Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"How long ago was this?"

"Nineteen-seventy."

"So he was only twelve. Any idea why he left?"

"Chief had just busted him for drunk and disorderly again, gave him the usual lecture, then added a few bucks for him to get some new clothes and a haircut. Figured maybe if the kid looked better he'd act better. Lyle walked out of the police station and headed straight for the train depot. Police chief later found he used the money to buy a one-way ticket to Atlanta."

"Twelve years old," I said. "He could have kept traveling and ended up in Santa Barbara, been taken in by de Bosch as a charity case- de Bosch liked to put forth the humanitarian image, publicly."

"Wish I could get hold of school records. No one seems to have any. Not the city or the county."

"What about federal? If de Bosch applied for government funding for the charity cases, there might be some kind of documentation."

"Don't know how long those agencies hold on to their records, but I'll check. So far I'm drawing a blank on this bastard. First time he shows up in California is an arrest nine years ago. No NCIC record prior to that, so that's over a decade between his leaving Georgia and the beginnings of his West Coast life of crime. If he got busted for petty stuff in other small towns, it might very well not have been entered into the national computer. But still, you'd expect something. He's a bad egg, where the hell was he all that time?"

"How about in a mental institution?" I said. "Twelve years old, out on his own. God knows what could have happened to him out on the street. He might have suffered a mental breakdown and got put away. Or, if he was at the school the same time as Delmar Parker, maybe he observed Delmar's death and broke down over that."

"Big assumption, he and Delmar knowing each other."

"It is, but there are some factors that might point in that direction: he and Delmar were around the same age, both were Southern boys a long way from home. Maybe Gritz finally made a friend. Maybe he even had something to do with Delmar stealing the truck. If he did and escaped death but saw Delmar die, that could have pulled the rug out from under him, psychologically."

"So now he's blaming the school and de Bosch and everyone associated with it? Sure, why not? I just wish we could push it past theory. Place Gritz in Santa Barbara, let alone the school, let alone knowing the Parker kid, et cetera, et cetera."

"Any luck finding Parker's mother?"

"She doesn't live in New Orleans, and I haven't been able to find any other relatives. So where does this Silk-Merino thing come in? Why would a Southern boy pick himself a Latino alias?"

"Merino's a type of wool," I said. "Or a sheep- the flock following the shepherd, and getting misled?"

"Baaa," he said. "When are you planning to see Rosenblatt's kid?"

"Couple of hours."

"Good luck. And don't worry, everything here's cool. Ms. Castagna lends a nice touch to the place, maybe we'll keep her."

"No, I don't think so."

"Sure," he said, chuckling. "Why not? Woman's touch and all that. Hell, we can keep the beast, too. Put up a picket fence around the lawn. One big happy family."

• • •

New York was as clear as an etching, all corners and windows, vanishing rooflines, skinny strips of blue sky.

I walked to the law firm, heading south on Fifth Avenue, swept along in the midtown tide, comforted, somehow, by the forced intimacy.

The shop windows were as glossy as diamonds. People wearing business faces hurtled toward the next obligation. Three-card monte players shouted invitations, took quick profit, then vaporized into the crowd. Street vendors hawked silly toys, cheap watches, tourist maps, and paperback books stripped of their covers. The homeless squatted in doorways, leaned against buildings. Bearing crudely lettered signs and paper cups, their hands out, their eyes leeched of expectation. So many more of them than in L.A. but yet they seemed to belong, part of the city's rhythm.

Five Hundred Fifth Avenue was a six-hundred-foot limestone tower, the lobby an arena of marble and granite. I arrived with an hour to spare and walked back outside, wondering what to do with the time. I bought a hot dog from a pushcart, ate it watching the throng. Then I spotted the main branch of the public library, just across Forty-second Street, and made my way up the broad, stone stairs.

After a bit of asking and wandering, I located the periodicals room. The hour went fast as I checked four-year-old New York newspapers for obituaries on Harvey Rosenblatt. Nothing.

I thought of the psychiatrist's kind, open manner. The loving way he'd spoken about his wife and children.

A teenaged boy who'd liked hot dogs. The taste of mine was still on my lips, sour and warm.

My thoughts shifted to a twelve-year-old, leaving town on a one-way ticket to Atlanta.

Life had sneak attacked both of them, but Josh Rosenblatt had been much more heavily armed for the ambush. I left to see how well he'd survived.

• • •

Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer's decorator had gone for Tradition: carved, riff-oak panels with laundry-sharp creases, layers of heavy moldings, voluptuous plaster work, wool rugs over herringbone floors. The receptionist's desk was a huge, walnut antique. The receptionist was pure contemporary: midtwenties, white-blonde, Vogue face, hair tied back tight enough to pucker her hairline, breasts sharp enough to make an embrace dangerous.

She checked a ledger and said, "Have a seat and Mr. Rosenblatt will be right with you."

I waited twenty minutes until the door to the inner offices opened and a tall, good-looking young man stepped into the reception area.

I knew he was twenty-seven, but he looked like a college student. His face was long and grave under dark, wavy hair, nose narrow and full, his chin strong and dimpled. He wore a pinstriped charcoal suit, white tab shirt, and red and pearl tie. Pearl pocket handkerchief, quadruple pointed, tassled black loafers, gold Phi Beta Kappa pin in his lapel. Intense brown eyes and a golf tan. If law started to bore him, he could always pose for the Brooks Brothers catalogue.

"Dr. Delaware, Josh Rosenblatt."

No smile. One arm out. Bone-crusher handshake.

I followed him through a quarter acre of secretaries, file cabinets, and computers to a broad wall of doors. His was just off to the left. His name in brass, on polished oak.

His office wasn't much bigger than my hotel cubicle, but one wall was glass and it offered a falcon's lair view of the city. On the wall were two degrees from Columbia, his Phi Beta Kappa certificate, and a lacrosse stick mounted diagonally. A gym bag sat in one corner. Documents were piled up everywhere, including on one of the straight-backed side chairs facing the desk. I took the empty chair. He removed his jacket and tossed it on the desk. Very broad shoulders, powerful chest, outsize hands.

He sat down amid the clutter, shuffled papers while studying me.

"What kind of law do you practice?" I said.

"Business."

"Do you litigate?"

"Only when I need to get a taxi- no, I'm one of the behind-the-scenes guys. Mole in a suit."

He drummed the desk with his palm a few times. Kept staring at me. Put his hands down flat.

"Same face as your picture," he said. "I'd expected someone older- closer to… Dad's age."

"I appreciate your taking the time. Having someone you love murdered-"

"He wasn't murdered," he said, almost barking. "Not officially, anyway. Officially, he committed suicide, though the rabbi filed it as an accident so he could be buried with his parents."

"Suicide?"

"You met my dad- did he seem like an unhappy person?"

"On the contrary."

"Damn right on the contrary." His face reddened. "He loved life- really knew how to have fun. We used to kid him that he never really grew up. That's what made him a good psychiatrist. He was such a happy guy, other psychiatrists used to make jokes about it. Harvey Rosenblatt, the only well-adjusted shrink in New York."