Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

The phone call I'd made when I'd first heard about it.

No answer, and trying again was a much worse idea than it had been last week. But how long could I work with Milo without clearing things up?

As I tossed it back and forth, the ethical ramifications spiraled. Some of the answers were covered in the rule books, but others weren't. Real life always transcends the rule books.

I arrived home hyped by indecision.

The house was quiet, cooled by the surrounding pines, oak floors gleaming, white walls bleached metallic by eastern light. Robin had left toast and coffee out. No sign of her, no panting canine welcome. The morning paper remained folded on the kitchen counter.

She and Spike were out back in the studio. She had several big jobs backordered. With obligation on both our minds, we hadn't talked much since rising.

I filled a cup and drank. The silence was annoying.

Once, the house had been smaller, darker, far less comfortable, considerably less practical. A psychopath had burned it down a few years ago and we'd rebuilt. Everyone agreed it was an improvement. Sometimes, when I was alone, there seemed to be too much space.

It's been a long time since I've pretended to be emotionally independent. When you love someone for a long time, when that love is cemented in routine as well as thrill, her very presence fills too much space to be ignored. I knew Robin would interrupt her work if I dropped in, but I was in no mood to be sociable, so instead of continuing out the back door, I reached for the kitchen phone and checked with my service. And the problem of the unanswered call solved itself.

"Morning, Dr. Delaware," said the operator. "Only one message, just a few minutes ago. A Mr. Richard Doss, here's the number."

An 805 exchange, not Doss's Santa Monica office. Ventura or Santa Barbara County. I punched it in and a woman answered, "RTD Properties."

"Dr. Delaware returning Mr. Doss's call."

"This is his phone-routing service, one moment."

Several clicks cricketed in my ear, followed by a rub of static and then a familiar voice. "Dr. Delaware. Long time."

Reedy tone, staccato delivery, that hint of sarcasm. Richard Doss always sounded as if he was mocking someone or something. I'd never decided if it was intentional or just a vocal quirk.

"Morning, Richard."

More static. Fade-out on his reply. Several seconds passed before he returned. "We may get cut off again, I'm out in the boonies, Carpinteria. Looking at some land. Avocado orchard that'll do just fine as a minimall if my cold-blooded capitalist claws get hold of it. If we lose each other again, don't phone me, I'll phone you. The usual number?"

Taking charge, as always. "Same one, Richard." Not Mr. Doss, because he'd always insisted I use his first name. One of the many rules he'd laid down. The illusion of informality, just a regular guy. From what I'd seen, Richard T. Doss never really let down his guard.

"I know why you called," he said. "And why you think I called back."

"Mate's death."

"Festive times. The sonofabitch finally got what he deserved."

I didn't reply.

He laughed. "Come on, Doctor, be a sport. I'm dealing with life's challenges with humor. Wouldn't a psychologist recommend that? Isn't humor a good coping skill?"

"Is Dr. Mate's death something you need to cope with?"

"Well…" He laughed again. "Even positive change is a challenge, right?"

"Right."

"You're thinking how vindictive I'm being-by the way, when it happened I was out of town. San Francisco. Looking over a hotel. Trailed by ten clinically depressed Tokyo bankers. They paid thirty million five years ago, are itching to unload for considerably less."

"Great," I said.

"It certainly is. Do you recall all that yellow-peril nonsense a while back: death rays from the Rising Sun, soon our kids will be eating sushi for school lunch? About as realistic as Godzilla. Everything cycles, the key to feeling smart is to live long enough." Another laugh. "Guess the sonofabitch won't feel smart anymore. So… that's my alibi."

"Do you feel you need an alibi?" The first thing I'd wondered when I'd heard about Mate.

Silence. Not a phone problem this time; I could hear him breathing. When he spoke again, his tone was subdued and tight.

"I wasn't being literal, Doctor. Though the police have tried to talk to me, probably have some kind of list they're running down. If they're proceeding sequentially, I'd be at the bottom or close to it. The sonofabitch murdered another two women after Joanne. Anyway, enough of that. My call wasn't about him, it's about Stacy."

"How's Stacy doing?"

"Essentially fine. If you're asking did the sonofabitch's death flash her back to her mother, I haven't noticed any untoward reactions. Not that we've talked about it. Joanne hasn't been a topic since Stacy stopped seeing you. And Mate's never been of interest to her, which is good. Dirt like that doesn't deserve her time. Essentially, we've all been fine. Eric's back at Stanford, finished up the year with terrific grades, working with an econ professor on his honors paper. I'm flying up to see him this weekend, may take Stacy with me, give her another look at the campus."

"She's decided on Stanford?"

"Not yet, that's why I want her to see it again. She's in good shape application-wise. Her grades really picked up after she saw you. This semester she's going the whole nine yards. Full load, A.P. courses, honors track. We're still trying to decide whether she should apply for early admission or play the field. Stanford and the Ivys are taking most of their students early. Her being a legacy won't hurt, but it's always competitive. That's why I'm calling. She still has problems with decision-making, and the early-admit deadlines are in November, so there's some time pressure. I assume you'll be able to find time for her this week."

"I can do that," I said. "But-"

"Payment will be the same, correct? Unless you've raised your fee."

"Payment's the same-"

"No surprise," he said. "With the HMOs closing in, you'd be hard-pressed to raise. We've still got you on computer, just bill through the office."

I took a single deep breath. "Richard, I'd be happy to see Stacy, but before I do you need to know that the police have consulted me on Mate's murder."

"I see… Actually, I don't. Why would they do that?"

"I've consulted to the department in the past and the primary detective is someone I've worked with. He hasn't made a specific request, just wants open-ended psychological consultation."

"Because the sonofabitch was crazy?"

"Because the detective thinks I might be helpful-"

"Dr. Delaware, that's ambiguous to the point of meaninglessness."

"But true," I said, inhaling again. "I've said nothing about having seen your family, but there may be conflict. Because they are running down the list of Mate's-"

"Victims," he broke in. "Please don't give me that 'travelers'bullshit."

"The point I'm trying to make, Richard, is that the police will try to reach you. Before I go any further, I wanted to discuss it with you. I don't want you to feel there's a conflict of interest, so I called-"

"So you've found yourself in a conflictual situation and now you're trying to establish your position."

"It's not a matter of position. It's-"

"Your sincere attempt to do the right thing. Fine, I accept that. In my business we call it due diligence. What's your plan?"

"Now that you've called and asked me to see Stacy again, I'll bow off Mate."

"Why?"

"She's an ongoing patient, continuing as consultant is not an option."

"What reason will you give the police?"

"There'll be no need to explain, Richard. One thing, though: the police may learn about our relationship anyway. These things have a way of getting out."