Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

I went over and looked at the book’s front cover. Paul Theroux’s Patagonia Express.

Melissa said, “It’s a travel book.”

Milo said nothing, kept looking around.

The wall opposite the bed was occupied by a nine-foot walnut-and-gilt armoire and a wide carved fruitwood dresser inlaid with marquetry herbs and flowers. Perfume bottles and a marble clock sat atop the dresser. Milo opened the top section of the armoire. Inside was a color TV, a Sony 19-inch that looked to be at least ten years old. Atop the television was a TV Guide. Milo opened it, flipped through it. The bottom of the armoire was empty.

“No VCR?” he said.

“She doesn’t go in for movies much.”

He moved down to the dresser, slid open drawers, ran his hands through satin and silk.

Melissa watched for several moments, then said, “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Where does she keep the rest of her clothes?”

“Over there.” She pointed to carved swinging doors on the left side of the room. Indian rosewood doors inlaid with vines of copper and brass and topped with a motif that conjured up the Taj Mahal.

Milo shoved them open unceremoniously.

On the other side was a short, squat foyer with three more doors. The first opened to a green marble bathroom accented with champagne-tinted mirrors and equipped with a sunken whirlpool tub expansive enough for family bathing, gold fixtures, green marble commode and bidet. The medicine cabinet was camouflaged as just another mirrored panel. Milo pushed, looked inside. Aspirin, toothpaste, shampoo, lipstick tubes, a few jars of cosmetics. Half-empty.

“She take anything as far as you can tell?”

Melissa shook her head. “This is all she keeps. She doesn’t use much makeup.”

Beyond the second door was a room-sized closet outfitted with a makeup table and padded bench at the center and organized as precisely as a surgical scrub tray: champagne-colored padded hangers, all facing the same way. Two walls of cedar, two of pink damask. Double-hung hardwood dowels.

Clothes organized by type, but there wasn’t much to organize. Mostly one-piece dresses in pale colors. A few gowns and furs at the back, some still bearing their sales labels. Perhaps ten pairs of shoes, three of them sneakers. A collection of sweats folded in storage compartments along the back wall. No more than a quarter of the dowel-space filled.

Milo took his time there, checking pockets, kneeling and inspecting the floor beneath the garments. Finding nothing and going into the third room.

Combination library and gym. The walls lined floor to ceiling with oak shelves, the floor high-lacquer hardwood tile. Interlocking rubber mats covered the front half. A stationary bicycle, rowing machine, and motorized treadmill sat on the rubber along with a free-standing rack of low-weight, chrome-plated dumbbells. A cheap digital watch hung from the handlebars of the bike. Two unopened bottles of Evian water stood atop a small refrigerator alongside the weight rack. Milo opened it. Empty.

He moved to the back and ran his finger along some of the bookshelves. I read titles.

More Theroux. Jan Morris. Bruce Chatwin.

Atlases. Books of landscape photography. Travelogues dating from the Victorian age to modern times. Audubon birding guides to the West. Fielding Guides to everywhere else. Seventy years of National Geographic in brown binders. Bound collections of Smithsonian, Oceans, Natural History, Travel, Sport Diver, Connoisseur.

For the first time since he’d arrived at the mansion, Milo looked troubled. But only momentarily. He scanned the rest of the bookcases, said, “Seems like we’ve got a theme going here.”

Melissa didn’t answer.

Neither did I.

No one daring to put the obvious into words.

We went back into the bedroom. Melissa seemed subdued.

Milo said, “Where does she keep her bankbooks and financial records?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure she keeps anything here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Her banking’s handled for her- by Mr. Anger, over at First Fiduciary Trust. He’s the president. His father knew mine.”

“Anger,” said Milo, writing it down. “Know the number offhand?”

“No. The bank’s on Cathcart- just a few blocks from where you turn off to get here.”

“Any idea how many accounts she keeps there?”

“Not the foggiest. I have two- my trust account and one that I use for expenses.” Meaningful pause. “Father wanted it that way.”

“What about your stepdad? Where does he bank?”

“I have no idea.” Kneading her hands.

“Any reason to think he’s in any financial trouble?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What kind of restaurant does he run?”

“Steak and beer.”

“Does he seem to do pretty well?”

“Well enough. He brings in lots of imported beers. In San Labrador, that’s considered exotic.”

“Speaking of which,” said Milo, “I could use a drink- juice or soda. With ice. Is there a refrigerator up here with something in it?”

She nodded. “There’s a service kitchen at the end of the staff wing. I can get you something from there. What about you, Dr. Delaware?”

“Sure,” I said.

Milo said, “Coke.”

I said I’d have the same.

She said, “Two Cokes.” Waited.

“What is it?” said Milo.

“Are you finished in here?”

He looked around one more time. “Sure.”

We passed through the sitting room and went out into the hall. Melissa closed the door and said, “Two Cokes. I’ll be right back.”

When she was gone, I said, “So what do you think?”

“What do I think? That money sure don’t buy no happiness, brutha. That room”- cocking a thumb at the door-“it’s like a goddamn hotel suite. Like she came in on the Concorde, unpacked, went out to see the sights. How the hell could she live like that, not leaving a piece of herself anywhere? And what the hell did she do with herself all day?”

“Read and toned her muscles.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Travel books. It’s like a bad joke. Some shlock movie director’s version of irony.”

I said nothing.

He said, “What? Think I’ve lost my sense of compassion?”

“You’re talking about her in the past tense.”

“Do me a favor, don’t interpret. I’m not saying she’s dead, just that she’s gone. My gut feeling is she’s been planning to fly the coop for a while, finally gathered enough courage and did it. Probably jamming that Rolls along Route 66 with the windows open, singing at the top of her lungs.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see her abandoning Melissa.”

He gave a small, hard laugh. “Alex, I know she’s your patient and you obviously like her, but from what I’ve seen, the kid grates. You heard what she said about Mommy never raising her voice to her. That normal? Maybe Mommy finally blew her stack. See the way she treated Ramp? And suggesting to me I investigate him without any solid reason to? I couldn’t put up with that shit for very long. Course, I don’t have a Ph.D. in kiddy psych. But neither does Mommy.”

I said, “She’s a good kid, Milo. Her mother’s disappeared. Time to cut her a little slack, don’t you think?”

“Was she sweetness and light before Mommy split? You yourself said she pulled a fit and ran out on Mommy yesterday.”

“Okay, she can be difficult. But her mother cared about her. The two of them are close. I just don’t see her running out.”

“No offense,” he said, “but how well do you really know the lady, Alex? You met her once. She used to be an actress. And in terms of their being close, think of it: never yelling at a kid. For eighteen years? No matter how good a kid is, they’re gonna bear some yelling once in a while, right? The lady must have been sitting on a powder keg. Anger at what McCloskey did to her. At losing her husband. At being stuck up here because of her problems. That’s one giant keg, right? The fight with the kid was what finally lit it- the kid mouthed off one time too many. Mom waited a long time for her to come back, and when she didn’t, she said fuck it, to hell with reading about distant places, let’s go see some.”