Jonathan Kellerman - Obsession

I said, “In the end, it’s up to you.”

“Because I’m an adult?”

I smiled.

She said, “Adulthood’s kind of a foolish concept, isn’t it? People grow up in all kinds of different ways.”

Just about the time Milo’s arm returned to full function, a woman named Barb Smith called my service and asked for an appointment for her child. I take very few therapy cases and because of Tanya, half a dozen court consults, and my desire to spend more time with Robin, I’d instructed the service to deliver that message routinely.

Lorraine, the operator, said, “I tried, Doctor. She wouldn’t take no for an answer-called back three times.”

“Pushy?”

“No, she was actually kind of nice.”

“Meaning I should stop being a hard case and return her call.”

“You’re the doctor, Doctor.”

“Give me the number.”

“I’m proud of you,” said Lorraine.

One of those meaningless cellular prefixes. Barb Smith picked up on the first ring. Young voice, radio-sultry. “Thanks so much for calling, Dr. Delaware.”

I gave my little speech.

She said, “I appreciate all that, but maybe you’ll change your mind when I tell you my former married name.”

“What’s that?”

“Fortuno.”

“Oh,” I said. “Philip.”

“ Felipe ,” she said. “That’s his legal name but Mario won’t use it, just to needle me. You’ve met Mario.”

“Dominant.”

“Tries to be,” she said, softly. “He ordered me to call you months ago. I think Felipe’s a wonderful boy, the problem’s all in Mario’s-let’s talk about that in person. I know you get paid for your time, and I don’t want to mooch. Would it be okay if I came by myself, without Felipe? Then, if you think there’s a problem, you can see Felipe?”

“Sure. You live in Santa Barbara.”

Hesitation. “I used to.”

“Moving around,” I said.

Another pause. “This call-you don’t record anything, right?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s not always relevant-what people think they know. How about we meet halfway. Between L.A. and Santa Barbara.”

“Sure. Where?”

“Oxnard,” she said. “There’s a winery there, away from the beach, in an industrial park off Rice Avenue. Nice little café and they make a great Zinfandel, if wine’s your thing.”

“Not when I work.”

“You can always take some home. I probably will.”

I met her the next day at noon.

The winery was a two-story mock-adobe structure set on a couple acres of landscaped lawns and spotless parking lot fifteen miles above the upper reaches of Malibu. Grapes trucked in from Napa and Sonoma and the Alexander Valley, pressed and bottled in an antiseptic setting, freeway-close for shipping. Far cry from the fragrant earth of Wine Country, but the tasting room was busy, as was the ten-table restaurant near the back.

Barb Smith had reserved a corner booth. She was young and bronze-maybe thirty-with long, wavy black hair, searching brown Eurasian eyes, a wide soft mouth. A baby-blue pantsuit covered skin but couldn’t conceal curves. Brown Kate Spade bag, high-heeled sandals to match, discreet emerald earrings, delicate gold-link necklace.

A glass of red wine sat in front of her. Her handshake was firm, moist around the edges.

She thanked me for coming, handed me a check for three times my usual fee, and took a wallet-sized photo out of the bag.

Dark-haired little boy, shy smile. Lots of his mother in him; the only trace of Mario Fortuno, a slightly undersized chin.

“Handsome,” I said.

“And good. Inside-where it counts.”

A waitress came over. Barb Smith said, “The cod cakes are unbelievable, if you don’t mind fish. That’s what I’m having.”

“Sounds good.”

The waitress nodded approvingly and left.

“Not when you’re working,” said Barb Smith. “I respect that. My only job is taking care of Felipe and he’s in school until three.”

Meaning Oxnard was driving distance from home.

My Coke arrived. Barb Smith sipped her wine. “This isn’t the Zin, it’s a Cab-Merlot blend, like they do in France. Mario doesn’t like Merlot, calls it Cabernet for girls. I drink what I want-if I’d have hugged you when you walked in you’d have thought I was forward, right?”

“Hugs can be Hollywood handshakes,” I said.

She laughed. “I love you, baby, now change completely? Once upon a time I thought I wanted to be part of that. The reason I brought up hugging is it would’ve had nothing to do with friendliness. That’s how Mario taught me to check for wires.”

“Ah.”

“But the way you’re dressed-polo shirt and slacks-it would be pretty hard to conceal something. Unless you were up on the latest technology.”

“To me that means stereo.”

“Just a simple guy, huh? Somehow I doubt it, but I’m convinced you’re not wired. Why would you be, I called you . At Mario’s behest-that’s a good word, isn’t it? I work on my vocabulary, always trying to better myself. Felipe has a great vocabulary. Everyone tells me he’s gifted.”

She drank some more, glanced off to the side. “I didn’t want to do this but Mario-you’re probably wondering what I saw in him. Sometimes I wonder myself. But he is the father of my child and I do know he’s going through some incredibly rough times. Did you know he’s got a bad heart-two bypasses years ago but there was damage they couldn’t repair? That part never gets in the papers.”

The corners of her eyes moistened and she swiped them with her napkin.

“Oh, look at this,” she said. “I hate him and still I feel sorry for him.”

“They say he’s got charisma.”

“Are you interested in how I got involved with him? Or is that too egotistical of me?”

“Tell me,” I said.

“It all goes back to what I just told you before. Wanting to be part of the scene. I thought I was an actress, did some community college back in…majored in theater, everyone said I had talent. So I came out here, did a string of temp jobs while trying to break in. One of them was working for a caterer, doing high-end industry parties. I met Mario at one of those, he was the only person who bothered to look at me when I came by with the plate of curried shrimp. Terrible food, if I told you what went on behind the scenes, you’d never eat at an industry party again.”

“Again?” I smiled.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m coming across so pretentioso. One of Mario’s made-up words. He despises the people who pay him…anyway, that’s where I met Mario and later, after the party, he took me out for drinks and drove me around in his Cadillac. I ended up telling him my life story-Mario has a talent for listening-and he told me what he did. He got a kick out of the fact that I had no idea who he was. I hear P.I., I’m figuring some small-time guy with an office over a Mexican restaurant, like on TV, I mean anyone can drive a Caddy, right? He never touched me, perfect gentleman, drove me home and asked me out again. Kind of nervous, like a teenage boy. Later, of course, I found out he’d been faking it, Mario can make you think whatever you want. He acts better than any of those stars he works for…anyway, he tells me he could use my talents, P.I.’s hire aspiring actors all the time, there’s lots of crossover. So I went to work for him. And he was right, acting skills are a big part of it.”

“Undercover work?” I said.

“I did some of that, but mostly it was pretending to be something I wasn’t. Going to a cocktail lounge and getting the target to flirt with me so Mario could take pictures. Process serving-it’s amazing how easy it is to gain entry into someone’s house or office when you lift the hemline of your skirt.”