Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

He pinched his nose. “Don’t know, never read the file. If she did chomp the shrubs up there, it didn’t hurt her.”

“Maybe that was the problem,” I said. “She’d gotten away with it before. Then she didn’t. Also, pica isn’t inconsistent with her former profession. Body image and food issues go with that territory.”

“Actress with an eating disorder, big shock.” He got up and paced, returned to the sofa but stayed on his feet. “Thanks for the hospitality and sorry for putting a damper on your evening.” To Blanche: “That means you, too.”

She followed him to the door.

I told him about my call to Linus McCoy.

He said, “Good old Linus. Jane Smith, huh? It’s like a bad joke.”

“Any new thoughts on finding Ovid?”

“Sorry, insight deficit. Let me sleep on it.”

“Could you help me locate other people from the show? Conventional methods haven’t worked.”

“I’m being asked to engage in extra-legal intrusion into the personal data of law-abiding citizens? Tsk.” He opened the door. “Sure, why not tomorrow? My eyes are crossing.”

He peered toward the kitchen.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any edible scraps lying around? All the talk of poison has gotten me famished.”

True to his word, Milo phoned at ten a.m.

“Snagged you some info on the SubUrban folk. Got a pen handy?”

“I never gave you the cast list.”

“Golly gosh, I discovered something new called the Internet. Ready? The producers you already know. By the way, they’re married to each other. The guy who played the dad died last year, lung disease. The two Nigerians haven’t paid taxes in the U.S. since the show got canceled and turns out they’re not Nigerians, they’re from Ghana. One of them, Robert Adjaho, runs The New Ashanti Theatre of Drama and Dance in London, here are his factoids.”

I copied.

“The Nigerian wife, Diana Humado, I couldn’t locate. Justin Lemarque, the kid who played the son, is a freshman at Brown. His real name is Justin Levine, only address I’ve got is the school. The sister, Shay McNamara, is actually named Shay McNamara. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina, and does P.R. for that humongous estate they’ve got there, Biltmore. No news on the dog or the fish, here’s McNamara’s office number.”

I thanked him.

He said, “This level of achievement, I’m sending Doritos to myself.”

Six-twenty p.m. in London gave me a shot at reaching Robert Adjaho. But all I got at the New Ashanti Theatre was voicemail instruction on how to buy tickets. Next performance: Revisiting Othello, opening in three months.

Shay McNamara’s number at Biltmore’s corporate office was answered by a woman named Andrea. “She’s away from her desk, sir. Can I be of assistance?”

“I’m calling about someone Ms. McNamara used to work with named Zelda Chase.”

“Could you spell that, please, sir?”

Ah, fame. “She was an actress, like Shay.”

“I’ll let Shay know, sir. Have a nice day!”

I gave the producers, Hinson and/or Strickland, a second try. This time, I barely got past my name when the woman on the other end said, “I’m so glad I caught you.”

“Pardon?”

“Doctor, this is Karen Anne Jackson, you knew me as Karen Gallardo.”

“Ovid’s babysitter. Hi.”

“More like a P.A. grunt, back then. My secretary told me you’d called about Zelda and I was going to get back to you but it got pretty hectic. Is it a health insurance matter? Because her policy’s long-lapsed. I wish we didn’t have to be so corporate but after all this time, it’s impossible to give her coverage.”

“This has nothing to do with insurance, Karen. Zelda died two days ago.”

“No! Oh, my God, that’s terrible. Was she ill?”

“Quite.”

“Did she... was it suicide?”

Same thing Steve Beal had asked. “Cause of death hasn’t been established yet.”

“Oh, wow. How’s Ovid taking it?”

“It’s Ovid I’m calling about. Zelda’s been living on the streets but no one’s seen Ovid for a while.”

“And you thought Joel and Greer might know? I’m sure they don’t, Dr. Delaware, they’re my bosses and almost everything gets filtered through me and there’s been no contact between the company and Zelda since Sub stopped taping. You’re really worried something’s happened to Ovie?”

“I’d feel better if I knew where he was.”

“Now I feel horrible about not getting back to you sooner. I just didn’t want to be the one to deliver bad news about the coverage. But this is so much worse.”

“Would you have time today to talk in person?”

“I don’t know what I could tell you.”

“Your impressions of Zelda — that question you asked about suicide, for example.”

“All I meant was, it was pretty obvious Zelda had issues. I really don’t see that I can help, but sure, the idea of Ovie out there upsets me. He was a good kid, now that I have one of my own I appreciate how smart he was. His attention span, those fantastic things he built. I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, should last until noon. And then two more from three p.m. on — I guess I could squeeze lunch in, say one-thirty? If we stay close to the office.”

“You name it.”

“There’s a place on Washington near Motor, Brasserie Mosca.”

“See you at one-thirty.”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Karen Jackson. “God, I hope he’s okay.”

The years that had been so cruel to Zelda Chase had smiled kindly on Karen Gallardo Jackson.

The pallid, anxious minion I’d encountered in the rented house above the Chateau Marmont strode into the restaurant with the bounce of a woman who’d earned her self-confidence.

Thinner but far from thin, she wore a tailored brown suede jacket, a peacock-blue silk shirt, and tweed slacks that made the most of her figure. Burnt-orange lizard-skin boots gave her some height. A brown handbag swayed rhythmically as she walked.

Hair once abused to bristly flat black had grown out to a soft, rusty brown, styled in a layered, jaw-length cut that managed to project competence and softness. Her ring finger bore a platinum band set with a sizable ruby. Matching studs twinkled in each ear. No evidence, not even a pinhole, of the steel array that had once crowded the lobes.

We shook hands and she sat down and ordered a chopped salad and iced tea. I asked for the Italian steak sandwich, medium rare, and water.

She said, “You haven’t changed much.”

I risked saying, “You have.” Her smile said Good Bet.

“That was the plan, Dr. Delaware. I sure needed help.”

“What do you do for Hyson and Strickland?”

Out of the bag came a brown leather card case. She slid the top card to me.

Vice President for Management.

“Basically, I gatekeep. Joel and Greer are constantly being hit on. Unsolicited scripts, requests for meetings, investment schemes. You develop a sense of who to let through, try not to offend those you block.”

“How’d you go from P.A.’ing to that?”

“I sensed the show would be canceled and literally begged for them to keep me on. I told them I’d do anything and they took me up on it. Had me cleaning the offices at night. That freed up my days so I went back and finished my B.A., then I added postbac courses in management. I guess that impressed them because they started giving me more responsibility.”

She smiled. “Greer also gave me some grooming tips. One thing led to another, and here I am.”

“How’d you know the show would be canceled? What I read said it was a surprise.”

“Where’d you read it? On some website? All that’s nonsense, Doctor. Everyone knew. It was clear our numbers weren’t good enough and the network was bored with us.”