Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The entry hall was filled with houseplants. Sweet-smelling. Too sweet— concealing something.

  A dark, pretty woman in her early twenties came out. White blouse, red maxiskirt, Eurasian, clear complexion. “Can I help you?”

  Milo told her who we wanted to see.

  “Are you family?”

  “Acquaintances.”

  “Old-time acquaintances,” I said. “Like Madeleine de Couer.”

  “Madeleine,” she said, with fondness. “She’s here every two weeks, so devoted. And such a good cook— we all love her butter cookies. Let’s see what time it is— six-ten. He may be sleeping. He sleeps a lot, especially lately.”

  “Getting worse?” I said.

  “Physically or spiritually?”

  “Physically, for starters.”

  “We’ve seen some deterioration, but it comes and goes. One day he’s walking fine; the next, he can’t move. It’s hard seeing him that way— knowing what’s in store. It’s such an ugly disease, especially for someone like him, used to being active— though I guess they all are. I’d never even heard of what he’s got— it’s even rarer than Lou Gehrig’s. I had to bone up, and there really isn’t much in the medical books.”

  “How about spiritually?”

  She smiled. “You know how he is— but actually he’s been real good to have around. He cooks for the others, tells them stories. Prods them when he thinks they’re getting lazy. He even orders the staff around, but no one minds— he’s such a dear. When he . . . when he can’t do those things anymore it’s going to be a real loss.” Sighing. “Anyway, why don’t we see if he’s awake?”

  We followed her up to the second floor, passing bedrooms, each containing two or three hospital beds. Old men and women occupied the beds, watching television, reading, sleeping, eating orally or intravenously. Young people in street clothes attended to them. The place was very quiet.

  The room she stopped at was at the rear. Smaller than the rest. A single bed. Punch caricatures on the wall, along with an oil painting of a young, beautiful woman with an unscarred face. A.D. initialed in the lower right corner.

  Nothing out of place. Bay rum aroma fighting to assert itself through the sweetness.

  A man sat on the edge of the bed, trying to insert a cuff link through French cuffs. Starched white cuffs. Navy tie. Blue serge trousers. All of it much too large; he seemed to be drowning in his clothes. A pair of mirror-black bluchers were lined up at the foot of the bed. Three identical pairs of shoes edged a wood-grain dresser that had been shined far more than its cheap construction merited. Next to the shoes was a four-legged metal walker.

  His hair was slicked and right-parted and bone-white. All the plumpness was gone from his face, and his cheeks hung loosely in bulldog jowls. His skin was the color of a plastic skeleton. The cuff links were small squares of onyx.

  “People to see you,” said the young woman cheerfully.

  The man struggled with the cuff link, finally inserted it, then turned and faced us.

  A look of surprise passed over his face, then great calm. As if he’d experienced the worst-possible scenario and survived.

  He worked hard at producing a smile for the girl, worked harder at getting the words out: “Come in.” Voice as fragile as antique crockery.

  “Anything I can get you, Mr. D.?” asked the woman.

  The man shook his head no. More effort.

  She left. Milo and I stepped in. I closed the door.

  “Hello, Mr. Dutchy,” I said.

  Curt nod.

  “Do you remember me? Alex Delaware? Nine years ago?”

  Eyes fluttering, he struggled to enunciate: “Doc ... tor.”

  “This is a friend of mine, Mr. Milo Sturgis. Mr. Sturgis, Mr. Jacob Dutchy. A good friend of Melissa and her mother.”

  “Sit.” Motioning toward a chair. The only other furniture was a walnut drum table of much better vintage than the dresser. Leather top, covered partially by a doily. Tea service atop the doily. Pattern identical to one I’d seen in a small gray sitting room. “Tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You,” he said to Milo, taking a long time to get it out. “Look like. A police. Man.”

  “He is one,” I said. “On leave. But he’s not here in any official capacity.”

  “I see.” Dutchy folded his hands on his lap and sat there.

  Suddenly, I regretted coming and wore it all over my face. Gentleman that he was, he said, “Don’t wor. Ree. Talk.”

  “No need to talk about it,” I said. “Consider this a friendly visit.”

  Half-smile on bloodless, razor-slash lips. “Talk. Any. Thing.” Then: “How?”

  “Just guesswork,” I said. “The evening before McCloskey was run down, Madeleine sat by Melissa’s bed and used the phone. I saw it, on the floor. She called you here and told you Gina was dead. Asked you to take care of it. Step into your old role.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s. Wrong. Not her . . . nothing.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said Milo, and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “These are phone records. Made from Melissa’s private line that night, itemized down to the minute. Three within a one-hour period to the Pleasant Rest Hospice.”

  “Circum. Stantial,” said Dutchy. “She talks. To me all. The time.”

  “We saw the car, sir,” said Milo. “The Cadillac that’s registered to you. Interesting front-end damage. I imagine the police lab would be able to work with that.”

  Dutchy looked at him, but not with any anxiety— he seemed to be appraising Milo’s clothes. Milo had dressed fairly well. For him. Dutchy was reserving judgment.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Dutchy,” said Milo. “This is off the record. Even if it wasn’t, you haven’t been notified of your rights, so anything you say can’t be used against you.”

  “Madeleine had. Nothing to. Do. With . . .”

  “Even if she did, we don’t care, sir. Just trying to tie up loose ends.”

  “She. Didn’t.”

  “Fine,” said Milo. “You thought of it all by yourself. You’re a one-man crime wave.”

  Dutchy’s smile was astonishingly quick and full. “Billy. The Kid. What. Else d’you. Want. To know?”

  “What’d you use to lure McCloskey out?” said Milo. “His son?”

  Dutchy’s smile quavered and faded out like a weak radio signal. “Dis. Honest. But. Only way.”

  “Did Noel or Melissa call him?”

  “No.” Trembling. “No. No, no. Swear.”

  “Take it easy. I believe you.”

  It took a while for Dutchy’s face to stop shaking.

  “So who called McCloskey?” said Milo. “It sure wasn’t you.”

  “Friends.”

  “What did the friends tell him?”

  “Son. In troub. El. Help.” Pause for breath. “Pat. Ernal. Heart. Strings.” Dutchy made an excruciatingly slow tugging motion.

  “How’d you know he’d fall for that?”

  “Never. Know. Po. Ker.”

  “You flushed him out with the son story. Then your friends ran him down.”

  “No.” Pointing to his starched shirtfront. “Me.”

  “You can still drive?”

  “Some. Times.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In. Dee. Five. Hundred.” Genuine glee on the pasty face.

  Milo said, “You and Parnelli.”

  Reedy laughter.

  “I guess it’s stupid to ask why.”

  Ponderous headshake. “No. Not. At all.”

  Silence.

  Dutchy smiled and managed to get a hand on his shirtfront again. “Ask.”

  Milo rolled his eyes.

  I said, “Why’d you do it, Mr. Dutchy?”

  He stood, tottered, waved off our aid. It took a full five minutes for him to get into an upright position. I know, because I was staring at the second hand of my watch. Another five to make it to the walker and lean on it, triumphant.

&n
bsp; Triumph that went beyond the physical.

  “Reason,” he said. “My job.”

  38

  “So tiny,” she said. “Will they survive?”

  “These are the survivors,” I said. “The key is keeping the grown ones well fed so they won’t eat the babies.”

  “How’d you manage to hatch them?”

  “I didn’t do anything. It just happened.”

  “But you must have set it up or something. To make it happen.”

  “I provided the water.”

  She smiled.

  We were at the edge of the pond. The air was still and the waterfall whispered gently. Her bare legs were tucked under her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the Zen grass. “I like it down here. Could we talk here every time?”

  “Sure.”

  “So peaceful,” she said. Her hands left the grass and began kneading one another.

  “How’s she doing?” I said.

  “All right. I guess. I keep waiting for something to . . . I don’t know . . . break. For her to start screaming or falling apart. She looks almost too good.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “In a way. I guess what really worries me is not knowing. What she knows— what she understands about what happened. I mean, she says she passed out and woke up in the hospital, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Maybe she’s just protecting me. Or herself— pushing it out of her memory. Repressing it.”

  “I believe her,” I said. “The whole time I saw her she was unconscious. Totally unaware of her surroundings.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Dr. Levine says the same thing. . . . I like him. Levine. Makes you feel he has plenty of time. That what you have to say is important.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Thank God she got somebody good.” Turning to me, eyes wet. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You already have.”

  “But it’s not enough— what you did . . .” Reaching out for my hand, then drawing back.

  She looked at the pond. Studied the water.

  “I made a decision,” she said. “About scheduling. A year here, and then we’ll see. Just a semester wouldn’t have been enough. So many things to take care of. I called Harvard this morning. From the hospital, before the helicopter arrived. Thanked them for extending the deadline and told them what I’d decided. They said they’ll accept me as a transfer if my GPA at UCLA’s high enough.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  “Guess so— if I organize my time properly. Noel left. Came up yesterday to say goodbye.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “He looked a little scared. Which surprised me. I never thought of him as not being in control. It was almost . . . cute. His mother came with him. She looked really nervous. She’s going to miss him a lot.”

  “Are you and Noel planning to stay in touch?”

  “We agreed to write. But you know how things are— different places, different experiences. He’s been a really good friend.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  Small, sad smile.

  I said, “What is it?”

  “I know he wants more than that. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know. . . . Maybe he’ll meet someone there who will really be right for him.”

  Leaning closer to the water. “The big ones are coming close. Can I feed them?”

  I handed her the feed cup. She tossed in a handful of pellets, far away from the baby koi, and watched the adult fish bob and gobble.

  “There you go, guys,” she said. “Stay over there. Jeez, what a bunch of gluttons. . . . Do you think she’ll really ever be okay? Levine says if we give it enough time, she should be able to function normally, but I don’t know.”

  “What makes you doubt that?”

  “Maybe he’s just an optimist.”

  Making that sound like a character flaw.

  “From what I’ve seen of Dr. Levine, he’s a realist,” I said. Remembering Gina’s face framed by hospital linen. Plastic tubing, the far-off clatter of metal and glass. A thin, pale hand squeezing mine. A tranquility that was unnerving . . .

  I said, “Just the fact that she’s handling the hospital so well is a good sign, Melissa. Realizing she can be out of the house without falling apart. As bizarre as it seems, the whole thing may end up being therapeutic for her. Which isn’t to say there’s been no trauma or that it’s going to be easy.”

  “Guess so,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard over the waterfall. “There are so many things I still don’t understand: Why it happened. Where does that kind of evil come from? What did she do to deserve that? I mean, I know he’s a psycho— the things they say he did. . . .” Shuddering. Kneading. “Susan says he’ll be put away forever. Just on the basis of those bodies they found at the ranch. Which is good. I guess. I couldn’t stand the idea of a trial— Mother having to face another . . . monster. But it just seems . . . inadequate. There should be more.”

  “More punishment?”

  “Yes. He should suffer.” Turning to me again. “You’d have to be there, too, wouldn’t you? At a trial.”

  I nodded.

  “So I guess you’re glad about there being none.”

  “It’s an experience I could do without.”

  “Okay. It’s for the best. I just don’t— What causes someone to—” Shaking her head. Looking up at the sky. Then down again. Kneading. Harder and faster.

  I said, “What are you thinking about?”

  “Her. Ursula. Levine told me she was released from the hospital, went back to Boston— to her family. It’s weird, thinking of her as having a family, needing someone. I used to see her as all-powerful— some kind of dragon lady.”

  Pulling her hands apart. Wiping them on the grass.

  “She called Mother last night. Or Mother called her— Mother was on the phone with her just as I arrived. When I heard Mother mention her name I left the room and went down to the cafeteria.”

  “Does that bother you? Their talking.”

  “I don’t know what she could possibly have to offer Mother, being a victim herself.”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said.

  She gave me a sharp look. “What does that mean?”

  “Just because they’re no longer therapist and patient doesn’t mean they have to break all contact.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Friendship.”

  “Friendship?”

  “That bothers you.”

  “It’s not— I don’t— Yes, I still resent her. And I also blame her for what happened. Even though she suffered, too. She was Mother’s doctor. She should have protected her— but that’s not fair, is it? She’s a victim as much as Mother.”

  “Fair isn’t the issue. You have these feelings. They’ll need to be dealt with.”

  “Plenty to be dealt with,” she said.

  “Plenty of time.”

  She turned back to the water. “They’re so tiny, hard to believe they’re able to . . .” Reaching into the bucket, she scooped up more pellets and threw them in, one by one. Staring at the momentary dimple each impact stamped on the water’s surface. Flipping her hair. Biting her lip.

  “I dropped by the Tankard last night. To bring Don some of his things from the house. There were a lot of people. He was busy with customers— didn’t see me, and I didn’t wait around, just dropped the stuff off. . . .” Shrug.

  “Don’t try to do it all at once,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’d like to do. Fix everything and go on from there. Fix him— the monster. It doesn’t seem right that he’ll get to live out the rest of his life in some clean, comfortable hospital. That he and Mother are basically in the same situation. I mean, that is absurd, isn’t it?”

  “He’ll stay. She’ll leave.”

  “I hope.”

  “She will.”

  “It still doesn’t seem fair. There should be something more. . . finite. Justice—
an end. Like what happened to McCloskey. May he rot in hell. Did Milo find out anything more about who did it? My offer to pay for the defense still stands.”