Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“What?”

She released the hair. Looked down on me as if I was thick.

“To. Get. Anyone. To. Pay. Attention! ”

Isaw Michaela for three more sessions. She spent most of the time drifting back to a childhood tainted by neglect and loneliness. Her mother’s promiscuity and various pathologies enlarged with each appointment. She recalled year after year of academic failure, adolescent slights, chronic isolation brought on by “looking like a giraffe with zits.”

Psychometric testing revealed her to be of average intelligence with poor impulse control and a tendency to manipulate. No sign of learning disability or attention deficit, and her MMPI Lie Scale was elevated, meaning that she’d never stopped acting.

Despite that, she seemed a sad, scared, vulnerable young woman. That didn’t stop me from asking what needed to be asked.

“Michaela, the doctor found some bruising around your vagina.”

“If you say so.”

“The doctor who examined you said so.”

“Maybe he bruised me when he was checking me out.”

“Was he rough?”

“He had rough fingers. This Asian guy. I could tell he didn’t like me.”

“Why wouldn’t he like you?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She glanced at her watch.

I said, “Is that the story you want to stick with?”

She stretched. Blue jeans, today, riding low on her hips, midriff-baring white lace V-top. Her nipples were faint gray dots.

“Do I need a story?”

“It could come up.”

“It could if you mention it.”

“It has nothing to do with me, Michaela. It’s in the case file.”

“Case file,” she said. “Like I did some big crime.”

I didn’t answer.

She plucked at lace. “Who cares about any of that? Why do you care?”

“I’d like to understand what happened up in Latigo Canyon.”

“What happened was Dylan getting crazy,” she said.

“Crazy physically?”

“He got all passionate and bruised me.”

“What happened?” I said.

“What usually happened.”

“Meaning…”

“It’s what we did. ” She wiggled the fingers of one hand. “Touching each other. The few times.”

“The few times you were intimate.”

“We were never intimate. Once in a while we got horny and touched each other. Of course he wanted more, but I never let him.” She stuck out her tongue. “A few times I let him go down on me but mostly it was finger time because I didn’t want to get close to him.”

“What happened in Latigo Canyon?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with…what happened.”

“Your relationship with Dylan is bound to- ”

“Fine, fine,” she said. “In the canyon it was all fingers and he got too rough. When I complained he said he was doing it on purpose. For realism.”

“For when you were discovered.”

“I guess,” she said.

She looked away.

I waited.

She said, “It was the first night. What else was there to do? It was so boring, just sitting up there, getting talked out.”

“How soon did you get talked out?” I said.

“Real soon. ’Cause he was into this whole Zen silence thing. Preparing for the second night. He said we needed to cook images in our heads. Heat up our emotions by not crowding our heads with words.”

Her laughter was harsh. “Big Zen silence thing. Until he got horny. Then he had no trouble telling me what he wanted. He thought being up there would make things different. Like I’d do him. As if.”

Her eyes got hard. “I pretty much hate him now.”

I took a day before writing an outline of my report.

Her story boiled down to diminished capacity combined with that time-honored tactic, the TODDI Defense: The Other Dude Did It.

Wondering if Lauritz Montez was her new acting coach, I phoned his office at the Beverly Hills court building. “I’m not going to make you happy.”

“Actually, it doesn’t matter,” he said.

“The case settled?”

“Better. Sixty-day continuance, thanks to my colleague who’s representing Meserve. Marjani Coolidge- know her?”

“Nope.”

“She’s scheduled on a roots trip to Africa, asked to put everything off. Once the sixty days are up, we’ll get another continuance. And another. The media scrutiny’s faded and the docket’s jammed with serious felonies, no problem keeping trivial crap at bay. By the time we get to trial no one will give a shit. It’s all pressure from the sheriffs, and those guys have the attention span of gnats on smack. I’m figuring the worst the two of them will get is teaching Shakespeare to inner-city kids.”

“Shakespeare’s not her thing.”

“What is?”

“Improvisation.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll figure it out. Thanks for your time.”

“No report necessary?”

“You can send one but I can’t tell you it’ll ever get read. Which shouldn’t bother you because turns out all I can get you paid for is straight session time at forty bucks per full hour, no portal-to-portal, no write-up fees.”

I kept silent.

“Hey,” he said, “budget cuts and all that. Sorry, man.”

“Don’t be.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“I’m not much for showbiz.”

Two weeks after Michaela’s final session, I spotted a paragraph at the back of the Metro section.

Abduction Hoax Couple Sentenced

A pair of would-be actors accused of faking their own kidnapping in order to garner attention for their careers has been sentenced to community service as part of a plea-deal arranged between the Sheriff’s Department, the District Attorney, and the Public Defender’s Office.

Dylan Roger Meserve, 24, and Michaela Ally Brand, 23, had been charged with a series of misdemeanors that could have led to jail time, stemming from false claims of being carjacked in West Los Angeles and driven to Latigo Canyon in Malibu by a masked gunman. Subsequent investigation revealed that the duo had set up the incident, going so far as to tie themselves up and simulate two days of starvation.

“This was the best resolution,” said Deputy D.A. Heather Bally, in charge of prosecuting the duo. She cited the couple’s youth and the absence of prior criminal record, and emphasized the benefits Meserve and Brand could provide to the “theater community,” citing two summer theater programs to which the pair might be assigned: TheaterKids in Baldwin Hills and The Drama Posse in East Los Angeles.

Calls to the sheriff’s office were not returned.

One continuance had done the trick. I wondered if the two of them would bother to stay in town. Probably, if visions of stardom still stuffed their heads.

I’d sent my $160 invoice to Lauritz Montez’s office, still hadn’t gotten paid. I called him, left a polite message with a machine, and went about forgetting the case.

Lieutenant Detective Milo Sturgis had different ideas.

I’d spent New Year’s alone and the ensuing weeks had been nothing to warble about.

The dog I shared with Robin Castagna turned ancient overnight.

Spike, a twenty-five-pound French bulldog with fire-log physique and the discerning eye of a practiced snob, had scoffed at the notion of joint custody and gone to live with Robin. During his last few months of life, his self-absorbed worldview had faded pathetically as he’d slipped into sleepy passivity. When he started to go downhill, Robin let me know. I began dropping by her house in Venice, sat on her saggy couch while she built and restored stringed instruments in her studio down the hall.