Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Her face tightened as she prepared to defend against that. But she waited until she’d calmed before speaking. “I suppose you’re right. We all hold on to something, don’t we? The private gardens we choose to water and feed.” Turning away from me. “ “Gardens brimming with iron flowers. Iron roots and stems and petals.’ A paranoid schizophrenic once told me that, and I do believe it’s an apt image. Not even the deepest probing can uproot iron flowers when they don’t want to be dug up, can it?”

She faced me again. Looking hurt once more.

“No, it can’t,” I said. “Still, if she does choose to dig them up, you’ll probably be the one she hands the bouquet.”

Weak smile. Teeth. White and straight and gleaming. “Are you patronizing me, Dr. Delaware?”

“No, and if it sounds that way, I’m sorry, Dr. Cunningham hyphen Gabney.”

That pumped some strength into the smile.

I said, “What about the members of her group? Would they know anything useful?”

“No. She never saw any of them socially.”

“How many are there?”

“Just two.”

“Small group.”

“It’s a rare disorder. Finding motivated patients and those with the financial means to embark on the extensive treatment we offer cuts the number even further.”

“How are the other two patients doing?”

“Well enough to leave home and come to group.”

“Well enough to be interviewed?”

“By whom?”

“The police. The private detective- he’ll be looking for her in addition to investigating McCloskey.”

“Absolutely not. These are fragile individuals. They’re not even aware she’s missing, yet.”

“They know she didn’t show up today.”

“No-shows aren’t unusual, given the diagnosis. Most of them have missed sessions at one time or another.”

“Has Mrs. Ramp missed any before today?”

“No, but that’s not the point. No one’s absence would be especially noteworthy.”

“Will they be curious if she doesn’t show up by next Monday?”

“If they are, I’ll deal with it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss the other patients. They haven’t lost their right to confidentiality.”

“Okay.”

She started to cross her legs again. Thought better of it and kept her feet flat on the floor.

“Well,” she said, “this hasn’t been very profitable, has it?”

She stood, smoothed her dress, looked past me toward the door.

I said, “Would there be any reason for her to walk out- voluntarily?”

She snapped her head around. “What do you mean?”

“The great escape,” I said. “Trading in her life-style for something new. Jumping the therapeutic gun and going for total independence.”

“Total independence?” she said. “That makes no sense at all. Not a lick.”

The door swung open before she was able to get me to it. A man charged in and race-walked across the entry hall. Leo Gabney. But even though I’d seen his photo just a few days ago, I had to look twice before his identity registered.

He noticed us mid-stride, stopped so suddenly I expected to see skid marks on the parquet.

It was his get-up that had thrown me off: red-and-white flannel western shirt, pipestem blue jeans, pointy-toed bullhide boots with riding heels. His belt was tooled cowhide, the buckle a big brass letter psi - the Greek alphabet’s contribution to psychology’s professional identity. A retractable key ring was attached to the belt.

Urban Cowboy, but he lacked the brawn to make it work. Despite his age, his build was almost boyish. Five nine, 130, sunken thorax, shoulders narrower than his wife’s. The bushy hair stark white over a face sun-baked the color of sour-mash whiskey. Active blue eyes. Bristly white brows. Liver-spotted cranial dome high enough to host half a dozen worry lines; prominent, high-bridged nose with pinched nostrils; less chin than he deserved. His neck was wattled. A bramble of white chest hair ended at his gullet. The entire assemblage elfin but not whimsical.

He gave his wife a peck on the cheek, gave me a laboratory look.

She said, “This is Dr. Delaware.”

“Ah, Dr. Delaware. I’m Dr. Gabney.”

Strong voice. Basso profundo- too deep a tone for such a narrow box. A New England accent that turned my name into Dullaweah.

He extended his hand. Thin and soft- he hadn’t been roping steers. Even the bones felt soft, as if they’d been soaked in vinegar. The skin around them was loose and dry and cool, like that of a lizard in the shade.

“Has she shown up yet?” he said.

She said, “I’m afraid not, Leo.”

He clucked his tongue. “Hellish thing. I came down just as soon as I could.”

She said, “Dr. Delaware informed me that McCloskey- the man who assaulted her- is back in town.”

The white eyebrows tented and the worry lines became inverted V’s. “Oh?”

“The police located him but he had an alibi, so they let him go. We were discussing the fact that his previous modus was to hire someone- there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t do it again. The man he hired the first time is dead, but that doesn’t rule out another scoundrel, does it?”

“No, of course not. Dreadful. Letting him go was absurd- absolutely premature. Why don’t you call the police and remind them of that fact, dear?”

“I doubt they’d pay much attention. Dr. Delaware also feels it’s unlikely anyone could have watched her without being noticed by the San Labrador police.”

He said, “Why’s that?”

“The bare streets, the fact that the local police’s area of competence is looking out for strangers.”

“Competence is a relative term, Ursula. Call them. Tactfully remind them that McCloskey’s behavioral style is contractor, not contractee. And that he may have contracted again. Sociopaths often repeat themselves- behaviorally rigid. Cut out by a cookie cutter, the lot of them.”

“Leo, I don’t-”

“Please, darling.” He took both of her hands in his. Massaged her smooth flesh with his thumbs. “We’re dealing with inferior minds, and Mrs. Ramp’s welfare is at stake.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, said, “Certainly, Leo.”

“Thank you, darling. And one more thing, if you’d be so kind- pull the Saab in a bit. I’m sticking out into the street.”

She turned her back on us and walked quickly to her office. Gabney watched her. Following her sway- almost lasciviously. When she closed the door, he turned to me for the first time since we’d shaken hands. “Dr. Delaware, of pavor nocturnus fame. Come into my office, won’t you?”

I followed him to the rear of the house, into a wide, paneled room that would have been the library. Drapes of cranberry-colored velvet under gold-edged valances covered most of one wall. The rest was bookcases carved with near-rococo abandon and murky paintings of horses and dogs. The ceiling was as low as the one in his wife’s study, but adorned with moldings and centered with a plaster floral medallion from which hung a brass chandelier set with electric candles.

A seven-foot carved desk sat in front of one of the bookcases. A silver and crystal pen-and-inkwell set, bone-bladed letter opener, antique fold-up blotter, and green-shaded banker’s lamp shared the red leather top with an In/Out box and piles of medical and psychological journals, some still in their brown paper wrappers. The case directly behind him was filled with books with his name on the spine and letter-files tagged PEER REVIEW ARTICLES and dated from 1951 through the last year.

He settled himself in a high-backed leather desk chair and invited me to sit.

Second time, in just a few minutes, on the other side of the desk. I was starting to feel like a patient.