Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"Are she and Becky friends?"

"They used to be really close," she said. "But Becky doesn't know anything, you know kids. We're all very fond of Stacy, Alex. Please help her."

The morning after that conversation, a secretary from RTD Properties called and asked me to hold for Mr. Doss. Pop music played for several minutes and then Richard came on sounding alert, almost cheerful, not at all like a man whose wife had killed herself three months before. Then again, as Judy had said, he'd had time to prepare.

No hint of the resistance Judy had described. He sounded eager, as if readying himself for a new challenge. Then he began laying out the rules.

No more of that "Mr. Doss," Doctor. Call me Richard. Services to be billed monthly through my corporate office, here's the number. Stacy can't afford to miss school, so late-afternoon appointments are essential. I expect some definition of the process you foresee, specifically what kind of treatment is called for and how long it will take. Once you've completed your preliminary findings, please submit them to me in writing and we'll take it from there.

"How old is Stacy?" I said.

"She turned seventeen last month."

"There's something you should know, then. Legally, she has no rights to confidentiality. But I can't work with a teen unless the parent agrees to respect confidentiality."

"Meaning I'm shut out of the process."

"Not necessarily…"

"Fine. When can I bring her in?"

"One more thing," I said. "I'll need to see you first."

"Why?"

"Before I see a patient, I take a complete history from the parent."

"I don't know about that. I'm extraordinarily busy, right in the middle of some complex deals. What would be the point, Doctor? We're focusing on a rather discrete topic: Stacy's grief. Not her infancy. I could see her development being relevant if it was a learning disability or some kind of immaturity, but any school problems she's experiencing have got to be a reaction to her mother's death. Don't get me wrong, I understand all about family therapy, but that's not what's called for here.

"I consulted a family therapist when my wife's illness intensified. Some quack referred by a doctor I no longer employ, because he felt someone should inquire about Stacy and Eric. I was reluctant, but I complied. The quack kept pressuring me to get the entire family involved, including Joanne. One of those New Agey types, miniature fountain in the waiting room, patronizing voice. I thought it was absolute nonsense. Judy Manitow claims you're quite good."

His tone implied Judy was well-meaning but far from infallible.

I said, "Whatever form treatment takes, Mr. Doss-"

"Richard."

"I'll need to see you first."

"Can't we do history-taking over the phone? Isn't that what we're doing right now? Look, if payment's the issue, just bill me for telephonic services. God knows my lawyers do."

"It's not that," I said. "I need to meet you face-to-face."

"Why?"

"It's the way I work, Richard."

"Well," he said. "That sounds rather dogmatic. The quack insisted on family therapy and you insist upon face-to-face."

"I've found it to be the best way."

"And if I don't agree?"

"Then I'm sorry, but I won't be able to see your daughter."

His chuckle was flat, percussive. I thought of a mechanical noisemaker. "You must be busy to afford to be that cavalier, Doctor. Congratulations."

Neither of us talked for several seconds and I wondered if I'd erred. The man had been through hell, why not be flexible? But something in his manner had gotten to me-the truth was, he'd pushed, so I'd pushed back. Amateur hour, Delaware. I should've known better.

I was about to back off when he said, "All right, I admire a man with spine. I'll see you once. But not this week, I'm out of town… Let me check my calendar… hold on."

Click. On hold again. More pop music, belch-tone synthesizer syrup in waltz-time. "Tuesday at six is my only window this week, Doctor."

"Fine."

"Not that busy, eh? Give me your address."

I did.

"That's residential," he said.

"I work out of my house."

"Makes sense, keep the overhead down. Okay, see you Tuesday. In the meantime, you can begin with Stacy on Monday. She'll be available anytime after school-"

"I'll see her after we've spoken, Richard."

"What a tough sonofabitch you are, Doctor. Should've gone into my business. The money's a helluva lot better and you could still work out of your house."

AN ALIBI.

Richard's call made me want to get out of the house. I filled a cup for Robin and carried it, along with mine, out through the house and into the garden. Passing the perennial bed Robin had laid down last winter, crossing the footbridge to the pond, the rock waterfall. Placing the coffee on a stone bench, I paused to toss pellets to the koi. The fish darted toward me before the food hit the water, coalescing in a frothy swirl at the rim. Iron skies bore down, dyeing the water charcoal, playing on metallic scales. The air was cool, odorless, just as stagnant as up at the murder site, but greenery and water burble blunted the sense of lifelessness.

Up in the hills, September haze can be romanticized as fog. Our property's not large, but it's secluded because of an unbuildable western border, and surrounded by old-growth pines and lemon gums that create the illusion of solitude. This morning the treetops were capped with gray.

I crouched, allowing one of the larger carp to nibble my fingers. Reminding myself, as I sometimes did, that life was transitory and I was lucky to be living amid beauty and relative quiet. My father destroyed himself with alcohol and my mother was heroic but habitually sad. No whining, the past isn't a straitjacket. But for people breast-fed on misery, it can be an awfully tight sweater.

No sounds from the studio, then the chip-chip of Robin's chisel. The building's a single-story miniature of the house, with high windows and an old, burnished pine door rescued by Robin from a downtown demolition. I pushed the door open, heard music playing softly-Ry Cooder on slide. Robin was at her workbench, hair tied up in a red silk scarf, wearing gray denim overalls over a black T-shirt. Hunched in a way that would cause her shoulders to ache by nightfall. She didn't hear me enter. Smooth, slender arms worked the chisel on a guitar-shaped piece of Alaskan spruce. Wood shavings curled at her feet, creating a cozy bed for Spike. His bulldog bulk had sunk into the scrap, and he snored away, flews flapping.

I watched for a while as Robin continued to tune the soundboard, tapping, chiseling, tapping again, running her fingers along the inner edges, pausing to reflect before resuming. Her wrists were child-size, seemed too fragile to manipulate steel, but she handled the tool as if it were a chopstick.

Biting her lower lip, then licking it, as her back humped more acutely. A stray bit of auburn curl sprang loose from the kerchief and she tucked it back impatiently. Oblivious to my presence though I stood ten, fifteen feet away. As with most creative people, time and space have no meaning for her when her mind's engaged.

I came closer, stopped at the far end of the bench. Mahogany eyes widened, she placed the chisel on the workbench and the ivory flash of those two oversize incisors appeared between full, soft lips. I smiled back and held out a cup, enjoying the contours of her face, heart-shaped, olive-tinted, decorated by a few more lines than ages ago when we'd met, but still smooth. Usually, she wore earrings. Not this morning. No watch, no jewelry or makeup. She'd rushed out too quickly to bother.

I felt a nudge at my ankle, heard a wheeze and a snort. Spike grumbled and butted my shin. We'd both adopted him, but he'd adopted her.