Jonathan Kellerman - When The Bough Breaks

"What's wrong with my wanting to get involved in something other than hot tubs and jogging?"

"Nothing. But why can't it be something a little less hazardous than playing Sherlock Holmes? Something you know something about?"

"I'm a fast learner."

She ignored me. We cruised through darkened empty streets. A light drizzle speckled the windshield.

"I don't enjoy hearing about people getting their faces bashed in. Or children run down by hit - and - run drivers," she said.

"That's part of what's out there." I motioned toward the blackness of the night.

"Well, I don't want any part of it!"

"What you're saying is you'll go along for the ride as long as it's pretty."

"Oh, Alex! Stop being so damned melodramatic - that's right out of a soap opera."

"It's true, though, isn't it?"

"No, it's not - and don't try to put me on the defensive. I want the man I first met - someone who was satisfied with himself and not so full of insecurity that he had to run around trying to prove himself. That was what attracted me to you. Now you're like a - a man possessed. Since you've gotten involved in your little intrigues you haven't been there for me. I talk and your mind is somewhere else. It's like I told you before - you're going back to the bad old days."

There was something to that. The last few mornings had found me waking up early with a taut sense of urgency in my gut, the old obsessive drive to take care of business. Funny thing was, I didn't want to let go of it.

"I promise you," I told her, "I'll be careful." She shook her head in frustration, leaned forward and switched on the radio. Loud.

When we got to her door she gave me a chaste peck on the cheek.

"Can I come in?"

She stared at me for a long moment and gave a resigned smile.

"Oh, hell, why not?"

Upstairs in the loft I watched her undress in the meager share of moonbeam admitted by the skylight. She stood on one foot, undoing her sandal, and her breasts swung low. A diagonal stroke of illumination turned her white, then gray as she pivoted, then invisible as she slipped under the covers. I reached out for her, aroused, and pulled her hand down toward me. She touched me for a second, then removed her fingers, moved them upward, let them settle around my neck. I buried myself in the sanctuary between her shoulder and the arching sweetness under her chin.

We fell asleep that way.

In the morning her side of the bed was empty. I heard rumbling and grinding and knew she was downstairs in the shop.

I got dressed, descended the narrow stairs and joined her. She was wearing bib overalls and a man's work shirt. Her mouth was covered with a bandana, her eyes goggled.

The air was full of wood dust.

"I'll call you later," I shouted over the din of the table saw.

She stopped for a moment, waved, then resumed working. I left her surrounded by her tools, her machines, her art.

I called Milo at the station and gave him a full report of my interview with Raquel Ochoa and the Casa de los Ninos connection, including the information given to me by Olivia.

"I'm impressed," he said. "You missed your calling."

"So what do you think? Shouldn't this McCaffrey be looked into?"

"What a minute, friend. The man takes care of four hundred kids and one of them is killed in an accident. That's not evidence of major mayhem."

"But that kid happened to be a student of Elena Gutierrez. Which means she probably discussed him with Handler. Not long after his death Bruno began volunteering at the place. A coincidence?"

"Probably not. But you don't understand the way things work around here. I am in the toilet with this case. So far those bank records are showing nothing - everything in both their accounts looks kosher. I've got more work to do on it, but singlehanded it takes time. Every day the captain looks me up and down with that no - progress, Sturgis? stare. I feel like a kid who hasn't done his homework. I expect him to pull me off the case any day and stick me on some garbage detail."

"If things are so screwed up I'd expect you to jump for joy at the prospect of a new lead."

"That's right. A lead. Not conjecture or a string of flimsy associations."

"They don't look that damned flimsy to me."

"Look at it this way - I start snooping around about McCaffrey, who's got connections from Downtown all the way to Malibu. He places a few strategic phone calls - no one can accuse him of obstructing justice because I've got no legitimate reason to be investigating him - and I'm yanked off the case faster than you can spit."

"All right," I conceded, "but what about the Mexican thing? The guy was down there for years. Then all of a sudden he leaves, surfaces in L.A." and becomes a hotshot."

"Upward mobility is no felony, and sometimes a cigar is a cigar, Dr. Freud."

"Shit. I can't stand it when you get overly cute."

"Alex, please. My life is far from rosy. I don't need crap from you on top of it all."

I seemed to be developing a talent for alienating those close to me. I had yet to call Robin, to find out where last night's dreams had led her.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm over - involved."

He didn't argue.

"You've done good work. Been a big help. Sometimes things don't fall into place just because you do a good job."

"So what are you going to do? Drop it?"

"No. I'll look into McCaffrey's background - quietly. Especially the Mexican bit. I'm going to continue sifting through Handler and Bruno's financial records and I'll add Gutierrez's to that. I'm even going to call the Malibu Sheriff Station and get copies of the accident report on that kid. What did you say his name was?"

"Nemeth."

"Fine. That should be easy enough."

"Is there anything else you want from me?"

"What? Oh. No, nothing. You've done a great job, Alex. I want you to know I really mean that. I'll take it from here. Why don't you take it easy for a while?"

"Okay," I said without enthusiasm. "But keep me posted."

"I will," he promised. "Bye."

The voice on the other end was female and very professional. It greeted me with the sing - song lilt of a detergent jingle, an isn't - life - wonderful buoyancy that bordered on the obscene.

"Good morning! La Casa!"

"Good morning. I'd like to speak to someone about becoming a member of the Gentleman's Brigade." "Just one moment, sir!"

In twenty seconds a male voice came on the line.

"Tim Kruger. Can I help you?"

"I'd like to talk about joining the Gentleman's Brigade."

"Yes, sir. And what corporation do you represent?"

"None. I'm inquiring as an individual."

"Oh. I see." The voice lost a touch of its friendliness. Disruption of routine did that to some people - threw them off, made them wary. "And your name, please."

"Dr. Alexander Delaware."

It must have been the title that did it because he shifted gears again, immediately.

"Good morning, Doctor. How are you today?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Terrific. And what kind of doctor are you, if I might ask."

You might.

"Child psychologist. Retired."

"Excellent. We don't get many mental health professionals volunteering. I'm an M.F.C.C. myself, in charge of screening and counseling at La Casa."

"I'd imagine most of them would consider it too much like work," I said. "Being away from the field for a while, the idea of working with children again appeals to me."

"Wonderful. And what led you to La Casa?"

"Your reputation. I've heard you do good work. And you're well organized."

"Well, thank you, Doctor. We do try to do well by our kids!"

"I'm sure you do."

"We give group tours for prospective Gentlemen. The next one is scheduled a week from this Friday."

"Let me check my calendar." I left the phone, looked out the window, did a half - dozen knee bends, and came back. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kruger. That's a bad day for me. When's the next one?"