I said. “Stoumen was almost ninety, couldn't see or hear well. Someone ran into him as he stepped off a curb.”

  “At a psych conference.”

  “Yes, but unless Shipler or Paprock were therapists, what link could there be?”

  “Don't know what they were yet. The computer doesn't give out that level of detail.”

  Robin's head had dropped, curls spilling onto the table. She looked up, clear eyed. “So what do we do?”

  “Well,” said Milo, “you know I'm not Mr. Impulsive, but with everything we've got here—nut mail, nut call, dead fish, two cold-case homicides, hazardous conferences—” He looked at me. “Moving's not a bad idea. At least till we find out what the hell's going on. But I wouldn't go to the shop. Just in case whoever's bothering Alex has done enough research on him to know the location.”

  She looked out the window and shook her head. He patted her shoulder.

  She said, “I'm fine. Let's just figure out where we're going to live.” She looked around. “This place ain't shabby—too bad we're not oil sheiks.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Milo, “I think I've got an option for you. Private client of mine—investment banker I moonlighted for last year. He's in England for a year, put his house up for rent, and hired me to keep an eye on the premises. It's a nice size place and not that far from you. Beverly Hills PO, off Benedict Canyon. It's still empty—you know the real estate market—and he's coming back in three months, so he unlisted it. I'm sure I can get his permission for you to use it.”

  “Benedict Canyon.” Robin smiled. “Close to the Sharon Tate house?”

  “Not far, but the place is as safe as you're gonna get. The owner's security conscious—has a big art collection. Electric gates, closed-circuit TV, screaming siren alarm.”

  It sounded like prison. I didn't say a thing.

  “The alarm's hooked up to Beverly Hills PD,” he went on. “And their response time's averaging two minutes—maybe a little longer up in the hills, but still damn good. I'm not going to tell you it's home, chillun, but for temporary lodgings you could do worse.”

  “And this client of yours won't mind?”

  “Nah, it's a piece of cake.”

  “Thanks, Milo,” said Robin. “You're a doll.”

  “No big deal.”

  “What do I do about my work? Can I go to the shop?”

  “Wouldn't hurt to avoid it for a few days. At least until I find out more about these unsolveds.”

  She said, “I had orders piled up before I went to Oakland, Milo. The time I spent up there already set me back.” She grabbed her napkin and crushed it. “I'm sorry, here you are getting threatened, baby, and I'm griping . . .”

  I took her hand and kissed it.

  Milo said, “In terms of work, you could set up shop in the garage. It's a triple and there's only one car in it.”

  “That's big enough,” said Robin, “but I can't just pack up the table saw and the band saw and cart them over.”

  “I may be able to help you with that, too,” said Milo.

  “An alternative,” I said, “would be moving to the stud
io and hiring a guard.”

  “Why take a chance?” said Milo. “My philosophy is when trouble calls, don't be there to answer the doorbell. You can even take Rover with. Owner keeps cats—a friend's taking care of them now, but we're not talking pristine environment.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, but my throat had gone dry and a refugee numbness was rising up from my feet. “As long as we're talking critters, there're the rest of the koi. The pond maintenance people can probably board them for a while—time to get organized.”

  Robin began folding her napkin, over and over, ending up with a small, thick wad that she pressed between her hands. Her knuckles were ivory knobs and her lips were clamped together. She gazed over my shoulder, as if peering into an uncertain future.

  The waiter came over with the coffeepot, and Milo waved him away.

  From the big booth came the sound of male laughter. The levity had probably been going on for a while, but I heard it now because the three of us had stopped talking.

  The Arab got up from his table, smoothed his suit, put cash on the table, and left the dining room.

  Robin said, “Guess it's time to hitch up the wagons,” but she didn't move.

  “This whole thing seems so unreal,” I said.

  “Maybe it'll turn out we've hassled for nothing,” Milo said, “but you two are among the few humans I hold any positive regard for, so I do feel an obligation to protect and serve.”

  He looked at our barely touched food and frowned. “This'll set you back some.”

  “Have some.” I pushed my plate toward him.

  He shook his head.

  “The stress diet,” I said. “Let's write a book and hit the talk-show circuit.”

  He followed us home in an unmarked Ford. When the three of us stepped into the house, the dog thought it was a party and began jumping around.

  “Take a Valium, Rover,” said Milo.

  “Be nice to him,” said Robin, kneeling and holding her arms out. The dog charged her and she tussled with him for a second, then stood. “I'd better figure out what I'm going to need to take.”

  She left for the bedroom, dog at heel.

  “True love,” said Milo.

  I said, “Is there anything more you want to tell me?”