Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

She and Lauren did share a sculpted, blond loveliness but nothing striking. Both A students. Psychology major, psycho biology major.

Both were self-supporting too, one banking on pageant money, the other, “investments.” Had each been on the lookout for extra income? Consulted the campus classifieds and gotten involved in one of the research studies Gene Dalby had described?

I searched for more parallels, found none. All in all, nothing dramatic. And plenty of differences:

At nineteen Shawna had been considerably younger than Lauren when she disappeared. Small-town olive queen, big-city call girl. Widowed mother, divorced mother. And Shawna had vanished during the second month of the quarter, Lauren during the break.

I scrolled to the Cub ’s want ads, worked backward until I came upon a boldface entry in the middle of the JOBS!! section, posted two weeks before Shawna vanished.

Tired? Listless? Inexplicably sad?

These may be normal mood changes, or they may be signs of depression. We are conducting clinical trials on depression and are looking for $$ PAID $$ volunteers. You will be offered free evaluation and, if you qualify, may receive experimental treatment as well as a handsome stipend.

No address, just a phone number with a 310 area code. I copied the information, kept scrolling, found two similar ads for the entire month, one researching phobias and featuring a different 310 listing, the other a study of “human intimacy” that provided a 714 callback.

“Human intimacy” had a sexual flavor to it. Racy research in Orange County? Sex was commerce to Lauren. Might something like that have caught her eye?

I obtained microfiche for the last quarter, checked classified after classified. No repeat of the intimacy ad, nothing even vaguely similar, and the only paid-research solicitation was for a study on “nutrition and digestion,” with a campus phone extension that meant the med school. I wrote it down anyway, left the library, headed for the Seville.

Two girls gone missing, a year apart, very little in common.

Shawna had never been found. I could only hope that Lauren’s disappearance would amount to nothing at all.

I drove home trying to convince myself she’d show up tomorrow, a little richer and a lot tanner, laughing off everyone’s worries.

Gene Dalby had pegged her at thirty, and maybe he was right about her maturity. She’d been living on her own for years, had street smarts. So no shock if the last week came down to a quick jaunt to Vegas, Puerto Vallarta, even Europe – money shrinks the world.

I drove up the bridle path that leads to my house imagining Lauren partying with a potentate. Then seeing the dark side of the fantasy: Those kinds of adventures can go very bad quickly.

Lauren getting herself into something she hadn’t counted on.

Silly to let my mind run. I barely knew the girl.

The girl . She was well past childhood. No sense obsessing.

I’d bother Milo one more time, tell him about Shawna Yeager, receive the expected response – the logical detective’s response -

Interesting, Alex, but…

I pulled up in front of the carport, pleased to see Robin’s Ford pickup there, ready to stop wondering about a near stranger and be with someone I cared about.

But as I parked and climbed the stairs to the front door, I wondered: What would I tell Jane Abbot?

I knew I’d say little, if anything, to Robin about my day.

Confidentiality protects patients. What it does to therapists’ personal relationships can be interesting. Private by nature, Robin’s never had a problem with my not discussing work in detail. Like most artists, she lives in her head, can do without people for long stretches of time, hates gossip.

We’ve had perfectly romantic dinners where neither of us uttered a word. Part of that’s her, but I tend to drift off and ruminate. Sometimes I feel she’s not with me, and I know there are instances when she views me as inhabiting another planet.

Mostly, we connect.

I called out a “Looocey, I’m home, babaloo!” and she shouted back, “Ricky!”

She was in jeans and a black tank top, everything filling nicely as she squatted to fill Spike’s feed bowl and sang along with the radio. Country station, Alison Krauss and Keith Whitley doing “When You Say Nothing at All.” Whitley’s rich baritone exhumed from the grave. Technology could resurrect sound waves, but it couldn’t dampen a mother’s grief.

Robin finished pouring kibble, stood, and stretched to her full, barefoot five-three. No bra beneath the tank top, and when I pressed her to me her breasts spread across my shirtfront. When I kissed her, her tongue tasted of coffee. Her auburn curls were loose and longer than usual – six inches past the middle of her back. When she gets her hair done, it’s a half-day, three-figure affair at a place in Beverly Hills that reeks of nail polish and people trying too hard. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent the time and money. Busy with a seemingly endless flow of guitar construction and repairs. “Better than the alternative” was her comment when I remarked on her long days. A few weeks ago she’d recorded a new phone message:

“Hi, this is Robin Castagna. I’m out in the studio carving and gluing, would love to talk to you, however it’s going to be a while before I can be polite. If you have an urgent message, please leave it in detail, but…”

We kissed some more, and Spike yelped in protest. He’s a French bulldog, twenty-five pounds of black brindle barrel, bat ears perked, and deceptively soft brown eyes. I’m the one who rescued him on a hot, arid summer day, but forget gratitude; the moment Robin smiled at him, I came to be viewed as an annoyance.

Keeping one hand on Robin’s bottom, I set my briefcase on the table. Spike nudged her shin. She said, “Hold on, handsome.”

“Sure,” I said. “Keep feeding his ego.”

She laughed. “You ain’t chopped liver either.”

Spike’s flat face pivoted, and he glared at me – I can swear he understands English. His attenuated larynx let out a strangled growl, and he pawed the floor.

“Tom Flews deigns to speak,” I said.

Grumble, grumble.

“Don’t feud, boys,” said Robin, bending to pet him. “Long day, sweetie?”

“Me or him?”

“You.”

I’d thought the cheer in my voice sounded authentic, wondered why she’d asked. “Long enough, but over.”

Spike sputtered. A twenty-one-inch neck quivered. Drool sprayed.

“I’m staying for the evening, pal. Deal with it.”

His eyes pinched at the corners as he let out a belly grunt. I kissed the back of Robin’s neck, as much out of spite as anything. Spike began bouncing higher than stumpy legs had any right to take him, and Robin added something from the fridge to his dinner and toted it to the service porch. His nose was buried before the dish hit the floor.

“Is that last night’s Stroganoff?” I said.

“I figured we’re finished with it.”

“We are now.”

She laughed, bent, picked up a stray bit of meat, hand-fed it to him. Breathing hard, he plunged his head back into the bowl. “Bon appétit, monsieur.”

“He’d prefer foie gras and a fine burgundy,” I said, “but he’ll condescend.”

She laced her arms around my neck. “So, what’s up?”

“What shall our dinner be?”

“Haven’t thought about it,” she said. “Any ideas?”

“How about his leftovers?”

“Now you’re being cranky.” She started to leave, but I held her back, stroked her neck, her shoulder blades, slipped my hands under the tank top and kneaded the knobs of her spine, cupped a breast -

“Food, first,” she said. “Then, maybe.”