Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 04 - Silent Partner

by Silent Partner

  The woman lifted her face. She was sharp-featured, toothless, wrinkled as a discarded shopping bag. Her eyes were pale-brown and heavily mascaraed. A bright-red patch of lipstick had been smeared over a puckered fissure of a mouth. Somewhere behind the crease and corrugation, the mask of cosmetics, shone a spark of beauty.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  "Aw, Mrs. Lipschitz," said Castelmaine.

  She drew the blanket up to her mouth, began chewing on the coarse fabric.

  Castelmaine turned to me and said softly, "They reach a certain age, they can never get warm, no matter what the weather. Never get full satisfaction of any kind."

  Mrs. Lipschitz cried out. Her lips worked around a word for a while and finally formed it: "Party!"

  Castelmaine kneeled beside her, eased the blanket away from her mouth, and tucked it around her. "You're gonna go to that party, hon, but you've got to be careful not to ruin your makeup with all those tears. Okay?"

  He placed two fingers under the old woman's chin and smiled. "Okay?" She looked up at him, nodded.

  "Goo-ood. And we are looking pretty today, honey. All spiffed up and raring to go."

  The old woman held up one shriveled hand. A thick black one wrapped around it.

  "Party," she said.

  "Sure, there's gonna be a party. And you're so pretty,

  Clara Celia Lipschitz, that you're gonna be the belle of that party. All the handsome boys are gonna line up to dance with you."

  A rush of tears.

  "Now c'mon, C.C., no more of that. He's gonna come, take you to that party—you've got to be looking your best."

  More struggle to enunciate: "Late."

  "Just a little late, Clara Celia. He probably hit some heavy traffic—you know, all that gridlock I've been telling you about. Or maybe he stopped off at a flower shop to get you a nice corsage. Nice pink orchid corsage, like he knows you love."

  "Late."

  "Just a little," he repeated, and resumed pushing the chair. I tagged along.

  He began singing, softly, in a sweet tenor so high it verged on falsetto. "Now C, C.C. Rider. C'mon see, baby, what you have done..."

  The music and the repetitive rub of the chair's tires against the sidewalk set up a lullaby rhythm. The old woman's head began to loll.

  "... C.C. Lipschitz, see what you have done..."

  We stopped directly across the street from King Solomon. Castelmaine looked both ways and nudged the chair over the curb.

  "... you made all the handsome boys love you... and now your man has come."

  Mrs. Lipschitz slept. He pushed her across the green cement, exchanging greetings with some of the other old people, got to the bottom of the ramp and told me: "Wait here. I'll be with you soon as I'm through."

  I stood around, got drawn into conversation with a thick-waisted old man with one good eye and a VFW cap who claimed to have fought with Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill, then waited, belligerently, as if expecting me to doubt him. When I didn't he launched into a lecture on U.S. policy in Latin America and was going strong, ten minutes later, when Castelmaine reappeared.

  I shook the old man's hand, told him it had been educational.

  "A smart boy;" he told Castelmaine.

  The attendant smiled. "That probably means, Mr. Cantor, that he didn't disagree with you."

  "What's to disagree? Ernes is ernes, you got to keep those pinkos in line or they eat your liver."

  "The ernes is, we gotta go, Mr. Cantor."

  "So who's stopping you? Go. Gey avek."

  We walked back across the green cement.

  "How about a cup of coffee," I said.

  "Don't drink coffee. Let's walk." We turned left on Edinburgh and strolled past more old people. Past sweating windows and cooking smells, dry lawns, musty doorways.

  "I don't remember you," he said. "Not as a specific person. I do remember Dr. Ransom visiting with a man, because it only happened once." He looked me over. "No. I can't say that I remember it being you."

  "I looked different," I said. "Had a beard, longer hair."

  He shrugged. "Could be. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

  Unconcerned. I realized he hadn't heard about Sharon, gritted my teeth and said:

  "Dr. Ransom died."

  He stopped, put both hands alongside his face. "Died? When?"

  "A week ago."

  "How?"

  "Suicide, Mr. Castelmaine. It was in the papers."

  "Never read the papers—get enough bad news just from living. Oh, no—such a kind, wonderful girl. I can't believe it."

  I said nothing.

  He kept shaking his head.

  "What pushed her so low she had to go and do something like that?"

  "That's what I'm trying to find out."

  His eyes were moist and bloodshot. "You her man?"

  "I was, years ago. We hadn't seen each other for a long time, met at a party. She said something was bothering her. I never found out what it was. Two days later she was gone."

  "Oh, Lord, this is just terrible."

  "I'm sorry."

  "How'd she do it?"

  "Pills. And a gunshot to the head."

  "Oh, God. Doesn't make any sense, someone beautiful and rich, doing something like that. All day I wheel around the old ones—fading away, losing the ability to do anything for themselves, but they hang on, nothing but memories to keep them going. Then someone like Dr. Ransom throws it all away."

  We resumed walking.

  "Just doesn't make sense," he repeated.

  "I know," I said. "I thought you might be able to help me make some sense of it."

  "Me? How?"

  "By telling me what you know about her."

  "What I know," he said, "isn't much. She was a fine woman, always looked happy to me, always treated me well. She was devoted to that sister of hers—you don't see a lot of that. Some of them start out all noble, guilty for putting the loved one away, swearing to God they're gonna be visiting all the time, taking care of everything But after a while of getting nothing back, they get tired, start coming less and less. Lots of them disappear completely. But not Dr. Ransom—she was always there for poor Shirlee. Every week, like clockwork, Wednesday afternoon, two to five. Sometimes two or three times a week. And not just sitting—feeding and fixing and loving that poor girl and getting nothing in return."

  "Did anyone else ever visit Shirlee?"

  "Not a one, excepting the time she came with you. Only Dr. Ransom, like clockwork. She was the best family to one of those people I ever saw, giving, not getting. I watched her do it steadily up until the day I quit."

  "When was that?"

  "Eight months ago."

  "Why'd you quit?"

  " 'Cause they were gonna let me go. Dr. Ransom tipped me off that the place was going to shut down. Said she appreciated all I'd done for Shirlee, was sorry she couldn't take me with her, but that Shirlee would continue to get good care. She said I'd made a big difference. Then she gave me fifteen hundred dollars cash, to show she meant it. That shows you what she was like. Makes no sense for her to get that low."

  "So she knew Resthaven was going to close."

  "And she was correct. Couple of weeks later, everyone else got form letters, pink slips. Dear employee. A friend of mine was working the wards—I warned her but she didn't believe me. When it happened she didn't get any notice, no severance, just bye-bye, Charlie, we're bankrupt. Out of business and so are you."

  "Do you have any idea where Dr. Ransom took Shirlee?"

  "No, but believe me, it had to be somewhere fine—she loved that girl, treated her like a queen." He stopped, turned grim. "With her dead, who's gonna take care of the poor thing?"

  "I don't know. I have no idea where she is. No one does."

  "Oh, Lord. This is starting to sound mournful."

  "I'm sure she's all right," I said. "The family has money—did she talk much about them?"

  "Not to me she didn't."

  "But you
knew she was rich."

  "She was paying the bills at Resthaven, she had to be. Besides, anyone could tell she had money just by looking at her—the way she dressed and carried herself. Being a doctor."

  "Dr. Ransom was paying the bills?"

  "That's what it said right at the top of the chart: All financial correspondence to be directed to Dr. Ransom."

  "What else was in the chart?"

  "All the therapy records—PT, OT. For a while Dr.

  Ransom even had a speech therapist come in but that was a waste of time—Shirlee was nowhere near talking. Same with a Braille teacher. Dr. Ransom tried everything. She loved that girl—I just can't see her destroying herself and abandoning the poor thing."

  "Was there a medical history in the chart?"

  "Just some early stuff and a summary of all the problems written out by Dr. Ransom."

  "Any birth records?"

  He shook his head.

  "Were any other doctors involved in Shirlee's care?"

  "Just Dr. Ransom."

  "No physicians?"

  "What do you think she was?"

  "She was a psychologist. Did she tell you she was an M.D.?"

  He thought for a while. "Come to think of it, no, she didn't. But the way she took charge of Shirlee's case, writing orders for the therapists, I just took it for granted."

  "Shirlee must have had physical complaints. Who handled those?"

  "You'd think she would have, but funny thing was, except for all her problems, she was really healthy, had a good strong heart, good blood pressure, clear lungs. All you had to do was turn her, feed her, change her, give her postural drainage, and she'd go on forever." He gazed up at the sky, shook his head. "Wonder where she is, poor thing."

  "Did Dr. Ransom ever talk about the accident?" His eyebrows arched. "What accident is that?" "The drowning that caused all of Shirlee's problems." "Now you lost me." "She drowned when she was a small child. Dr. Ransom

  told me about it, said it was what caused Shirlee's brain

  damage."

  "Well, I don't know about that, because what she told me was something totally different—the poor girl was born that way."

  "Born blind and deaf and crippled?"

  "That's right, all of it. 'Multiple congenital deformities.' Lord knows I saw it often enough, staring up from Dr. Ransom's summary."

  He shook his head. "'Multiple congenital deformities.' Poor thing started out that way, never any chance at all."

  It was close to noon. I drove to a gas station nearby and used the pay phone to call Olivia's office. Mrs. Bricker-man, I was informed, had returned from Sacramento but wasn't expected back in the office today. I phoned her home number, let it ring ten times, and was just ready to hang up when she picked it up, breathless.

  "Alex! I just got in. Literally. From the airport. Spent the morning taking a power breakfast with Senate aides and trying to get them to give us more money. What a bunch— if any of them had ever owned an idea, they sold it a long time ago. Cheap."

  "Hate to bother you," I said, "but 1 was wondering if-"

  "The system was back up. Yes, it is, as of this morning. And just to show you how much I love you, I used Sacramento Division's mainframe to run Shirlee Ransom through. Sorry, nothing. I did find a person by that name, same spelling. But on the Medi-Cal files. Date of birth 1922, not '53."

  "Do you have an address on her?"

  "No. You told me '53, I didn't figure you'd be interested in a senior citizen."

  "Makes sense," I said.

  "You are interested?"

  "I might be... if it's not to much of a—'"

  "All right, all right. Let me change out of this business suit and I'll call the office, try and get my assistant to overcome her computerphobia. It'll take a while. Where can I get back to you?"

  "I'm calling from a pay phone."

  "Cloak and dagger nonsense? Alex, what are you up to?"

  "Digging up bones."

  "Ugh. What's your number?"

  I read it off to her.

  "That's my neighborhood. Where are you calling from?"

  "Gas station on Melrose near Fairfax."

  "Oh, for God's sake, you're two minutes away! Come over and watch me play high-tech detective."

  The Brickermans' house was small, newly painted white, with a Spanish tile roof. Narrow beds of petunias had been planted along the driveway, which was filled with Olivia's mammoth Chrysler New Yorker.

  She'd left the door unlocked. Albert Brickerman was in the living room, in a bathrobe and slippers, staring at the chessboard. He grunted in response to my greeting. Olivia was in the kitchen, scrambling eggs, wearing a white ruffled blouse and size 18 navy skirt. Her hair was a henna'd frizz, her cheeks plump and rosy. She was in her early sixties but her skin was smooth as a girl's. She hugged me, crushed me to an upholstered bosom.

  "What do you think?" She ran her hands over the skirt.

  "Very board-room."

  She laughed, turned down the fire under the eggs. "If my socialist papa could see me now. Do you believe, at my age, being dragged kicking and screaming into the whole yuppie puppie thing?"

  "Just keep telling yourself you're working within the system to change it."

  "Oh, sure." She motioned me to the kitchen table. Spooned out eggs, set out plates of rye toast and sliced tomatoes, filled mugs with coffee. "I figure I've got one more year, maybe two. Then goodbye to all the nonsense and set out for some serious traveling—not that Prince Albert would ever budge, but I've got a friend, lost her husband last year. We plan to do Hawaii, Europe, Israel. The works."

  "Sounds great."

  "Sounds great, but you're antsy to get into the computer."

  "Whenever it's convenient."

  "I'll call now. It'll take a while for Monica to get into the system."

  She phoned her assistant, gave instructions, repeated them, hung up. "Cross your fingers. Meanwhile, let's eat."

  Both of us were hungry and we wolfed in silence. Just as I'd started on my second serving of eggs, the phone rang.

  "Okay, Monica, that's okay. Yes. Type in SRCH, all capitals. Good. Now type capital M dash capital C capital R, the the RETURN button twice. CAL. C-AL, also all in caps, four three five six dash zero zero nine. Good. Then capital LA dash capital W dash one dash two three six. Okay? Try again. I'll wait... good. Now press RETURN one more time, then the HOME button... Under the seven... No, hold down the control button while you do it—over on the left side of the keyboard, CTRL. Yes, good. Now what comes on the screen? Good. Okay, now type in the following name. Ransom as in kidnapping... what? Nothing, forget it. R-A-N-S-O-M. Comma. Shirlee. With two e's at the end, instead of an e-y. S-H-I-R-L-E-E... Okay, good. What comes on?... Okay, keep it there, Monica. I'm going to get a pencil and you tell me the birthdate and the address."

  She began writing. I got up, read over her shoulder:

  Ransom, Shirlee. DOB 1/1/22 Rural Rote 4, Willow Glen, Ca. 92399.

  "Okay, thank you, Monica." I said, "Ask her about a Jasper Ransom." She looked up at me quizzically, said: "Monica, don't clear your screen yet. Type in ADD SRCH. Wait for the blinking prompt again... Got it? Okay, now Ransom, same name as before, comma Jasper... No. J.... Right. Jasper. Good... It is? Okay, give me the birthdate." She wrote: DOB 12/25/20. Same address. "Thank you again, Monica. Got a lot left to do?... Then take off early. I'll see you tomorrow." She hung up. "Two elderly Ransoms for the price of one, darling." She looked at the paper again and pointed to the birth-

  dates. "New Year and Christmas. Cute. What's the chance

  of that? Who are these people?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Willow Glen. Got a state map?" "No need," she said. "I've been there. It's out in the

  boonies—San Bernadino County, near Yucaipa. When

  the kids were little I used to take them down there to pick

  apples." "Apples?" "Apples, darling. Little red round things? Keep the

  doctor away? Why the surpri
se?"

  "I didn't know apples grew down there."

  "They used to. Then one year we went down there and

  there was nothing left—all the U-pick places closed down,

  the trees dead and dying. We're talking boonies, Alex.