Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"I'll bet," I said, wondering if I'd ever know.

"So," said Larry, "how've you been doing?"

"Keeping busy. I'm actually calling you about a case."

"I figured as much."

"Oh?"

"You were always task-oriented, Alex."

"You're saying I can't be purely sociable?"

"Like I can be purely skinny. What kind of case, therapy or the bad stuff you do with the constabulary?"

"The bad stuff."

"Still subjecting yourself to that."

"Still."

"I guess I can understand the motivation," he said. "It's a helluva lot more exciting than breathing in angst all day, and you were never one to sit still. So how can I help you?"

I described Caroline Cossack, without mentioning names. Asked him to guess where a teen that troubled might've been schooled twenty years back.

"Dosing Rover with cyanide?" he said. "Impolite. How come she didn't end up in trouble?"

"Maybe family connections," I said, as I realized incarceration would be an excellent reason not to have a social security card, and neither Milo nor I had thought of checking prison records. Both of us thrown off kilter.

"A rich , not-nice kid," said Larry. "Well, back then there was no real place for a run-of-the-mill dangerous delinquent other than the state hospital system- Camarillo. But I suppose a rich family could've placed her somewhere cushy."

"I was thinking Achievement House or Valley Educational, or their out-of-state counterparts."

"Definitely not Valley Educational, Alex. I consulted there, and they stayed away from delinquents, concentrated on learning probs. Even back then they were getting fifteen-grand tuition, had a two-year waiting list, so they could afford to be picky. Unless the family covered up the extent of the girl's pathology, but that kind of violent tendency would be hard to suppress for very long. As far as Achievement House, I never had any direct experience with them, but I know someone who did. Right around that time period, too, now that I think about it- nineteen, twenty years ago. Not a pretty situation."

"For the students?"

"For the someone I know. Remember when I used to do mentoring for the department- undergrads considering psych as a career? One of my mentorees was a freshman girl, precocious, barely seventeen. She got herself a volunteer placement at Achievement House."

"What problems did she have there?"

"The director got… overtly Freudian with her."

"Sexual harassment?"

"Back then it was just called mashing and groping. Despite her age, the girl was a clearheaded feminist way ahead of her time, complained to the board of directors, who promptly gave her the boot. She talked to me about pursuing it- she was really traumatized- and I offered to back her up if she wanted to take it further, but in the end she decided not to. She knew it was his word against hers, he was the respected health administrator, and she was a good-looking teenager who wore her skirts too short. I supported the decision. What would she have gained other than a mess?"

"Was there ever any suggestion the director was molesting students?"

"Not that I heard."

"Remember his name?"

"Alex, I really don't want my mentoree drawn into it."

"I promise she won't be."

"Larner. Michael Larner."

"Psychologist or psychiatrist?"

"Business type- administrator."

"Are you still in touch with the mentoree?"

"Occasionally. Mostly for cross-referrals. She stayed on track, graduated summa, got her Ph.D. at Penn, did a fellowship at Michigan, moved back here. She's got a nice Westside practice."

"Is there any way to ask her if she'd talk to me?"

Silence. "You think this is important."

"Honestly, I don't know, Larry. If asking her will put you in a difficult position, forget it."

"Let me think about it," he said. "I'll let you know."

"That would be great."

"Great?" he said.

"Extremely helpful."

"You know," he said, "right as we speak, I've got my feet up and my belt loosened and I'm looking out at miles of clean white sand. Just finished a plate of chile rellenos con mucho cerveza . Just let out a sonic-boom belch and no one's around to give me a funny look. To me, that's great."

I heard from him an hour later. "Her name's Allison Gwynn, and you can call her. But she definitely doesn't want to get involved in any police business."

"No problem," I said.

"So," he said. "How's everything else?"

"Everything's fine."

"We should get together for dinner. With the women. Next time we come into town."

"Good idea," I said. "Call me, Larry. Thanks."

"Everything's really okay?"

"Sure. Why do you ask?"

"Don't know… you sound a bit… tentative. But maybe it's just that I haven't talked to you in a while."

I called Dr. Allison Gwynn at her Santa Monica exchange.

A you-have-reached-the-office tape answered, but when I mentioned my name, a soft-around-the-edges female voice broke in.

"This is Allison. It's funny, Larry calling out of the blue and asking if I'd talk to you. I've been reading some articles on pain control, and a couple were yours. I do some work at St. Agnes Hospice."

"Those articles are ancient history."

"Not really," she said. "People and their pain don't change that much, most of what you said still holds true. Anyway, Larry says you want to know about Achievement House. It's been a long time- nearly twenty years- since I had anything to do with that place."

"That's exactly the time period I'm interested in."

"What do you need to know?"

I gave her the same anonymous description of Caroline Cossack.

"I see," she said. "Larry assures me you'll be discreet."

"Absolutely."

"That's essential, Dr. Delaware. Look, I can't talk now, have a patient in two minutes and after that I'm running a group at the hospice. This evening, I'll be teaching, but in between I will be eating dinner- fiveish, or so. If you want to stop by, that's fine. I usually go to Café Maurice on Broadway near Sixth, because it's close to St. Agnes."

"I'll be there," I said. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem," she said. "I hope."

I endured the afternoon by running too fast for too long. Trudged up my front steps winded and dehydrated and checked the phone machine. Two hang-ups and a canned solicitation for discount home loans. I pressed *69 and traced the hang-ups to a harried woman in East L.A. who spoke only Spanish and had dialed a very wrong number, and a Montana Avenue boutique wondering if Robin Castagna would be interested in some new silk fashions from India.

"I guess I should've left a message," said the nasal girl on the other end, "but the owner likes us to make personal contact. So do you think Robin might be interested? According to our records, she bought a bunch of cool stuff last year."

"When I talk to her, I'll ask her."

"Oh, okay… you could come in yourself, you know. Do like a gift thing? If she doesn't like it, we'll give her full store credit on return. Women love to be surprised."

"Do they?"

"Oh, sure. Totally."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"You really should. Women love when guys like surprise them."

"Like a trip to Paris," I said.

"Paris?" She laughed. "You can surprise me with that- don't tell Robin I said that, okay?"

At 4 P.M., I stepped out the kitchen door to the rear patio, crossed the garden to Robin's studio, unlocked the cool vaulted room, and walked around smelling wood dust and lacquer and Chanel No. 19 and listening to the echos of my footsteps. She'd swept the floor clean, packed her tools, put everything in its place.

Afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Beautiful space in perfect order. It felt like a crypt.

I returned to the house and skimmed the morning paper. The world hadn't changed much; why did I feel so altered? At four-thirty, I showered, got dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, clean blue jeans, brown suede loafers. At ten after five, I walked into Café Maurice.