Jonathan Kellerman - When The Bough Breaks

"If you're thinking he paid for it, forget it. She bought it on payments. That was another thing about Elena. She had no conception of money. Just let it pass through her fingers. She always joked how she was going to have to marry a rich guy to accommodate her tastes."

"How often did they see each other?"

"At first once or twice a week. By the end she might as well have moved in with him. I rarely saw her. She'd drop in to pick up a few things, invite me to go out with them."

"Did you?"

She was surprised at the question.

"Are you kidding? I couldn't stand to be around him. And I have a life of my own. I had no need to be the odd one out."

A life, I suspected, of grading papers until ten and then retiring, nightgown buttoned high, with a gothic novel and a cup of hot cocoa.

"Did they have friends, other couples with whom they associated?"

"I have no idea. I'm trying to tell you - I kept out of it." An edge crept into her voice and I retreated.

"She started out as his patient. Do you have any idea why she went to a psychiatrist in the first place?"

"She said she was depressed."

"You don't think she was?"

"It's hard to tell with some people. When I get depressed everyone knows about it. I withdraw, don't want anything to do with anybody. It's like I shrink, crawl into myself. With Elena, who knows? It's not like she had trouble eating or sleeping. She would just get a little quiet."

"But she said she was depressed?"

"Not until after she told me she was seeing Handler - after I asked her why. She said she was feeling down, the work was getting to her. I tried to help but she said she needed more. I was never a big fan of psychiatrists and psychologists." She smiled apologetically. "If you have friends and family you should be able to work it out."

"If that's enough, great. Sometimes it's like she said, Raquel. You need more."

She put out her cigarette.

"Well, I suppose it's fortunate for you that many people agree with that."

"I suppose so."

There was an awkward silence. I broke it.

"Did he prescribe any medication for her?"

"Not as far as I know. Just talked to her. She went to see him weekly, and then twice a week after one of her students died. Then she was obviously depressed - cried for days."

"When was this?"

"Let me see, it was pretty soon after she started going to Handler, maybe after they were already dating - I don't know. About eight months ago."

"How did it happen?"

"Accident. Hit - and - run. The kid was walking along a dark road at night and a car hit him. It destroyed her. She'd been working with him for months. He was one of her miracles. Everyone thought he was mute. Elena got him to talk." She shook her head. "A miracle. And then to have it all go down the drain like that. So meaningless."

"The parents must have been shattered."

"No. There were no parents. He was an orphan. He came from La Casa."

"La Casa de los Ninos? In Malibu Canyon?"

"Sure. Why the surprise? They contract with us to provide special education to some of their kids. They do it with several of the local schools. It's part of a state - funded project or something. To mainstream children without families into the community."

"No surprise," I lied. "It just seems so sad for something like that to happen to an orphan."

"Yes. Life is unfair." The declaration seemed to give her satisfaction.

She looked at her watch.

"Anything more? I've got to get back."

"Just one. Do you recall the name of the child who died?"

"Nemeth. Gary or Corey. Something like that."

"Thanks for your time. You've been helpful."

"Have I? I don't see how. But I'm glad if it brings you closer to that monster."

She had a concrete vision of the murderer that Milo would have envied.

We drove back to the school and I walked her to her car.

"Okay," she said.

"Thanks again."

"You're welcome. If you have more questions you can come back." It was as forward as she was going to get - for her the equivalent of asking me over to her place. It made me sad, knowing there was nothing I could do for her.

"I will."

She smiled and held out her hand. I took it, careful not to hold on for too long.

I've never been a big believer in coincidence. I suppose it's because the notion of life being governed by the random collision of molecules in space cuts at the heart of my professional identity. After all, why spend all those years learning how to help people change when deliberate change is just an illusion? But even if I had been willing to give the Fates their due, it would have been hard to see as coincidence the fact that Gary or Corey Nemeth (deceased), a student of Elena Gutierrez (deceased), had been a resident of the same institution where Maurice Bruno (deceased) had volunteered.

It was time to learn more about La Casa de los Ninos.

I went home and searched through the cardboard boxes I had stored in the garage since dropping out, until I found my old office Rolodex. I located Olivia Brickerman's number at the Department of Social Services and dialed it. A social worker for thirty years, Olivia knew more about agencies than anyone in the city.

A recording answered the phone and told me D.P.S.S."s number had been changed. I dialed the new number and another recording told me to wait. A tape of Barry Manilow came on the line. I wondered if the city paid him royalties. Music to wait for your caseworker by.

"D.P.S.S."

"Mrs. Brickerman, please."

"One moment, sir." Two more minutes of Mani low. Then: "She's no longer with this office."

"Can you please tell me where I can locate her?"

"One moment." I was informed, once again, who wrote the music that made the whole world sing. "Mrs. Brickerman is now at the Santa Monica Psychiatric Medical Group."

So Olivia had finally left the public domain.

"Do you have that number?"

"One moment, sir."

"Thanks anyway." I hung up and consulted the Yellow Pages under Mental Health Services. The number belonged to an address on Broadway where Santa Monica approached Venice, not far from Robin's studio. I called it.

"S.M.P.M.G."

"Mrs. Olivia Brickerman, please."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Dr. Delaware."

"One moment." The line was silent. Apparently the utility of phone hold Muzak hadn't become apparent to S.M.P.M.G.

"Alex! How are you?"

"Fine, Olivia, and you?"

"Wonderful, wonderful. I thought you were somewhere in the Himalayas."

"Why's that?"

"Isn't that where people go when they want to find themselves - somewhere cold with no oxygen and a little old man with a beard sitting on top of a mountain munching on twigs and reading People magazine?"

"That was the sixties, Olivia. In the eighties you stay home and soak in hot water."

"Ha!"

"How's Al?"

"His usual extroverted self. He was hunched over the board when I left this morning, muttering something about the Pakistani defense or some such naarishkeit." Her husband, Albert D. Brickerman, was the chess editor for the Times. In the five years I'd known him I hadn't heard him utter a dozen words in a row. It was difficult to imagine what he and Olivia, Miss Sociability of 1930 through '80, had in common. But they'd been married thirty - seven years, had raised four children, and seemed content with each other.

"So you finally left D.P.S.S."

"Yes, can you believe it? Even barnacles can be dislodged!"

"What led to such an impulsive move?"

"I tell you, Alex, I would have stayed. Sure the system stank - what system doesn't? But I was used to it, like a wart. I like to think I was still doing a good job - though I tell you, the stories got sadder and longer. Such misery. And with cuts in funding the people would get less and less - and madder and madder. They took it out on the caseworkers. We had a girl stabbed in the downtown office. Now there're armed guards in every office. But what the hell, I was brought up in New York. Then my nephew, my sister's boy, Steve, he finished medical school and decided to become a psychiatrist - can you believe that, another mental health person in the family? His father's a surgeon and that was the safest way for him to rebel. Anyway, he's always been very close to me and it's been a running joke that when he goes into practice he was going to rescue Aunt Livvy from D.P.S.S. and take her into his office. And would you believe he took me up on it? Writes me a letter, tells me he's coming out to California and joining a group, and they need a social worker for intakes and short - term counseling, would I like to do it? So here I am, with a view of the beach, working for little Stevie - of course I don't call him that in front of other people."