Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

Which would explain Lehmann's self-description as a courier of okayness.

And why he might have been reluctant to acknowledge warning signs in Nolan.

Had the young cop come to him with a history of mood swings and alienation, complaining of crushing job pressures, only to receive tough love?

One does one's job. That's the key to being professional.

Now Lehmann wanted to quash any budding inquiry.

Let the dead rest. His reputation, too.

When I got home, I looked him up in my American Psychological Association directory. No listing. None in any of the local guilds or health-care provider rosters, either, which was odd, if he was a contractor. But maybe LAPD referrals alone gave him enough business and he didn't need to solicit other sources.

Or maybe he really was old money, choosing psychology as a second career for personal fulfillment, rather than income. Respite after years in the heartless world of business.

The big office and leather desk and books- the trappings of doctor hood. Simply props to help him fill the hours before he rode down for a rubdown at the club?

I phoned the state medical board and confirmed that Roone Mackey Lehmann was indeed duly licensed to practice psychology in California and had been for five years. His degree was from a place called New Dominion University and he'd done his clinical training at the Pathfinder Foundation, neither of which I'd heard of.

No complaints had ever been filed against him, nothing irregular about his certification.

I thought about him some more, realized there was nothing I could- or should- do. Bottom line, he was right: If Nolan had been adamant about leaving this world, no one could have stopped him.

Serious problems.

My question about sexuality had evoked a meaningful silence, so maybe that had been it.

A bleak situation.

The sister better off not knowing.

Leading me to the main question: What would I tell Helena?

I called her at the hospital but she wasn't in. Not at home, either, and I left a message and phoned Milo at the station.

“New insights?” he said.

“Sorry, no. Actually, I'm calling about Nolan Dahl.”

“What about him?”

“If you're busy-”

“Wish I was. Been on the phone all day and the closest case I've got to Irit is a retarded thirteen-year-old boy abducted a year ago in Newton Division. Body never found but his sneakers were, full of dried blood. Left in front of the Newton station. No lightbulb-over-the-head feeling but I'm driving over later to look at the actual file. What about Dahl?”

“I just met with his therapist, fellow named Roone Lehmann. Ever hear of him?”

“No. Why?”

“He got the referral through the department and I got the feeling he was on some LAPD list.”

“Could be. Is there some other reason you're asking about him?”

I told him.

“So you think maybe he botched Dahl's treatment and is covering his ass.”

“He implied that Nolan had serious problems that Helena doesn't want to know about.”

“Meaning if he missed the boat it was a big one.”

“Exactly. And he's an odd one, Milo. Works in a building with bankers and lawyers, labels himself a consultant but doesn't spell out what he does. But he's duly licensed, no checkered history, so maybe I'm being paranoid. I would like to know why Nolan went to see him. Would the department keep records?”

“If it was something to do with the job, they sure would, but good luck getting hold of it. Especially now that he killed himself. If he put in for a stress pension or some other compensation, there'd be a record of that, but once again, things get lost when it suits the right people.”

“That's another thing,” I said. “If he was under stress, why'd he transfer from West L.A. to Hollywood?”

“You got me- maybe he got tired of scumbag celebrities and their battered wives.”

“My thought was he craved action. Liked taking risks.” I told him about the break-in at Nolan's apartment, the cheap lock on the back door.

“No big surprise,” he said. “Cops can be super-security freaks or they become danger freaks and get lax. If the public knew how many times we got victimized, the confidence level would sink even lower. If that's possible.”

“But if Nolan craved danger, why would he buckle?”

He grunted. “Your field, not mine. Sounds like we're both running the blind-alley marathon. I'd offer to ask around about his records, but it would be a waste of time. One person who might be able to tell you something would be his training officer.”

“Helena already spoke to him and he was baffled by the suicide.”

“Name?”

“A Sergeant Baker.”

“Wesley Baker?”

“Don't know the first name. Helena said he's at Parker Center, now.”

“That's Wes Baker.” His voice changed. Softer. Guarded.

“You know him?” I said.

“Oh, yeah… interesting.”

“What is?”

“Wes Baker training rookies again. I didn't know, but we don't have much contact with the boys in blue… Listen, Alex, this isn't the best time- or place- to have this discussion. Lemme get over to Newton, check out the year-old abduction file, and if nothing else comes up, I can drop by this evening. If you'll be home.”

“No plans not to be,” I said, realizing I'd been home for nearly an hour and hadn't gone back to see Robin. “If I go out, I'll call you.”

“Fine. I'm heading over to the East Side now. Sayonara.”

Robin was taking off her goggles when I walked in, and she reached for the vacuum cleaner. At the sight of the hose, Spike began barking furiously. He despises the industrial age. Canine Luddite. When he saw me he stopped, cocked his head, started to trot forward, then changed his mind and returned to attacking the vacuum canister.

Robin laughed and said, “Stop.” She tossed a Milk-Bone in a corner and Spike went after it.

We kissed.

“How was your day?” she said.

“Unproductive. Yours?”

“Quite productive, actually.” She tossed her curls and smiled. “Don't hate me.”

“Because you're beautiful?”

“That, too.” She touched my cheek. “What went wrong, Alex?”

“Nothing. Just lots of seek and very little find.”

“That little girl's murder?”

“That and another case. A suicide that will probably never be explained.”

She put her arm through mine and we left the studio, Spike at our heels, breathing excitedly, Milk-Bone crumbs dotting his pendulous flews.

“I don't envy you,” she said.

“Don't envy what?”

“Hunting for explanations.”

She showered and changed into a charcoal-gray pantsuit and diamond stud earrings and said how about meat, that Argentinian place we'd tried a few months ago.

“Baked garlic appetizers?” I said. “Not very social.”

“It is if we both indulge.”

“Sure, I'll eat a whole bowl. Afterward we can tango or lambada, whatever, and fume up each other's faces.”

Suddenly she swooned into my arms. “Ah, Alessandro!”

She set Spike up with water and snacks while I changed and left messages at Milo's West L.A. desk, his home in West Hollywood, and the number he used for his after-hours private-eye business, Blue Investigations.

He'd begun the moonlight gig several years ago after the department took him off duty for punching out a superior who'd endangered his life and banished him to the Parker Center data-processing office in hopes of nudging him off the force. He'd managed to regain his detective position and it had been a while since he'd solicited private work, but he'd held on to the exchange.