Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“Why would he do that?”

“You’re an attractive woman.”

“Thanks,” she said, without inflection. “He was always polite.”

“Where’s the boss off to?”

“Somewhere in San Diego. He didn’t say.”

“He doesn’t tell you where to find him?”

“He calls in.”

“Leaving you all by yourself,” said Milo.

“I like it,” she said. “Nice and quiet.”

Before we left, Milo took down her North Hollywood address and phone number and driver’s license registration. Driving back to the station, he ran her through the data banks. Three years ago, Angela May Paul had been arrested for marijuana possession.

“Paxton said Quick hired sluts for secretaries,” he said. “I don’t know if ol’ Angie would qualify for that, but he’s sure not tapping the executive roster. That office of his, pretty downscale, huh?”

“Keeping the overhead low,” I said. “Eileen said he’s no tycoon.”

“She said he was hustling… think Angie was telling the truth about not knowing the blonde? I thought she reacted a bit to the photo, though with that stone face it was hard to tell.”

“She blinked hard when you showed it to her,” I said, “but it is a death shot.”

“The blonde,” he said. “Jimmy Choo and Armani perfume. Maybe ol’ Jerry provided well for Junior.”

He checked his phone for messages, grunted, hung up.

“Drs. Larsen and Gull returned my call. They’d prefer to meet me away from the office, suggested Roxbury Park, tomorrow, 1 P.M. The picnic area on the west side, they go there for lunch from time to time. You up for some grass and trees and chewing the fat with a couple of colleagues? Should I bring a picnic basket?”

“Grass and trees sounds okay but forget the niceties.”

“Alex, I’m glad I caught you.”

It’d been months since I’d heard Robin’s voice, and it threw me. No rapid heartbeat; I was pleased about that.

I said. “Hi, how’ve you been?”

“Well. You?”

“Great.”

So civil.

“Alex, I’m calling for a favor, but if you can’t do it, please just say so.”

“What is it?”

“Tim was just asked to fly to Aspen to work with Udo Pisano- the tenor. There’s a concert tomorrow, and the guy’s voice is freezing up. They want Tim there yesterday, are flying him on a chartered jet. I’ve never been to Aspen and would like to go along. We’re talking one, maybe two nights. Would you be able to babysit Spike? You know how he is with kenneling.”

“Sure,” I said, “if Spike can handle being here.”

A few years back, on a sweltering summer day, a little French bulldog had made his way across the murderous traffic of Sunset Boulevard and up into the Glen. He wandered onto my property, gasping, stumbling, dangerously dehydrated. I watered and fed him, searched for his owner. She turned out to be an old woman dying in a Holmby Hills manor. Her sole heir, a daughter, was allergic to dogs.

He’d been saddled with an unwieldy pedigree moniker; I renamed him Spike and learned about kibble. He reacted to his new surroundings with élan, promptly fell in love with Robin, and began viewing me as competition.

When Robin and I broke up, custody wasn’t an issue. She got him, his leash, his food bowls, the short hairs he shed all over the furniture, his snoring, snuffling, arrogant table manners. I was awarded an echoing house.

I considered finding a dog of my own, had never gotten around to it. I didn’t see Spike much because I didn’t see Robin much. He’d taken ownership of the small house in Venice that she shared with Tim Plachette, and his regard for Tim seemed no higher than for me.

Robin said, “Thanks so much, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Down deep he loves you.”

“Must be extremely deep. When do you want to bring him over?”

“The plane leaves from Santa Monica as soon as we’re ready, so I was thinking soon.”

“Come on over.”

This is not your typical dog.

His flat face implies as much frog DNA as canine heritage, his ears are oversized, upright, batlike, and they flex and pivot and fold in response to a wide range of emotions. He doesn’t take up much more space than a Pomeranian but manages to pack twenty-six pounds into that cubic area, most of it lead-bone and rippling muscle, clothed in a black brindle coat. His neck is twenty-one and three-quarter inches around, and his knobby head is three handbreadths wide. His huge brown eyes shine with confidence and he allows himself the barest, patronizing interest in the lives of others. His worldview is simple: Life is a cabaret, and it’s all about him.

When I used to take him out alone, women flocked. “Oh, that’s the most beautiful ugly dog I’ve ever seen!” was the operative phrase.

This afternoon, he had as much interest in leaving Robin’s side as in snarfing a bowl of lint.

I held out a chew stick. He shot Robin a mournful gaze. She sighed and stooped. “It’ll be fine, handsome.”

The Saran-wrapped nugget of hamburger I’d concealed in my shirt pocket perked his radar and brought him over, but once he gobbled it, he raced back and hid behind Robin’s legs. Great legs.

She said, “Look at this, he’s guilt-tripping me.”

“The joys of parenthood.”

Spike nuzzled her jeans. Tight jeans above suede boots. She wore a black silk T-shirt under a tapestry vest. Her auburn curls were loose, her face was scrubbed and fresh. Those big, liquid brown eyes. The clean sweep of jaw and thin, straight nose.

Those lips; the oversized incisors.

I said, “Let me take him, and you go. He’ll fuss, then he’ll be fine.”

“You’re right,” she said. She took Spike’s face in both her hands. “Listen, you rascal. Daddy will take good care of you, you know that.”

What did she call Tim? Stepdaddy?

Spike’s trapdoor mouth dropped open, teeth flashed, a purplish tongue flapped.

Beseeching the heavens, he bayed.

I swooped him into my arms, held his taut little body tight against my chest as he sniveled and writhed and hyperventilated. It was like restraining a bowling ball with legs.

“Oh dear,” said Robin.

I said, “ Bon voyage, Rob.”

She hesitated, headed for her truck, changed her mind, and came back. Throwing her arm around my shoulder, she kissed Spike full on the snout.

She was kissing me on the cheek just as Allison drove up in her black Jaguar XJS.

The convertible top was down and her black hair blew like something out of a crème rinse commercial. She wore blue-tinted sunglasses and cream-colored knits with an aqua scarf. Glints punctuated her ears, neck, fingers, wrists; Allison is unafraid of adornment.

She switched off the engine and Robin’s arm dropped. Spike tried to leap out of my arms and reacted to his failure with a heart-wrenching howl.

“Hey, everyone,” said Allison.

“Hi,” said Robin, smiling.

Spike tried his I’m-strangling-do-the-Heimlich bit.

“Well, look who’s here.” Allison patted Spike’s head, then she kissed my lips. Robin backed away a few steps.

Spike froze; his head shifted from woman to woman.

It can get like that, buddy.

He moaned.

After Robin drove away, I trailed Allison up the stairs to the terrace, carrying a still-shuddering dog. When we reached the landing, she looked at me- no, at him. Touched his whiskered flews tentatively. “Look at this little guy. I forget how cute he is.”

Spike licked her hand.

“You are very, very cute !”

Spike began panting heavily, and she petted him some more. He wriggled, twisted his head back and managed to make eye contact with me.