Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“No problem.”

“I wanted to know if the fact that Mr. Moody wears women’s underwear was relevant to his mental status, and you refused to be pinned down.”

“I didn’t think his choice of lingerie had much to do with custody.”

She laughed. “I get two types of psych experts. The puffed-up, self-proclaimed authorities, so taken with themselves they think their opinions on any topic are sacrosanct, and the cautious ones, like you, who won’t give an opinion unless it’s backed up by a double-blind, controlled study.”

I shrugged. “At least you won’t get a Twinkie Defense out of me.”

“Touché. How about some wine?” She unlatched the doors of a credenza carved to match the desk and took out a bottle and two long-stemmed glasses.

“My pleasure, Your Honor.”

“In here, Diane. Is it Alexander?”

“Alex is fine.”

She poured red wine into the glasses. “This is a very fine cabernet that I save for the termination of particularly obnoxious cases. Positive reinforcement, if you will.”

I took the glass she offered.

“To justice,” she said, and we sipped. It was good wine and I told her so. It seemed to please her.

We drank in silence. She finished before I did and set down her glass.

“I want to talk to you about the Moodys. They’re off my docket but I can’t help thinking about the kids. I read your report and you have good insights on the family.”

“It took a while but they opened up.”

“Alex, are those children going to be all right?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing. I wish I could tell you yes. It depends on whether or not the parents get their act together.”

She clicked her nails against the rim of the wineglass.

“Do you think he’ll kill her?”

The question startled me.

“Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind — the warning to the bailiff and all that.”

“That was meant to prevent an ugly scene,” I said, “but yes, I do think he could do it. The man’s unstable and profoundly depressed. When he gets low, he gets nasty and he’s never been lower than right now.”

“And he wears ladies’ panties.”

I laughed. “That too.”

“Refill?”

“Sure.”

She put the bottle aside and laced her fingers around the stem of her wineglass, an angular, attractive older woman, not afraid to let a few wrinkles show.

“A real loser, our Mr. Richard Moody. And maybe a killer.”

“If he gets in a killing mood, she’d be the obvious target. And the boyfriend — Conley.”

“Well,” she said, running the tip of her tongue over her lips, “one must be philosophical about such things. If he kills her it’s because she fucked the wrong guy. Just as long as he doesn’t kill someone innocent, like you or me.”

It was hard to tell if she were serious or not.

“It’s something I think about,” she said, “some warped loser coming back and taking out his troubles on me. The losers never want to take responsibility for their crappy little lives. You ever worry about it?”

“Not really. When I was clinically active most of my patients were nice kids from nice families — not much potential for mayhem there. I’ve been pretty much retired for the last couple of years.”

“I know. I saw the gap in your resumé. All that academic stuff, then blank space. Was that before the Casa de Los Ninos thing or after?”

I wasn’t surprised she knew about it. Though it had been over a year, the headlines had been bold and people remembered. I had my own personal reminder — a reconstructed jaw that ached when the weather got clammy.

“A half year before. Afterwards I didn’t exactly feel like jumping back in.”

“No fun being a hero?”

“I don’t even know what the word means.”

“I’ll bet.” She gazed levelly at me and adjusted the hem of her robe. “And now you’re doing forensic work.”

“On a limited basis. I accept consultations from attorneys I trust which narrows the field substantially and I get some directly from judges.”

“Which ones?”

“George Landre, Ralph Siegel.”

“Both good guys. I went to school with George. You want more work?”

“I’m not hustling. If the referrals come, okay. If not, I can always find things to do.”

“Rich kid, huh?”

“Far from it, but I made a few good investments that are still paying off. If I don’t get sucked into a Rodeo Drive mentality I’m okay.”

She smiled.

“If you want more cases, I’ll spread the word. The members of the psych panel are booked up for four months and we’re always looking for guys who can think straight and put it into language simple enough for a judge to understand. Your report was really good.”

“Thanks. If you send me cases I won’t turn you down.”

She finished the second glass. “Very mellow, isn’t it? Comes from a tiny little vineyard up in Napa. Three years old and still operating at a loss, but the place is turning out limited bottlings of very fine reds.”

She got up and walked around the room. From the pocket of her robe she removed a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. For the next few moments she stared at a wall decorated with diplomas and certificates and dragged deeply on the cigarette.

“People really manage to fuck up their lives, don’t they? Like Miss Bright Eyes Moody. Nice country girl, moves to L.A. for a taste of excitement, gets a job as a checker at Safeway and falls in love with the macho man in lace undies — I forget, what is he, a construction worker?”

“Carpenter. For Aurora Studios.”

“Right. I remember. Builds sets. The guy’s an obvious loser but it takes her twelve years to figure it out. Now she’s extricating herself and who does she hook up with? The loser’s clone.”

“Conley’s a lot more mentally intact.”

“Maybe so. But take a look at them side by side. Twins. She’s being pulled to the same type. Who knows, maybe Moody was a charmer too in the beginning. Give this Conley a few years, he’ll turn. Bunch of losers.”

She turned and faced me. Her nostrils flared and the hand holding the cigarette trembled almost imperceptibly: alcohol, emotion, or both.

“I hooked up with an asshole and it took me a while to get out of it, Alex, but I didn’t turn around and do the same damn thing first chance I got. Makes you wonder if women will ever get smart.”

“I wouldn’t bet on Mal Worthy having to give up his Bentley,” I said.

“Nor I. Mal’s a smart boy. Did my divorce, did you know?” I feigned ignorance.

“Probably conflict of interest, my hearing this case, but who cares, it was open and shut. Moody’s crazy, he’s screwing up his kids, and my order was the best shot at getting him straightened out. Any chance he’ll follow through on therapy?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t think anything’s wrong with him.”

“Of course not. The craziest ones never do. Baloney afraid of the slicer. Assuming he doesn’t kill her, you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

“More days in court.”

“Absolutely. That idiot Durkin’ll be in here every other week with some ploy to reverse the order. In the meantime Moody will harass Bright Eyes and if it keeps up long enough the kids will be permanently screwed up.” She walked back to her desk with a long graceful stride, took a compact out of her purse and powdered her nose.

“On and on. He’ll drag her through the system, she’ll bleat and weep, but she’ll have no choice.” Her expression hardened. “But I don’t give a damn. In two weeks I’m out of it. Retirement with pension. I’ve got some investments of my own. And one big money loser. A tiny little vineyard up in Napa.” She grinned. “This time next year I’ll be in my cellar sampling the vintage until I reel. If you travel that way, be sure to drop in.”