by P. J. Morse
“I’m sure you did all you could,” I told her. “Are you sure you can walk out of here without my calling the hospital—or the police?”
Sabrina started to stand up. “I think so.”
Helping her up, I said, “I will do my best to find your necklace. I just want you to tell me where you are going and when. I might need to follow you for a bit to make sure no one tries to take anything else.”
Her lower lip trembling, Sabrina asked, “Maybe my husband is right. Maybe I am a space case. Do you think I’m taking the jewelry from myself?”
I couldn’t answer that. “Let’s focus on finding the necklace first, okay?”
Sabrina turned for the door. As she did so, I realized the hat Harold used to fan her was on the floor. “Your hat!” I called out.
She sighed,” I forgot. Again.”
She took the hat and exited Harold’s front door. While she headed to her car, she gave a slow nod to Harold. He waved his book at her.
I followed her all the way to make sure no one tried anything. Even though she made some bad decisions, she seemed so wounded. Sabrina was the exact opposite of Mom. While my mother’s bones would snap at the slightest opportunity, she was actually a tough person. Sabrina could probably take plenty of punches, but she fell apart internally, and no amount of therapy or weird treatments could heal her.
CHAPTER 27
FREE ADVICE
SOON AFTER SABRINA LEFT, MY phone beeped, and I looked down. I had a message from Mr. Buckner. I called him back, and he seemed a little testy. “Ms. Parker,” he said, “I hired you for a case, but I haven’t heard anything since seeing you at the art gallery. Have you been working at all?”
“I’ve seen Dr. Redburn twice, if that’s what you mean,” I replied. “And I can see why you don’t like him.” That was all I had to say about his side of the case. He claimed to care about Sabrina, but she said he didn’t care about her at all. Then again, I just caught Sabrina in the middle of an affair, or whatever she called the thing she had going with Dr. Redburn. The Buckners needed some couples’ counseling.
“Can we meet?” Mr. Buckner asked.
It took me a bit to make up my mind. Since Sabrina told me that Jorge the Receptionist had a key to Dr. Redburn’s office, I had wanted to follow Jorge around for a while instead of talking to Mr. Buckner.
But, if I met Mr. Buckner at the Cozy Corner Café, I could do both. Plus, Muriel might be around and could ID my body if the phantom driver went after me, and maybe I could try again to see if Muriel could put her differences with Shane aside, at least for one night.
“Yes,” I replied. “Let’s meet at the Cozy Corner Café in one hour.”
I packed an overnight bag, grabbing binoculars, my digital camera, a tape recorder and a flashlight. Since I expected a long night, I threw in a bottle of water and a bag of Fritos. As a final touch, I slipped my pistol into Cherry 2000’s glove compartment.
Then I drove to the Cozy Corner Café. As usual, parking in Pacific Heights was a drag. When I arrived at the cafe, I ordered a coffee from Muriel. If all went according to plan and I could go after Jorge, it was going to be a late night, and I needed to stock up on caffeine while waiting for Mr. Buckner.
Muriel said, “You don’t look so hot.”
“Does it show that much?” I asked.
“Just saying. You depressed or something?” She turned to the coffee dispenser for my large-sized cup.
“I think the ‘or something’ just about covers it.”
“Is it that shrink you were talking to? You were so crushing on him!”
I just wanted to drink my coffee instead of relive an embarrassing moment. But I tried not to take my anger out on Muriel. I really wanted to take it out on Dr. Redburn for not being what I wanted him to be. “Men, in general, are a letdown,” I replied.
Muriel handed me a coffee. “At least you might get a good song out of it.”
I liked that approach. For all Muriel’s bluster, she remained optimistic. “Yeah. I could think of something. You sure I can’t talk you into joining the Marquee Idols? For one night? You wouldn’t believe the bassists we’ve tried out. This one guy started chanting. And he smelled like asparagus.”
Muriel wrinkled up her nose. “Look, I like you fine. I like Wayne fine. But … did you tell that asshole Shane what I had to say?” She looked hopeful. I imagined I looked that way whenever I complained about Larry.
I delivered the truth just as Shane put it and hoped it might win her over. “He said he was stupid and that it wasn’t worth it.”
Muriel almost smiled. “Really?”
Then I heard the Cozy Corner door swing open behind me and a voice boom, “Clancy!” A tan and relaxed Mr. Buckner walked in like he was about to play a round of golf, and I was to be his partner. “Hello … again,” he said to Muriel.
“Hey.” Muriel snapped out of her smile.
I asked Mr. Buckner if he wanted a coffee, but he declined, so I led him to the exact same table where I sat with Dr. Redburn.
Since the Cozy Corner Café was in Pacific Heights, Mr. Buckner didn’t find it necessary to wipe down his seat as he did in the Seagull’s Nest. Instead, he sat down and got right to the point: “Tell me about my wife.”
Between my scolding of Sabrina and my arrival at the Cozy Corner, I had considered just how much to tell Mr. Buckner. I couldn’t tell if he really cared about her, so I didn’t plan on saying much. Just when Mr. Buckner’s wife lost a lot of their money in the form of the necklace and his job was in jeopardy, Jamal said he was off spending tons in the restaurants South of Market. Maybe he took the necklace himself and was going to claim Sabrina lost it because she was nuts. As long as he had a money motive, he didn’t need to know every last detail—at least not yet.
I also felt the urge to protect Sabrina, who had gotten herself in a terrible mess and who was going to need an army to get herself out. And I was starting to think Mr. Buckner wasn’t the one to help her.
I chose my words as if I were navigating a minefield: “I’ve been following your wife’s daily patterns. And I think she needs help.”
“Help? More psychiatric help? She already has that.” Mr. Buckner folded his chubby hands in front of him. He was frustrated. “She’s so forgetful—it’s like Alzheimer’s. How much more help does she need?”
“Well, she’s definitely forgetful. But I did see her lose a hat today. And she told me she misplaced a coat.”
“A hat? A coat? That doesn’t sound so terrible.” He smiled, but his forehead started sweating, and he dabbed at it with his hankie.
“It’s not. But what concerns me about her is that she seems like she’s sleepwalking, and she could have an accident.” I added, “You don’t want her to get hit by a car and wind up like Rosa.”
“You know about that?” Mr. Buckner seemed surprised.
“Oh, yes. It’s awful. Poor woman. I met her while staking out your house.”
Mr. Buckner cringed at that. “You were in my house?”
I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup. “You hired me to mind your wife. Of course I was in your house. I talked to Rosa. She spoke a little English. She was a nice lady who was worried about Sabrina.”
Mr. Buckner asked, “Do you think my wife is mentally ill?”
I didn’t like how quickly Mr. Buckner changed the subject when Rosa came up. “Rosa thought so. She told me, ‘Poor lady lost her head.’”
Mr. Buckner sweat a little more. “The maids had been saying things.”
“Look, you can’t ask Rosa for more details. And I’m not a shrink. As for Dr. Redburn —”
“Yes!” Now Mr. Buckner’s sweat was flying. “That man! I think he made her worse!”
“I don’t know about that, but I can safely say that your wife looked different going out of his office than she did coming in.” I thought of the composed, impeccably groomed Sabrina Norton Buckner who first sat in my office to the sad, spindly woman who was passed out on Harold’s sofa
.
I almost hinted at the affair, but I hesitated. It wasn’t because I wanted to protect Mr. Buckner. Instead, I didn’t want to think about how much I wanted to kiss Dr. Redburn back.
Before I could say anything, Mr. Buckner asked, “Did you take pictures?” Mr. Buckner asked. “If he’s doing anything to her, I want to know about it.”
I had a feeling he wouldn’t like any of the pictures I came up with. I replied, “The doctor spends a lot of time with his patients in a windowless room. I could get photos of her in his main office, but that would be hard.” I bet Peggy had lots of pictures of everyone Dr. Redburn had been with, though. “Besides, I didn’t know you wanted pictures. I thought you just wanted me to look out for her while I looked for the necklace. I have a few pictures, but not much … mostly of her leaving your house …” I did not add that I took photos of the papers that Mr. Buckner left in his study.
Mr. Buckner became irritated, and blood flushed his cheeks. “I thought it was part of a private eye’s job to take pictures. I’m working in Sacramento all the time. I can’t do it.”
“I did take pictures. If you wanted close-ups, it’s not as easy as you think, especially when the person you’re watching can see you. If I tried to take close pictures, it would have blown my cover.”
“Then take pictures from far away!” Mr. Buckner shouted.
Muriel noticed that Mr. Buckner raised his voice, so she passed by and banged her fist on the table. “You need something?”
“No,” Mr. Buckner replied, shrinking back into his chair.
“I’ll come back to check on you later,” Muriel replied. It was definitely a threat.
I told Mr. Buckner, “I can get you pictures, but it’s not like your wife is doing anything obviously crazy. But I followed her for a few days, and I think she needs help, and not from that doctor. You already thought that was the case, or else you wouldn’t have come to me. Set aside the necklace. Set aside your reputation. Just get her some help.”
Mr. Buckner stared at a painting hanging above our table. The painting featured contrasting shades of green all swirling into each other, which created the optical illusion of a green pinwheel popping out of the wall. He took deep breaths to calm himself. He was absorbed in the pinwheel for a full minute before he turned his gaze back to me.
Then he said, “How familiar are you with Dr. Redburn?”
I played it neutral. “I got an appointment with him, and I think he’s a fraud.” I referenced Peggy as proof. “I’ve been talking to another one of his patients, and he sure as hell hasn’t helped her.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Buckner said. “But he’s a powerful man in our circles. Many people go to him. If I were to say to them, ‘A private detective said he’s been hurting my wife,’ no one is going to believe me. I need proof.” He laid out his hands to indicate he wanted something tangible.
“Why would you say that? What does it matter?” I asked. “Just tell her to go to another psychiatrist. Do you really want me to find out if they are having an affair? If that’s it, why don’t you just say so?”
Mr. Buckner looked down at the table. Since he wasn’t looking at me, I couldn’t tell if he cared whether they were having an affair or not. “That’s not the point. The point is that she will do whatever he tells her to do. He can get money from her. He can get sex. I just don’t want her under his control anymore. It’s so humiliating. If I get pictures, I can show people what he really is.”
I could get behind exposing Dr. Redburn. “Okay,” I said. “But that takes time.”
At that point, Mr. Buckner looked me in the eye. “I need those pictures!”
“Done,” I said. “She sees him every other day, right?”
Mr. Buckner rolled his eyes. “He likes to get the women on a daily regimen. You can imagine what those bills are like!”
I could also imagine what Mr. Buckner’s alcohol bills were like, if Jamal’s information from Voltaire’s was correct. But everyone has a vice. “I’ll start staking out the office, then. You’ll have pictures soon enough.” That night, in fact, I thought.
Mr. Buckner calmed down slightly. “She said Dr. Redburn changed her life. She was close to her father, and when he died she had trouble getting over it. She cried all the time. Then she had that riding accident and started taking pills. She was a wreck. She could barely function. At least she got off the pills when she started seeing Dr. Redburn.”
That was one of the few things he said that actually matched what his wife had to tell me, even though Sabrina suggested that her husband didn’t care that she was on all those pills.
“Tell me,” I asked. “How often do you see Dr. Redburn?”
Mr. Buckner replied, “I see him around. The gallery event was the first time I’d seen him in months. That was the first time I’d seen my wife happy in months.”
Suddenly, Mr. Buckner broke down crying. He used his hankie, he exhausted all the napkins in the dispenser on the table, and he wiped his face with a pile of napkins that an annoyed Muriel slapped down on the table. When his nose ran, he blew it so loudly that people at the nearest table jumped. “I just want my life back the way it was,” he moaned through his snuffles. “We used to be happy. Then Redburn came along. Then those damn reporters came along.”
I reached across the table and patted him on the back. He started bawling louder. “She sees him more than me!” he wailed. He reached for my hand, almost knocking over my coffee. I pulled the cup back and caught sight of Muriel, who was making elaborate hand gestures indicating that Mr. Buckner was disturbing the customers and needed to be removed immediately.
Shifting to Mr. Buckner’s side of the table, I put my arm around him. “Listen, I think you need some fresh air.” I stood and began tugging him outside. He turned toward the other Cozy Corner patrons and flapped his arms, some snot flying from his nose. “Look at me! I’m a mess!”
“You aren’t kidding, honey,” one woman pinching off a piece of pastry told him. “You need a dollar?”
“Oh, God!” he yelled, storming through the door. “Now people think I’m a bum!”
Given this sudden meltdown, I began to think Mr. Buckner needed the services of a legitimate psychiatrist, too, just as long as it wasn’t Dr. Redburn. As I followed him outside, I said, “Mr. Buckner, you need to calm down. We’re not going to fix anything with you like this.”
He used his sleeve to give his nose one last wipe and started walking toward his blue BMW, which was parked down the block. “Just get me the pictures. I want the world to know what he’s done to her.”
I prepared to walk back toward my own car, but I paused. “Would you like some free advice, Mr. Buckner?”
He didn’t say anything in response, but he exuded abundant self-pity.
“I think you could help your wife a whole bunch by spending less time in Sacramento and more time with her. Who knows? She might appreciate it.” I turned and walked off, and I could feel him boring two holes in my back with an angry glare.
CHAPTER 28
STAKEOUT
MURIEL LET ME USE THE Cozy Corner bathroom to change from my fancy duds into stakeout clothes. To make myself inconspicuous, I donned dark jeans and a black turtleneck, and I hid my hair under a black cap.
Then I took Cherry 2000 to Dr. Redburn’s block. I found a decent space behind an Escalade across the street. Since Cherry 2000 was comfortably hidden by the larger car, I could watch the front door. I relished the idea of tailing Jorge the Receptionist that night. Even if he gave me the slip, I thought I could try to break in the office and go necklace-hunting.
The second after I thought of breaking and entering, I remembered Larry’s words:
“Most of the shit you do is illegal.”
That may have been true, but I felt a little law-breaking was justified.
I still couldn’t believe that I let Dr. Redburn manipulate me like that. Most of his ongoing clients, like Sabrina, probably just wanted some love and attention, b
ut I should have been a professional. Instead, I was star-struck and gullible.
Not to mention freshly dumped. When Dr. Redburn first saw me, he smelled vulnerability, not to mention desperation. I was furious that he caught a whiff of either one from me.
Night fell completely, and lights flickered on in all the street-facing windows of Dr. Redburn’s office. I turned on the radio and listened to local sports talk. Even though Clayton Crespo was talking about “that crazy [BEEP] with the ice cream and the [BEEPIN’] donuts,” I focused my eyes on the lights in the upstairs waiting room.
Eventually, the waiting room light shut off, and, just a few minutes later, Jorge the Receptionist walked out of the front door. He’d ditched the tie, but he was wearing a blazer over it, in the style of Miami Vice. But Jorge was no Don Johnson. He was better suited to working as a pimp in the Tenderloin than as a receptionist. I giggled at the idea of Jorge serving as Dr. Redburn’s procurer, drawing in all the socialites who couldn’t resist the handsome doctor’s services.
Jorge dug into his blazer pockets and lit himself a cigarette. He stretched his body, rotating his hips like he’d been sitting too long. When a female jogger chugged past, he craned his neck to follow her butt as she moved down the street.
I hummed and sipped on my water bottle while Jorge lingered over his cigarette. I was all ready to fire up Cherry 2000 and follow him. I wondered what kind of car he might drive and if it was older than mine.
Jorge flicked his cigarette away and fluffed his greasy hair. Instead of leaving the house, he surprised me and headed right back inside. I waited a moment in case he returned. The minutes grew on Cherry 2000’s digital display. I entertained the idea that maybe Jorge was keeping the office open for a late client, but the light never switched on again in the waiting room.
I tried to be patient by listening to the radio show, in which callers dialed up and made predictions about the upcoming Giants vs. Cardinals game. Most of the predictions involved Clayton Crespo kicking someone’s ass, in both the literal and figurative senses. I got bored quickly.
