Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“What about the other one- the husband?”

“He mouthed the right words but didn’t come across too stressed. He claims he doesn’t worry. Trained himself not to.”

“Doctor heal thyself, huh? Or could be he’s just not as good an actor as his wife.”

“The three of them in cahoots?” I said. “Thought you didn’t like conspiracy theories.”

“I like what fits- not that any of it does at this point. We’re just head-tripping.”

“There are two other women in Gina’s group,” I said. “If she did plan to run away, she might have mentioned it to them. When I suggested to Ursula that they be interviewed, she got really defensive: told me Gina didn’t socialize with them- they couldn’t be any help. If she is hiding something, that could have been stonewalling.”

He gave a small smile. “Stonewalling? I thought you guys called it confidentiality?”

I felt myself go hot.

He patted my shoulder. “Now, now, what’s a little reality between friends? Speaking of which, I’d better deliver the news to my clients.”

We found Ramp sitting and drinking in the rear room with the painted beams. The drapes were drawn across the French doors and he was staring off into space, eyes half-closed. His face had taken on a ruddy glow and his shirt was wilting around the edges. When we came in he said, “Gentlemen?” in a hearty, greeter’s voice.

Milo asked him to get Melissa and he called her room, using an intercom on the phone. When she didn’t answer, he tried several other rooms without success, then looked up helplessly.

Milo said, “I’ll catch her later,” and told him about the car being sighted.

“The 210,” said Ramp. “Where would she be going?”

“Can you think of anything?”

“Me? No, of course not. None of this makes any sense to- Why would she be driving the freeway? She just started driving, period. This is just crazy.”

Milo said, “It would be a good idea to have that bulletin expanded statewide.”

“Of course. Go ahead, do it.”

“It’s got to come from a police agency. Your local cops have probably been informed of the sighting by now, may have requested it already. If you want, I can call to confirm.”

“Please,” said Ramp. He got up and walked around the room. A shirttail had come loose in front. It was monogrammed with a red DNR.

“Driving the freeway,” he said. “That’s nuts. They’re sure it was her?”

“No,” said Milo. “The only thing they’re sure of is that it was a car just like hers.”

“So it had to be her. How many damned Silver Dawns could there be?”

He looked down, tucked in his shirt hastily.

Milo said, “The next step would be to call airline companies, then get to the bank tomorrow morning and take a look at her financial records.”

Ramp stared at him, groped like a blind man along the edge of a nearby armchair, and lowered himself into it, still staring. “What you said at the beginning- about this being… about her running away. You think that for certain now, don’t you?”

“I don’t think anything yet,” Milo said with a gentleness that surprised me and raised Ramp’s head a couple of inches higher. “I’m taking it step by step- doing the things that need doing.”

A door slammed somewhere in the house.

Ramp bounded up and left the room, returning a few moments later trailing Melissa.

She had on a khaki safari vest over her shirt, and boots encrusted with mud and grass.

“I had Sabino’s boys check the grounds,” she said. “Just in case.” A brief glance at Ramp. “What’s going on?”

Milo repeated what he’d learned.

“The freeway,” said Melissa. One of her hands found the other and kneaded.

Ramp said, “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

She ignored him, put her hands on her hips, and faced Milo. “Okay, at least she’s all right. What next?”

Milo said, “Phone work till morning. Then I head over to the bank.”

“Why wait till morning? I’ll call Anger right now and tell him to get down here. It’s the least he can do- all the business this family’s given him.”

“Okay. Tell him I’ll need to go over your mother’s records.”

“Wait here. I’ll go call him right now.”

She left the room.

Milo said, “Yes, ma’am.”

She came back with a scrap of paper and handed it to Milo. “He’ll meet you there- here’s the address. I had to tell him what it was about, let him know I expected him to keep it to himself. What should I do while you’re gone?”

“Call airlines,” said Milo. “See if anyone bought a ticket to anywhere using your mom’s name. Say you’re her daughter and it’s an emergency. If that doesn’t work, embellish it- someone’s sick, you really need to know for medical reasons. Check departures from LAX, Burbank, Ontario, John Wayne, and Lindbergh. If you want to be really thorough, check under your mom’s maiden name, too. I’ll only come back here if something profound happens at the bank. Here’s my number at home.”

Scrawling on the back of the paper she’d just handed him, he tore off half and gave it to her.

“Call me if you learn anything, ” she said. “Even if it seems unimportant.”

“Will do,” said Milo. Turning to Ramp, he said, “Hang in there.”

Ramp remained in his chair and gave a dull nod.

I said to Melissa, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” she said. “No, thanks. I don’t really feel like talking. I want to do something- no offense, okay?”

“No offense.”

“I’ll call you if I need you,” she said.

“No problem.”

“Sayonara,” said Milo, heading for the door.

I said, “I’ll walk out with you.”

“If you insist,” he said, coasting down the driveway. “But if I had a chance at some shuteye, I’d grab it.”

He’d brought Rick’s white Porsche 928. A portable scanner had been mounted on the dash since the last time I’d seen the car. He had the volume on low and the machine emitted a steady stream of mumbles.

“Hoo hah,” I said, tapping the box.

“Christmas gift.”

“From whom?”

“From me to me,” he said, accelerating. The Porsche hummed in agreement. “I still think you should go to sleep. Ramp’s already looking wilted and the kid’s running on adrenaline. Sooner or later you’re gonna be back here doing your thing.”

“Not tired,” I said.

“Too keyed up?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’ll hit you tomorrow. Just in time for a panic call.”

“No doubt.”

He chuckled and gunned the engine.

The gates to the property were open. He turned left on Sussex Knoll, then left again. Giving the Porsche’s wheel a rightward turn, he oversteered a bit and had to straighten before turning onto Cathcart Boulevard. The businesses along the commercial strip were all dark. The streetlights cast an opaline light that expired before it reached the grassy median.

“Yeah, there it is, all lit up,” he said, pointing across the street to a floodlit one-story Greek Revival building. White limestone. Boxwood hedges, small lawn with a flagpole. FIRST FIDUCIARY TRUST BANK, FDIC in gold letters over the door.

I said, “Doesn’t look big enough to store cookie-sale proceeds.”

“Quality, not quantity, remember?”

He pulled up in front of the bank. To the right was a twenty space parking lot fronted by twin iron posts and a chain that had been lowered to the ground. A black Mercedes sedan sat alone in the first spot on the left side. As we got out of the Porsche, the black car’s door opened.

A man exited, closed the door, and stood there, one hand on the roof of the car.