Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“What kinda job?”

“Anything, Jessica. Flip burgers at McDonalds.”

“What about Johnny Rockets? It’s, like, close by.”

“If you can get a job at Johnny Rockets, that would be great.”

“I never flipped burgers.”

“What have you done?”

“I danced.”

“Ballet?”

“Topless.”

“I’m sure you were great on the pole, Jessica, but that’s not going to help you.”

He walked away. The girl didn’t.

I moved from behind the door and said, “Afternoon.”

Montez turned. The girl had her back to the wall, as if pressed there by an unseen hand. “Go look for a job, Jessica.”

She flinched and left.

I said, “Did Michaela say anything about Dylan and Nora Dowd having a relationship?”

“You stalking me, Doc? Or is this happy coincidence?”

“We need to talk- ”

“I need to go home and forget about work. That includes you.” He took hold of his luggage rack.

“Meserve’s missing,” I said. “Given the fact that your client was murdered last week, you might reconsider being a glib wiseass.”

His jaw tightened. “It sucks, okay? Now leave me alone.”

“Meserve could be in danger or he could be a bad guy. Did Michaela tell you anything that would clarify the situation?”

“She blamed him for the hoax.”

I waited.

“Yeah, he was fucking Dowd. Okay?”

“How’d Michaela feel about that?”

“She thought Meserve had lost it,” said Montez. “Going for a senior citizen. I believe her precise phrase was ‘tired meat.’ ”

“Jealous?”

“No, she had no feelings for Meserve, just thought it was gross.”

“Was there any indication Nora was in on the hoax?”

“Michaela never said so but I wondered. Because she was fucking Meserve and he didn’t get kicked out of her school. You think he killed Michaela?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Would you look at that,” he said. “Finally I get a shrink to be direct.”

“Is Marjani Coolidge back from her trip to Africa?”

“She’s right there.” Pointing down the hall to a short, thin black woman in a powder-blue suit. Two tall, gray-haired men were listening to what she had to say.

“Thanks.” I turned to leave.

Montez said, “Just to show you I’m not the asshole you think I am, here’s another tidbit: Dowd called me right after I got the case. Offered to pay any bills the county wasn’t covering. I told her the county could handle it, asked her why the generosity. She said Meserve was a gifted artist, she wanted to help him and if that meant clearing Michaela, she’d do it. I could smell the hormones through the phone. She good-looking?”

“Not bad.”

“For her age?”

“Something like that,” I said.

He laughed and wheeled his cart away and I walked toward Marjani Coolidge. The two men had left and she was examining the contents of her own lawyer-luggage. Double-case, scuffed brown leather, stuffed so tight the stitching was unraveling.

I introduced myself, told her about Michaela’s murder.

She said, “I heard about that, the poor kid,” then interrogated me about my association with LAPD. Appraising my words and my body language with huge brown eyes. Her hair was elaborately braided, her skin smooth and taut.

I said, “Did Meserve tell you anything that could shed light on the murder?”

“You’re serious.”

“Something nonincriminating,” I said. “Anything that could help locate him.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“He could turn out to be a victim.”

“Of the same person who killed Brand?”

“Maybe.”

She smoothed her skirt. “Nonincriminating. Last I heard that animal was extinct.”

“How about this,” I said. “Without divulging content, can you tell me if Meserve’s someone to be scared of?”

“Was I scared of him? Not in the least. Not the brightest star in the constellation but he did what he was told. That girlfriend of his, on the other hand…”

“Which girlfriend is that?”

“The acting teacher- Dowd.”

“She caused problems?”

“Battleax,” said Coolidge. “Phoned me right at the outset, said she’d hire a private attorney if I didn’t give Pretty Boy high priority. I felt like saying, ‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ ”

“What did you tell her?”

“ ‘Do what you want, ma- dame, ’ then I hung up. Never heard from her again. I represented Meserve the way I do any other client. Turned out just fine, wouldn’t you say?”

“Meserve’s codefendant’s dead and he’s missing.”

“Irrelevant,” she said. “We settled, my obligations are over.”

“Just like that,” I said.

“You better believe it. My job, you learn to stay in your own orbit.”

“Orbit, constellation. You have an interest in astronomy?”

“Majored in it at Cornell. Then I moved here for law school and found out you can’t see anything because of all the light pollution.” She smiled. “Civilization, I think you call it.”

Iexited the courthouse parking lot and took Rexford Drive through the Beverly Hills municipal complex. The light at Santa Monica was long enough for me to leave a message on Milo ’s cell.

Driving home, I wondered about the affair between Meserve and Nora. Partners in the worst kind of crime or just another May-December romance?

Wouldn’t it be nice if Reynold Peaty got caught doing something nasty, confessed to multiple murder, and we could all move on.

I realized I was driving too fast and slowed down. Switching on a CD, I listened to Mindy Smith’s clear, sweet soprano. Waiting for her man to arrive on the next train.

The only thing waiting for me was mail and an unread newspaper. Maybe it was time to get another dog.

As I turned off Sunset, a brown Audi Quattro parked on the east side of Beverly Glen pulled behind me and stayed close. I sped up and so did the Audi, as it rode my tail close enough for a rear-view of bird dirt on the four-ring grille. A tinted windshield prevented further clarity. I swung to the right. Instead of passing, the Audi downshifted, drove alongside to my left for a second, then sped off in nasal acceleration. I made out a driver, no passengers. A rear bumper sticker sported red letters on a white background. Too brief for me to read the whole message but I thought I’d seen the word “therapy.”

When I reached the bridle path that leads to my street, I looked for the car. Nowhere.

Just another friendly day on the roads of L.A. I’d been an obstruction and he’d felt compelled to tell me.

The phone was ringing as I walked into the house.

Robin said, “Sorry I missed your call.”

That threw me for a second. Then I remembered I’d called her this morning, hadn’t left a message.

She understood the pause, said, “Caller I.D. What’s up?”

“I was just saying hi.”

“Want to get together? Just to talk?”

“Sure.”

“How about talk and eat?” she said. “Nothing too intense, name the place.”

Long time since she’d been in the house that she’d designed. I said, “I could make something here.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather go out.”

“When should I pick you up?”

“How about seven- seven thirty? I’ll wait outside.”

Meaning don’t come in? Or did she crave fresh air after hours of sawdust and varnish?

Did it matter?

Rose Avenue sported a few more boutiques and cute cafés tucked among the laundromats and fast food stands. The ocean air that blew through windows was sour but not unpleasant for that. The night sky was a swirl of gray and indigo, textured like pigments mixed haphazardly on a palette. Soon the the cute cafés would be overflowing, pretty people fortified by margaritas and possibilities spilling out to the curb.