Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Money.”

“More than she’d be able to spend in several lifetimes.”

“Now she’s gone,” I said. “No more need to make payments.”

“Doctor, you have an extremely naïve view of life. Money is the means, not the end. And the corporation would have survived- will survive, with or without me, or anyone else. When things attain a certain size, they become permanent. One can dredge a lake, not an ocean.”

“What is the end?”

“Rhythm. Balance. Keeping everything going - a certain ecology , if you will.”

A few minutes later: “You still haven’t answered my question, Doctor.”

“I won’t stir anything up. What would be the point?”

“Good. What about your detective friend?”

“He’s a realist.”

“Good for him.”

“Are you going to kill me anyway? Have Royal Hummel do his thing?”

He laughed. “Of course not. How amusing that you still see me as Attila the Hun. No, Doctor, you’re in no danger. What would be the point ?”

“For one, I know your family secrets.”

“Seaman Cross redux? Another book ?”

More laughter. It turned into coughing. Several miles later the ranch came into view, perfect and unreal as a movie set.

He said, “Speaking of Royal Hummel, there’s something I want you to know. He’ll no longer be functioning in a security capacity. Your comments on Linda’s death gave me quite a bit of pause- amazing what a fresh perspective will do. Royal and Victor were professionals. Accidents needn’t happen with professionals. At best, they were sloppy. At worst… You brought me insight late in life, Doctor. For that I owe you a large debt.”

“I was theorizing , Vidal. I don’t want anyone’s blood on my conscience, not even Hummel’s.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, will you please stop being melodramatic, young man! No one’s blood is at stake. Royal simply has a new job. Cleaning our chicken coops. Several tons of guano need to be shoveled each day. He’s getting on in years, his blood pressure’s too high, but he’ll manage.”

“What if he refuses?”

“Oh, he won’t.”

He aimed the vehicle at the empty corral.

“You gave the silent-partner photo to Kruse,” I said. “The girls were photographed over there.”

“Fascinating the things one dredges up in old attics.”

“Why?” I said. “Why’d you let Kruse go on for so long?”

“At one point, until recently, I believed he was helping Sharon- helping both of them. He was a charismatic man, very articulate.”

“But he was bleeding your sister before he met Sharon. Twenty years of blackmail- of mind games.”

He put the buggy in idle and looked at me. All the charm had dropped away, and I saw the same cold rawness in his eyes that I’d just witnessed in Sharon’s. Genes… The collective unconscious…

“Be that as it may, Doctor. Be that as it may.”

He drove quickly, stopped the buggy and parked.

We got out and walked toward the patio. Two men in dark clothing and ski masks stood waiting. One held a dark piece of elastic.

“Please don’t be frightened,” said Vidal. “That will come off as soon as it’s safe for both of us. You’ll be delivered safe and sound. Try to enjoy the ride.”

“Why don’t I feel reassured?”

More laughter, dry and forced. “Doctor, it’s been stimulating. Who knows, we may meet again one day- another party.”

“I don’t think so. I hate parties.”

“To tell the truth,” he said, “I’ve tired of them myself.” He turned serious. “But given even a slim chance that we do come face to face, I’d appreciate it if you don’t acknowledge me. Invoke professional confidentiality and pretend we’ve never met.”

“No problem there.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve comported yourself as a gentleman. Is there anything else?”

“Lourdes Escobar, the maid. A true innocent victim.”

“Compensation’s been made in that regard.”

“Dammit, Vidal, money can’t fix everything!”

“It can’t fix anything ,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, during the time she lived in the States, half of her family was wiped out by the guerrillas. Same death, no compensation. Those who survived were tortured, their homes burned to the ground. They’ve been granted immigration papers, brought over here, set up with businesses, given land. Compared to life itself, admittedly feeble, but the best I can offer. Any additional suggestions?”

“Justice would be nice.”

“Any suggestions about improving the justice that’s been meted out?”

I had nothing to say.

“Well, then,” he said, “is there anything I can do for you ?”

“As a matter of fact, there is a small favor. An arrangement.”

When I told him what it was, and exactly how I wanted it done, he laughed so hard it plunged him into a coughing attack that bent him double. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, spat, laughed some more. When he pulled the handkerchief away, the silk was stained with something dark.

He tried to talk. Nothing came out. The men in black looked at each other.

He finally found his voice again. “Excellent, Doctor,” he said. “Great minds moving in the same direction. Now, let’s attend to that hand.”

I was dropped off on the University campus. Pulling the blindfold off, I made my way home on foot. Once inside my house I found I couldn’t tolerate being there, threw some things into a bag, and called the exchange to say I’d be going away for a couple of days, to hold my calls.

“Any forwarding number, Doctor?”

No active patients or pending emergencies. I said, “No, I’ll check in.”

“A real vacation, huh?”

“Something like that. Goodnight.”

“Don’t you want to pick up the messages that are already on your board?”

“Not really.”

“Oka-ay, but there’s this one guy who’s been driving me crazy. Called three times and got rude when I wouldn’t give him your home number.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sanford Moretti. Sounds like a lawyer- says he wants you to work on a case for him or something like that. Kept trying to tell me you’d really want to hear from him.”

My reply made her laugh. “ Doctor Delaware! I didn’t know you used that kind of language.”

I got in the car and drove away, found myself heading west, and ended up on Ocean Avenue, off Pico. Not far from the Santa Monica Pier, which had closed up for the night and darkened to a knurled clump of rooftops over a thatch of bowed pilings. Not far from the (vulgar) Pacific, but no OC VU on this block. The sea breeze had taken leave; the ocean smelled like garbage. The street hosted beer-and-shot bars with Polynesian names and “day-week-month” motels given a wide berth by the auto club.

I checked into a place called Blue Dreams- twelve brown, salt-smudged doors arranged around a parking lot badly in need of resurfacing, the neon tubes in the VACANCY sign cracked and drained of gas. A pasty-faced biker-hopeful with a dangling crucifix earring manned the front desk- doing me the favor of taking my money while making love to a slab of fried catfish and staring at a California Raisins commercial. Candy and condom machines stood side by side in the shoulder-cramping lobby, along with a pocket-comb dispenser, and the California Penal Code’s reflections on theft and defrauding an innkeeper.

I took a room on the south side, paying for a week in advance. Nine by nine, insecticide stink- no gnats here- a single narrow, filmed window exposing a slice of brick wall turned mauve by reflected streetlight, mismatched wood-grain furniture, skinny bed under a spread laundered to dishwater-colored fuzz, pay TV bolted to the floor. A quarter in the pay slot yielded an hour of fizzy sound and jaundiced skin tones. There were three quarters in my pocket. I tossed two out the window.