Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“To their detriment.”

“You don’t think sometimes they know what’s best for them?”

“Not generally. If I did, I couldn’t charge them three hundred dollars an hour in good faith, could I?”

Three hundred. At that rate- the kind of intensive treatment they did- three patients could carry the whole clinic.

I said, “Is that for both you and your wife?”

He grinned, and I knew I’d asked the right question. “Myself alone. My wife receives two hundred. Are you appalled by those figures, Dr. Delaware?”

“They’re higher than what I’m used to, but it’s a free country.”

“That it is. I spent most of my professional life in academia and in public hospitals, ministering to the poor. Setting up treatment programs for people who never paid a penny. At this stage in my life I thought it only fair that the rich be offered the benefit of my accumulated knowledge.”

Lifting the silver pen, he twirled it and put it down. “So,” he said, “you feel Mrs. Ramp may have run away.”

“I think it’s a possibility. When I spoke to her yesterday, she hinted that she was planning to make some changes in her life.”

“Really?” The blue eyes stopped moving. “What kind of changes?”

“She implied that she didn’t like the house she was living in- too big, all the opulence. That she wanted something simpler.”

“Something simpler,” he said. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s about it.”

“Well, disappearing like this can hardly be thought of as a simplification.”

“Do you have any clinical impressions that would explain what’s happened?”

“Mrs. Ramp is a nice lady,” he said. “Very sweet. Instinctively, one wants to help her. And clinically, her case is fairly simple, a textbook case of classically conditioned anxiety strengthened and maintained by operant factors: the anxiety-reducing effects of repeated avoidance and escape strengthened by the positively reinforcing qualities of reduced social responsibility and increased altruism of others.”

“Conditioned dependency?”

“Exactly. In many ways she’s like a child- all agoraphobics are. Dependent, ritualistic, routinized to the extent that they cling to primitive habits. As the phobia endures, it gains strength, and their behavioral repertoire drops off sharply. Eventually they become frozen by inertia- a sort of psychological cryogenics. Agoraphobics are psychological reactionaries, Dr. Delaware. They don’t move unless prodded sharply. Every step is taken with great trepidation. That’s why I can’t see her gaily running off in search of some ill-defined Xanadu.”

“Despite her progress?”

“Her progress is gratifying but she has a ways to go. My wife and I have each mapped out extensive plans.”

That sounded more like competition than collaboration. I didn’t comment.

Unwrapping another stick of gum, he slid it between his lips. “The treatment is well thought out- we offer full value in return for our appalling fees. In all probability, Mrs. Ramp will return to the roost and avail herself of it.”

“So you’re not worried about her.”

He chewed hard, made squirting noises. “I’m concerned, Dr. Delaware, but worrying is counterproductive. Anxiety- producing. I train my phobics to stay away from it and I train myself to practice what I preach.”

He walked me to the door, talking about science. As I made my way across the lawn I noticed the Saab had been moved forward into the driveway. Behind it was a gray Range Rover. The windshield was dusty, except for wiper arcs.

I visualized Gabney behind the wheel, forging through the mesquite, and drove away thinking what an odd couple the two of them were. At first glance she was an ice queen. Combative, accustomed to fighting for her rights- I could see why she and Melissa had raised each other’s hackles. But the frost was so thin it melted on scrutiny. Underneath, vulnerability. Like Gina’s. Had that formed the basis for an exceptional empathy?

Who’d introduced whom to small gray rooms and the art of Mary Cassatt?

Whatever the reason, she seemed to care. Gina’s disappearance had shaken her up.

In contrast, her husband seemed intent upon distancing himself from the whole affair. Shrugging off Gina’s pathology as routine, reducing pain to jargon. Yet, despite his nonchalance, he’d zipped down to L.A. all the way from Santa Ynez- a two-hour drive. So perhaps he was as worried as his wife and simply better at concealing it.

The old male-female split.

Men posture.

Women bleed.

I thought of what he’d told me about losing his son. How he’d told me. The ease with which he’d spun his tale suggested he’d mouthed it a thousand times before.

Working it through? Desensitization?

Or maybe he really had mastered the art of putting the past behind him.

Maybe one day I’d call him up and ask for lessons.

It was nine-fifty by the time I got back to Sussex Knoll. A single police cruiser was still patrolling the streets. I must have passed inspection because no one stopped me from pulling up to the gates.

Over the talk box Don Ramp’s voice was dry and tired.

“No, nothing,” he said. “Come on up.”

The gates yawned. I sped through. More outdoor bulbs had been switched on, creating a false daylight, bright and cold.

No other cars in front of the house. The Chaucer doors were open. Ramp stood between them in his shirtsleeves.

“Not a damned thing,” he said, after I’d climbed the steps. “What’d the doctors say?”

“Nothing significant.” I told him about Ursula’s call regarding Melvin Findlay.

His face fell.

I said, “Have you heard anything more from Chickering?”

“He called about half an hour ago. Nothing to report, she’s probably fine, not to worry- it’s not his wife out there. I asked him about contacting the FBI. He claims they won’t get involved unless there’s evidence of abduction, preferably something involving interstate transport of the victim.”

He threw up his hands, let them fall limply. “The victim. I don’t even want to think of her as that, but…”

He closed the doors. The entry hall was lit, but beyond it the house was in darkness.

He headed for a light switch on the other side of the entry, making scuffing sounds as he crossed the marble.

I said, “Did your wife ever say why McCloskey did it?”

He stopped, half-turned. “Why do you ask?”

“In terms of understanding her- how she dealt with the assault.”

“Dealt with it in what way?”

“Victims of crime often go on fact-finding missions- wanting to know about the criminal, his motives. What turned them into victims. In order to try to make some sense out of it and protect themselves from future victimizations. Did your wife ever do that? Because no one seems to know what McCloskey’s motive was.”

“No, she didn’t.” He resumed walking. “At least not as far as I know. And she had no idea why he did it. Frankly, we don’t talk much about it- I’m part of her present, not her past. But she did tell me that the bastard refused to say- the police couldn’t get it out of him. He was a drinker and a drug-fiend, but that doesn’t explain it, does it?”

“What kind of drugs did he use?”

He reached the switch, flicked, illuminated the huge front room in which Gina Ramp and I had waited yesterday. Yesterday seemed like ancient history. A swan-necked decanter filled with something amber and very clear sat alongside several old-fashioned glasses on a portable rosewood bar. He held out a glass to me. I shook my head. He poured a finger for himself, hesitated, doubled it, then stoppered the decanter and sipped.