Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Meaning it’s probably hers.”

“Probably. But not definitely. The guy who saw it thought it was black over gray, but he couldn’t be sure- it might have been all black or dark gray over light gray. We’re talking a sixty-mile-an-hour zip-by.”

“How many old Rolls would there be driving around, that time, that place?”

“More than you might imagine. Apparently, a hell of a lot of them ended up in L.A. back when the dollar was worth something. And there are plenty of collectors concentrated in the Pasadena-San Labrador area. But yeah, I’d say we’ve got a ninety-percent-plus chance it was her.”

“East on the 210,” I said, picturing the wide-open highway. “Where would she be heading?”

“Anywhere, but she’d have had to make a decision fairly soon- the freeway ends around fifteen miles from there, just short of La Verne. North is Angeles Crest and I don’t see her as the type to rough it. South, she could have caught any number of other freeways- the 57 going straight south. Or 10, in either direction, which would take her anywhere from the beach to Vegas. Or she could have continued on surface streets up into the foothills, checked out the sights at Rancho Cucamonga- what the hell is out there, anyway?”

“I don’t know. But my guess is she’d probably stay near civilization.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Her type of civilization. I’m thinking Newport Beach, Laguna, La Jolla, Pauma, Santa Fe Springs. Still doesn’t narrow it much. Or maybe she turned around and headed for her own place in Malibu.”

“Ramp called there twice and she didn’t answer.”

“What if she wasn’t in the mood to pick up the phone?”

“Why would she go in one direction, then reverse herself?”

“Let’s say the whole thing started out impulsively. She’s just driving, for the hell of it. Gets on the freeway, gets swept along- going east by chance. Maybe it’s just a matter of it being the first on-ramp she sees. When the freeway ends she decides upon a specific destination. Closest thing to home: home number two. Or let’s say she was heading east intentionally. That means Route 10 and a whole bunch of other possibilities: San Berdoo, Palm Springs, Vegas. And beyond. The great beyond, Alex- she could drive all the way to Maine, if the car held up. If it didn’t, with her dough she could’ve ditched it, gotten another one fast. All you need to chew up the open road is time and money, and neither of those is her problem.”

“An agoraphobic doing the scenic route?”

“You said yourself she was in the process of getting cured. Maybe the freeway helped it along- all that blacktop, no stoplights. It can make you feel powerful. Make you wanna forget about the rules. That’s why people move out here in the first place, isn’t it?”

I thought about that. Thought of my first time on the open road, heading west for college at sixteen. The first time I’d driven over the Rockies, seeing the desert at night, thrilled and terrified. My first view of the dirt-brown haze looming over the L.A. basin, heavy and threatening but incapable of dimming the gilded promise of the city at twilight.

“Guess so,” I said.

He came around from behind the desk.

I said, “What now?”

“Deliver the news, then get the bulletin expanded- it’s better than even money she’s out of the county by now.”

“Or the car is.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Meaning what?”

“It is possible that something happened to her, isn’t it? That someone else is behind the wheel.”

“Anything’s possible, Alex. But if you were a bad guy, would that be the car you’d rip off?”

“Who was it told me long ago it’s only the stupid ones you catch?”

“You wanna think foul play, fine. At this point I’d have to see something ugly to consider it anything more than an adult runaway. And not one that’s likely to turn me into a hero.”

“What do you mean?”

“Runaways are the hardest m.p.’s to locate under any circumstances. Rich ones are the worst of the worst. Because the rich get to make their own rules. Buying for cash, avoiding jobs, credit unions- all the stuff that leaves a paper trail. What just happened with Ramp and the kid is a perfect example. Your average husband would be a hell of a lot more in touch with his wife’s credit cards and social security number. Your average couple shares. These people live separately- at least where money’s concerned. The rich know the power of the buck- they rope their funds off and protect them like buried treasure.”

“Separate bank accounts and separate bedrooms,” I said.

“Real intimate, huh? He doesn’t seem to know her. Wonder why she married him in the first place- the kid has a point.”

“Maybe she liked his mustache.”

He gave a short, sad smile and walked to the door. Looking back at the windowless room, he said, “Designed for concentration. I couldn’t spend too much time here without going stir-crazy.”

I thought of another windowless room, said, “Speaking of interior design, when I was over at the Gabney Clinic, I was struck by the similarity between Ursula Gabney’s office decor and the way Gina furnished that sitting room upstairs. Exact same color scheme, same style of furniture. And the only art in Ursula’s office was a Cassatt lithograph. Mother and child.”

“So what’s it mean, Doctor?”

“I don’t know exactly, but if the print was a gift, it was a hell of a generous one. The last time I checked an auction catalogue, Cassatt prints in good shape were pricey.”

“How pricey?”

“Twenty to sixty grand for black-and-white. A color one would go for more.”

“The doctor’s print is a color one, too?”

I nodded. “Very similar to Gina’s.”

“Sixty grand plus,” he said. “What’s the current wisdom on therapists accepting gifts?”

“It’s not illegal but it’s generally considered unethical.”

“You think there’s some kind of Svengali thing going on?”

“Maybe nothing that ominous,” I said. “Just overinvolvement- possessiveness. Ursula seems resentful of Melissa- the way one sibling might resent another. Almost as if she wants Gina all to herself. Melissa sensed it. On the other hand, maybe it’s just professional pride. The treatment’s been intensive. She’s brought Gina a long way- changed her life.”

“Changed her furniture, too.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’m overinterpreting. Or seeing it backwards. Patients influence therapists, too. It’s called countertransference. Ursula could have bought her Cassatt because she saw Gina’s and liked it. With the fees the clinic charges, she could sure afford it.”

“Big bucks setup?”

“Megabucks. When both Gabneys work, they bill five hundred an hour per patient. Three for his time, two for hers.”

“Didn’t she ever hear of equal pay for equal work?”

“Her work’s more than equal- my impression is she does most of the actual therapy while he sits back and plays mentor.”

He clucked his tongue. “She’s not doing too bad as a ment ee, is she? Five hundred.” He shook his head. “Sweet deal. Get a handful of rich folk in serious psychic pain and you wouldn’t need much else to fuel the gravy train.”

He took a step, paused. “You think this Ursula’s holding back?”

“Holding back what?”

“Knowledge of the whole thing. If they were as close as you’re suggesting, Gina could have let her in on her plans for the great escape. Maybe old Ursula even thought getting away would be good for her- therapeutic. Hell, maybe she even helped plan it- Gina disappeared on the way to the clinic.”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. “But I doubt it. She seemed genuinely upset by the disappearance.”