Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“When did it start going bad?”

Her eyes moistened. “Soon after, though I didn’t realize it at the time. We were supposed to go shopping together, but she didn’t show. When I got back to Paul’s house, he told me she’d packed her bags and left town without telling anyone. That it was her pattern- she had no impulse control. Not to worry, it wasn’t my fault. She finally came back, two weeks later, in terrible shape- bruised, groggy, unable to remember anything that had happened other than that she’d ended up in a bar in Reno. From that point on, that’s what it was like- drop in, drop out. Fugue states, drug abuse.”

“Jana. Your dissertation.”

That jolted her.

I said, “I read it. I was interested- in you. Whose idea was it?”

“It started out as a joke. I’d just been through a rough month with her- a couple of overdoses, lots of verbal abuse. And I was under pressure, needed to come up with a dissertation topic or apply for an extension from the department- my second one. I was unloading on Paul about how much she frustrated me, how hard she was making it for me. That it would have been easier to be her therapist than her sister. He laughed at that, said being her therapist was no picnic either. We talked about the loss of control that comes from dealing with people like that. Then he said, why didn’t I put myself in the therapist role- as a means of establishing some sense of control in the relationship- and write it all down.”

“Working it through.”

“Paul said she owed it to me.”

“Sounds like Paul was angry at her too.”

“He was frustrated- all those years, and she kept getting worse. Deteriorating. Toward the end she was downright paranoid, near psychotic.”

“Paranoid about what?”

“Everything. The last time she came back- the time she wrecked my practice- she was convinced I was out to get her, that I was revealing her personal secrets to my patients, humiliating her. It came from her own pain, but she was projecting it onto me- blaming me, the way she’d done years before.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It was a long time ago, Alex.”

“I’d still like to hear about it.”

She thought for a while, shrugged and smiled. “If it’s that important to you.”

I smiled back.

She said, “It happened after she got married- to Italian nobility, a marchese named Benito di Orano whom her mother introduced her to. Ten years younger than her, suave, handsome, heir to some sort of shoe company- another impulsive thing- they’d only known each other a week, flew to Liechtenstein and had a civil ceremony. He bought her a Lamborghini, moved her into his villa overlooking the Spanish Steps. Paul and I hoped she’d finally settle down. But Benito turned out to be a sadist and a druggie. He beat her, doped her up, took her to the family palazzo in Venice, crammed her with dope, and gave her to his friends- as a party favor. When she woke up, he told her he’d had the marriage annulled because she was trash, then kicked her out. Literally.

“She crawled back to the States like a worm, burst into my office in the middle of a session, screaming and bawling and begging me to help her. I called Paul. Both of us tried to calm her down, persuade her to admit herself. But she wouldn’t cooperate and she wasn’t a clear and present danger, so there was nothing we could do, legally. She stomped out, cursing both of us. A few days later she was the old Sherry again- foul-mouthed, popping pills, back on the road, constantly on the move. From time to time I heard from her- middle of the night phone calls, postcards that tried to be friendly. Once or twice I even drove out to the airport to see her between planes. We’d chat, have drinks, pretend everything between us was okay. But her rage hadn’t dissipated. The next time she came back to L.A. to stay, she got close to me again, then started in with her follow-up visits . God, I loved my work, Alex. Still miss it.”

“What brought things to a head?”

“The party. She loved parties as much as I hated them. But Paul wanted me at this one- ordered her to stay away. She argued, threw a fit. He told her that both of us couldn’t go and I’d be the one. This was for psychologists. Professionals only. A special occasion for him and he wouldn’t see it ruined by her acting-out. That set her off- she attacked him, tried to stab him with a pair of scissors. The first time she’d ever gotten physical with him. He overpowered her, gave her a large dose of barbiturates, and locked her in her room. Saturday night, right after the party, he let her out. Told me she looked calm, was actually pleasant- remorseful. Forgive and forget.”

“How did you handle the party?” I asked. “Meeting Mrs. Blalock’s friends.”

“For them I was Sherry- smiling and looking sexy. It wasn’t that hard- there wasn’t much substance to her. For all the psych people I was me. The two groups didn’t mingle at all, and mostly I stayed with Uncle Billy.”

Magpies and swans…

“Forgive and forget,” I said. “But she’d done neither.”

She stared at me. “Must we go further, Alex? It’s so ugly. She’s gone now, out of my life- out of our lives. And I have a chance for a new start.”

She raised my hand to her lips. Licked the knuckles.

“Hard to begin without ending,” I said. “Closure. For both of us.”

She sighed. “For you,” she said. “Only for you. Because you mean so much to me.”

“Thanks. I know it’s hard, but I really think it’s best.”

She squeezed my hand. “I got your message on Sunday. I was disappointed, but I could tell from your voice that it wasn’t farewell. You were nervous, had left the lines open.”

I didn’t argue.

“So I was thinking about whether to call you, or wait until you called me to set up another date. I decided to wait, let you move at your own pace. You’d been on my mind all day and when the knock on my door sounded, I thought it was you. But it was her. All covered with blood. And laughing. I asked her what had happened- had she been in an accident? Was she okay? And then she told me. Laughing. What she’d done- the horror of it and she was laughing!”

Sharon burst into tears, began shaking violently, doubled over and held her head.

“She didn’t do it by herself,” I said. “Who helped her?”

She shook some more.

“Was it D.J. Rasmussen?”

She looked up, tear-streaked, mouth open. “You knew D.J.?”

“I met him.”

“Met him? Where?”

“At your house. Both of us thought you were dead. We came there to pay our last respects.”

She tore at her face. “Oh, God, poor, poor D.J. Until she told me what she’d… what they’d done, I’d never known he was one of her… conquests.”

“He was the only one she held on to,” I said. “The most vulnerable. The most violent.”

She groaned and straightened, pulled herself to her feet and began circling the room, slowly, like a sleepwalker, then faster and faster, tugging her earlobe so hard I thought she’d tear it off.

“Yes, it was D.J. She laughed when she told me that, laughed about how she’d gotten him to do it- using dope, booze. Her body. Mostly her body. I’ll never forget the way she put it: ‘I did him , so he’d do them .’ Laughing, always laughing, about all the blood , how Paul and Suzanne had begged. And poor Lourdes, so sweet, leaving, on her way out, when they caught her coming down the stairs. Sunday was her day off- she’d stayed late to help tidy the house. Laughing, about how she’d tied them, watched as D.J. did them- with a baseball bat and a gun. Him thinking all the time that it was me he was doing it for- me who’d used him.”