Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes

by Private Eyes(Lit)

  "I don't know. I'm not sure she keeps anything here."

  "Why's that?"

  "Her banking's handled for her-by Mr. Anger, over at First Fiduciary Trust. He's the president. His father knew mine."

  "Anger," said Milo, writing it down. "Know the number offhand?"

  "No. The bank's on Cathcart just a few blocks from where you turn off to get here."

  "Any idea how many accounts she keeps there?"

  "Not the foggiest. I have two my trust account and one that I use for expenses." Meaningful pause. "Father wanted it that way."

  "What about your stepdad? Where does he bank?"

  "I have no idea." Kneading her hands.

  "Any reason to think he's in any financial trouble?"

  "I wouldn't know."

  "What kind of restaurant does he run?"

  "Steak and beer."

  "Does he seem to do pretty well?"

  "Well enough. He brings in lots of imported beers. In San Labrador, that's considered exotic."

  "Speaking of which," said Milo, "I could use a drink juice or soda.

  With ice. Is there a refrigerator up here with something in it?"

  She nodded. "There's a service kitchen at the end of the staff wing.

  I can get you something from there. What about you, Dr. Delaware?"

  "Sure," I said.

  Milo said, "Coke."

  I said I'd have the same.

  She said, "Two Cokes." Waited.

  "What is it?" said Milo.

  "Are you finished in here?"

  He looked around one more time. "Sure."

  We passed through the sitting room and went out into the hall.

  Melissa closed the door and said, "Two Cokes. I'll be right back."

  When she was gone, I said, "So what do you think?"

  "What do I think? That money sure don't buy no happiness, brutha.

  That room" cocking a thumb at the door "it's like a goddamn hotel suite. Like she came in on the Concorde, unpacked, went out to see the sights. How the hell could she live like that, not leaving a piece of herself anywhere? And what the hell did she do with herself all day?"

  "Read and toned her muscles."

  "Yeah," he said. "Travel books. It's like a bad joke. Some shlock movie director's version of irony."

  I said nothing.

  He said, "What? Think I've lost my sense of compassion?"

  "You're talking about her in the past tense.

  "Do me a favor, don't interpret. I'm not saying she's dead, just that she's gone. My gut feeling is she's been planning to fly the coop for a while, finally gathered enough courage and did it. Probably jamming that Rolls along Route 66 with the windows open, singing at the top of her lungs."

  "I don't know," I said. "I can't see her abandoning Melissa."

  He gave a small, hard laugh. "Alex, I know she's your patient and you obviously like her, but from what I've seen, the kid grates.

  You heard what she said about Mommy never raising her voice to her.

  That normal? Maybe Mommy finally blew her stack. See the way she treated Ramp? And suggesting to me I investigate him without any solid reason to? I couldn't put up with that shit for very long. Course, I don't have a Ph.D. in kiddy psych. But neither does Mommy."

  I said, "She's a good kid, Milo. Her mother's disappeared. Time to cut her a little slack, don't you think?"

  "Was she sweetness and light before Mommy split? You yourself said she pulled a fit and ran out on Mommy yesterday."

  "Okay, she can be difficult. But her mother cared about her. The two of them are close. I just don't see her running out."

  "No offense," he said, "but how well do you really know the lady, Alex?

  You met her once. She used to be an actress. And in terms of their being close, think of it: never yelling at a kid. For eighteen years?

  No matter how good a kid is, they're gonna bear some yelling once in a while, right? The lady must have been sitting on a powder keg. Anger at what McCloskey did to her. At losing her husband. At being stuck up here because of her problems. That's one giant keg, right? The fight with the kid was what finally lit it the kid mouthed off one time too many. Mom waited a long time for her to come back, and when she didn't, she said fuck it, to hell with reading about distant places, let's go see some."

  I said, "Assuming you're right, do you think she'll come back?"

  "Yeah, probably. She didn't take much with her. But who knows?"

  "So what's next? More placebo?"

  "Not more. The placebo hasn't started yet. When I scoped out the room it was for real. Trying to get a feel for her. As if it were a crime scene. And you know, even with all the bloody rooms I've been in, that place ranks up there on the Freaky Scale. It felt... empty.

  Bad vibes. I saw jungles in Asia that made me feel like that. Dead silent, but you knew something was going on beneath the surface."

  He shook his head. "Listen to me. Vibes. I sound like some New Age asshole."

  "No," I said. "I felt it, too. Yesterday, when I was here, the house reminded me of an empty hotel."

  He rolled his eyes, flashed a Halloween mask grimace, clawed his hands, and scraped at the air.

  "The Rrrich Motel," he said in a Lugosi accent. "They check in, but they don't check out."

  I laughed. Totally tasteless. But it felt cruelly good. Like the jokes that flew around at staff meetings back in my hospital days.

  He said, "I figure the best thing to do is give it a couple of days of my time. Chances are she'll be back by then. The alternative is for me to quit right now, but all that would do is spook both the kid and Ramp and send them rushing to someone else. At least with me they won't get ripped off. Might as well be my seventy an hour."

  "Meant to ask you about that," I said. "You told me fifty."

  "It was fifty. Then I drove up and saw the house. Now that I've seen more of the interior, I'm sorry I didn't make it ninety."

  "Sliding scale?"

  "Absolutely. Share the wealth. Half an hour in this place and I'm ready to vote socialist.

  "Maybe Gina felt the same way," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You saw how few clothes she had. And the sitting room. The way she redecorated. Ordering from a catalogue. Maybe she just wanted out.

  "Or maybe it's just reverse snobbery, Alex. Like owning expensive art and storing it upstairs."

  I was about to tell him about the Cassatt in Ursula Cunningham-Gabney's office but was interrupted by Melissa, returning with two glasses. At her heels were Madeleine and two stocky Hispanic women in their thirties who came up to the Frenchwoman's shoulder, one with long plaited hair, the other with a short shag cut.

  If they'd removed their white uniforms for the evening, they'd put them back on. Along with fresh makeup. They looked hyper-alert and wary, travelers passing through Customs at a hostile port.

  "This is Detective Sturgis," Melissa said, handing us the Cokes.

  "He's here to figure out what happened to Mother. Detective, meet Madeleine de Couer, Lupe Ortega, and Rebecca Maldonado."

  Milo said, "Ladies."

  Madeleine folded her arms across her bosom and nodded. The other two women stared.

  Melissa said, "We're waiting for Sabino the gardener. He lives in Pasadena. It shouldn't take long." To us: "They were waiting in their rooms. I couldn't see any reason why they shouldn't be able to come out. Or even why you shouldn't get started right now. I already asked them-" The doorbell cut her short.

  She said, "One sec," and ran down the stairs. I watched her from the top of the landing, followed her descent to the front door. Before she got there, Ramp was opening it. Sabino Hernandez walked in, trailed by his five sons. All six men had on short-sleeved sports shirts and slacks and stood at parade rest. One wore a bolo tie; a couple had on sparkling white guayaberas. They began glancing around awestruck by circumstances or the scale of the house. I wondered how many times, after all these years, they'd actually been inside.
>
  We assembled in the front room. Milo standing, note pad and pen out, everyone else sitting on the edges of the overstuffed chairs. Nine years had turned Hernandez into a very old man white-haired, hunched, and loose-jawed. His hands had a permanent tremor. He looked too frail for physical labor. His sons, transformed from boys to men by the same stretch of time, surrounded him like stakeposts protecting an ailing tree.

  Milo asked his questions, told them to search their memories very carefully. Got wet eyes from the women, bright stares from the men.

  The only new development was an eyewitness account of Gina's departure.

  Two of the Hernandez sons had been working in the front of the house at the time Gina Ramp had driven out. One of them, Guillermo, had been pruning a tree near the driveway and had actually seen her drive by.

  Seen her clearly, because he'd been standing to the right of the right-hand drive Rolls-Royce, and the tinted window had been rolled down.

  The senora hadn't been smiling or frowning just a serious look.

  Both hands on the steering wheel.

  Driving very slowly.

  She hadn't noticed him or said goodbye.

  That was a little unusual the senora was usually very friendly.

  But no, she hadn't looked frightened or upset. Not angry, either.

  Something else-he searched for the word in English. Conferred with his brother. Hernandez Senior looked straight ahead, seemed cut off from the proceedings.

  Thinking, said Guillermo. She looked as if she'd been thinking about something.

  "Any idea what?" Milo asked.

  Guillermo shook his head.

  Milo addressed the question to all of them.

  Blank faces.

  One of the Hispanic maids began crying again.

  Madeleine prodded her and stared straight ahead.

  Milo asked the Frenchwoman if she had something to add.

  She said Madame was a wonderful person.

  Non. She had no idea where Madame had gone.

  Non, Madame hadn't taken anything with her other than her purse. Her Judith Leiber black calfskin purse. The only one she owned. Madame didn't like a lot of different things but what she had was excellent.

  Madame was... tres classique.

  More tears from Lupe and Rebecca.

  The Hernandezes shifted in their seats.

  Lost looks from all of them. Ramp stared at his knuckles. Even Melissa seemed drained of fight.

  Milo probed gently, then more insistently. Doing as deft a job as I'd ever seen.

  Coming up with nothing.

  A tangible sense of helplessness settled over the room.

  During the course of Milo's questions, no pecking order had emerged, no one stepping forth to speak for the group.

  Once upon a time it had been different.

  Looks like Jacob's a good friend.

  He takes care of everything.

  Dutchy had never been replaced.

  Now this.

  As if the big house were being assaulted by destiny, allowed to crumble, piece by piece.

  Milo dismissed the staff and asked for a place to work. Ramp said, "Anywhere's okay."

  Melissa said, "The downstairs study," and led us to the windowless room with the Goya painting. The desk at the center was white and French and much too small for Milo. He sat behind it, tried to get comfortable, gave up, and swung his glance from wall to booklined wall.

  "Nice view." lissa said, "Father used it as his study. He designed it without windows for maximum concentration."

  Milo said, "Uh-huh." He opened desk drawers and closed them.

  Took out his note pad and placed it on the desk. "Got any phone books?"

  Melissa said, "Here," and opened a cabinet beneath the shelves.

  Removing an armful of directories, she piled them in front of Milo, obscuring the bottom half of his face. "The black one on top's a San Labrador private directory. Even people who don't list their numbers in the regular phone book put them in here."

  Milo divided the books into two short stacks. "Let's start with her credit-card numbers."

  "She has all the major ones," said Ramp, "but I don't know the numbers offhand."

  "Where does she keep her statements?"

  "At the bank. First Fiduciary, here in San Labrador. The bills go straight there and the bank pays them."

  Milo turned to Melissa. "Know any numbers?" She shook her head and gave a guilty look, like a student caught unprepared.

  Milo scribbled. "What about her driver's license number?"

  Silence.

  "Easy enough to get from the DMV" said Milo, still writing.

  "Let's go for vital statistics-height, weight, birthdate, maiden name.

  "Five eight and a half," said Melissa. "Around a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Her birthday's March twenty-third. Her maiden name's Paddock. Regina Marie Paddock." She spelled it.

  Milo said, "Year of birth?"

  "Nineteen forty-six."

  "Social security number?"

  "I don't know."

  Ramp said, "I've never seen her card-I'm sure Glenn Anger can get you the number from her tax returns.

  Milo said, "She doesn't keep any papers around the house?"

  "Not as far as I know."

  "The San Labrador police didn't ask you for any of those things?"

  "No," said Ramp. "Maybe they figured on getting the information elsewhere from the city rolls."

  Melissa said, "Right."

  Milo put down his pen. "Okay, time to get to work." He reached for the phone.

  Neither Ramp nor Melissa budged.

  Milo said, "Feel free to stick around for the show, but if you're drowsy, I promise this will finish you off."

  Melissa frowned and left the room quickly.

  Ramp said, "I'll leave you to your duties, Mr. Sturgis," and turned heel.

  Milo picked up the phone.

  I went looking for Melissa and found her in the kitchen, looking in one of the wall lockers. She pulled out a bottle of orange soda, twisted the cap, got a glass from an upper cabinet, and poured.

  Carelessly. Some of the soda spilled on the counter. She didn't attempt to clean it.

  Still unaware of my presence, she raised the glass to her lips and gulped so quickly it made her cough. Sputtering, she slapped her chest. Saw me and slapped harder. When the paroxysms died, she said, "Oh, that was attractive." In a smaller voice: "Can't do anything right."

  I came closer, ripped a piece of paper towel from a roll impaled upon a wooden holder, and mopped up the spill.

  She said, "Let me do that," and took the towel. Wiped spots that were already dry.

  "I know how rough this has been for you," I said. "Two days ago we were talking about Harvard."

  "Harvard," she said. "Big damned deal."

  "Hopefully it'll return to being a big deal soon."

  "Yeah, right. As if I could ever leave now."

  Wadding up the towel, she tossed it onto the counter. Lifted her head and looked straight at me, inviting debate.

  I said, "In the end, you'll do what's best for you."

  Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, shifted to the soda bottle.

  "God, I didn't even offer you any. I'm sorry.

  "It's okay. I just had that Coke."

  As if she hadn't heard, she said, "Here, let me get you some."

  She reached up into the cupboard and retrieved another glass. As she placed it on the counter, her arm jerked and the glass skidded across the shelf. She caught it before it dropped on the floor. Dropped it and fumbled to catch it again. Staring at it, breathing hard, she said, "Damn!" and ran out of the room.

  I followed her again, searched for her throughout the ground floor of the house, but couldn't find her. Went up the green stairs and headed toward her room. The door was open. I looked in, saw no one, called out her name, got no answer. Entering, I was hit by deceitful memories: crystalline recollections of a place I'd never been.

&nbs
p; The ceiling was painted with a mural of gowned courtesans enjoying a place that could have been Versailles. Carpeting the color of raspberry sherbet covered the floor. The walls were pink-and-gray lamb-and-pussycat wallpaper broken by lace-trimmed windows. The bed was a miniature of her mother's. Shelves brimming with music boxes and miniature dishes and figurines lined the room. Three dollhouses. A zoo of stuffed animals.