Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"How nice for him."

"Was Mr. Upstone around when Mr. Mellors's review came out?"

"Mr. Upstone has always been around."

"May I speak with him, please?"

"If you're good. "

"I promise."

He laughed. "Cali for nia… how can you live there?"

A few minutes later, a cross-sounding tobacco voice said, "Mason Upstone."

I repeated my request.

Upstone broke in. "I won't tell you a damn thing. Haven't you ever heard of the right to privacy?"

"I'm not-"

"That's right, you're not. Tell your friends at the CIA or the FBI or whoever it is you're with to do something more constructive than spying on creative people."

Slam.

I went out on the deck and tried to relax. The sky out there was even bluer, but I couldn't unwind.

I couldn't stop bad things from happening to Lucy, but I should have been able to deal with a dream…

Lowell, Trafficant, Mellors.

I pulled out the clipping on the Sanctum party and read it one more time.

Lowell holding court.

Trafficant with his own circle of groupies.

Had they tried to outdo one another the night of the party?

Had Karen Best been the victim of that competition?

There had to be some way to connect the pieces.

I ran my eyes down the names of partygoers. The usual Westside showbiz list, no indication any of them had a relationship with Lowell. With one exception: the film producer who'd financed construction of the retreat, Curtis App.

His name had come up before. I shuffled through articles till I found it: A PEN fund-raiser at App's Malibu house had been the site of Lowell's reentry into the public eye.

Fund-raiser for political prisoners.

Had App shared Lowell's sympathy for talented criminals? Or was he just a generous man?

Calculated generosity? Film people's self-esteem often lagged their wealth. Had App tried to buy himself respectability by hitching up with a Great Man?

An "independent producer" had optioned Command: Shed the Light for film. App, or some other patron?

Paying to adapt poetry to the screen seemed an absurd business decision. More charity?

Great Man on the skids… App buying in cheap?

Sinking money into Sanctum, then watching it all fall apart as Lowell lost interest.

He might very well have a few opinions on Lowell.

No phone listings under his name. No great surprise.

Didn't producers belong to some kind of trade group- the Producers Guild?

I found the address-400 South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills- and was just about to punch the number when my service clicked in.

"Someone on your line from Mr. Lowell, doctor. She wouldn't give a last name. Sexy voice."

I took the call.

Nova said, "Are you still planning to bring the daughter up?"

"There were no plans."

"I was under the impression there were. He's expecting her- the best time's late afternoon. Five or later. He takes a long nap after lunch, and-"

"There were no plans," I repeated, "and something's come up."

"Oh, really," she said coolly. "And what's that?"

"Mr. Lowell's son Peter was found dead today."

Silence.

"When did this happen?" she said skeptically.

"The body was discovered this morning. He'd been dead for a while."

"How did he die?"

"Heroin overdose."

"Damn," she said. "How am I going to tell him?"

"Call the police and let them do it."

"No, no, it's my job… This is obscene, the man's been through so much. When he wakes up he'll expect me to tell him about the daughter's visit. You should have her come. Especially now. He deserves it."

"Think so?" I said.

"Why are you being so hostile? I'm just trying to do what's right."

"So am I."

"I'm sorry." Suddenly, a softer tone. "I'm sure you are. This caught me by surprise. I have no experience with this kind of thing. I really don't know what to do."

"There's no easy way to tell him," I said. "Just find the right time and do it."

"What's the right time?" she said, almost timidly.

"When he's not drunk or highly medicated or upset about something else."

"That doesn't leave much… but you're right, I'll just have to bite the bullet."

Sounding miserable.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"What if I tell him and he has a fit and- he's in such bad shape. What if he has another stroke? What do I do, all alone with him?"

"He obviously needs a doctor."

"I know, I know, but he hates them."

"Then I don't know what to tell you."

"He likes you. Would you come up and be there when I tell him- maybe coach me?"

I laughed. "I think you've got the wrong guy."

"No, no, he does. Said he'd given you both barrels and you'd shot right back. He respects you. It's the first time I've heard him say anything respectful about anyone. I know it's an imposition, but I'll pay you for your time. Please, this freaks me out; I don't do death well. Too much weirdness in this family, this wasn't what I expected when I took the job. But I can't abandon him- too many people have."

"It seems to me he's the one doing the abandoning."

"You're right," she said. "But he doesn't see it that way. He can't help himself- he's too old to change. I'm really worried I'm going to mess this up. Please help me. I'll make it worth your while."

"I won't take your money," I said. "Conflict of interest. But I'll come up. And it has to be now."

The kindly therapist, even as I mapped out a walk through the grounds. Looking for lacy trees.

"You will?" she said. "That's so incredible. If there's anything I can do in return…"

Sexy voice.

"Let's just get through this," I said. "I feel sorry for the whole family."

"Yes," she said. "They're a pitiful bunch, aren't they?"

She was sitting on the porch and got up to meet me as I pulled up to the hitching posts. She had on a soft black minidress and black sandals. A bra this time, the cups patterned in relief under the cotton. She jogged down the big wooden steps, smiling, and I felt about to be tackled as she came straight at me. Stopping inches away, she took my hand.

Her body was sleek, but this close, with the sunlight bathing her face, I noticed tiny tuck scars where her ears met her jawline.

Face lift. Older than I'd thought?

Her hand held on to mine and I looked down and saw other scars, on her arms. Small, barely discernible, with the exception of one long white line running parallel to the knuckles of her right hand.

"Thank you." She pecked my cheek. "He's still sleeping."

Letting go, she directed me onto the porch with just a touch at the small of my back.

"How long does he usually sleep?" I said.

"He can go anywhere from two to five hours. I try to ease up on the morphine before lunch, so he'll have an appetite, but he generally reacts strongly to it."

"Who prescribes the morphine?"

"A doctor in Pacific Palisades."

"Does this doctor ever actually see him?"

She rubbed her index finger with her thumb, sighed, and smiled. "What can I say?"

I thought of how Lowell had despised Puck for his addiction.

"Come on in." She opened the front door.

"How about a walk?" I said. "I've been cooped up all day."

"Sure," she said, smiling and smoothing back her hair. "Let me get something, first."

She ran up the stairs and came back with a white plastic hand radio with a rubber antenna. The brand sticker said KidStuff.

"It's for babies," she said, clipping it onto her waistband. "But that's what old people are, right? Big babies."

She rotated a dial on the radio and static came on.

"It's got a range of about five hundred feet, so we can't go too far. Sometimes he wakes up like a baby- crying out. He wears diapers, too."