Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

I said, “Look, there really is no reason to believe anything ominous has happened. She could have had car trouble. Or just decided to stretch her wings a bit- the fact that she chose to drive over here by herself may indicate she was yearning to stretch.”

“This man’s being back doesn’t bother you at all? The possibility that he might have been stalking her for six months?”

“You were at that house frequently. When you walked around the block with her did you ever notice him- or anyone else?”

“No, but I wouldn’t have. I was focusing on her.”

“Even so,” I said. “San Labrador’s the last place you could stalk anybody and get away with it. No people, no cars- making intruders conspicuous is exactly why they do it. And the police function as private guards. Keeping an eye out for strangers is their specialty.”

“Granted,” she said. “But what if he didn’t sit around and make himself obvious? What if he just drove around- not every day, just once in a while? Different times of day. Hoping to grab a glimpse of her? And today he succeeded- spotted her leaving the house alone and went after her. Or maybe it wasn’t him at all- he hired someone to hurt her once, could have done it again. So the fact that he has an alibi is meaningless as far as I’m concerned. What about the man who actually attacked her- the one McCloskey paid? Maybe he’s back in town, too.”

“Melvin Findlay,” I said. “Not the man I’d choose for the job.”

“What do you mean?”

“A black man driving around San Labrador without a good reason wouldn’t last two minutes. And Findlay served hard time in prison for being hired help. It’s hard to believe he’d be stupid enough to go after her again.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I hope you’re right. But I’ve studied the criminal mind, and I long ago gave up assuming anything about human intelligence.”

“Speaking of the criminal mind, did Mrs. Ramp ever say what McCloskey had against her?”

She took off her glasses, drummed her fingers, picked a piece of lint from the desk, and flicked it away. “No, she didn’t. Because she didn’t know. Had no idea why he hated her so much. There’d once been a romance, but they’d parted as friends. She was truly baffled. It made it even more difficult for her- not knowing, not understanding. I spent a long time working on that.”

She drummed some more. “This is totally uncharacteristic of her. She was always a good patient, never deviated from plan. Even if it is nothing more than car trouble, I have an image of her stranded somewhere, panicking and going out of control.”

“Does she carry medication with her?”

“She should- her instructions are to have her Tranquizone with her at all times.”

“From what I saw, she knows how to use it.”

She stared at me, gave a close-lipped smile that tightened her jawline. “You’re quite the optimist, Dr. Delaware.”

I smiled back. “Gets me through the night.”

Her face softened. For a moment I thought she might actually show me some teeth. Then she grimaced and said, “Excuse me. I’m feeling a real lack of closure- have to deal with it.”

She reached for the phone, punched 911. When the operator came on the line, she identified herself as Gina Ramp’s doctor and asked to be put through to the chief of police.

As she waited I said, “His name is Chickering.”

She nodded, held up an index finger, and said, “Chief Chickering? This is Dr. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, Gina Ramp’s physician… No, I haven’t… Nothing… Yes, of course… Yes, she did. Three o’clock this afternoon… No, she didn’t, and I haven’t… No, there’s nothing… No, not in the least.” Look of exasperation. “Chief Chickering, I assure you she was in full possession of her faculties. Absolutely… No, not at all… I don’t feel that would be prudent or necessary… No, I assure you, she was totally rational… Yes. Yes, I understand… Excuse me, sir, there is one thing I thought you might want to consider. The man who attacked her… No, not him. The one who actually threw the acid. Findlay. Melvin Findlay- has he been located?… Oh. Oh, I see… Yes, of course. Thank you, Chief.”

She hung up and shook her head. “Findlay’s dead. Died in prison several years ago. Chickering was offended that I even asked- seems to think I’m casting aspersions on his professional abilities.”

“It sounded as if he’s questioning Gina’s mental stability.”

She gave a look of distaste. “He wanted to know if she was “all there ’- how’s that for a choice of words?” Rolling her eyes. “I actually think he wanted me to tell him she was crazy. As if that would make it acceptable for her to be missing.”

“Make it acceptable if he didn’t find her,” I said. “Who can be responsible for the actions of a crazy person?”

She blinked several more times. Gazed down at the desk top and let all the severity drop from her face. I was willing to bet her beauty had bloomed late. For a moment I saw her as a myopic little girl. Growing up smarter than her peers. Unable to relate. Sitting up in her room, reading and wondering if she’d ever fit in anywhere.

“We’re responsible,” she said. “We’ve taken on the responsibility to care for them. And here we sit, ineffectual.”

Frustration on her face. My eyes drifted to the Cassatt print.

She noticed and appeared to grow even more tense. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Cassatt was a genius. The expressiveness, particularly the way she brought out the essence of children.”

“I’ve heard she didn’t like children.”

“Oh, really?”

“Have you had the print for a long time?”

“A while.” She touched her hair. Another locked-jaw smile. “You didn’t come here to discuss art. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Can you think of any other psychological factors that might explain Gina’s disappearance?”

“Such as?”

“Dissociative episodes- amnesia, fugue. Could she have had some sort of break, be out there wandering, unaware of who she is?”

She thought for a while. “There’s nothing like that in her history. Her ego was intact- remarkably so, considering everything she’s been through. In fact I always thought of her as one of my most rational agoraphobics. In terms of the origin of her symptoms. With some of them, you never know how it starts- there’s no trauma you can put your finger on. But in her case the symptoms manifested following a tremendous amount of physical and emotional stress. Multiple surgeries, prolonged stretches of time when she was ordered to remain in bed so that her face could heal- medically prescribed agoraphobia, if you will. Combine that with the fact that the assault took place when she stepped out of her home and it would be almost irrational for her not to behave the way she did. Maybe even in a biological sense- data are coming out showing actual structural change in the midbrain following trauma.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “I suppose even after she turns up, we may never know what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“The life she leads- the insularity. In her own way she’s quite self-sufficient. That can lead a person to treasure secrecy. Even luxuriate in it. Back when I treated Melissa, I remember thinking that for this family, secrets were the coin of the realm. That an outsider would never really know what was going on. Gina may have stockpiled plenty of coins.”

“That’s the goal of therapy,” she said. “To break into that stockpile. Her progress has been remarkable.”

“I’m sure it has. All I’m saying is that she still may decide to hold on to a private reserve.”