Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Milo put away the badge, said, “What’s your name, son?”

“Parvizkhad, Bijan. Six grade.”

“Good to meet you, Bijan. We’re trying to find the people next door. See them lately?”

“Mr. Gordon. Sure.”

“That’s right. And his wife.”

“They gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Trip.”

“A trip where?”

The boy shrugged. “They take suitcase- Vuitton.”

“When was this?”

“Sat-day.”

“Saturday- yesterday?”

“Sure. They go away, have cars take away. On big truck. Two Rolls-Royce, gangster whitewalls Lincoln, and radical T-Bird.”

“They put all the cars on a big truck?”

Nod.

“Was there a name on the truck?”

Uncomprehending look.

“Letters,” said Milo. “On the side of the truck. The name of the tow company?”

“Ah. Sure. Red letters.”

“Do you remember what the letters said?”

Shake of the head. “What’s their case? Coke burn? Hit man?”

Milo stifled a smile, bent, and put his face close to the boy’s. “Sorry, son, I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”

More puzzlement.

“Classified information, Bijan. Secret.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Ah. Secret Service. Walther PPK. Bond. Chames Bond.”

Milo looked at him gravely.

The boy took a closer look at me. I bit my lip to keep a straight face.

“Tell me, Bijan,” said Milo. “What time Saturday were the cars taken away?”

The boy gestured with his hand, seemed to be struggling for phrasing. “Zero seven zero zero hour.”

“Seven in the morning?”

“Morning, sure. Father go to office, I bring him Mark Cross.”

“Mark Cross?”

“His briefcase,” I suggested.

“Sure,” said the kid. “Napa leather. Executive styling.”

“You brought your father his briefcase at seven in the morning and saw Mr. Gordon’s cars being taken away on a truck. So your father saw it too.”

“Sure.”

“Is your father home now?”

“No. Office.”

“Where’s his office?”

“Century City.”

“What’s the name of his business?”

“Par-Cal Developers,” said the boy, volunteering a phone number, which Milo wrote down.

“What about your mother?”

“No, she don’t see. Sleeping. Still sleeping.”

“Did anyone but you and your father see?”

“No.”

“Bijan, when the cars were taken away, were Mr. Gordon and his wife there?”

“Just Mr. Gordon. Very angry about cars.”

“Angry?”

“Always, about cars. One time I throw Spalding, hit Rolls-Royce, he get angry, scream. Always angry. About cars.”

“Did someone damage one of his cars while they were taking it away?”

“No, sure not. Mr. Gordon jump around, scream to red men, say careful, careful, idiot, don’t scratch. Angry always about cars.”

“Red men,” said Milo. “The men who took the cars away were wearing red clothing?”

“Sure. Like pit crew. Indy Five Hundred.”

“Coveralls,” muttered Milo as he scrawled.

“Two men. Big truck.”

“Okay, good. You’re doing great, Bijan. Now, after the cars were taken away on the truck, what happened?”

“Mr. Gordon go in house. Come out with Missus and Rosie.”

“Who’s Rosie?”

“The maid,” I said.

“Sure,” said the boy. “Rosie carry the Vuittons.”

“The vweet- the suitcases.”

“Sure. And one long bag for airplane. Not Vuitton- maybe Gucci.”

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“Taxi come.”

“Do you remember the color of the taxi?”

“Sure. Blue.”

“Beverly Hills Cab Company,” said Milo, writing.

“All get in taxi,” said the boy.

“All three of them?”

“Sure. And Vuittons and one maybe-Gucci in trunk. I go out and wave, but they don’t wave back.”

Milo autographed one of the boy’s Nikes, gave him a business card and a sheet of paper from his L.A.P.D. note pad. We returned his wave and left him skating up and down the empty block.

I got back into traffic on the east side of Sunset Park. The park was filled with tourists, milling around the arcing fountains, shading themselves under the floss trees. I said, “Saturday. They split the day after the Kruse murders were discovered. They knew enough to be scared, Milo.”

He nodded. “I’m gonna call the taxi company, try to find who moved the cars- see if I can trace them that way. Check the post office in the event they left a forwarding- unlikely, but you never know. Call the kid’s father, too, though I doubt he noticed as much as old Bijan. Kid was sharp, wouldn’t you say?”

“You bet your Ralph Laurens,” I said. And for the first time in a long time, we laughed.

But it faded quickly and by the time we reached home, both of us were morose.

“Fucking case,” said Milo. “Too many dead people, too long ago.”

“Vidal’s still alive,” I said. “Looking damned robust, in fact.”

“Vidal,” said Milo, grunting. “What did Crotty call him- Billy the Pimp? From that to chairman of the board. Steep climb.”

“Sharp spikes would lend traction,” I said. “Along with a few heads to step on.”

My plan, Monday morning, was to return to the library and search for more on Billy Vidal and the Linda Lanier dope bust. But the Fed-Ex man came to the door at 8:20 bearing a single parcel. Inside was a dictionary-size book bound in dark-green leather. A note rubber-banded to the cover said: “Here. I kept my side of it. Hope you do ditto. M.B.”

I took the book into the library, read the title page:

THE SILENT PARTNER: IDENTITY CRISIS AND EGO DYSFUNCTION IN A CASE OF MULTIPLE PERSONALITY MASQUERADING AS PSEUDO-TWINSHIP. CLINICAL AND RESEARCH RAMIFICATIONS.

by

Sharon Jean Ransom

A Dissertation Presented to the

FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL

In Partial Fulfillment of the

Requirements for the Degree

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

(Psychology)

June 1981

I turned to the dedication page.

To Shirlee and Jasper, who have meant more to me than they could ever imagine, and to Paul, who has guided me, adroitly, from darkness to light.

Jasper?

Friend? Lover? Another victim?

In the Acknowledgments section, Sharon reiterated her thanks to Kruse, following it with cursory appreciation for the other members of her committee: Professors Sandra J. Romansky and Milton F. Frazier.

I’d never heard of Romansky, supposed she could have come to the department after I’d left. I pulled out my American Psychological Association Directory and found her listed as a consultant in public health at a hospital in American Samoa. Her bio cited a one-year visiting lectureship at the University during the academic year 1981-1982. Her appointment had been in women’s studies, out of the anthropology department. In June of ’81 she’d been a brand new Ph.D. Twenty-six years old- two years younger than Sharon.

The “outside member” permitted on each committee, usually chosen by the candidate for easygoing personality and lack of deep knowledge in the field of research.

I could try to trace her, but the directory was three years out of date and there was no guarantee she hadn’t moved on.

Besides, there was a better source of information, closer to home.

Hard to believe the Ratman had agreed to sit on the committee. A hard-nosed experimentalist, Frazier had always despised anything vaguely patient-oriented and regarded clinical psychology as “the soft underbelly of behavioral science.”

He’d been department chairman during my student days and I recalled how he’d pushed for the “rat rule”- requiring all graduate students to conduct a full year of animal research before advancing to candidacy for the Ph.D. The faculty had voted that down, but a requirement that all doctoral research feature experimentation- control groups, manipulation of variables- had passed. Case studies were absolutely forbidden.