Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“In terms of what?”

“Mental stability. These kinds of cases can get nasty. Do you see her as someone who can deal with court without cracking up?”

“It’s not a matter of cracking up,” I said. “It’s the cumulative stress level. Her moods tend to go up and down. She alternates between fatigue and withdrawal, and bursts of anger. She’s not stabilized yet. I’d watch her for a while, wouldn’t get right into litigation until I was sure she’d settled down.”

“Up and down,” she said. “Kind of a manic-depressive thing?”

“No, there’s nothing psychotic about it. It’s actually pretty logical, considering the emotional roller coaster she’s been on.”

“How long do you think it’ll take for her to settle down?”

“It’s hard to say. You can work with her on strategy- the intellectual part of it. But avoid anything confrontational for the time being.”

“ Confrontational is mostly what I’ve seen from her. That surprised me. What with her mother being dead only a few days- I expected more grief.”

“That may relate to something she learned in therapy years ago. Channeling anxiety to anger in order to feel more in control.”

“I see,” she said. “So you’re giving her a clean bill of health?”

“As I said, I wouldn’t want to see her go through any major upheaval right now, but in the long run I expect her to do okay. And she’s certainly not psychotic.”

“Okay. Good. Would you be willing to say that in court? Because the case may end up hinging on mental competence.”

“Even if the other side has engaged in illegal activities?”

“If that turns out to be the case, we’ll be in luck. And I’m looking into that angle, as I’m sure Milo told you. Jim Douse just went through a very expensive divorce and I know for a fact that he bought too many junk bonds for his personal portfolio. There’s talk of some funny business up at the State Bar, but it may turn out to be nothing more than dirt thrown around by his ex-wife’s attorneys. So I’ve got to cover all bases, assume Douse and the banker acted like saints. Even if they didn’t, with the way books can be juggled, major skullduggery can be hard to uncover. I deal with movie studios all the time- their accountants specialize in that. This case is sure to get nasty, because it’s a sizable estate. It could drag on for years. I need to know my client’s solid.”

“Solid enough,” I said. “For someone her age. But that doesn’t mean invulnerable.”

“Solid’s good enough, Doctor. Ah, she’s coming back now. Do you want to speak to her?”

“Sure.”

A beat, then: “Hi, Dr. Delaware.”

“Hi. How’re things going?”

“Fine… Actually, I thought maybe you and I could talk?”

“Sure. When?”

“Um… I’m working with Susan now and I’m getting kind of tired. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is. Ten in the morning okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Dr. Delaware. And I’m sorry if I’ve been… difficult.”

“You haven’t been, Melissa.”

“I’m just- I wasn’t thinking about… Mother. I guess I was… denying it- I don’t know- doing all that sleeping. Now, I keep thinking about her. Can’t stop. Never seeing her again- her face… knowing she never will… again.”

Tears. Long silence.

“I’m here, Melissa.”

“Things will never be the same,” she said. Then she hung up.

Six-twenty, still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I phoned my service and was told Professor “Sam Ficker” had called and left a Boston number.

I phoned it and got a young child on the line.

“Hello?”

“Professor Fiacre, please.”

“My daddy’s not home.”

“Do you know where he is?”

An adult female voice broke in: “Fiacre residence. Who’s calling?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning Professor Fiacre’s call.”

“This is the babysitter, Doctor. Seth said you might be calling. Here’s the number where you can reach him.”

She read off the number and I copied it down. Thanking her, I gave her the Tankard’s number for callback, hung up, and dialed the one she’d given me.

A male voice said, “Legal Seafoods, Kendall Square.”

“I’m trying to reach Professor Fiacre. He’s having dinner there.”

“Spell that, please.”

I did.

“Hold on.”

A minute passed. Three more. Ramp appeared to be rousing. Sitting up with great effort, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve, blinked, looked around, and stared at me.

No apparent recognition. Closing his eyes, he drew the tablecloth around his shoulders and settled back down.

Seth came on the phone. “Alex?”

“Hi, Seth. Sorry to bother you at dinner.”

“Perfect timing- we’re between courses. I couldn’t get much on the Gabneys, other than that their leaving wasn’t totally voluntary. So they may have been up to something unsavory but I sure couldn’t find out what it was.”

“Were they asked to leave Harvard?”

“Not officially. Nothing procedural as far as I can tell- the people I spoke to really didn’t want to get into details. What I gathered was that it was a mutual thing. They gave up tenure and split, and whoever knew something didn’t belabor it. As to what that something is, I don’t know.”

“Anything on the types of patients they were treating?”

“Phobics. That’s about it. Sorry.”

“I appreciate your trying.”

“I did run a search through Psych Abstracts and Medline to try to find out what kind of work they were doing. As it turns out, not much. She never published anything. Until four years ago, Leo was still cranking the stuff out. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. No more experiments, no clinical studies, just a couple of essays- very soft stuff. The kind of rÉsumÉ-filler he’d never have gotten published if he wasn’t Leo Gabney.”

“Essays on what?”

“Philosophical issues- free will, the importance of taking personal responsibility. Spirited attacks on determinism- how any behavior can be changed, given the proper identification of congruent stimuli and reinforcers. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“Doesn’t sound too controversial.”

“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s old age.”

“What is?”

“Getting philosophical and abandoning real science. I’ve seen other guys go through it when they hit menopause. Gotta tell my students if I ever start doing it, take me out and shoot me.”

We traded pleasantries for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. When the line was clear, I called the GALA Banner. A recording informed me that the paper’s office was closed. No beep for messages. I dialed Boston Information and tried to get a home number for the editor, Bridget McWilliams. A B. L. McWilliams was listed on Cedar in Roxbury, but the voice that answered there was male, sleepy, tinged with a Caribbean accent, and certain he had no relation named Bridget.

By six-forty, I’d been alone in the restaurant for over two hours and had grown to hate the place. I found some writing paper behind the bar, along with a portable radio. KKGO was no longer playing jazz, so I made do with soft rock. I kept thinking about missed connections.

Seven o’clock. Scratch marks on paper. Still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I decided to stick around until Milo reached Sacramento, then call him and beg off the assignment. Go home, attend to my fish eggs, maybe even call Robin… I phoned my exchange again, left a message for Milo in case I was out when he called.

The operator recorded it dutifully, then said, “There’s one for you, if you want it, Doctor.”

“From whom?”

“Someone named Sally Etheridge.”