Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

I said, “Have you noticed other homeless people in the neighborhood?”

“Just one, a man, a black man, pushing one of those supermarket carts piled high with who-knows-what. I notified Bel Air Patrol but by the time they got here, he was gone.”

Milo said, “How long ago did that happen, Mrs. DePauw?”

“Three years? Four? I can’t be sure. That experience was unsettling. As I drove by, he gave me a look. Which is why I called the patrol. But I haven’t seen him since. It really is quite wonderful here.”

She frowned. “How long do you people need to be here?”

“We’ll be as quick as possible, ma’am, but it could take a while.”

“Then I suppose I should go inside and let you go about your business.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She swiveled away, took another look at the body. “Life can be so unfair.”

Ascending to the top tier, she reached a bank of French doors that served as the house’s rear wall, paused to survey the scene, waved at us, and went inside.

Milo said, “Sorry it came to this, Alex.”

I said, “ Do you have any idea about cause of death?”

“No bullet holes or lacerations, no bump on the head from a fall or a blow, no obvious strangulation. At this point, the working assumption is natural causes. Whatever that means for someone like Zelda.”

“She used heroin. Could be an overdose.”

“Or her heart just gave out due to bad living.”

“The look on her face,” I said. “She didn’t die peacefully.”

“Gloria said the same thing, she’s wondering about a seizure.” He placed a big hand on my shoulder. “There’s no reason for you to stick around.”

“Looks to me as if she hasn’t been dead long.”

“Gloria’s guess is within six hours but we’ll wait until the pathologist weighs in. Coulda been even uglier for ol’ Enid if she got home earlier. She’s come out for her stroll, Martini in hand, witnesses it actually happening and has a stroke or something and we’ve got two bodies. Imagine trying to make sense of that scene.”

Gloria began packing up. Milo and I walked over to her.

“Anything new, G?”

“A few specks of what looks like vomitus over there.” Pointing to a small staked area a few feet behind the body, just below the steps from the top tier. “Like she was walking and started to get sick and just collapsed.”

The tech with the handheld jogged over. “If you don’t need the body, Lieutenant, I’m ready to authorize transport.”

“Go ahead.”

Gloria said, “Good night, Milo. You probably won’t have much to do on this one.”

“Your mouth to some deity’s ears.”

She left. The techs began boxing their equipment and dismantling the lights.

The scene suddenly quiet. That made it worse.

I went home.

Robin woke up when I slipped into bed. I kissed her forehead and made sure not to move too much. Next morning I told her about Zelda and she listened and asked if there was anything I needed. When I’d convinced her there wasn’t, she went to her studio and I resolved to concentrate on people I could actually help.

That faltered when my service phoned a little after two p.m.

“Stevenson Beal returned your call,” said the operator. “He used to be an actor on a show, I forget its name but I remember his.”

“SubUrban.”

“That’s the one. He said he’s in real estate now.”

“Sounds like you two had a nice chat.”

“Um... Doctor, I don’t want you to think I get too friendly with your patients. He’s kind of talkative, I figured I shouldn’t cut him off.”

“You figured right. Were you a fan of the show?”

“Not really. I watched it at the beginning but then it got stupid. That’s what always happens, right? They run out of stories.”

“Steve Beal, how can I help you?”

Booming baritone. No hint of the effeminate stereotype he’d played for two and a half years.

I told him about Zelda’s death.

He said, “Shit. Poor Zelda... shit. I was thinking you were interested in one of my listings but this is way way more important. Did she kill herself?”

“When you knew her, was she suicidal?”

“Not like openly trying to hurt herself, but if she did do it, I wouldn’t be shocked. Your service said you’re a shrink. Weren’t her issues obvious?”

His voice lowered. “In fact, why’re you calling me?”

“I was her son’s therapist and I’m trying to locate him, to make sure he’s okay. I haven’t found any relatives so I’m trying people she worked with.”

“You figured we’d know because we were her surrogate family?” said Beal. “Yeah, that’s always the official story, we bond. But let me take a wild guess: No one besides me called you back.”

“Not so far.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Doctor.”

“Any idea what Zelda did after the show was canceled?”

“I’m sure she brooded and got depressed like the rest of us. Though I guess for her it would’ve been a helluva lot worse. Because of her issues — listen, Doc, I’ve got a showing out in Tarzana, need to book. But if you want to get together later today and chat about Zelda, why not? It’ll allow me to flash back to my ahem days of stardom.”

We agreed to meet at four, at a café in Sherman Oaks named Le Fleur. I took a run, showered, logged onto a SubUrban video, filed Beal’s face mentally, and joined the onset of the rush-hour crawl up the Glen.

On the show, Beal had been in his late thirties, slim, with cropped dark hair and a pencil beard, prone to lisping, mincing, and bursting into show tunes.

The man waiting for me at a corner table was twenty pounds heavier, clean-shaven with longish graying hair, dressed in an oatmeal-colored suit, a chocolate T-shirt, tan Gucci loafers.

“Doctor? Hey, Steve Beal.” Both his hands remained wrapped around a coffee mug. He called the waitress over and asked what I’d be drinking.

I said, “The same.”

Beal said, “Also a couple of croissants, Tara — make mine with almonds.”

“Sure, Steve.”

“You’re not what I expected, Doc.”

“You figured Viennese with a cigar?”

He laughed. “Want me to be brutal? The shrinks I’ve known — and I’ve known a few — came across like people who didn’t get a lot of play in high school. Yeah, it’s pigeonholing, blame it on my former profession. Acting’s all about shortcuts but often they’re just as good as taking the long road.”

“Actors learn to make quick judgments?”

“TV actors do, we’re always under time pressure. Ever read a teleplay? Abbreviations, suggestions, the content is arranged around commercial breaks, it’s so the network can sell ad time. Anyway, you’re here to talk about Zelda. What you told me has totally bummed me out. What a messed-up waste.”

“She was talented?”

“She was as good as most — better. I’m not saying she was a Streep but she did have that thing with the camera you have to be born with. Transforming herself in a snap. People who can do that sometimes make the transition to the big screen but after her arrest I figured Zelda wouldn’t. Though being screwy hasn’t stopped others from making it big. You do know about the arrest.”

“I do.”

The croissants and my coffee arrived. Steve Beal raised his cup. “To Zelda and every other tortured soul trashed by the industry. Do I sound bitter? I kind of do, Doc. Thinking about her has flashed me back to my own servitude. I was six months old when I got my first job — soap commercial — then proceeded to sacrifice my childhood and my adolescence and a whole lot more because Mommy suffered from metastatic stage-door-itis. I barely got any education, so when Sub got canned and my agent stopped taking my calls, I was as marketable as a crippled quarterback. But it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.”