Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

The Malley case was the eight-year-old child murder. One of Allison’s patients- a fragile young woman- had been drawn in. I’d deceived her. All in the name of truth, justice…

Robin had never liked hearing about the work stuff. Allison had chased gory details with a vengeance.

I said, “Things change.”

“They do. Dammit.” She looked away. “If I said your place or mine, would you feel manipulated?”

“Maybe for a nanosecond.”

“I’m not going to say it. Not tonight. I’m feeling really unattractive.”

“There’s a delusion for you.”

“ Inside I’m unattractive,” she said. “I wouldn’t be good, believe me.”

I raised my glass. “To brutal honesty.”

“Sorry. Want to forget about dinner?”

“Dinner wasn’t a ploy to get you in the sack.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know…maybe a ploy to get you in the sack.”

She smiled. I smiled.

Eduardo had positioned himself across the room, spying on us while pretending to be above it all.

I said, “I could eat.”

“I could, too.” She waved him over. “Dinner with a former lover. How civilized in that French-movie kind of way.”

Shifting closer, she lifted my left hand, traced the outline of my thumbnail. “Still here.”

“What is?”

“That split in the crescent- the little Pac-Man growing out of your nail. I always thought it was cute.”

My body part, I’d never noticed it.

She said, “It’s the same you.”

Ispent the next day interviewing the three women who’d filed suit against Dr. Patrick Hauser. Individually, they came across vulnerable. As a group they were calmly credible.

Time for Hauser’s insurance company to settle and cut its losses.

The following morning, I got to work on my report, was still in the thinking phase when Milo called.

“How’s it going, big guy?”

“It’s going nowhere at warp speed. Still haven’t gotten into Michaela’s place, landlord doesn’t like leaving La Jolla. If he doesn’t get here soon, I’m popping the lock. I talked to the Reno detective who nabbed Reynold Peaty for peeping. The story was Peaty was in an alley behind an apartment building, drunk as a skunk, looking through the drapes of a rear unit bedroom. The objects of his affliction were three college girls. Some guy walking his dog saw Peaty wagging his weenie and yelled. Peaty ran, the guy gave chase, knocked Peaty to the ground, called the cops.”

“Brave citizen.”

“Defensive tackle on the U. Nevada football team,” he said, “Student neighborhood.”

“Ground-floor rear unit?” I said.

“Just like Michaela’s. The girls were a little younger than Michaela but you could make a case for victim similarity. What got Peaty off light was that these three had a history of being less than careful about the drapes. Also, the prosecutors never got word of Peaty’s burglary conviction years before. That was a daylight break-in, cash and ladies’ undies.”

“Voyeur meets up with exhibitionists and everyone goes home happy?”

“Because the exhibitionists didn’t want to testify. The girls’ exuberance extended to getting creative with videotape. Their main concern was their parents finding out. Peaty’s a definite creep and I’ve promoted him to the penthouse of the high-priority bin.”

“Time for a second interview.”

“I tried. No sign of him or anyone else at the PlayHouse this morning, ditto for his apartment. Mrs. Stadlbraun wanted to have tea again. I drank enough to constipate a rhino and she talked about her grandkids and her godkids and the lamentable state of modern morality. She said she’d started watching Peaty more closely but he’s gone most of the day. I’m gonna have Binchy tail him.”

“Any decent phone tips?”

“Mostly the usual Martians and maniacs and morons, but there was one I’m following up on. That’s why I called. Wire service picked up the Times story and some guy in New York phoned me yesterday. Couple of years ago his daughter went missing out here. What got me interested was she was going to acting school, too.”

“The PlayHouse?”

“Father has no idea. There seems to be lots he doesn’t know. An MP report was filed on this girl- Tori Giacomo- but it doesn’t look like anyone pursued it. No surprise, given her age and no sign of foul play. The guy insisted on flying out so I figure I can spare him some time. We’re scheduled at three p.m., hope he likes Indian food. If you’ve got time, I could use some supplementary intuition.”

“About what?”

“Ruling his daughter out. Listen to him but don’t tell me what I want to hear.”

“Do I ever?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why you’re my pal.”

Pink madras curtains separate Café Moghul’s interior from the traffic and light of Santa Monica Boulevard. The shadowy storefront is walking distance from the station and when Milo needs to bolt the confines of his office, he uses it as an alternative work site.

The owners are convinced the presence of a large, menacing-looking detective serves the same purpose as a well-trained rottweiler. Once in a while Milo obliges them by handling homeless schizophrenics who wander in and try to sample the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet.

The buffet’s a recent introduction. I’m not convinced it wasn’t put in place for Milo.

When I got there at three p.m., he was seated behind three plates heaped with vegetables, rice, curried lobster, and some kind of tandoori meat. A basket of onion naan was half full. A pitcher of clove-flavored tea sat at his right elbow. Napkin tied around his neck. Only a few sauce specks.

Off-hour for lunch and he was the only diner. The smiling, bespectacled woman who runs the place said, “He’s here, sir,” and led me to his usual table at the rear.

He chewed and swallowed. “Try the lamb.”

“A little early for me.”

“Chai tea?” said the bespectacled woman.

I pointed to the pitcher. “Just a glass.”

“Very good.”

Last time I’d seen her, she’d been trying out contact lenses.

She said, “I had allergies to the cleaning solution. My nephew’s an ophthalmologist, he says LASIK’s safe.”

Milo tried to hide his wince but I caught it. He lives with a surgeon but blanches at the thought of doctor visits.

“Good luck,” I said.

The woman said, “I’m still not sure,” and left to get my glass.

Milo wiped his mouth and pulled a blue folder from his attaché. “Copy of Tori Giacomo’s missing person file. Feel free to read but I can summarize in a minute.”

“Go ahead.”

“She was living in North Hollywood, alone in a single, working as a waitress at a seafood place in Burbank. She told her parents she was coming out to be a star but no one’s aware of any parts she got and she had no agent. When she disappeared, the landlord stored her junk for thirty days then dumped it. By the time MP got around to checking, there was nothing left.”

“The parents weren’t notified when she skipped?”

“She was twenty-seven, didn’t leave their number on her rental application.”

“Who did she give as a reference?”

“File doesn’t say. We’re talking two years ago.” He consulted his Timex. “Her father phoned from the airport an hour ago. Unless there was some disaster on the freeway, he shoulda been here already.”

He squinted at numbers he’d scrawled on the cover of the folder, punched his cell phone. “Mr. Giacomo? Lieutenant Sturgis. I’m ready for you…where? What’s the cross street? No, sir, that’s Little Santa Monica, it’s a short street that starts in Beverly Hills, which is where you are…three miles east of here…yes, there are two of them. Little and Big…I agree, it doesn’t make…yeah, L.A. can be a little strange…just turn around and go north to Big Santa Monica…there’s some construction but you can get through…see you, sir.”