Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Patient and doctor, slaying demons.

  What could be purer?

  The checks from Fiduciary First Trust kept coming, three figures at a shot.

  The week of her ninth birthday, she arrived with a gift. I had none for her— had decided long ago never to buy patients anything. But she didn’t seem to mind and glowed from the act of giving.

  A gift too big for her to carry. Sabino brought it into my office.

  Massive basket of crepe-paper-wrapped fruit, cheeses, wine samples, tins of caviar, smoked oysters and trout, chestnut paste, jars of preserves and compotes, from a gourmet shop in Pasadena.

  Inside was a card.

  TO DOCTOR DELAWARE, LOVE, MELISSA D.

  On the reverse side was a drawing of a house. The best she’d ever done— carefully shaded, lots of windows and doors.

  “This is beautiful, Melissa. Thank you very much.”

  “Welcome.” Smiling, but her eyes had filled with tears.

  “What’s the matter, hon?”

  “I want . . .”

  She turned around and faced one of the bookcases, hugging herself.

  “What is it, Melissa?”

  “I want . . . It’s time maybe . . . to . . . for no more . . .”

  She trailed off into silence. Shrugged. Kneaded her hands.

  “Are you saying you want to stop coming for sessions?”

  Multiple rapid nods.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Melissa. You’ve done great. I’m really proud of you. So if you want to try it on your own, I understand and I think it’s terrific. And you don’t have to worry— I’ll always be here if you need me.”

  She whipped around and faced me.

  “I’m nine years old, Dr. Delaware. I think I’m ready to handle things on my own.”

  “I think you are, too. And don’t worry about hurting my feelings.”

  She started to cry.

  I went to her, hugged her. She put her head against my chest and sobbed.

  “I know it’s hard,” I said. “You’re worried about hurting my feelings. Probably been worried about that for a long time.”

  Wet nods.

  “That’s very kind of you, Melissa. I appreciate your caring about my feelings. But don’t worry— I’m fine. Sure, I’ll miss seeing you, but I’ll always keep you in my mind. And just because you stop coming for regular sessions doesn’t mean we can’t stay in touch. Over the phone. Or by writing letters. You can even come in to see me when there’s nothing bothering you. Just to say hi.”

  “Do other patients do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’re their names?”

  Smiling mischievously.

  We both laughed.

  I said, “The thing that’s most important to me, Melissa, is how well you’ve done. How you’ve taken charge over your fears. I’m really impressed.”

  “I really feel I can handle things,” she said, drying her eyes.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “I can,” she repeated, looking over at the big basket. “Have you ever had chestnut paste? It’s kind of weird— doesn’t taste like roasted chestnuts at all. . . .”

  • • •

  The following week, I phoned her. Dutchy answered. I asked how she was doing. He said, “Very well indeed, Doctor. Let me get her for you.” I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he sounded friendly.

  Melissa came on the line, polite but distant. Letting me know she was okay, would call me if she needed to come in. She never did.

  I called a couple of more times. She sounded distracted and eager to get off the phone.

  A few weeks later I was doing my books, reached her ledger sheet, and realized I’d been paid in advance for ten sessions I hadn’t conducted. I wrote out a check and mailed it to San Labrador. The next day a manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was my check, in three neatly torn pieces, along with a sheet of scented stationery.

  Dear Dr. Delaware,

  With much gratitude,

  Faithfully yours,

  Gina Dickinson

  Same fine graceful hand she’d used to promise me, two years ago, that she’d be in touch.

  I wrote another check for exactly the same amount, made it out to Western Pediatrics Toy Fund, went down to the lobby, and posted it. Knowing I was doing it for myself as much as for the kids who’d get the toys, and telling myself I had no damn right to feel noble.

  Then I took the elevator back up to my office and got ready for my next patient.

  6

  It was one in the morning when I put the file away. Reminiscing was strenuous exercise, and fatigue had enveloped me. I hobbled to bed, slept fitfully, did a good impression of waking at seven, and marched into the shower. A few minutes after I’d dressed, the bell rang. I went to the door and opened it.

  Milo stood out on the terrace, hands in his pockets, wearing a yellow golf shirt with two wide horizontal green stripes, tan chinos, and high-top basketball shoes that had once been white. His black hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, the forelock completely hiding the brow, the sideburns nearly at jaw level. His pocked, lumpy face was flecked with three days’ worth of patchy beard and his green eyes seemed filmed over— the normally startling hue dulled to the color of very old grass.

  He said, “The good news is at least now you lock it. The bad news is you open it without checking to see who the hell’s out there.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t check?” I said, standing aside and letting him in.

  “Latency of response from final footstep to latch-turn. Powers of detection.” He tapped his temple and headed straight for the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Detective. Leisure becomes you.”

  He grunted and didn’t break step.

  I said, “What’s up?”

  “What should be up?” he called back, face already in the fridge.

  Another bona fide random drop-in. They were growing more frequent.

  Terminal doldrums.

  Halfway into his punishment— six months’ suspension from the force without pay. The most the department could hand out short of canning him. The department hoping he’d learn to enjoy civilian life and never come back. The department deluding itself.

  He scrounged for a while, found rye bread, lox spread, and milk, located a knife and a plate, and began preparing himself some breakfast.

  “What are you staring at?” he said. “Never seen a guy cook before?”

  I went to get dressed. When I came back he was standing at the counter, eating spread on toast and drinking milk out of the carton. He’d put on more weight— his belly approached sumo-status, meloning the nylon shirt.

  “Got a busy day planned?” he said. “Thought we might go down to Rancho and shoot some golf balls.”

  “Didn’t know you golfed.”

  “I don’t. But a guy needs a hobby, right?”

  “Sorry, I’m working this morning.”

  “Oh, yeah? Need me to leave?”

  “No, not patients. I’m doing some writing.”

  “Ahh,” he said, giving a dismissing wave. “I meant real work.”

  “It’s real work for me.”

  “What, the old blockaroo?”

  I nodded.

  He said, “Want me to do it for you?”

  “Do what?”

  “Write your paper.”

  “Right.”

  “No, I’m serious. Scribbling always came easy for me. That’s why I went as far as the master’s— God knows it wasn’t all the academic shit they shoved at me. Not much flair to my prose, but it was . . . workmanlike, if a bit pedestrian. In the words of my former academic adviser.”

  He crunched toast. Crumbs cascaded down his shirtfront. He made no effort to brush them off.

  I said, “Thanks, Milo, but I’m not ready for a ghostwriter yet.” I went to make coffee.

  “Whatsamatter?” he said with a full mouth. “Don’t trust me?”

 
“This is scientific writing. The Hale shooting for a psych journal.”

  “So?”

  “So we’re talking dry. Maybe a hundred pages of dry.”

  “Big deal,” he said. “No worse than your basic homicide file.” He used a crescent of rye crust to tick his fingers: “Roman Numeral One: Synopsis of Crime. Roman Numeral Two: Chronological Narrative. Roman Numeral Three: Victim Information. Roman—”

  “I get the point.”

  He shoved the crust in his mouth. “The key to excellent report writing,” he said between chews, “is to take every bit of passion out of it. Use an extra heaping portion of superfluously extraneous tautological redundancies in order to make it mind-numbingly boring. So that when one’s superior officers read it, they zone out and start skimming and maybe don’t notice the fact that one has been spinning one’s wheels since the body turned up and hasn’t solved a goddam thing. Now tell me, is that so different from what you’re doing?”

  I laughed. “Up till now I’ve been telling myself I was after the truth. Thanks for setting me straight.”

  “No problem. It’s my job.”

  “Speaking of job, how’d it go downtown?”

  He gave a very long, very dark look. “More of the same. Desk jockeys with smiling faces. This time they brought in the department shrink.”

  “Thought you refused counseling.”

  “They got around it by calling it a stress evaluation. Terms of the penalty— read the small print.”

  He shook his head. “All those greasy-faced fuckers talking real softly and slowly, as if I was senile. Inquiring about my adjustment. My stress level. Sharing their concern. Ever notice how people who talk about sharing never really do? They were also careful to let me know that all my medical bills had been picked up by the department— therefore the department had received copies of all my lab tests and there was some concern over my cholesterol level, triglycerides, whatever. Was I really feeling up to returning to active duty?”

  He scowled. “What a bunch of princes, huh? I smiled back and said it was funny how they never gave a shit about my stress level or triglycerides when I was out there doing the job.”

  “How’d they react to that bit of charm?”

  “More smiles, then this greasy silence you could deep-fry potatoes in. Mind-tripping. No doubt the asshole shrink prepped them— no offense. But that’s the military mind: Destroy the individual.”

  He looked at the milk carton, said, “Ah, low-fat. That’s good. Here’s to triglycerides.”

  I filled the coffee-maker carafe with water, spooned Kenyan into the hatch.

  “Give the assholes one thing,” he said. “They’re getting more assertive. This time they came right out and talked pension. Dollars and cents. Actuarial tables, how much more it added up to when you threw in the interest I could earn if I invested wisely. How nice life could be with what I had coming after fourteen years. When I didn’t slaver and snap, they dropped the carrot and picked up the stick, started hinting around about how the pension was by no means a foregone conclusion, given the circumstances. Blah blah blah. How timing was of the essence. Blah blah blah.”

  He started to work on another piece of bread.

  I said, “Bottom line?”

  “I let them blah on for a while, then got up, said I had a pressing engagement, and left.”

  “Well,” I said, “if you ever do decide to quit, there’s always the diplomatic corps.”

  “Hey,” he said, “I’ve had it to here.” Running a finger across his throat. “Give me the half-year boot, okay. Take my gun and shield and pay, okay. But just let me do my time in peace and quiet, and cool it with the fucking follow-ups. All that phony sensitivity.”

  He drank and ate. “Course, guess I can’t expect much better, given the circumstances.” He smiled.

  “A-plus in reality testing, Milo.”

  He said, “Assaulting a superior officer.” Bigger smile. “Has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You forgot the crucial part. On TV.”

  He grinned, started to drink more milk but was smiling too broadly and lowered the carton. “What the hell, this is the media age, right? The chief wears pancake when he plays meet-the-press. I gave them some soundbites they’ll never forget.”

  “That you did. What’s the situation with Frisk?”

  “Word has it his cute little nose has healed quite nicely. The new teeth look almost as good as the old ones— amazing what they can do with plastic nowadays, huh? But he is gonna look a little different. Less Tom Selleck, more . . . Karl Malden. Which isn’t bad for a superior officer, right? That shopworn look— implied wisdom and experience.”

  “He back on duty?”

  “Nooo. Seems Kenny-poo’s stress level is still pretty high, he’s taking a long recuperation. But he’ll be back, eventually. Kicked upstairs, where he can screw up on a higher level and do systematic damage.”

  “He’s the assistant chief’s son-in-law, Milo. You’re lucky to still be on the force.”

  He put down the carton and glared. “Don’t you think if they could have shafted me, they would have? They’re in a one-down position and they know it— that’s why they’re going the weasel route.”

  He slammed his big hand down on the counter. “Asshole used me for fucking bait. The lawyer Rick had me talk to told me I had grounds for a major-league civil suit, could have taken it to the papers and kept it there for months. He would have loved it— the shyster. Big contingency fee. Rick wanted me to do it, too. On principle. But I refused because that wasn’t what it was about— bunch of goddam shysters quibbling about technicalities for ten years. This was one-on-one; it needed to be handled one-on-one. Going the TV route was my extra insurance— couple of million witnesses, so no one could say it didn’t happen the way it did. That’s why I hit him after he said what a great hero I was and gave me the commendation. So no one could say it was sour grapes. The department owes me, Alex. They should be grateful all I did was mess up his face. And if Frisk is smart, he’ll be grateful, too— stay out of my face. Permanently. Fuck his family connections. He’s lucky I didn’t rip his lungs out and toss them at the cameras.”

  His eyes had cleared and his complexion had deepened to hot pink. With his hair over his forehead and thick lips, he resembled a disgruntled gorilla.

  I applauded.

  He rose a few inches, stared at me, then started laughing. “Ah, nothing like adrenaline to make the day take on a rosy glow. Sure you don’t want to golf?”

  “Sorry. I really have to get the paper done and there’s a patient coming at noon. And, frankly, knocking balls around the green isn’t my idea of recreation, Milo.”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “No aerobic benefit. Bet your triglycerides are just peachy.”

  I shrugged. The coffee was done. I poured two cups, gave one to him.

  “So,” I said, “what else have you been doing to fill the time?”

  He gave an expansive gesture and put on a brogue: “Oh, it’s been just grand, lad. Needlepoint, papier-mchÉ, decoupage, crocheting. Little schooners and yachts made of ice-cream sticks and glitter— there’s a wonderful world of crafts out there just waiting to be explored.” He drank coffee. “It’s been shit. Worse than a desk job. At first I thought I’d get into gardening— grab some sun, a little exercise. Back to the earth— to my roots, praise Hibernia.”

  “Planning to grow potatoes?”

  He chuckled. “Planning to raise anything I could, other than hell. Only problem was, Rick brought in this landscape designer last year, redid the whole yard with all this southwestern shit— cactus, succulents, low-moisture ground cover. So we could cut our water usage, be ecologically sound. So much for Farmer Spud. So okay, scratch that, I figured I’d tinker around the house— fix everything that needed fixing. I used to be handy— when I worked construction in college I learned all the trades. And when I lived by myself I used to do all of it: plumbing, wiring, whatever. The landlord loved
me. Only problem with that plan is, there’s nothing to fix. I hadn’t been around the house long enough to realize it, but after nagging me for a year or so, Rick finally took care of everything. Seems he found this handyman— fellow from Fiji, former patient. Cut himself with a power saw, nearly lost a couple of fingers. Rick sewed him up in the E.R., saved the fingers, and purchased eternal gratitude: The guy works for us basically for free, on call twenty-four hours a day. So unless he slips with the saw again, my expertise is not in demand. Scratch Mr. Fixit. What does that leave? Shopping? Cooking? Between the E.R. and the Free Clinic, Rick’s never home to eat, so I grab whatever and stuff my face. Once in a while I go out to a civilian range in Culver City and shoot. I’ve been through my record collection twice and read more bad books than I ever want to think about.”