“How long have you been rooming together?”
“Six months,” he said. “I was in the building already— downstairs in Number Two.” He frowned, sat on a mock-leopard-skin ottoman, crossed his legs. “Month to month, I was supposed to move out to . . . Then things changed, as they so often do, and the landlord leased my space to someone else and suddenly I found myself without hearth or home. Lo and I had always had a good rapport— we used to chat at the Laundromat, she's easy to talk to. When she found out I was stuck, she invited me to move in. At first, I refused— charity's one of many things I don't do. But she finally convinced me two bedrooms were too much for her and I could share the rent.”
A fingertip grazed a plucked eyebrow. “To be honest, I wanted to be convinced. Being alone's so . . . dark. I hadn't . . . And Lo's a wonderful person— and now she's flown off somewhere. Dr. Delaware, do we need to worry? I really don't want to worry, but I must admit, I am bothered.”
“Lauren didn't give a clue where she was going?”
“No, and she didn't take her car— it's parked in her space out back. So maybe she did fly off— literally. It's not as if she's a Greyhound girl. Nothing slow suits her, she works like a demon— studying, doing research.”
“Research at the U?”
“Uh-huh.”
“On what?”
“She never told me, just said that between her classes and research job she had a full plate. You think that's what might've taken her somewhere— the job?”
“Maybe,” I said. “No idea who she worked for?”
Salander shook his head. “We're chums and all that, but Lo goes her way and I go mine. Different biorhythms. She's a morning lark, I'm a night owl. Perfect arrangement— she's bright and chirpy for classes and I'm coherent when the time rolls around for my work. By the time I wake up, she's usually gone. That's why it took a couple of days to realize her bed hadn't been slept in.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Our bedrooms are our private space, but Mrs. A sounded so anxious that I did agree to peek in.”
“The right thing to do,” I said.
“I hope.”
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Salander?”
“Andrew. Advanced mixology.” He smiled. “I tend bar at The Cloisters. It's a saloon in West Hollywood.”
Milo and Rick sometimes drank at The Cloisters. “I know the place.”
His brows climbed higher. “Do you? So why haven't I seen you before?”
“I've driven by.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well my Bombay martinis are works of art, so feel free to breeze in.” His face grew grim. “Listen to me, Lauren's gone and I'm sitting here prattling— No, Doctor, she never gave me a clue as to where she was headed. But till Mrs. A called I can't say I was ready to panic. Lauren did go away from time to time.”
“For a week?”
He frowned. “No, one or two nights. Weekends.”
“How often?”
“Maybe every two months, every six weeks— I can't really recall.”
“Where'd she go?”
“One time she told me she spent some time at the beach. Malibu.”
“By herself?”
He nodded. “She said she rented a motel room, needed some time to decompress, and the sound of the ocean was peaceful. As for the other times, I don't know.”
“Those weekends, did she usually take her car?”
“Yes, always. . . . So this is different, isn't it?” He rubbed his armband tattoo, wincing as if the art were new, the pain fresh. “Do you really think something's wrong?”
“I don't know enough to think anything. But Mrs. Abbot seems to be worrying.”
“Maybe Mrs. A's getting us all overwrought. The way mothers do.”
“Have you met her?”
“Only once, a while back— two, three months ago. She came to take Lo out to lunch and we chatted briefly while Lo got ready. I thought she was nice enough but rather Pasadena, if you know what I mean. Coordinated ensemble, several cracks past brittle. I saw her as a perfect fifties person— someone who'd drive a Chrysler Imperial with all the trimmings and pile the backseat full of Bullocks Wilshire shopping bags.”
“Conservative,” I said.
“Staid,” he said. “Theatrically sad. One of those women fighting the future with mascara and matching shoes and tiny sandwiches with the crust trimmed.”
“Doesn't sound like Lauren.”
“Hardly. Lauren is très natural. Unaffected.” The washcloth was wadded once more. “I'm sure she's fine. She has to be fine.” He sighed, massaged the tattoo some more.
I said, “So the time you met Mrs. Abbot, she and Lauren went out to lunch.”
“Long lunch— must've been three hours. Lo came back alone, and she didn't look as if she'd had fun.”
“Upset?”
“Upset and distracted— as if she'd been hit on the head. I suspected something emotional had gone on, so I fixed her a gimlet the way she likes it and asked if she wanted to talk about it. She kissed me here”— he touched a rosy cheek—“said it wasn't important. But then she drank every drop of that gimlet and I just sat there emitting that I'm-ready-to-listen vibe— it's what I do, after all— and she—” He stopped. “Should I be telling you this?”
“I'm beyond discreet,” I said. “Because of what I do.”
“I suppose. And Lauren did say she liked you. . . . All right, it's nothing sordid, anyway. She simply told me she'd spent her childhood fighting not to be controlled, had made her own way in the world, and now her mother was trying to do the same old thing, again.”
“Control her.”
He nodded.
“Did she say how?”
“No— I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm just not comfortable flapping my trap. There's nothing more to say, anyway. That's the entire kit and caboodle.”
I smiled at him. Didn't budge.
He said, “Really, I've told you everything— and only because I know Lo liked you. She came across your name in the paper, some kind of police case, said, ‘Hey, Andrew, I knew this guy. He tried to straighten me out.’ I made some remark— how it obviously hadn't taken. She thought that was funny, said maybe it was patients like her who'd driven you to quit doing therapy and work with the cops. I”— his cheeks flamed—“I made some crack about shrinks being more screwed up than their patients, asked if you were . . . like that. She said no, you seemed pretty . . . I think conventional was the word she used. I said how boring, and she said no, sometimes conventional was exactly what you needed. That she'd screwed up, not making good use of her therapy, but looking back it had all been a setup anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“She realized that her parents had set her up to rebel. Tried to use you as a weapon against her, but you hadn't gotten sucked into their game, you had integrity— You're sure I can't get you a drink?”
My throat had gone dry. “A Coke would be fine.”
He laughed. “The soft stuff? Recovering juice fiend?”
“No, it's just a bit early for me.”
“Trust me, it's never too early. But all right, one cola-bean juice, coming up pronto. Lemon or lime?”
“Lime.”
He hurried into the kitchen, returned with a tall drink on ice and a glass of white wine for himself. Settling back down, he rested one elbow on a knee, placed his chin in a cupped palm, stared into my eyes.
I said, “So Lauren felt her mother was trying to control her but she didn't say how.”
“And the next day she was going about her business with nary a mention of mama. Truth is, I don't think Mrs. A looms large in her life. She's been on her own for years. And that's absolutely all I can tell you about her family dynamics, so drink up.” He drew out the pocket watch.
“Your friend,” I said.
He flinched. “Yes.”
“Does Lauren have any friends I could talk to?”
“No.”
“No one at all?”
“Not a on
e. She doesn't date, nor does she chum around with the girls. We're both social isolates, Doctor. Yet another tie that binds.”
“The night owl and the morning lark,” I said.
“Makes for a cozy little aviary— this is absolutely the best living arrangement I've ever had. Lauren's a living doll and I simply insist that she be okay. Now, if you'd like, I can pour that drink into Styrofoam and you can take it to go—”
As charming a dismissal as I'd encountered. Placing the drink on a side table, I stood. “Just a few more questions. Mrs. A said Lauren didn't pack a suitcase.”
“I told her that,” he said. “I know every item in Lauren's wardrobe— She has luscious things. After I moved in I organized her closet. She owns two pieces of luggage— a pair of vintage Samsonites we picked up for a prayer at the Santa Monica flea market— and they're both here. So is her backpack from school. And her books. So she must be planning to return.”
He began to sip wine, stopped himself. “That isn't good, is it? Running off without luggage.”
“Not unless Lauren's the impulsive type.”
“Impulsive as in meet someone hot and fly off to Cuernavaca? That would be nice.” He sounded doubtful.
“But unlikely.”
“Well,” said Salander. “I just don't think that's Lo— If she'd fallen in love, I'd have known. She was a creature of routine: got up, jogged, went to class, studied, went to sleep, got up and did the same thing all over again. To tell the truth, she was a bit of a grind.”
“Strict routine except for occasional weekends away.”
“Except for.”
“She's in between quarters at school,” I said. “What's she been doing with her vacation?”
“Going to work.”
“The research job.”
“A grind,” he said. “She'd spend every spare moment studying if I didn't drag her out to do some antiquing.”
“Must have paid off,” I said. “Mrs. A said she got straight A's.”
“Lo was so proud of that. Showed me her transcript. I thought it was adorable.”
“What was?”
“A grown woman, all excited like a little kid— She's studying psychology, wants to be a therapist herself. You must have been a good influence.” Staring at me again. “You haven't touched your drink, is it okay?”
I picked up the Coke and drank. “Terrific.”
“That's Mexican lime, not Bearss lime. More bite.”
More cola flowed down my gullet. “Does the research job pay the bills?”
“Maybe some of it, but Lo also has investments.”
“Investments?”
“Some kind of nest egg she put away from when she worked full-time. She told me she can coast for a few more years before she has to hit the boards again. I give her a lot of credit, giving up something so lucrative for the sake of her studies.”
“The boards?”
“The runway— modeling,” he said. “Nothing Vogue-coverish or anything like that. She worked the Fashion Mart scene since she was eighteen. Made good money but said she detested being a brainless face and body— Now, Doctor, I'm sorry to be ill-mannered, but my appointment— it's someone who . . . hurt me. I've been building my courage and finally I'm ready to face him and move on. Please.”
He indicated the door and led me out.
I said, “Thanks very much for your time. If you don't mind, I'm going to have a look at Lauren's car out back. What kind is it?”
“Gray Mazda Miata. Don't steal it.” Nervous laugh.
I crossed my heart. “No joyrides today.”
Louder laughter. We shook hands again.
“I'm not going to worry,” he said. “There's no reason to worry.”
“I'm sure there isn't.”
“Watch,” he said. “I'll be sitting here, worrying myself sick, and Lo will come waltzing through this door and I'll scold her for putting all of us through this.”
He walked me out into the hall, looked toward the staircase. Chewed his lip. “You're a good listener— Any time you want a career switch, I can get you a job at The Cloisters.”
I grinned. “I'll keep that in mind.”
He laughed. “No, you won't. For a whole list of reasons.”
* * *
Out in back was a carport that fronted the alley. The Miata was the only car parked there, several years old, lots of nicks and dents, coated with days of dust, locked, its oatmeal-colored canvas top set snugly. Campus parking sticker on the rear bumper, Thomas Guide map book in the driver's door pocket, pair of sunglasses on the center console, just below the gearshift. Nothing else.
I returned to the Seville, trying to organize what I'd learned from Salander.
No friends, no dates. A grind.
Rooming with a gay man said Lauren prized companionship, wasn't looking for sex.
Because she was still getting paid for it?
Working the Fashion Mart runway since eighteen. Maybe she really had done some modeling, or perhaps it was just a cover for selling her body in another way.
Weekends by herself. One in Malibu, other times unspecified. Keeping it vague to cover her trail as she met up with clients?
The night owl and the morning lark. If she wanted privacy, Salander was a perfect roommate. Still, the guy was perceptive. If Lauren had been working at her old profession, wouldn't he have caught on?
Maybe he had and chose not to tell me. My gut told me he'd been forthcoming, but you never knew. . . .
I thought of what he'd told me about Lauren's income. Investments. From her working days. Enough to coast for a few years.
I do great with tips.
Good clothes but otherwise living frugally. Before Salander had moved in, she'd had virtually no furniture. That and the old car said she knew how to make do.
Budgeting but spending on luscious things in her closet.
Dressing for the job?
I wondered about the lunch with her mother, Lauren returning dazed and upset, complaining about Jane trying to control her. But that had been two or three months ago— no reason it would lead her to vanish now.
Vanish. Despite my reassurances to Salander, I was thinking worst-case scenario.
Seven days, no luggage, no car, no explanation.
Maybe Lauren would waltz in any minute. Straight-A student returned from a research trip— some professor asking her to attend an out-of-town meeting or convention, deliver a paper. . . . She'd flown somewhere— that could explain no car. But it didn't solve the problem of wardrobe, and why hadn't she let anyone know?
Unless Salander wasn't as familiar with her wardrobe as he claimed and she had packed something. Tossed casual clothes into a bag.
Research . . . A project at my alma mater, a psych major, so probably a psych job. At the very department from which I'd obtained my union card.
I headed west on Wilshire, caught snail traffic at Crescent Heights— an orange-vested Caltrans crew, stupidest agency in the state, taking petty-fascist satisfaction in blocking off two lanes. I sat, idling along with the Seville, rolled a foot or two, sat some more, finally got past La Cienega. Unmindful of the noise and the dirt. New focus: yearning to feel useful.
6
I REACHED THE city-sized campus of the U just after four-thirty. More people were leaving than arriving, and the first two parking lots I tried were being retrofitted for something. University officials gripe about budget constraints, but the jackhammers are always working overtime. It's a boom time for L.A., might endure till the next time the earth shrugs.
It was nearly five P.M. when I hurried up the stairs to the psych building, hoping someone would be around. The cement-and-stucco waffle had been repainted: from off-white to a golden beige with chartreuse overtones. Uncommonly bright for a place devoted to the joys of artificial intelligence and compelling brain-lesioned rats to race through ever more Machiavellian mazes. Maybe boom times hadn't loosened up grant money and the new hue was an attempt to connote warmth and availability.
If so, eight stories of Skinner-box architecture said forget it.
By the time I entered the main office, half the lights were out and only one secretary remained, locking up. But the right secretary— a plump, ginger-haired young woman named Mary Lou Whiteacre, whose five-year-old son I'd treated last year.
Brandon Whiteacre was a nice little boy, soft and artistic, with his mother's coloring and scared-bunny eyes. A freeway pileup had shattered his grandmother's hip and sent him to the hospital for observation. Brandon had escaped with nothing broken other than his confidence, and soon he began wetting his bed and waking up screaming. Mary Lou got my name from the alumni referral list, but the department wasn't picking up the tab. She was reeling from the crash and still chafing under the financial hardships imposed by a three-year-old divorce. Her HMO offered the usual cruelty. I treated Brandon for free.
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