Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"Great," she said. "There's some A-plus reality testing for you. Well, you can only lead them to water- lack of insight isn't grounds for extending the seventy-two. Anyway, her father called me. Since I'm probably out of the picture, I thought I'd pass that along."

"When did he call?"

"This morning." She read off a number very quickly.

"Was there a message?" I said, copying.

"Nope, just to call him. Good luck. She's getting out tonight."

A woman answered. "Yes?"

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

"Who?"

"I'm his daughter's psychologist."

"I thought she was seeing Dr.-"

"Embrey. She's off the case."

"Oh… Well, if you're the doctor, Mr. Lowell will have a meeting with you."

"About what?"

"Lucretia, I assume."

"I couldn't do that without Lucy's permission."

"Hold on."

A few seconds passed; then a very loud, deep voice said, "Lowell. Who're you?"

"Alex Delaware."

"Delaware. The first state, an ignoble little backwater. What are you, French Canadian? Acadian? Coon-ass?"

"How can I help you, Mr. Lowell?"

"You can't help me at all. Maybe I can help you. My boy snitched on the girl's attempt to snuff herself, the implication being, of course, that it was my damned fault, nammer, nammer, nammer. I doubt she's changed much, the constipated squall, basic character never does, so I can give you some piercing insights. Unless you're one of those biopsychiatric Frankenmaniacs who believes character is all a matter of serotonin and dopamines."

"Which of your sons called you?"

"The opium fiend, who else?"

"Peter?"

"Selfsame."

"Where'd he call from?"

"How would I know? My girl took it. And don't try arraigning me at the Tribunal of Ruined Progeny. Guilt may be your stock in trade, but it's not my currency. I'll see you not tomorrow but the day after. An hour at the most, significantly less if you annoy me. You'll come to me; I don't travel."

"Sorry," I said. "I can't talk to you without Lucy's permission."

"What?" He laughed so loud I had to move the phone away from my ear. " Bedlam is the New Olympus? The lunatics rule the asylum? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Confidentiality, Mr. Lowell."

"There are no secrets, boy. Not in the massage-message age. McLuhan's books are a shitbin - furor loquendi- but it's true we're all staring up each other's assholes… Very well, you've lost your chance. Salaam, as the Arabs say, to hell with everyone."

"If Lucy does consent, I would like the opportunity to talk to you. May I call you back?"

" May you?" He laughed again. "At your own risk. You may also pass Go or eat raw fish with the Japs or take three baby steps or fuck yourself with a garden tool."

Robin and I had dinner out on the deck. The tide had whipped the sand like cream, and the beach at twilight was a graying plane of peaks and troughs. I couldn't stop thinking of my conversation with Lowell.

Had he missed a dose of lithium, or was he cultivating nuttiness for attention?

He probably didn't get much attention anymore.

Why had he called? His offer to provide insights was almost comical.

The opium eater. The hunch about Peter confirmed.

Maybe a shattered career and old age had finally caused Lowell to survey the ruins of his family.

One child dead, the other three estranged.

An addict, an attempted suicide…

Ken seemed a nice enough fellow, but his antipathy for his father was right on the surface.

"What's on your mind, honey?" said Robin.

"Nothing much."

She smiled and let her hand rest on my bicep. I tried to chase away clinical thoughts and turned to her. A trace of color remained in the sky- a paint smear of salmon, capping the sinking sun. It played on the auburn in her hair and made her eyes coppery and catlike.

"Still at work?" she said, stroking.

"No more."

I drew her to me and kissed her deeply. Her tongue lingered in my mouth.

"Carpe foxum," I said.

"What's that?"

"Seize the babe."

Despite a decent night's sleep, my first thought upon waking was: Lucy's out of the hospital.

I wasn't happy with the idea of her trying to make it on her own. But if I pushed she'd probably back away, so I decided to give her till noon before calling.

In the meantime, I'd catch Milo up on what Doris Reingold had told me.

He hadn't come into the station yet and no one picked up at his home. I called the business number he used for his private moonlighting and the tape answered: "Blue Investigations." I left a message.

It was just after nine; Robin and Spike had been gone for over an hour. I drove to the market at Trancas and bought groceries, thinking about all the places off the highway where a girl could disappear. Just as I got home, Milo phoned.

"I'm at Lucy's place. Can you come out right now?"

"Is she okay?"

"Physically, she's fine. Just come out; we'll talk once you get here. Here's the address."

The street was three blocks north of Ventura Boulevard. The block was treeless and sun-fried, all apartments, mostly mega-units with underground parking and security gates that would give an experienced burglar pause for about twenty seconds. FOR RENT banners and real estate brokerage signs on most of them. Promises of "move-in incentives."

Lucy's building was older and smaller, a two-story quadriplex of flesh-tone stucco and dark red wood. Two units on top, two below, each open to the street, with individual entrances set back from a covered walkway. Another FOR RENT sign staked in the lawn near the ground-level mailbox.

Her apartment was number 4, upstairs. Number 3 was vacant. Her welcome mat featured a chipmunk saying "Hi!" The windows through which Ken had seen her kneeling in the kitchen were masked by shades. The doorjamb around the hinges was splintered a bit and nailed together- Ken's breaking in to save her- but the door was locked. I rang the bell and Milo parted the shades, then let me in.

The front of the apartment was divided into living and dining areas. The kitchen was a cubby with avocado cabinets and white appliances. Barely enough room to kneel. All the walls were off-white, not that different from the Psych unit at Woodbridge.

The oven was a squat little two-burner Kenmore, maybe fifteen years old. The dining room table was fake oak surrounded by three folding chairs. In the living room were a tufted blue velvet love seat and two matching chairs, a glass-topped coffee table, and a 14-inch television and a VCR on a rolling stand.

On top of the TV was a single photo, of Lucy and Peter. Head shots, no identifying background. She was smiling, he was trying to.

Lucy sat on the blue couch, barefoot, wearing jeans and a baggy gray sweatshirt that said L.A.'s the One. Her hands gripped each other, and she looked up and gave me a struggling smile. Milo went and stood behind her. His jacket was over a chair. He wore his revolver in a waist holster.

He looked at the coffee table. "Look, but please don't touch."

A short stack of magazines had been pushed to one side. Next to it was a sheet of yellow ruled legal paper; next to that, a white envelope.

On the paper was a note, typed off-center, crowding the left margin and the top of the page:

FUCK YOU BITCH IN HELL

JOBE DIES, YOU DIE TWICE

Below that was something affixed to the page with transparent strips of cellophane tape.

Dark shriveled things, the size and shape of olive pits.

"Rat turds," said Milo. "Pending lab analysis. But I don't need a tech to tell me."