Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Del made it sound as if he was okay.”

“Del didn’t know him. I did. Besides, Del’s a good guy, but our relationship’s been a bit frosty of late.”

“Departmental politics?”

“Marital problems- his wife’s giving him grief. He’s sure she’s stepping out. It’s turned him asocial.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too. He was the only one in the division who ever treated me human. And don’t get me wrong- we’re not ripping each other’s throats out. But he’s not going to extend himself- for anyone. Anyway, the timing’s right for a little extracurricular info-gathering. I don’t have to report till Monday, and Rick will either be working or sleeping it off all weekend.”

He got up, walked around. “Idle hands make the devil’s work, lad. Far be it from me to tempt Satan. Just don’t expect anything dramatic, okay?”

I nodded, took the dishes to the sink and started washing.

He came over and placed a big, padded hand on my shoulder.

“You look down. ’Fess up, Doctor. This friend was more than just a friend.”

“A long time ago, Milo.”

“But from the way you look when you talk about her, it’s not that ancient a history. Or is there something else on that scary thing you call your mind?”

“Nothing, Milo.”

He removed his hand. “Do consider one thing, Alex. Are you ready to hear more dirt about her? ’Cause, from what we already know, once we start digging, it ain’t gonna be buried treasure time.”

“No problem,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Uh-huh,” he said. And went to get another beer.

When he was gone my nonchalance faded. How much more dirt did I really want to encounter, when I’d never made sense of what I knew already?

Free follow-up visits.

I’d been followed up too.

The scene with the twin photo left me addled, in pain, unable to concentrate on work. Three days later I started calling her, got no answer. Four days later I gathered my resolve and went back to the house on Jalmia. No one home. I inquired at the psych department, was informed she was on temporary leave. None of her professors was worried about her absence. She’d had to take leave before-“family business”- had always made up the work, was a top-notch student. They suggested I talk to her adviser, Dr. Kruse.

When Kruse didn’t return a week’s worth of phone calls, I looked up his office address and drove there. The building was five stories of anodized steel and bronzed glass on Sunset near Doheny, granite-lobbied and maroon-carpeted, with a noisy French restaurant that opened to a sidewalk café on the ground floor. The directory listed an odd mix of tenants: about a third psychologists and psychiatrists, the rest various film-related concerns- production companies, agents, publicists, personal managers.

Kruse’s suite was on the top floor. His door was locked. I kneeled, opened the mail slot, and peeked in. Darkness. I got up and looked around. One other suite took up the rest of the floor- an outfit called Creative Image Associates. Its double doors were locked too.

I taped a note under Kruse’s nameplate, leaving my name and number, and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible re: S.R. Then I drove up to the house on Jalmia again.

The oil stain in the carport was dry, the foliage wilting. The mailbox was crammed with at least a week’s worth of correspondence. I skimmed the return addresses on the envelopes. All junk. Nothing indicating where she’d gone.

The following morning, before heading for the hospital, I went back to the psych department and got Kruse’s home address out of the faculty files. Pacific Palisades. I drove there that evening and sat waiting for him.

The tail end of November, just before Thanksgiving. L.A.’s best time of year. The sky had just deepened from El Greco blue to a glowing pewter, swelling with rain clouds and sweet with electricity.

Kruse’s house was big, pink, and Spanish, on a private road off Mandeville Canyon, just a short drive down to the coast highway and the high, battering tides of autumn. The street was narrow and quiet, the nearby properties estate-sized, but Kruse’s layout was open, no high walls or gates.

Psychology had been good to him. The house was graceful, with two hundred feet of landscaped garden on each side, adorned with verandas, Monterey roofs, hand-turned wooden grillwork, leaded windows. Shading the south side of the lawn was a beautifully warped black pine- giant bonsai. A pair of Brazilian orchid trees had sprinkled the freshly sown rye grass with violet blossoms. A semicircular driveway inlaid with Moorish tile cut an inverted U through the grass.

At twilight, colored outdoor lights came on and high-lighted the landscaping. No cars, not a sound. More canyon seclusion. Sitting there, I was reminded of the house on Jalmia- the master’s influence?- thought about Sharon’s inheritance story and wondered again if Kruse had set her up.

I wondered, too, about what had happened to the other little girl in the photo.

He showed up shortly after eight, driving a black, gold pin-striped Mercedes two-seater with the top down. He gunned up the driveway. Instead of opening the door, he swung his legs over it. His long yellow hair was perfectly windblown; a pair of mirrored sunglasses dangled from a gold chain around his neck. He carried no briefcase, just a small, purselike calfskin shoulder bag that matched his boots. He wore a gray cashmere sport coat, white silk turtleneck, and black slacks. A black silk handkerchief trimmed with scarlet spilled out of his breast pocket.

As he headed toward his front door I got out of the Rambler. The sound of my door slamming made him turn. He stared. I jogged toward him and stepped into the artificial light.

“Dr. Kruse, I’m Alex Delaware.”

Despite all the messages, my name evoked no sign of recognition.

“I’m a friend of Sharon Ransom.”

“Hello, Alex. I’m Paul.” Half-smile. His voice was low, from the chest, modulated like that of a disc jockey.

“I’m trying to locate her,” I said.

He nodded but didn’t answer. The silence lengthened. I felt obligated to speak.

“She hasn’t been home for over two weeks, Dr. Kruse. I was wondering if you knew where she is.”

“You care about her,” he said, as if answering a question I hadn’t asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Alex Delaware,” he said.

“I’ve called you several times. Left messages at your office.”

Big smile. He gave his head a toss. The yellow hair whipped back, then settled across his forehead. He took his keys out of his purse.

“I’d love to help you, Alex, but I can’t.” He began walking to the door.

“Please, Dr. Kruse…”

He stopped, turned, looked over his shoulder, flicked his eyes at me, and smiled again. But it came out as a sour twist of his lips, as if the sight of me made him ill.

Paul likes you… He likes what I’ve told him about you.

“Where is she, Dr. Kruse?”

“The fact that she didn’t tell you implies something, doesn’t it?”

“Just tell me if she’s okay. Is she coming back to L.A. or gone for good.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t talk to you about anything. Therapeutic confidentiality.”

“You’re her therapist?”

“I’m her supervisor. Inherent in the supervisory relationship is more than a little psychotherapy.”

“Telling me if she’s all right won’t violate confidentiality.”

He shook his head. Then something odd happened to his face.

The upper half remained all hard scrutiny- heavy blond brows and pale-brown eyes flecked with green that bored into mine with Svengali-like intensity. But from the nose down he’d gone slack, the mouth curling into a foolish, almost clownish leer.