Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"Could be your questions combined with our chat with Mo Barnard. She lives right up the hill from the restaurant. If she dropped in for dinner and let on that Karen's file was being opened… wonder if the Sheas'll rabbit, too."

"They already left once. Though now they've got community ties. It's possible they view Doris as a loose cannon and feel once she's gone they can handle the pressure. All her ties are out of town: two sons in the army, both master sergeants, one in Germany, one near Seattle. I don't know if they go by Reingold. She could be with either one of them or somewhere in Nevada, playing. She told me she liked it, was thinking of moving there."

"Early retirement, huh? Okay, when I get a chance, I'll look into her. Nothing new on Trafficant, by the way. I can't hit every jail, but so far he hasn't shown up in any of the major ones."

"I learned a little more about him today. Managed to locate one of the Sanctum Fellows, a sculptor named Christopher Graydon-Jones. He's become a biggie at an insurance company in Santa Monica. We had drinks. He remembers Trafficant as a knife-wielding bully and Lowell's pet. Trafficant and Lowell used to get drunk together and take walks in the forest. And the third man in the dream may be a writer named Denton Mellors. Only critic to give Lowell's last book a good review. He had a mustache- though it doesn't match the one Lucy describes in the dreams- and he idolized Lowell. He and Trafficant were a clique at the retreat. So my money's on him as Hairy Lip and Trafficant as the man with his back turned. Graydon-Jones said something else that supports that: Lowell looked up to Trafficant. It wasn't a standard student-teacher thing. Last session I had with Lucy, she described the third man as talking roughly to Lowell. Ordering him to roll the girl into the grave. From what I heard today, Trafficant could've done that and gotten away with it. What do you think?"

"I think," he said, "that you've got threads. Getting closer to a weave. But with all these people gone, so many years passed, it may not happen. Then again, who'm I to criticize? I spent today praying for wisdom in dog shit."

Denton Mellors had been a graduate student at Columbia, but it was too late to call the university. On the chance that he'd returned to New York, I tried Information in all the New York boroughs and New Jersey but found nothing. Then I wondered if he'd stayed in L.A. and gotten a writing job on a newspaper or magazine or in film. Before I could get any further with that, my service called.

"Emergency from Mr. Ken Lowell, doctor. He couldn't stay on the line, sounded pretty upset. Here's the number."

My heart lurched as I copied down the 818 exchange and called it. Another suicide attempt. Or worse. Lucy more vulnerable than I'd thought, hypnosis a terrible mistake, weakening her defenses-

"Van Nuys Division."

The police. Worse.

"This is Dr. Delaware returning Ken Lowell's call."

"Who's he?"

"Probably a victim's brother."

"Probably?"

"I'm a doctor returning an emergency call to this number."

"What was the person's name?"

"Lowell."

Four unbearable minutes later, Ken said, "Thank God they reached you. We're in real trouble."

"Lucy?"

"No, no, it's Puck. We found him, Lucy and I. It was horrible. She didn't actually see him, I closed the door before she could, but-"

"What happened, Ken?"

"They're saying overdose. He must have gotten hold of some strong stuff or something. He- the needle was still sticking out of his arm." I heard him gag. "Sorry."

"Take your time."

"He was all- but you could see the damned needle." His voice broke, and I heard him choke back sobs. "It wasn't even an arm anymore," he said, gulping. "But you could see the damned needle."

The Van Nuys station is part of the municipal complex on Sylvan, just off the boulevard, where thrift shops, pawnbrokers, bail bondsmen, and discount Western-wear barns prevail. Posted just inside the door among the bulletins and wanted posters was a xeroxed flier from a local gang threatening to assassinate officers. Someone had written on it Come and get it, lowlife. The front room was noisy and active. Several handcuffed men waited to be booked.

It took a while to get past the desk. Finally, a detective named Almondovar came out and walked me through the squad room to the Robbery-Homicide area. Thirty-five or so, he was compact and stubby, with neat graying hair and curious eyes. His Ultrasuede sportcoat was gray, his slacks a darker gray, and he wore lizard-skin cowboy boots.

"Whose doctor are you?" he said.

"Lucy Lowell's. Was it an accidental OD?"

"Did you know the victim?"

"Just by reputation."

"Big-time addict?"

"Long-term addict."

"From the shape he was in, you couldn't tell much- here we are."

He opened the door of an interrogation room. Lucy and Ken sat next to each other at a folding card table, looking like prisoners of war. Before them were two cups of coffee, untouched.

"Hey, folks," said Almondovar.

Ken's eyes were red and his blond-stubbled face looked swollen. Lucy didn't move or blink. Her dull gaze went right through me.

Almondovar said, "We already took statements from them, doctor. If there's anything more we need, we'll let you know."

Neither Ken nor Lucy budged.

"What I mean, doctor, is they can go."

"We'll get going soon as possible," I said.

Almondovar whispered in my ear, "We might need the room soon." To Lucy and Ken: "Sorry, folks, we'll do what we can to clear this up."

He walked out.

Ken covered his face and shook his head.

I patted his shoulder. He looked at me, trying to smile, then turned to Lucy. She was staring at the wall. Her eyes were glassy.

I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back. Then she took a very deep breath and stood up.

She seemed unsteady. Ken was out of his chair, grabbing her elbow, but she was okay.

I walked them out through the station. A few cops looked up but most didn't.

We left Ken's Taurus in a city pay lot and I drove them to Rockingham Avenue.

When we got in the house, Lucy said, "I'm tired."

"I'll settle you in," said Ken. The two of them disappeared and I waited in the living room, leafing through a coffee-table book on the great mansions of Newport, Rhode Island. A quarter hour later, Ken came down. He'd removed his jacket and his shirt was wrinkled.

"Can I get you a drink or something?"

"No, thanks. Do you want to sleep, too?"

He made a hard, angry sound that could have been a laugh or a cough. "I guess I should tell you what happened."

"It doesn't have to be now."

"Might as well," he said. "It's not going to get any easier."

We went through the kitchen into the breakfast room and sat down at an oak table.

"We were going to drive out to look at some horse land I'm foreclosing on," said Ken. "First we went out to breakfast this morning. Lucy seemed very uptight. When the food came, she didn't touch it. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she couldn't stop worrying about Puck. Then she started crying."

He gave a pained look. "Sure I can't get you some coffee?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay… Where was I?" Rubbing his chin. "So I said, "Why don't we go over to his place and see if he left any indication where he went?' She said she didn't know if that was a good idea, in case people were looking for him; she didn't want to tip them off. Didn't want to put me in danger either." He wiped his eyes.

"Drug people?" I said.

"I guess. We never actually talked about his problem. I never even realized he was addicted until later. I mean, when I met him I knew something was wrong. Thin, always coughing, his nose running. I wondered about AIDS… Anyway, we ate for a while- at least I did. Then Lucy said, Maybe we should go. We could look around to make sure no one was watching the apartment, and if there wasn't, we could go in- excuse me."