Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Tessa doesn't?”

“You met her. Tessa is sad.”

“So you think her unpredictability attracted you?”

“That and- I don't know, a certain… excitability. Like she might be interesting.” He shrugged. “The truth is, hell if I know. I'm still trying to understand it- did she tell you how we met?”

“Why don't you give me your version?”

“Your basic casual campus pickup. So normal, at first. We were in the student union, studying, eating, our eyes met and- boom. She was intense. Hot eyes, very soulful. And on some level she is attractive. Whatever it was, something clicked. For both of us.”

He shook his head and black hair streamed then fell back in place. “Maybe it was purely biochemical. I've read about certain chemicals that influence sexual attraction. Pheromones. So maybe the two of us were in chemical harmony that day, who knows? Whatever it was, it was one thousand percent mutual. Every time I looked at her she was staring at me. Finally, I went over and sat down next to her and she moved herself right up against me, hip-to-hip. Two minutes later, I'm asking her out and she's saying yes, as if what took so long, guy. I picked her up at her dorm that night. Movie, dinner, more small talk, but it was clear we were both just going through the motions, to make it seem… polite, before getting into the inevitable. And she was the one who suggested we come back here. I wasn't too keen on it, this place isn't exactly the Playboy Mansion, but she said there was no privacy in the dorms. I brought her back, fixed her a drink, went to the bathroom, and when I came out she was right there.”

He pointed to the mattress in the corner.

“Wearing one of those little black slips and her pantyhose were off, balled up, on the floor. When she saw me, she smiled and spread her legs. Before I knew it…” He clapped his big hands together. “Like a collision. And both of us came. In fact, she finished first. Then all of a sudden she rolls out from under me and starts to cry. I try to hold her, she shoves me away. Then the crying gets intense and takes on a sound that spooks me- over-the-edge- hysterical. And loud. All I need is for Mrs. G. to hear and come up, maybe with Sammy- Sammy doesn't like strangers. So I put my hand over her mouth- not hard, just to calm her down, and she tries to bite me. At that point, I stand up and back off. It was disorienting. One minute you're making love, the next she's out to kill you. I'm thinking, you idiot, Muscadine, going for the casual pickup. And she's not letting up. Finally, she makes this snarling sound, gets on all fours, scrambles for her pantyhose, manages to put them on, then runs out of the apartment and down the stairs. I follow her, trying to find out what's wrong, but she won't talk, keeps heading for the street. And now Sam is barking and Mrs. G.'s light goes on.”

“Did Mrs. Green come out?”

“No, we were moving pretty fast. Once she was out on Fourth, she headed north. I said c'mon, it's late, let me take you home, she said fuck you, I'll walk. Which is crazy, campus is five, six miles away. But every time I try to talk to her she threatens to scream, so finally I let her.”

He blew out air. “Unreal. For days after I kept trying to figure out what happened and the best I could come up with was maybe she'd been raped or molested before and had a flashback. Then a month later I get the notice to show up for the committee. It was like being hit right here.”

He pressed his solar plexus. “Later I found out I was never obligated to show up. But the letter sure made it sound that way.”

“How'd you feel about getting tested for HIV?”

“You know about that, too?”

“There are transcripts of the committee sessions.”

“Transcripts? Oh, shit. Are they going to be made public?”

“Not unless they turn out to be relevant to the murder.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Jesus… there's a school of thought in the industry says there's no such thing as bad publicity, just get your name out there. But that only applies to people who've already made it. I'm a peasant. The last thing I need is for people to think I'm a rapist or infected.”

“So you're HIV-negative.”

“Of course I am! Do I look sick?”

“How's your back?”

“My back?”

“Mrs. Green said you'd been laid up.”

“Oh, that. Ruptured disc. My own fault. Felt feisty one morning and decided to go for three-twenty on the bench press. Spasmed, like a knife going right through me. Couldn't get up off the floor for an hour. The pain laid me up for a month, Mrs. G. brought me groceries. That's why I buy her stuff when I can. Even now I still get a twinge, but other than that I feel great. And I'm totally, one hundred percent negative.”

I repeated the question about being tested.

“How did I feel? Intruded upon. Wouldn't you? It was outrageous. I think I said something at the hearing about it being Kafkaesque. Did they make everyone at the hearings go through it?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

He stared. “Fair enough- anyway, that's my sum total contact with Professor Devane. Do you think any of this is going to hit the papers?”

“I guess that depends on who the killer turns out to be.”

He turned contemplative. “You really think there's a chance the committee had something to do with her death?”

“Would that surprise you?”

“Absolutely. The process was nasty but in the end it didn't amount to much. I can't see murdering anyone over that. Then again, I can't see murdering anyone over anything.” He grinned. “Except maybe a juicy part. Just kidding.”

He yawned. “ 'Scuse me. If there's nothing else, I'd like to catch a nap, have to be at work by six.”

“Where's work?”

“Delvecchio's in Tarzana.” He bowed and flourished. “ “And how would you like your steak done, sir? Rare? But what's my motivation?' ”

“Professor Dirkhoff said you'd gotten an acting job.”

The handsome face darkened. “Ouch.”

“What hurts?”

“Failure. Yes, that was true- Hollywood-true- when I told him I was dropping out. But I would have left, anyway. The classes were too theoretical. Waste of tuition.”

“What's Hollywood-true?”

“An air sandwich on imaginary bread.”

“The job fell through?”

“It never got far enough to fall through. I allowed myself to be naively optimistic because my audition went great and my agent told me I was a shoo-in.”

“What happened?”

“Someone else got the job and I didn't.”

“Why?”

“Hell if I know. They never tell you.”

“What show was it?”

“Some soap opera, independent deal for cable.”

“Did it go into production?”

“Everything was really preliminary. They didn't even have a name for it, something about spies and diplomats, foreign embassies. The casting director told me I was up for the James Bond part. Wear a patch on one eye and sweep ladies off their feet. Then she pinched my ass and said, “Yum, grade-A, prime.' Where are those conduct committees when you need them?”

Milo came to the house from the airport, arriving at seven and looking disheveled.

“Where are the white shoes?” I said.

He flexed a scuffed desert boot. “Decided to go formal.” He sat down at the kitchen table and took an eight- by twelve-inch photo out of his briefcase.

Torso-length color promo shot of a stunning young woman with long, silky, dark hair, feather-blushed cheekbones, bite-me lips slightly parted, amazed oblong eyes the color of espresso.

She wore a white-sequined, strapless dress and leaned forward, offering full, surging breasts split by deep cleavage. A wide diamond choker circled her neck. Diamond clips on each ear. Too many carats to be real. Some sort of wind machine had been used to gently blow the hair back from her face. Her smile was inviting yet mocking.