Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Is he really good, Dr. Delaware? As a detective?”

“Best I know.”

“I think he is, too. I actually like him better than when I first met him. But I’ve really got to be sure. Because no one else seems to care. The police aren’t doing anything- Chickering acts as if I’m wasting his time by calling. And Don’s gone back to work- can you believe that?”

“What are you doing?”

“Staying right here and waiting. And praying- I haven’t prayed since I was a little kid. Before you helped me.” Pause. “I keep going back and forth between expecting her to walk in at any moment and feeling really sick to my stomach when I realize she could be- I’ve got to stay here. I don’t want her coming home to an empty house.”

“Makes sense.”

“In the meantime, I think I’m going to try some hotels up north. Maybe Nevada, too, because that really isn’t very far by car, is it? Can you think of anywhere else that would be logical?”

“I guess any of the bordering states,” I said.

“Good idea.”

“Is there anything you need, Melissa? Anything I can do for you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, thanks.”

“I’ll be coming out there today anyway. To get my car.”

“Oh. Sure. Whatever.”

“If you want to talk, just let me know.”

“Sure.”

“Take care, Melissa.”

“I will, Dr. Delaware. Better keep this line open, just in case. Bye.”

The phone barked: “ Sturgis. ”

“Well,” I said, “it’s a lot better than “Yeah?’ ”

“Hey, I’m a working man now. What’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with Melissa. She told me the two of you conferred.”

“She talked; I listened. If that’s conferred, I guess we did.”

“Sounds as if she’s been keeping herself busy.”

“She worked all night. Kid’s got energy.”

“Adrenaline overdrive,” I said.

“Want me to tell her to cool it?”

“No, it’s okay for the time being. She’s dealing with her anxiety by making herself feel useful. I am concerned about what’ll happen if her mother doesn’t show up soon and her defenses start to crack.”

“Yeah. Well, she’s got you for that. Any time you want her to ease off, just let me know.”

“As if she’d listen.”

“True,” he said.

“So,” I said, “nothing new?”

“Not a damn thing. The bulletin has been expanded statewide and into Nevada and Arizona, and the credit checks are all in place. So far no big-ticket purchases have been phoned in. Small stuff is tabulated when the merchants mail in the receipts, so we’ll have to wait on that. I double-checked some of the places Melissa called- mostly airlines and luxury hotels. No one fitting Mommy’s description checked in during the night. I’m waiting for the passport office to open at eight, just in case she opted for long-distance travel. Told Melissa to keep working the local lines. Actually, she’s a damn good assistant.”

“She said you agreed to see McCloskey.”

“I told her I’d do it some time today. Can’t hurt- nothing else is panning out.”

“What time were you planning on visiting him?”

“Fairly soon. I’ve got a call in to Douse- the lawyer. He’s supposed to get back to me by nine. I want to verify some of the things Anger told me. If Douse is willing to answer my questions over the phone, I’ll take on McCloskey soon as I’m finished. If not, it’ll mean a couple of hours’ delay hassling Downtown. But McCloskey doesn’t live that far from the law office, so either way I should be there before noon. Whether or not I find him’s another story.”

“Pick me up.”

“Got plenty of free time?”

“Free enough.”

“Fine,” he said. “You buy lunch.”

He came by at nine-forty, honking the horn of his Fiat. By the time I got outside, he’d parked in the carport.

“Lunch and transportation,” he said, pointing to the Seville I’d picked up from Melissa’s house. Milo had on a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie.

“Where to?”

“Downtown. I’ll direct you.”

I drove down the Glen to Sunset, got on the 405 south, then switched to the Santa Monica Freeway east. Milo pushed his seat back as far as it went.

“How’d it go with the lawyer?” I said.

“More of the same doublespeak we got at First Fidoosh- I had to engage in the requisite pissing contest before he cooperated. But once he gave in, the guy’s inherent laziness took over- more than happy to talk on the phone. Probably bill the estate for every second of it. Basically he confirmed everything Anger had said: Ramp gets fifty thou; Melissa takes the rest. Mom inherits if anything happens to Melissa. If both of them go before Melissa’s had kids, all of it goes to charity.”

“Any specific charities?”

“Medical research. I asked him to send me copies of all the documents- he said he’d need Melissa’s written permission for that. Which I don’t see as any big problem. I also asked him if he had any idea how Gina spent her allowance. Like Anger, he didn’t seem to think a hundred and twenty grand was anything worth messing with.”

Traffic was light until a mile before the interchange, where it started to curdle.

“Get off at Ninth and take it to L.A.,” said Milo.

I followed his directions north on Los Angeles Street, drove through run-down blocks filled with fashion outlets shrieking bankruptcy bargains, discount appliance stores, import-export concerns, and pay parking lots. To the west a range of mirror-glass high-rises rose like synthetic mountains built on soft soil, Federal redevelopment funds, and Pacific Rim optimism. To the east was the industrial belt that divided Downtown from Boyle Heights.

Downtown was doing its usual split-personality routine: Fast-talking, fast-walking Power Dressers, Wannabee Tycoons, and stiff lipped secretaries sharing turf with bleary-eyed, filth-encrusted human shells transporting their life stories in purloined shopping carts and verminous bedrolls.

At Sixth Street, the shells took over, hordes of them congregating on street corners, slumping in the doorways of boarded-up businesses, sleeping in the shadows of overflowing dumpsters. I caught a red light at Fifth. The taxi in the next lane shot the light and nearly ran over a long-haired, smudge-eyed blond man dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and torn jeans. The man began cursing at the top of his lungs and, with scabbed tattooed hands, slapped the trunk of the cab as it sped on. Two uniformed cops issuing a jaywalking citation to a young Mexican girl across the street paused to observe the tantrum, then returned to their paperwork.

Half a block later I saw two skinny black men in baseball caps and topcoats veer off the sidewalk and come face-to-face under the sagging portico of a half-demolished SRO hotel. They lowered their heads and did a palm-slapping routine so well-coordinated it could have been choreographed by Balanchine. Then one man flashed a small wad of bills and the other bent quickly and retrieved something from his sock. A quick exchange and the two of them were on their way, heading in opposite directions. The entire transaction had taken ten seconds.

Milo saw me watching. “Ah, free enterprise. There’s the place- park wherever you can.”

He was pointing to a wide, flat-roofed three-story building on the east side of the street. The ground floor was faced with off-white tiles that brought to mind a bus station lavatory. The upper facade was pale-aqua stucco. A single row of barred windows ran along the top of the first story, too high to be reached from the street. The rest of the structure was a blank slab. Four or five men, mostly black, all ragged, congregated drowsily near the front door, which was topped by a dead neon deco-style sign that read ETERNAL HOPE MISSION.