Bad Love

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo and I stood. A second later, Paprock rose, too. He was medium-sized, slightly round-backed, almost dainty.

  He patted his chest, removed the aspirin bottle from his breast pocket and passed it from hand to hand. Walking around the desk, he pushed the door open and held it for us. No sign of John Allbright or anyone else. Paprock walked us through the showroom, touching the flanks of a gold Eldorado in passing.

  “Whyncha buy a car, as long as you're here?” he said. Then he colored through his tan and stopped.

  Milo held out his hand.

  Paprock shook it, then mine.

  We thanked him again for his time.

  “Look,” he said, “what I said before—about not wanting to know? That was bullshit. I still think about her. I got married again, it lasted three months, my kids hated the bitch. Myra was . . . special. The kids, someday they're gonna have to know. I'll handle it. I can handle it. You find something, you tell me, okay? You find anything, you tell me.”

  I headed for Coldwater Canyon and the drive back to the city.

  “Public school near Santa Barbara,” I said. “Lousy pay, so maybe she moonlighted at a local private place.”

  “A reasonable assumption,” said Milo. He lowered the Seville's passenger window, lit up a bad cigar, and blew smoke out at the hot valley air. The city was digging up Ventura Boulevard and sawhorses blocked one lane. Bad traffic usually made Milo curse. This time he kept quiet, puffing and thinking.

  I said, “Shipler was a school janitor. Maybe he worked at de Bosch's school, too. That could be our connection: they were both staffers, not patients.”

  “Twenty years ago. . . . Wonder how long the school district keeps records. I'll check, see if Shipler transferred down from Santa Barbara.”

  “More reasons for me to drive up there,” I said.

  “When are you doing it?”

  “Tomorrow. Robin can't make it—all for the best. Between trying to find remnants of the school and looking for Wilbert Harrison in Ojai, it won't be a pleasure trip.”

  “Those other guys—the therapists at the symposium—they worked at the school, too, right?”

  “Harrison and Lerner did. But not Rosenblatt—he trained with de Bosch in England. I'm not sure about Stoumen, but he was a contemporary of de Bosch, and Katarina asked him to speak, so there was probably some kind of relationship.”

  “So, one way or the other, it all boils down to de Bosch. . . . Anyone seen as being close to him is fair game for this nut. . . . Bad love—destroying a kid's sense of trust, huh?”

  “That's the concept.”

  I reached Coldwater and started the climb. He drew on his cigar and said, “Paprock was right about his wife. You saw the pictures—she was taken apart.”

  “Poor guy,” I said. “Walking wounded.”

  “What I told him, about her being dead when she was raped? True. But she suffered, Alex. Sixty-four stab wounds and plenty of them landed before she died. That kind of revenge—rage? Someone must have gotten fucked up big-time.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  I made it to Beverly Hills with five minutes to spare for my one o'clock with Jean Jeffers. Parking was a problem and I had to use a city lot two blocks down from Amanda's, waiting at the curb as a contemplative valet decided whether or not to put up the FULL sign.

  He finally let me in, and I arrived at the restaurant five minutes late. The place was jammed and it reeked of Parmesan cheese. A hostess was calling out names from a clipboarded list and walking the chosen across a deliberately cracked white marble floor. The tables were marble, too, and a gray faux-marble treatment had been given to the walls. The crypt look, nice and cold, but the room was hot with impatience and I had to elbow my way through a cranky crowd.

  I looked around and saw Jean already seated at a table near the back, next to the south wall of the restaurant. She waved. The man next to her looked at me but didn't move.

  I recalled him as the heavyset fellow from the photo in her office, a little heavier, a little grayer. In the picture, he and Jean had been wearing leis and matching Hawaiian shirts. Today, they'd kept the Bobbsey twins thing going with a white linen dress for her, white linen shirt for him, and matching yellow golf sweaters.

  I waved back and went over. They had half-empty coffee cups in front of them and pieces of buttered olive bread on their bread plates. The man had an executive haircut and an executive face. Great shave, sunburnt neck, blue eyes, the skin around them slightly bagged.

  Jean rose a little as I sat down. He didn't, though his expression was friendly enough.

  “This is my husband, Dick Jeffers. Dick, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

  “Doctor.”

  “Mr. Jeffers.”

  He smiled as he shot out his arm. “Dick.”

  “Alex.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I sat down across from them. Both their yellow sweaters had crossed tennis-racquet logos. His bore a small, gold Masonic pin.

  “Well,” said Jean, “some crowd. Hope the food's good.”

  “Beverly Hills,” said her husband. “The good life.”

  She smiled at him, looked down at her lap. A large, white purse sat there and one of her arms was around it.

  Dick Jeffers said, “Guess I'll be going, Jeanie. Nice to meet you, doctor.”

  “Same here.”

  “Okay, honey,” said Jean.

  Cheek pecks, then Jeffers stood. He seemed to lose balance for a second, caught himself by resting one palm on the table. Jean looked away from him as he straightened. He shoved the chair back with the rear of his thighs and gave me a wink. Then he walked off, limping noticeably.

  Jean said, “He has one leg, just got a brand new prosthesis and it's taking a while getting used to.” It sounded like something she'd said many times before.

  I said, “That can be tough. Years ago, I worked with children with missing limbs.”

  “Did you?” she said. “Well, Dick lost his in an auto accident.”

  Pain in her eyes. I said, “Recently?”

  “Oh, no, several years ago. Before anyone really appreciated the value of seat belts. He was driving a convertible, was unbelted, got hit from behind and thrown out. Another car ran over his leg.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Thank God he wasn't killed. I met him when he was in rehab. I was doing a rotation at Rancho Los Amigos and he was there for a couple of months. He made a great adjustment to his appliance—always had until it started bothering him a few months ago. He'll get used to the new one. He's a good guy, very determined.”

  I smiled.

  “So,” she said, “how are you?”

  “Fine. And intrigued.”

  “By?”

  “Your call.”

  “Oh.” The sheet of hair fell over her eye. She let it stay there. “Well, I didn't mean to be overly dramatic, it's just—” She looked around. “Why don't we order first, and then we can talk about it.”

  We read the menu. Someone in the kitchen had a thing for balsamic vinegar.

  When she said, “Well, I know what I want,” I waved over a waiter. Asian kid, around nineteen, with a waist-length ponytail and ten stud earrings rimming the outer cartilage of his left ear. It hurt to look at him and I stared at the table as Jean ordered an insalata something or other. I asked for linguine marinara and an iced tea. Ruined Ear came back quickly with the drink and a refill of her coffee.

  When he left, she said, “So you live pretty close to here?”

  “Not far.”

  “For a while Dick and I thought about moving over the hill, but then prices started to go crazy.”

  “They've slid quite a bit recently.”

  “Not enough.” She smiled. “Not that I'm complaining. Dick's an aerospace engineer and he does well, but you never know when the government's going to cancel a project. The place we've got in Studio City is really pretty nice.” She looked at her watch. “He's probably over at Rudnicks now. He likes to shop t
here for sweaters.”

  “He's not having lunch?”

  “What I need to talk to you about is confidential. Dick understands that. So why did I bring him with me, right? To be honest, it's because I'm still shaky. Still haven't gotten used to being alone.”

  “I don't blame you.”

  “Don't you think I should be past it by now?”

  “I probably wouldn't be.”

  “That's a very nice thing to say.”

  “It's the truth.”

  Another smile. She reached over and touched my hand, just for a second. Then back to her coffee cup.

  “I'm sleeping a little better,” she said, “but still far from perfect. In the beginning I'd be up all night, heart pounding away, nauseated. Now I can get to sleep, but sometimes I still wake up all in a knot. Sometimes the thought of going to work makes me just want to crawl back in bed. Dick works in Westchester near the airport, so sometimes we take one car and he drops me off and picks me up. I guess I've become pretty dependent on him.”

  She gave a small smile. The unspoken message: for a change.

  “Meanwhile, I'm telling the staff and the patients there's nothing to worry about. Nothing like consistency.”

  Ear brought the food.

  “This looks yum,” she said, pushing her fork around in her salad bowl. But she didn't eat, and one arm stayed around her purse.

  I tried a little linguine. Memories of school lunch.

  She nibbled on a piece of lettuce. Dabbed at her mouth. Looked around. Unsnapped the purse.

  “You have to promise me to keep this absolutely confidential,” she said. “At least where you got it from, okay?”

  “Does it relate to Hewitt?”

  “In a way. Mostly—it's nothing that can help Detective Sturgis—not that I can see, anyway. I shouldn't even be showing it to you. But people are being harassed and I know what it's like to feel besieged. So if this does lead anywhere, please keep me out of it—please?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She inhaled, shoved her hand into the purse, and drew out a legal-sized envelope. White, clean, unmarked. She held on to it. The paper made her nails look especially red.

  “Remember how sketchy Becky's notes on Hewitt were?” she said. “How I made excuses for her, saying she'd been a good therapist but not big on paperwork? Well, it bothered me more than I let on. Even for Becky that was cursory—I guess I just didn't want to deal with anything related to her murder. But after you left, I kept thinking about it and went looking to see if she'd taken any other notes that had somehow been misfiled. With all the upheaval right after, housekeeping wasn't exactly a high priority. I didn't find anything, so I asked Mary, my secretary. She said all Becky's active charts had been distributed to other caseworkers, but it was possible some of her inactive files might have ended up in our storage room. So she and I took some time on Friday and looked around for a few hours, and sure enough, stuck in a corner was a box with Becky's initials on it—“RB.' Who knows how it got there. Inside was junk that had been removed from her desk—pens, paper clips, whatever. Underneath all that, was this.”

  Her hand shook slightly as she handed me the envelope.

  I removed the contents. Three sheets of horizontal-ruled chart paper, slightly grimy and bearing deep fold marks, each partially filled with typed notations.

  The first was dated six months ago:

  Saw DH today. Still hearing vces, but meds seem to hlp. Still dealing w strss of strt-life. Came in with G, both strssd.

  BB, SWA

  Three weeks later:

  D lots better. Snstv, too. Just meds, or me? Ha ha. Maybe some hope?

  BB, SWA

  Then:

  D showing feelngs, more and more. Tlking lots, too. Very good! Yeah, thrpy! Success! But keep limits.

  BB, SWA

  D cohrnt—hr brshed, totally clean! But still late. Talk re childhd, etc. Some p-c, but approp. G there, waiting. A bit hostl? Jealous? Follow.

  BB

  D a diff prsn. Open, vrbal, affectnt. Still late. A bit more p-c. Approp? Set lmts? Talk to JJ? Wrth the progrss? Yes!

  BB

  D late, but less—15 min. Some anx. Hrng vcs? Denies, says strss, alchl—drnkng with G. Talked re G, re rel bet D and G. Some anx, defens, but also opn-mind. More p-c, but ok, relieves anx. O.K.

  BB

  D looking hppy. Vry vrbl, no angr, no hrng vcs. G not there. Conflct bet G and D? P-c, tried to kss, no hostil when I say no. Good! Approp soc sklls! Rah rah!

  BB

  The final note was dated three weeks before Becky's murder:

  D early—positv change! Yeah! G waits in hall. Definit hostil. Rel bet D and G straind? Re me? D's growth a stress on G? More p-c. Kss, but quick. Much affectn. Talk re this. Boundaries, lmts, etc. D a little down, but dealt w it, approp.

  BB

  “ 'P-c,' ” I said, putting the papers down.

  “Physical contact,” she said, miserably. “I went over and over it and it's the only thing that makes sense.”

  I reread the notes. “I think you're right.”

  “Hewitt was getting attached to her. Progressively more physical.”

  She shuddered. “Look at the last one. She let him kiss her. She must have totally lost control of the situation. I had no idea—she never told me.”

  “She obviously thought of telling you—“talk to JJ?' ”

  “But she didn't follow through. Look what she wrote right after that.”

  I read out loud: “ 'Worth the progress? Yes!' Sounds like she convinced herself she was helping him.”

  “She convinced herself she knew what she was doing.” She shook her head and looked down at the table. “My God.”

  “Beginner's euphoria,” I said.

  “She was such a sweet thing—so naive. I should have kept a closer eye on her. Maybe if I had, it could've been prevented.” She pushed her salad away. Her hair hung in a sheet. Her head rested in her hands and I heard her sigh.

  I said, “Hewitt was psychotic, Jean. Who knows what set him off.”

  She looked up. “Letting him kiss her sure didn't help! She talks about setting limits, but he probably saw it as rejection, what with his paranoia!”

  She'd allowed her voice to climb. The man at the next table looked up from his cappuccino. Jean smiled at him, picked up her napkin, and wiped her face.

  I scanned the notes again. Yeah, therapy! Rah rah!

  She held out her hand. “I need them back.”

  I gave her the papers and she slipped them back in the envelope.

  I said, “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Destroy them. Can you just imagine what the media would do with it? Blaming Becky, turning the whole thing into something sleazy? Please, Alex, keep it to yourself. I don't want to see Becky victimized a second time.” She flipped her hair again. “Also, to be perfectly honest, I don't want to be blamed for not supervising her.”

  “It took guts for you to show it to me,” I said.

  “Guts?” She laughed softly. “Stupidity, maybe, but for some reason I trust you—I don't even know why I did show it to you—getting it off my chest, I guess.”

  She put the envelope in her purse and shook her head again.

  “How could she have let it happen? She talks about him trying to touch her and kiss her, but what I got between the lines was her developing some sort of feelings for him. All that p-cing, as if it was a cute little game. Don't you agree?”

  “Fondness for him definitely comes across,” I said. “Whether or not it was sexual, I don't know.”

  “Even if it was plain affection, it was irrational. The man was psychotic, couldn't even keep himself clean. And this G person she keeps mentioning, I still have no idea who that is. Probably Hewitt's girlfriend—some other psychotic he met on the street and dragged in with him. Becky was getting herself involved in a love triangle with psychotics, for God's sake. How could she? She was naive, but she was bright—h
ow could she have shown such poor judgment?”

  “She probably didn't think she was doing anything wrong, Jean. Otherwise, why would she have kept notes?”

  “But if she thought what she was doing was okay, why not keep those notes right in Hewitt's chart?”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “It's a mess. I should have supervised her more closely. I should have been more in touch. . . . I just can't understand how she could have let him get that close to her.”

  “Countertransference,” I said. “Happens all the time.”

  “With someone like that?”

  “Prison therapists get attached to convicts. Who knows what causes attraction?”

  “I should have known.”

  “No sense blaming yourself. No matter how closely you supervise someone, you can't be with them twenty-four hours a day. She was trained, Jean. It was up to her to tell you.”

  “I tried to supervise her. I made appointments, but she broke more than she kept. Still, I could have clamped down further—I should've. If I'd had any idea . . . she never gave a hint. Always had a smile on her face, like one of those kids who works at Disneyland.”

  “She was happy,” I said. “She thought she was curing him.”

  “Yup. What a mess . . . I probably showed it to you because you were sympathetic and I'm still so uptight over what happened . . . I thought I could talk to you.”

  “You can.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said wearily, “but let's be honest. What good will more talking do? Becky's dead and I'm going to have to live with the fact that I might have been able to prevent it.”

  “I don't see it that way. You did all you could.”

  “You're sweet.” She looked at my hand, as if ready to touch it again. But she didn't move and her eyes shifted to her salad.

  “Happy lunch,” she said glumly.

  “Jean, it's possible the notes might be relevant to Detective Sturgis.”

  “How?”

  “ 'G' may not be a woman.”

  “You know who it is?” This time her hand did move. Covering mine, taking hold of my fingers. Ice cold.

  “That lawyer whose card you gave me—Andrew Coburg? I went over to see him and he told me Hewitt had a friend named Gritz. Lyle Edward Gritz.”