Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

“Last time I saw her was four years ago. November.”

“Hold on, let me check… December nineteenth.”

“Gretchen Stengel,” I said.

“The Westside Madam herself. At least she wasn’t working the street for crack vials.”

I gripped the phone so hard my fingers ached. “Is there any record of a drug history?”

“No, just the solicitation bust. But Gretchen’s girls did tend to party hard – Look, Alex, you know passing judgment on people’s sex lives isn’t my thing, and I don’t even think much about dope unless it leads to someone being made dead. But the fact that Lauren’s a working girl does have to be taken into account here. Most likely she split for a gig and the roommate’s covering for her with Mom. I can’t see any reason to panic.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “Mom may be out of the loop. Though she’s not totally unaware – told me Lauren went through some rough times, and her voice tightened up when she said it. And with the last arrest four years ago, maybe Lauren did turn herself around. She did enroll at the U.”

“That could be.”

“I know, I know – cockeyed optimism.”

“Hey, it gives you that boyish charm… So you treated her four years ago?”

“Ten. I saw her once four years ago. Follow-up.”

“Ah,” he said. “Ten years is a long time.”

“It’s a damned eon.”

Long pause. “You still sound… protective of her.”

“Just doing my job.” Surprised at the anger in my voice. I avoided further discussion by thanking him for his time.

He said, “The MP guy did agree to make some calls to hospitals.”

“Morgues too?” I said.

“That too. Alex, I know you didn’t want to hear about the girl’s sheet, but in this case maybe it puts things in a more positive light – she’s got a rationale for cutting out without explanation. Best thing to tell the mom is just wait. Nine times out of ten, the person shows up.”

“And when they don’t, it’s too late to do anything about it anyway.”

He didn’t answer.

“Sorry,” I said. “You’ve done more than you had to.”

He laughed softly. “No, I had to.”

“Up for lunch sometime?” I said.

“Sure, after I chip away at some of this ice.”

“Subarctic, huh?”

“I wake up middle of the night with penguins pecking my ass.”

“What kinds of cases?”

“Potpourri. Ten-year-old child murder, parents probably did it but no physical evidence. Twelve-year-old convenience store robbery-gone-bad, no witnesses, not even decent ballistics, ’cause the bad guys used a shotgun; drunk snuffed out in an alley eight years ago; and my personal favorite: old lady smothered in her bed back when Nixon was president. Should’ve gotten my degree in ancient history.”

“English lit’s not a bad fit either.”

“How so?”

“Everyone’s got a story,” I said.

“Yeah, but once I’m listening to them, you can forget happy endings.”

THE ROOMMATE’S COVERING for her…

A roommate who lived the same life as Lauren? If so, no reason for her to talk to Jane. Or the police. Or anyone else.

Jane Abbot claimed Lauren admired me. I found that hard to believe, but perhaps Lauren had mentioned me to the roommate and I could learn something.

I called the 323 number Jane had given me for Lauren, got another male robot on the machine, hung up without leaving a message.

I thought some more about the path Lauren’s life had taken. Given the little I knew about her family life, I supposed there was no reason to be surprised. But I found myself succumbing to letdown anyway.

Ten years ago. Two sessions.

When her father had terminated, had I let it go too easily? I really didn’t think so. Lyle Teague had never accepted the idea of therapy. Even if I’d managed to reach him by phone, there was no reason to believe he’d have changed his mind.

No reason at all for me to feel I’d failed, and I told myself I felt comfortable with that. But as the afternoon grayed Lauren’s disappearance continued to chew at me. Just after two P.M. I left the house, gunned the Seville down the glen to Sunset, and headed east, through Beverly Hills and the Strip, to the roller-coaster ramp that was the crest of La Cienega.

Catching Third just past the Beverly Center, I picked up Sixth at Crescent Heights and cruised past the tar pits. Plaster mastodons reared, and groups of schoolkids gawked. They pull bones out of the pits daily. One of L.A.’s premier tourist spots is an infinite graveyard.

Lauren’s apartment on Hauser sat midway between Sixth and Wilshire, a putty-colored six-unit box old enough for fire escapes. I made my way up a chunky cement path to a glass door fronted by wrought-iron fettuccine. Through the glass: dim hallway and dark carpeting. A column of name slots and call buttons listed TEAGUE/SALANDER in apartment 4.

I pressed the button, was surprised to be buzzed in immediately. The hallway smelled of beef stew and laundry detergent. The carpeting was an ancient wool – flamingo-colored leaf forms over mud brown, once pricey, now heeled and toed to the burlap. Mahogany doors had been restained streaky and lacquered too thickly. No music or conversation leaked from behind any of them. A flight of chipped terra-cotta steps at the rear of the building took me upstairs.

Unit 4 faced the street. I knocked, and the door opened before my fist lowered. A young man holding a white washcloth stared out at me.

Five-six, one-thirty, fair-haired and frail-looking, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, very blue jeans cinched by a black leather belt, black lace-up boots. A heavy silver chain looped a front jeans pocket.

“Oh. I thought you were…” Breathy-voiced, pitched high.

“Someone else,” I said. “Sorry if I’m interrupting. My name’s Alex Delaware.”

No recognition in the wide, hazel eyes, just residual surprise. The fair hair was dun tipped with yellow, clipped nearly to the skull. Zero body fat, but what was left was string, not bulk. Tiny gold ring in his right earlobe. A tattoo – “Don’t Panic” in elaborate blue-black script – capped his left shoulder. A band of thorns in the same hue circled his right biceps. He looked to be around Lauren’s age, had the round, unlined face, pink cheeks, and arched brows of an indulged child. As he looked me up and down, surprise began to give way to suspicion. He clenched the washcloth, and his head drew back.

“I’m an old acquaintance of Lauren’s,” I said. “One of her doctors, actually. Her mother called me, concerned because she hasn’t heard from Lauren for a week-”

“One of her doctors? Oh… the psychologist – yes, she told me about you. I remember your name was one of the states – are you Native American?”

“Kind of a mongrel.”

He smiled, pulled at the silver chain, produced a saucer-sized pocket watch. “My God, it’s two-forty!” Another eye rub. “I was catching a nap, heard the bell, thought it was three-forty, and jolted up.”

“Sorry for waking you.”

He let the washcloth unfurl, waved it in a tight little arc. “Oh, don’t apologize, you did me a favor. I have… an old friend dropping by, need the time to pull myself together.” A hip cocked. “Now, why are we having this conversation out in the hall?” A bony arm shot forward. His grip was iron. “Andrew Salander – I’m Lauren’s roomie.”

He swung the door wide open, stepped aside, and let me into a large parlor with a high, cross-beamed ceiling. Heavy ruby-and-gold brocade drapes sealed the windows and plunged the space into gloom. New smells blew toward me: cologne, incense, the suggestion of fried eggs.

“Let there be light,” said Andrew Salander as he rushed over and yanked the curtains open. A cigar of downtown smog hovered above the rooftops of the buildings across the street. Exposed, the living room walls were lemon yellow topped by gilded moldings. The cross-beams were gilded as well; someone had taken the time to hand-leaf. French cigarette prints, insipid old seascapes in decaying frames, and frayed samplers coexisted in improbable alliance on the walls. Deco and Victorian and tubular-legged moderne furniture formed a cluttered liaison. A close look suggested thrift-shop treasures. A keen eye had made it all work.