Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

I took hold of her shoulders and managed to turn her around. Pressed her face into my jacket.

“With him , dammit,” she said, muffled by fabric. Then she drew away and forced herself to look at me. “He was fast-food- something to fill space. Kind of obscene that it would happen with him, huh? Like one of those horrible jokes they were telling tonight.”

She was dry-eyed. My eyes began to hurt.

“Sometimes, Alex, I still lie awake at night. Wondering. It’s as if I’ve been sentenced to wondering.”

We stood staring at each other. Another caravan of cars zoomed by.

“Some date, huh?” she said. “Whine, whine, whine.”

“Stop,” I said. “I’m glad you told me.”

“Are you?”

“Yes- I- Yes, I am.”

“If you hate me, I understand.”

“Why should I hate you?” I said, with sudden anger. “ I had no claim on you. It had nothing to do with me.”

“True,” she said.

I let go of her shoulders. Threw up my arms and let them fall.

“I should have kept my mouth shut,” she said.

“No,” I said. “It’s all right- No, it’s not. Not right at the moment. I feel lousy. Mostly for what you’ve been through.”

“Mostly?”

“Okay. For myself, too. For not being a part of your life when it happened.”

She nodded mournfully, embracing that bit of gloom. “You would have wanted me to keep it, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what I would have wanted. It’s too theoretical- and there’s no sense flogging yourself over it. You didn’t commit any crime.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No,” I said, taking hold of her shoulders again. “I’ve seen the real item. I know the difference. People being deliberately cruel- being bestial to one another. God knows how many times it’s happening right now- down in that light show.”

I pointed her toward the valley view. She allowed herself to be molded.

“The hell of it is,” I said, “the ones who should feel guilty- the really bad ones- never do. It’s the good ones who torture themselves. Don’t get sucked into that. You’re not doing anyone any favors by not drawing distinctions.”

She looked up at me, seemed to be listening.

I said, “You made a mistake - and not an earthshaking one in the greater scheme of things. You’ll recover. You’ll go on. If you want babies, you’ll have them. Meanwhile, try to enjoy life a little bit.”

“Do you enjoy life, Alex?”

“I sure try. That’s why I ask good-looking women out on dates.”

She smiled. A tear rolled down her cheek.

I put my arms around her, from behind. Felt her belly. Toned muscle under a layer of softness. I stroked it.

She cried.

“When you called I was glad,” she said, “and worried.”

“About what?”

“That it would be just like a few days ago. Not that I didn’t enjoy it- God, it was great. First real pleasure I’d had in so long. But afterwards, I-” She put her hand over mine and pressed. “I guess what I’m saying is I could really use a friend right now. More than a lover.”

“Like I said, you’ve got one.”

“I know,” she said. “Hearing you- seeing you like this. I know I do.”

She turned and we held each other.

A car sped by, trapping us momentarily in its high-beams. A teenage face appeared in the open window and shouted, “Go for it, dude!”

We looked at each other. And laughed.

She came back to the house with me and I ran her a hot bath. She soaked for half an hour, came out looking pink and drowsy. We got into bed and played gin while absently attending to a one-star western on TV. By 2:00 A.M. we’d finished a dozen games- six wins each. It seemed as good a time as any to go to sleep.

No callback from Milo on Saturday. No news from San Labrador. I phoned, got Madeleine again, and was told Melissa was still sleeping.

Robin and I spent most of the day together. Brunch and grocery-shopping at Farmer’s Market, a drive out to the Self-Realization Fellowship in Pacific Palisades to look at the lake and the swans. Light dinner at a seafood place near Sunset Beach, then back to her place by seven, where I called in for messages and she played the tape on her machine.

Nothing for me, but a famous singer had called her three times an hour for the past three hours. Famous raspy baritone tight with panic.

“Emergency, Rob. Sunday concert in Long Beach. Just got back from a gig in Miami. Humidity popped Patty’s bridge. Call me at the Sunset Marquis, Rob. Please, Rob, I won’t go anywhere.”

She turned off the machine and said, “Wonderful.”

“Sounds pretty serious.”

“Oh, yeah. When he calls himself, instead of getting a roadie to do it, that means nervous breakdown time.”

“Who’s Patty?”

“One of his guitars. Fifty-two Martin D-twenty-eight. He’s got two others, Laverne and… I forgot the other. They’re named after the Andrews sisters- who was the other Andrews sister?”

“Maxene.”

“Right. Maxene. Patty and Laverne and Maxene. All fifty-twos, sequential serial numbers. I’ve never heard three instruments sound so similar. But of course he has to play Patty tomorrow.”

She shook her head and walked into the kitchenette. “Something to drink?”

“Nothing right now, thanks.”

“Sure?” Looking edgy. Glancing back at the phone.

“Positive. Aren’t you going to call him back?”

“You don’t mind?”

I shook my head. “Actually, I’m a little tired. You’re wearing an old man out.”

She was about to respond when the phone rang. She answered it and said, “Yes, I just got in… No, it’s better if you bring it here. I can do a better job here… Okay, see you soon.”

She hung up, smiled, and shrugged.

She walked me to the car, we kissed lightly, avoiding conversation, and I left her to her work. Left myself to enjoy life.

But I was into a preaching mode, not a practicing one, and after driving a few blocks, I pulled into a service station and used the pay phone to try Milo again.

This time Rick answered. “He just walked in, Alex, and went right out. Said he’d be tied up for a while but that you should call him. He’s got my car and the cellular phone. Here’s the number.”

I copied it down, thanked him, hung up, and dialed. Milo picked up after the first ring.

“Sturgis.”

“It’s me. What’s up?”

“The car,” he said. “It was found a couple of hours ago. Out near San Gabriel Canyon- Morris Dam.”

“What about-”

“No trace of her. Just the car.”

“Does Melissa know?”

“She’s out here. I brought her myself.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She seems pretty shell-shocked. The paramedics looked at her, said she was okay physically, but to keep an eye on her. Any specific advice, dealing with her?”

“Just stay with her. Give me directions.”

I shot onto the freeway at Lincoln. Traffic was gummy and hot-tempered all the way to the 134 east- weekend partyers and RV jockeys coming and going. But by Glendale it had started to thin, and by the time I reached the 210 transition, the highway was mine.

I drove faster than usual, speeding along the northern rim of Pasadena, passing the on-ramp Gina had probably taken two days ago.

Lonely road, made lonelier by the darkness, separating the city from the chalky, high desert at the base of the San Gabriel mountains. Daylight would reveal budget housing developments, industrial outcroppings, an eventual decline to gravel pits and scrubby hills. All of it hidden mercifully by a starless night. A bad night to be looking for someone.