Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Please try to contact her. Tell her Kate’s safety may be at stake.” When he didn’t respond to that, I said, “Mention Eileen Wagner’s name, too.”

“Wagner,” he said, and I heard the sound of scrawling. “As in the composer- No, guess that would be Vahg ner.”

“Guess so.”

I’d forgotten about Seth Fiacre’s move to Boston until his name had popped into my head as a reference. The social psychologist had left UCLA for the East last year, when an endowed chair in Group Process had been thrown at him. Seth’s specialty was mind control and cults, and the Forbes 400 father of a sixteen-year-old girl rescued from a neo-Hindu apocalyptic sect living in subterranean bunkers in New Mexico had consulted Seth on deprogramming. Shortly after, the money for the chair had come available.

Back to Boston Information. I got the number for B.U.’s psych department and dialed it, was informed by the receptionist that Professor Fiacre’s office was at the Applied Social Science Center. A receptionist there took my name and put me on hold. Seth’s voice came on a moment later.

“Alex, long time.”

“Hi, Seth. How’s Boston?”

“Boston is wonderful, a real city. Hadn’t been back for any length of time since graduation- kind of a nice homecoming. How about yourself? Do any teaching like you were thinking of?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s hard to return,” he said. “Once you get out in the real world.”

“Whatever that means.”

He laughed. “I forgot I was speaking to a clinician. What’ve you been up to?”

“Doing some consulting, trying to put out a monograph.”

“Sounds admirably well-rounded. So, what can I do for you? Another bunch of true believers to check out? My pleasure. Last time I gave you data I got two abstracts and a paper in JPSP out of it.”

“The Touch,” I said, remembering.

“They put the touch on lots of suckers. So who’re the loony tunes this time?”

“No cults,” I said. “What I’m looking for is some information on a colleague. Former faculty at your alma mater.”

“The H place? Who?”

“Leo Gabney. And wife.”

“Dr. Prolific? Yeah, I seem to have heard he was living out there.”

“Know anything about him?”

“Not personally. But we’re not exactly paddling the backwaters, are we? I remember having to immerse myself in everything he’d written for my Advanced Learning Theory course. The guy was a factory. I used to curse him for turning out so much data, but most of it was pretty solid. He must be- what? Sixty-five, seventy? Little old for mischief. Why’re you checking him out?”

“He’s a little younger than that- sixty or so. And a long way from the glue factory. He and his wife have a clinic in San Labrador specializing in phobia therapy. For the rich.” I quoted him the Gabneys’ fee schedule.

“How depressing,” he said. “Here I was, thinking this endowment was serious money, and you’ve gone and made me feel poor again.” He repeated the numbers out loud, then said, “Oh, well… What do you want to know about them, and why?”

“They’ve been treating the mother of one of my patients, and some strange things have come up- nothing I can get into, Seth. Sorry, but you understand.”

“Sure. You’re interested in his libidinal history, and related matters, when he was back at H.”

“That,” I said, “and any financial indiscretions.”

“Ah… that can of worms. Now I’m intrigued.”

“If you could find out why the two of them left Boston and what kinds of work they were doing during the year or so before they left, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Do what I can, though people around here don’t like to talk about money- because they lust after it so much. Also, those folks at That Place Uptown don’t always condescend to talk to the rest of us.”

“Even alumni?”

“Even alumni who stray too far south of Cambridge. But I’ll churn the chowder, see what bobs to the surface. What’s the wife’s name?”

“Ursula Cunningham. She hyphenates it now, with Gabney. She’s a Ph.D.-M.D. Gabney was her adviser in grad school and sent her on to med school. Her faculty appointment was at the med school, Department of Psychiatry. His may have been, too, as a matter of fact.”

“You just raised the hurdle a little higher, Alex. The med school’s an entity unto itself. Only one I know there is my kid’s pediatrician, and he’s only clinical faculty.”

“Anything you can learn would be helpful, Seth.”

“We’re talking ASAP, of course.”

“The quicker the better.”

“Except in matters of wine, cheese, and carnal pleasure. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. And think about paying a visit some day, Alex. You can take me out to Legal Seafoods for untrammeled lobster gluttony.”

My last call was to Milo. I expected a machine but Rick answered with a “Dr. Silverman” that sounded rushed.

“It’s Alex again, Rick.”

“On my way out, Alex- call from the E.R., bus accident, they’re short-staffed. Milo’s out in Pasadena. Spent the morning on the phone and left about an hour ago.”

“Thanks, Rick. Bye.”

“Alex? I just wanted to thank you for getting him the job- he was pretty low. The idleness. I tried to talk him into doing something but I wasn’t making much headway until you got him the referral. So thanks.”

“It wasn’t charity, Rick. He was the best man for the job.”

“I know that and you know that. The trick was convincing him.”

Afternoon traffic slowed the drive to San Labrador. I spent the time thinking about connections between Massachusetts and California.

The gates at Sussex Knoll were closed. I talked to Madeleine over the talk box and was let in. Neither Milo’s Fiat nor Rick’s Porsche was in front of the house. A cherry-red Jaguar XJS convertible was.

A woman opened the Chaucer doors before I got to them. Five three, mid-forties, a few extra pounds that rounded her nicely. Her face, in contrast, was lean and triangular under a cap of black curls. Her eyes were the same color, large and round and heavily lashed. She had on a soft pink dress that would have gone well at a Renoir picnic. Bracelets jangled as she extended her arm.

“Dr. Delaware? I’m Susan LaFamiglia.”

We shook hands. Hers was small and soft, until she turned on the grip. She wore lots of makeup and had applied it well. Rings graced half of her fingers. A strand of black pearls rested on her bosom. If it was real, it was worth more than the Jag.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you about our mutual client- not right now, because I’m in the middle of talking to her, trying to unravel her finances. How about in a couple of days?”

“Sure. As long as Melissa consents.”

“She already has. I’ve got a release form inside… I’m sorry, did you come to have a session with her?”

“No,” I said. “Just to see how she’s doing.”

“She seems to be doing okay- considering. I was surprised at how knowledgeable she is about money, for someone her age. But obviously I don’t know her very well.”

“She’s a complex young lady,” I said. “Has a detective named Sturgis been by?”

“Milo? He was here before, just went over to the stepfather’s restaurant. The police came here to question Melissa about this McCloskey character’s death. I told them she hadn’t been informed of it yet, and that under no circumstances would I allow them to talk to her. Milo suggested they talk to the stepfather- there was a bit of pawing and snorting, but they agreed.”