Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 04 - Silent Partner

by Silent Partner

  A flickering close-up magnified a beautiful, pouting face.

  Sharon's face. Despite the wig, no doubt about it.

  I felt sick and regretful. Stared at the screen like a child at a squashed bug.

  The camera pulled back. Sharon pirouetted, gazed into the mirror, and fluffed her hair. Then a quick zoom— more pout, big eyes gazing out at the viewer.

  Boring into mine.

  A full body shot, shift to buttocks, a series of quick bounces from mouth to hands to bosom.

  Shoddy, the cheapest of the cheap. But perversely magical—she had come back to life, was up there, smiling and beckoning—immortality conceived in light and shadow. I had to restrain myself from reaching out to touch her. Wanted, suddenly, to yank her out of the screen, to pull her back in time. Rescue her.

  I gripped my armrests. My heart was pounding, filling my ears like a winter tide.

  She stretched languidly and licked her lips. The camera got so close her tongue resembled some kind of giant sea slug. More closeups: wet white teeth. A purposeful bend forward, flashing cleavage. Moon-cratered nipplescape. Hands stroking breasts, pinching.

  She was twisting, exhibiting, clearly enjoying center stage.

  Keep it bright. I want to see it. See everything.

  I thought of angled mirrors, started sweating. Finally, concentrating on the choppiness and relentless zooming helped restore her to something two-dimensional.

  I exhaled, closed my eyes, determined to maintain a sense of detachment. Before my breath had been totally expelled, something dropped on my knee and settled there. Chantal's hand. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She stared straight ahead, mouth slightly parted.

  I did nothing, hoped she wouldn't explore. Let my eyes settle back on the screen.

  Sharon was performing a slow, sinuous striptease, peeling down to black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes—a Frederick's of Hollywood parody— touching herself, bending, spreading, and kneading, playing for the camera.

  I watched her hands move. Felt them.

  But something was wrong. Something about the hands—off-kilter.

  The more I tried to figure out what it was, the further it receded: Chinese finger-puzzle time. I stopped trying, told myself it would come to me.

  The camera got gynecologic, moved upward, inch by inch.

  Sharon, on the examining table now, fondled herself, looked down at her crotch.

  The camera swung to the doorknob as it rotated. The door opened. A tall, dark, broad-shouldered man walked in carrying a clipboard. Late thirties, long white coat, headlamp and stethoscope. A narrow, hungry facedown-slanted eyes, broken nose, thin wide lips, five o'clock shadow. The eyes were jumpy, those of a hustler on full burn. He'd greased his hair to shoe-polish sheen and parted it in the center. A pencil-line mustache traveled the length of his upper lip.

  Classic Gigolo meets Dumb Blonde.

  He stared at Sharon, raised his eyebrows, mugged for the camera.

  She pointed to her crotch, gave a pained expression.

  Scratching his head, he consulted his clipboard, then put it down and removed the stethoscope. He stood over her, bent his knees, and put his head between her legs, poking, probing. Looked up, shrugged.

  She winked at the camera, pushed his head down, writhed on cue.

  He came up, pretended to be gasping for breath. She pushed him down again. The rest was predictable—close-up of his trousered erection, she forcing him down, sucking the fingers of one of her hands.

  She pushed him off, worked his zipper. His pants fell to his ankles. She removed the coat. He was shirtless, wore only a tie. She pulled the tie until he hovered. Took him orally, wide-eyed and gulping.

  As he got up on the table and mounted her, Chantal's fingers began spider-walking up my thigh. I placed my hand over them, preventing further progress, gave a friendly squeeze, and deposited them gently in her lap. She made no sound, didn't move a muscle.

  Comically rapid shifts in positions. Closeups of both their faces, contorted. He saying something—cuing her—a series of rapid thrusts, withdrawal, the milky proof

  of climax flying through the air.

  She retrieved some from her belly, licked her fingers. Winked at the camera.

  Blank screen.

  A checkup turned carnal. Follow-up visits...

  I felt suffocated, angry. Sad.

  The room stayed mercifully dark.

  "Well," said Gordon finally, "there it is."

  Chantal got up fast, smoothed her dress. "Excuse me, I have something to attend to."

  "Everything all right, hon?"

  "Just fine, dearie." She kissed his cheek, curtsied, and said, "Nice to see you again, Lawrence. Nice meeting you, Dr. Delaware." She left the vault.

  "The late Mickey Starbuck," I said. "How'd he die?"

  Gordon was still staring at his wife's exit route. I had to repeat the question.

  "Cocaine overdose, several years ago. Poor Mickey wanted to break into straight films but couldn't—there's terrible discrimination against explicit stars. He ended up driving a cab. A sensitive soul, really a fine young man."

  "Two actors, two suicides by overdose," said Larry. "Sounds like a jinx."

  "Nonsense," said Gordon sharply. "Explicit films are like any other aspect of show business. Fragile egos, instability, big ups, big downs. Some people can't cope."

  "The production company?" I said. "Creative Image Associates—a shadow for Kruse?"

  Gordon nodded. "Protection. Foolish of me not to smell something rotten when he set it up—if he'd really gotten University approval, why the need for a shadow? When I saw the finished product I knew precisely what he'd done, but I didn't call him on it—he was the doctor, the expert. At the time I thought he was brilliant, visionary. I figured he had a reason."

  "What had he done?"

  "Sit back down and I'll show you." He returned to the rear'of the vault, the room returned to darkness, and another movie came on the screen.

  This one had no title, no actors' credits, just grainy, jumpy action, the camera work even more amateurish than the first, but clearly its inspiration.

  The setting: a doctor's office, same kind of furniture, same square of framed diplomas.

  The stars: a gorgeous woman with wavy blond hair, long-legged, stacked, but several inches shorter than Sharon, the bones smaller, the face slightly fuller. Similar enough to be Sharon's twin.

  Twin. Shirlee. No, that was impossible. The Shirlee I'd met had been crippled in childhood....

  If Sharon had told the truth.

  Big if-

  Film number two was barreling along at a Keystone Kops pace: striptease, hair fluffing, a tall dark man entering through the door.

  Closeup on him: fortyish, shiny hair, pencil mustache. White coat, stethoscope, clipboard.

  A crude resemblance to the late Mickey Starbuck, but nothing striking.

  And no leer. This doctor seemed to be showing genuine surprise at the sight of the naked blonde lying spread-legged on the table.

  No shifts of context, either. A stationary camera, full-view long shots and occasional closeups that seemed less concerned with eroticism than identification of the actors.

  Of him.

  The blonde got up and rubbed herself against the doctor. Showed herself, pinched her nipples, stood on tiptoes and licked his neck.

  He shook his head, pointed to his watch.

  She held him to her, ground her hips.

  He started to pull away again, then loosened—like something thawing. Allowed himself to be caressed.

  She moved in.

  Then the same progression as in Sharon's film.

  But different.

  Because this one wasn't staged. This doctor wasn't acting.

  No mugging for the camera, because he didn't know there was a camera.

  She knelt before him.

  The camera concentrated on his face.

  Real passion.

  The
y 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.

  "Nineteen fifty two," 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, for that matter. 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 pretty 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 virile 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 ladyfriends 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.

  "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 curioser and curioser, 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 found 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 fro
m 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?"