Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“You’re a real curious fellow, aren’t you? Poking around in other people’s business.”

“Forget it,” I said. “Sorry for poking.”

“Maybe he needs protecting from her, huh?”

“Why do you say that?”

“All this.” Looking through the windshield at the big peach-colored house. “This kind of thing can eat you up. Noel’s head is on real good, but you never know… Do you really think the two of them…”

“Who knows?” I said. “They’re young, have a lot of changes ahead of them.”

“Because I’m really not comfortable with that. You’d think I’d be the one who’d want it, but I don’t. This isn’t real- it isn’t the way real people were made to live. He’s my baby, I pushed him out with a lot of pain, and I don’t want to see him eaten up by all this.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I hope Melissa gets away from it, too.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s not been any jar a’honey for her, either.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“Yeah,” she said, starting to touch her bust, but dropping her hand.

I pushed the passenger door open. “Good luck, and thanks for your time.”

“No,” she said. “He doesn’t know. He thinks I don’t know, either. I told him it was a one-night stand, no way to ever find out. He truly believes that. I used to… do things. I told him a story that didn’t make me look real good, because I had to. I had to do what I thought was right.”

“Of course you did,” I said, and took her hand. “And it was right- the proof is in the pudding.”

“That’s true.”

“Bethel, I really meant what I said about Noel. And the credit you get for it.”

She squeezed my hand and let go.

“You sound for real. I’ll try to believe that.”

Milo came by my house at four. I was working on my monograph and led him into the study.

“Lots of dirt on Douse,” he said, shaking his briefcase and putting it on my desk. “Not that it matters much.”

“It might,” I said. “In terms of recovering anything he’s already looted from the estate.”

“Yeah,” he said, “let’s hear it for private investigation. How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Really. How about yourself?”

“Still on the job- Attorney LaFamiglia likes my style.”

“A woman with taste.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. There are baby fish down in the pond, they’re surviving and growing, and I’m in a great mood.”

“Baby fish?”

“Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

We went down to the Japanese garden. It took a while for him to see the hatchlings, but finally he did. And smiled. “Yeah. Cute. What do you feed them?”

“Ground-up fish food.”

“They don’t get eaten?”

“Some do. The fast ones survive.”

“Aha.”

He sat down on a rock and exposed his face to the sun. “Nyquist showed up late last night at the restaurant. Talked to Don for a few minutes, then split. Looks like farewell. The van was packed up for long-term travel.”

“You get that from your guy?”

“Every detail. Along with your departure, down to the second. He’s a demon for particulars. If I’d been smart I’d have told him to tail you.”

“Would he have been able to help?”

He smiled. “Probably not. We’re talking arthritis and emphysema. But he’s got damn good handwriting.”

He looked at the paper in my typewriter. “What’s that?”

“My paper on the Hale School.”

“Everything back to normal, huh? When do you see Melissa?”

“As in therapy?”

“As in.”

“Soon as possible after she gets back to L.A. I called up there an hour ago. She didn’t want to leave her mother’s side. The doctor I spoke to said it should be about a week before Gina can be moved. Then there’ll be extended care.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Melissa’s sure going to need it- seeing you. Maybe everyone involved in this should go into therapy.”

“I did you a real favor, huh?”

“Actually you did. When I write my memoirs this one’ll get a chapter of its own. Attorney LaFamiglia said she’d be my agent if I ever do it.”

“Attorney LaFamiglia would probably make a good agent.”

He smiled. “Balls-in-the-grinder time for Douse and Anger. Almost feel sorry for them. So, you eat recently? If not, I’m up for something solid.”

“Had a big breakfast,” I said. “But there is something I could go for.”

“What’s that?”

I told him.

He said, “Christ alive, don’t you ever get enough?”

“I need to know. For everyone’s sake. If you don’t want to pursue it, I’ll grope along by myself.”

He said, “Jesus,” then: “Okay, run everything by me again- the details.”

I did.

“That’s it? A phone on the floor? That’s all you’ve got?”

“The timing’s right.”

“Okay,” he said, “it should be easy enough to get hold of the records. The question is whether or not it was a toll call.”

“San Labrador to Santa Monica is,” I said. “I already checked the bill.”

“Mr. Detective,” he said. “Mr. Private Eye.”

The place didn’t look like what it was. Victorian house in a working-class section of Santa Monica. Two stories, big front porch with swings and rockers. Yellow clapboard sides with white and baby-blue trim. Lots of cars on the street. Several more in the driveway. Better landscaping and maintenance than the other houses on the block.

“My, my,” I said, pointing to a car in the driveway. Black Cadillac Fleetwood, ’62.

Milo parked the Porsche.

We got out and inspected the big car’s front bumper. Deeply dented and freshly primered.

“Yeah, looks right,” said Milo.

We walked up the porch and through the front door. A bell over the lintel tinkled.

The entry hall was filled with houseplants. Sweet-smelling. Too sweet- concealing something.

A dark, pretty woman in her early twenties came out. White blouse, red maxiskirt, Eurasian, clear complexion. “Can I help you?”

Milo told her who we wanted to see.

“Are you family?”

“Acquaintances.”

“Old-time acquaintances,” I said. “Like Madeleine de Couer.”

“Madeleine,” she said, with fondness. “She’s here every two weeks, so devoted. And such a good cook- we all love her butter cookies. Let’s see what time it is- six-ten. He may be sleeping. He sleeps a lot, especially lately.”

“Getting worse?” I said.

“Physically or spiritually?”

“Physically, for starters.”

“We’ve seen some deterioration, but it comes and goes. One day he’s walking fine; the next, he can’t move. It’s hard seeing him that way- knowing what’s in store. It’s such an ugly disease, especially for someone like him, used to being active- though I guess they all are. I’d never even heard of what he’s got- it’s even rarer than Lou Gehrig’s. I had to bone up, and there really isn’t much in the medical books.”

“How about spiritually?”

She smiled. “You know how he is- but actually he’s been real good to have around. He cooks for the others, tells them stories. Prods them when he thinks they’re getting lazy. He even orders the staff around, but no one minds- he’s such a dear. When he… when he can’t do those things anymore it’s going to be a real loss.” Sighing. “Anyway, why don’t we see if he’s awake?”

We followed her up to the second floor, passing bedrooms, each containing two or three hospital beds. Old men and women occupied the beds, watching television, reading, sleeping, eating orally or intravenously. Young people in street clothes attended to them. The place was very quiet.