Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Working on Sunday, Mal?”

“Brunch,” he said. “Waiting for a table. Evil never rests; neither can the good guys. Going to be seven attorneys on the other side, Alex. Have your bullshit detector finely tuned.”

“Why the army?”

“Multiple pockets. The other driver’s insurance company has assigned two of their downtown hotshots; the estate’s sending another. The drunk who rammed them was a fairly successful building contractor- there’re some bucks involved. I told you about the brakes, which gives us the auto manufacturer’s mouthpiece and the one representing the dealer who serviced the car. The restaurant that served him the drinks makes six. Add to that a county attorney because we’re claiming inadequate lighting and insufficient cones around the ditch, and you’ve got seven in toto . Intimidated?”

“Should I be?”

“Nope. It’s quality that counts, not quantity, right? We’ll do it at my office, get a little home-base advantage. I’ll start by reading off your qualifications, and as usual, one of them will cut it off before it gets too hoo-ha and stipulate to your expertise. You’ve done this before; you know the whole thing’s supposed to be fact-finding, polite, but I’ll be there to cover your ass if it starts to get nasty. The insurance guys will probably put up the biggest kick- their liability is clearest and they’ve got the most to lose. My hunch is that, rather than attack your information per se, they’ll question the validity of early childhood trauma as a concept- is it scientific fact or just shrinky bullshit. And even if it is, how durable is the damage? Can you prove that a traumatic experience at eighteen months will warp poor little Darren for life.”

“Never said I could.”

“I know that and you know that, but please be more subtle on Wednesday. The important thing is they can’t prove he’ll be fine. And if it goes to trial, believe me, I’ll make damn sure the burden of proof will be on them . A jury is going to feel mighty sorry for a cute little tyke who wakes up from a car nap only to see his father’s head sailing over the back seat and landing right next to him. Videotaping your sessions was a beautiful touch, Alex. The kid comes across wonderfully vulnerable. In a trial situation, I’d get to show every second of footage- all that hyper stuff- along with the Polaroids from the accident. Nothing like a bloody head to get the old sympathy juices flowing, huh?”

“Nothing like it.”

“A jury will fucking believe the concept, Alex. They’ll see no way this kid could ever be normal again- and let’s face it, can any of us guarantee something like that could ever heal? The other side knows that. They’ve already thrown out hints of settlement offers- penny-ante bullshit. So it’s just a question of how much, how soon. Your job will be to tell it like it is, but don’t get too academic. Just stick to the old ‘to the best of my psychological knowledge’ line and we’ll be fine. I’ve got my actuary working overtime, want to hook these bastards so tight they’ll be paying Darren’s rent at the old-age home.”

He paused, added, “It’s only fair, Alex. Denise’s life is shattered. It’s the only way for someone like her to beat the system.”

“You’re a white knight, Mal.”

“Something eating at you?” He sounded genuinely hurt.

“No, everything’s fine. Just a little tired.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He said nothing for a moment. “All right, just as long as we’re communicating.”

“We’re communicating perfectly, Mal. Quality, not quantity.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Rest up and take care of yourself, doc. I want you in peak shape when you’re dealing with the seven dwarfs.”

I called Sharon just after noon. A machine answered- my year for them. (“Hello, this is Dr. Ransom. I’m not in right now, but I’m very interested in receiving your message…”)

Even on tape the sound of her voice brought back memories… the feel of her fingers on my cheek.

All at once I had to be rid of her, decided to do it now . I waited for the emergency beeper number that therapists typically include at the end of their tapes. But she didn’t mention one.

Beep.

I said, “Sharon, this is Alex. Can’t make Monday. Good luck.”

Short and sweet.

Dr. Heartbreaker.

An hour later her face was still in my mind, a pale, lovely mask drifting in and out of my consciousness.

I tried to chase the image away, succeeded only in making it more vivid. I surrendered to reminiscence, told myself I was being a horny jerk, allowing my little head to think for my big one. Nevertheless, I sank deeper into time-buffered memories and began wondering if I’d done the right thing by breaking the date.

At one, hoping to exchange one lovely mask for another, I phoned San Luis Obispo. Robin’s mother answered.

“Yes?”

“This is Alex, Rosalie.”

“Oh. Hello.”

“Is Robin there?”

“No.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“She’s out. With friends.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“So, how’s the baby, Rosalie?”

“Fine.”

“Okay, then. Please tell her I called.”

“All right.”

“’Bye.”

Click.

The privilege of owning a mother-in-law without having to do the paperwork.

Monday, I struggled through the morning paper, hoping the venality and low-mindedness of international politics would cast my problems in a trivial light. It proved effective, until I finished the paper. Then that old empty feeling returned.

I fed the fish, did a wash, went down to the carport, started up the Seville, and drove into South Westwood to do some grocery shopping. Somewhere between frozen foods and canned goods I realized my basket was empty; I left the supermarket without buying a thing.

There was a multiplex theater up the block from the market. I chose a feature at random, paid the early-bird discount price and sat low in my seat along with giggling teenage couples and other solitary men. The show was a low-grade thriller graced by neither coherent dialogue nor plot. I walked out in the middle of a sweat-soaked love scene between the heroine and the dashing psychopath who was going to try to carve her up for postcoital dessert.

Outside, it was dark. Another day vanquished. I forced a fast-food burger down my throat, headed for home, then remembered that the newspaper had been temporarily therapeutic.

Evening. A new edition. A blind vendor was hawking it from a curb on Wilshire. I pulled over, bought a paper, paying with a dollar bill, not waiting for the change.

Back home, I called my service- no impersonal machine for old Alex. No messages either.

Stripping down to my undershorts, I took the Times and a cup of instant coffee to bed.

Slow news day; most of the evening special was a rehash of the morning edition. I stuffed myself on swindles and subterfuge. Found my eyes blurring. Perfect.

Then I was brought abruptly back to focus by a story on page 20.

Not even a story, just filler: a couple of column-inches next to a wire-service piece on the sociological structure of South American fire ants.

But the headline caught my eye.

PSYCHOLOGIST’S DEATH

POSSIBLE SUICIDE

Maura Bannon

Staff Writer

(LOS ANGELES) Police sources said the death of a local psychologist, found this morning in her Hollywood Hills home, probably resulted from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The body of Sharon Ransom, 34, was discovered this morning in the bedroom of her Nichols Canyon home. She had apparently died sometime Sunday night.