Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

The front yard was rich green lawn worthy of Dublin, edged with beds of flowers- taller plantings of camellias, azaleas, hydrangeas, agapanthus, backing impatiens, begonia, and a white fringe of alyssum. A cobbled path ran up the middle. To the left was a weeping paper-birch triplet. A high-waisted gray-haired man in khaki shirt, blue pants, and a pith helmet inspected its branches and plucked away dead leaves. A chamois cloth hung out of one rear pocket.

We got out. Traffic from Olympic was a baritone drone. Birds sang harmony. Not a particle of trash on the streets. The man turned as we walked up the path. Sixtyish, narrow shoulders, long arms, large hands. Long, hound-dog face under the helmet. White mustache and goatee, black-framed eyeglasses. It was only when we were a few feet away that I realized he was African-featured. Skin as light as mine, dotted with freckles. Eyes golden-brown, the color of school-desk oak.

One hand remained on the tree as he watched us. He lowered it, ground a birch cone between his fingers. The particles showered to the ground.

“Gilbert Bayliss?” said Milo.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Sturgis. I’m a detective- private- working on the disappearance of Mrs. Gina Ramp. Several years ago she was victimized by someone you used to handle at the Parole Department. Joel McCloskey.”

“Good old Joel,” said Bayliss, removing his hat. His hair was a thick, nappy, salt-and-pepper cap. “Private eye, huh?”

Milo nodded. “For the time being. On leave from LAPD.”

“Voluntary?”

“Not exactly.”

Bayliss peered at Milo. “Sturgis. I know that name- know your face, too.”

Milo didn’t move a muscle.

Bayliss said, “I got it. You’re the one hit the other cop on TV. Something about interdepartmental intrigue- news never did make clear what it was all about. Not that I want to know. I’m out of all that.”

“Congratulations,” said Milo.

“Earned it. So how long they cooling you out for?”

“Six months.”

“Paid or unpaid?”

“Unpaid.”

Bayliss clucked his tongue. “So in the meantime you’re paying bills. I wasn’t allowed to do that. One thing that bothered me about the job- no room to expand opportunities. How do you like it so far?”

“It’s a job.”

Bayliss looked at me. “Who’s this? Another LAPD bad boy?”

“Alex Delaware,” I said.

“Dr. Delaware,” said Milo. “He’s a psychologist. Treating Mrs. Ramp’s daughter.”

“Melissa Dickinson,” I said. “You talked to her about a month ago.”

“I seem to remember something like that,” said Bayliss. “Psy chologist, huh? I wanted to be one of those once. Figured what I was doing was mostly psychology, anyway- why not get paid better? Took some classes at Cal State- got enough credits for a master’s but no time to write a thesis or take the exams, so that was that.” He peered at me more closely. “What’re you doing running around with him? Psychoanalyzing everyone?”

“We just paid a visit to McCloskey,” I said. “Detective Sturgis thought it might be useful for me to observe him.”

“Aha,” said Bayliss. “Good old Joel. You seriously suspect he’s been up to something?”

“Just checking him out,” said Milo.

“Getting paid by the hour and piling up those hours- Don’t get yourself worked up, soldier. I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want.”

“I realize that, Mr.-”

“Twenty-three years I spent following routine, taking orders from people a heck of a lot stupider than me. Working toward a twenty-five-year pension so that my wife and I could go traveling. Two years short she had the bad manners to leave me. Massive stroke. Got one kid in the army, over in Germany, married a German girl, never comes home. So the last two years I’ve been making my own rules. Last six months I’ve been getting good at it. Understand?”

Milo gave a long, slow nod.

Bayliss smiled, put his helmet back on. “Just as long as we’ve got a meeting of the minds on that.”

“We do,” said Milo. “If there’s something you can tell us about McCloskey that might help us find Mrs. Ramp, I’d be much obliged.”

“Good old Joel,” said Bayliss. He touched his goatee, stared at Milo. “You know, there were plenty of times during those twenty-five years that I wanted to punch someone. Never did it. ’Cause of the pension. The trip the wife and I were going to take. When you punched that paper-pusher, it made me smile. I was in a low mood, thinking about things that had happened and those that hadn’t. You gave me a chuckle, lasted through the evening. That’s why I remember you.” He smiled. “Funny thing, your walking up like this. Must be destiny. Come on in the house.”

His living room was dark, neat, furnished with heavy carved pieces not quite old or good enough to be antiques. Lots of doilies and figurines and feminine touches. On the wall above the mantel were framed black-and-white photos of big bands and jazz combos, the musicians all black, and one close-up of a young, clean-shaven, pomaded Bayliss, dressed in a white dinner jacket and formal shirt and tie, and holding a slide trombone.

He said, “That was my first love. Trained classically- at Juilliard. But no one was hiring colored trombonists, so I settled for swing and bebop, did the rib circuit- traveled with Skootchie Bartholomew for five years. Ever hear of him?”

I shook my head.

He smiled. “No one did. Tell the truth, the band wasn’t that good. Shooting heroin before every gig and thinking they were playing better than they actually were. I didn’t want to live like that, so I quit, came out here, tooted for whoever would listen, did a few record things- you listen to “Magic Love’ by the Sheiks, some of that other doo-wop foolishness, that’s me in the background. Finally got a trial run with Lionel Hampton.”

He went over and touched one of the photos. “This is me, first row. That band was all power, really heavy on the brass. Playing with ’em was like trying to ride a big brass hurricane, but I did okay- Lionel kept me on. Then the big-band market dried up and Lionel took the whole outfit to Europe and Japan. I didn’t see any point in that, went back to school, took the civil service. Haven’t played since. My wife liked the pictures… I’ve got to take them down, get some real art. You want some coffee?”

Both of us declined.

“Sit if you want.”

We did. Bayliss settled in a soft-looking floral chair with lace antimacassars on the arms.

“Good old Joel,” he said. “Wouldn’t worry too much about him in terms of major felonies.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“He’s a nothing.” Bayliss tapped his head. “Nothing there. When I read his file I expected some serious psychopath. Then this skinny little nothing walks in, all yessirs and nosirs, not an ounce of fight left in him. And I’m not talking bootlicking. Not the usual routine you get from your active psychopath- you know how they try to come across like good boys. Every joker I dealt with over twenty-five years thought he was Oscar-quality, smarter than everyone else. Just had to put on the act and no one’d see through him.”

“That’s the truth,” said Milo. “Even though it rarely works.”

“Yeah. Funny how they never stop to think about why they’re spending most of their lives in six-by-six cells. But old Joel was different- this was no act. The man had everything stripped out of him. Course if you just saw him, you know that.”

“How often did he come to see you?” I said.

“Just a few times- four or five. By the time he got to L.A., he really wasn’t on official parole. The Department requested he check in until he got settled. Covering its derriÉre, just in case. They’re really sensitive to playing it by the rules, so if something goes wrong and the victim’s family gets on Geraldo, they can produce paperwork and show they’ve done the right thing. So it was really more a formality- he could have ignored it, but he didn’t. Showed up once a week. We spent our ten minutes and that was it. Tell the truth, I wish I’d had more like him. Toward the end my caseload was sixty-three crooks, and some of them really did bear looking into.”