Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

The food came. She picked. “I’m still unclear about how Zelda died.”

“So am I. She was found on a stranger’s property with no obvious external wounds.”

“A stranger? That sounds like her arrest — breaking into her boyfriend’s.”

“Apparently it became a pattern, Karen. She was arrested for trespassing a few days before she died.”

“Out on the street,” she said. “I guess anything can happen out there. How long’s she been that way?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. Starting with what happened to her after the cancellation.”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

“What about the problems you mentioned? What you thought could lead to suicide.”

“Nothing specific regarding suicide,” said Karen Jackson. “I just remember being told she was odd. By everyone on the set. When she came home to live with Ovie again, she didn’t say a word to me. No thanks, no questions about how he was doing. She just unpacked her bags as if she clearly expected me to leave. So I did.”

“We haven’t been able to locate any family members. Are you aware of any?”

“Sorry, no. Have you spoken to anyone from the show?”

“Steve Beal. He recalls her having strong mood swings.”

“Steve,” she said. “How’s he doing?”

“Selling real estate.”

“Yes, that would fit — he considered himself quite the salesman, especially when it came to selling himself. After Sub died, he kept hectoring Joel and Greer about casting him in another series.”

She shook her head. “Worst approach, the hungrier you are, the faster people run from you. I’m glad Steve found another outlet.”

“When you were watching Ovid, did he mention family?”

“Never. Let me ask you something: Zelda’s mental illness, is there a serious chance she could’ve hurt him?”

“There’s no evidence of that.”

“But it’s possible.”

“Anything’s possible, Karen.”

“Well, I’m going to help you. First thing when I get back, I’ll talk to Joel and Greer.”

“Appreciate it. What about the other actors? Did any of them have a relationship with Zelda?”

“You mean romantic?”

“Romantic, platonic. I’m looking for anyone she’d confide in.”

“There was no one I saw. She was a loner and the show was run pretty business-like, not much socializing. Dr. Delaware, is there a chance Ovie got sick, too? Mentally, I mean. Genetics being what it is?”

“Again, anything’s possible,” I said. “But like you said, he was a pretty together five-year-old.”

Giving her a pat answer. But genetics could be a factor. And while some schizophrenics showed early signs of being odd, others didn’t.

Reassurance was what Karen Jackson had been after. “I bet he’s doing great. Wherever he is.”

“Karen, I can use your help finding the rest of the cast.” I told her about my calls to London and North Carolina, asked if talking to Justin Levine would be useful.

She said, “Justin was a kid himself. Mostly he tried to skateboard everywhere. He made it to Brown? Never knew he had the smarts. Robert was a nice guy, soft-spoken, he and Diana stuck together — they were an item off camera, too. Shay was well behaved, just like her character, and I never saw her hang with Zelda, but you could try. If she knew something, I’m sure she’d tell you.”

“What about other people on the set? Writers, camera staff?”

“That would be a huge list, Doctor, you have no idea how many people it takes to churn—” World-weary smile. “To create. But, again, I’d doubt any of them would know much. On some shows there’s a lot of interaction between the writers and the actors, constant rewriting. SNL ’s like that. Joel and Greer don’t work that way. You get the script with ample time to get familiar with it, study your lines, and deliver them.”

I said, “Keeping the herd under control.”

“Pardon?”

“Alfred Hitchcock’s approach. He said, ‘Actors should be treated like cattle.’ ”

“Did he?” said Karen Jackson. “Well, he created some pretty great stuff.”

I quizzed her a bit more, paid for lunch despite what sounded like sincere objections, and walked her to her Lexus SUV.

She said, “First thing when they’re available, I’ll talk to the bosses.”

I believed her. Nice to have something to believe in.

As I walked in my front door, my mobile chirped. True to her word, Karen Jackson.

I said, “That was quick.”

“But unfortunately not too helpful, Dr. Delaware. Joel and Greer have no inkling about Zelda’s personal life. Greer did say that Zelda being ‘different’ was the reason she cast her as Corinna.”

“Corinna was an especially eccentric character?”

“Considering the type of show it was? No, not really. Corinna was basically a slut with a low I.Q. Greer’s point was that Zelda had a talent for getting weird on demand, probably because she was odd in the first place. So they decided to capitalize on that. I know it sounds exploitative, but that’s the way it is, Dr. Delaware. Like you said, cattle.”

“Appreciate your trying, Karen.”

“One more thing, I couldn’t find Zelda’s contract but I did come across her health insurance application and on it she listed her agent as Stan Guest. I’ve never heard of him and he doesn’t come up in any of our records, so he may no longer be in the industry. Greer didn’t remember him at all and Joel has a vague memory of his being ‘a minor-league old guy.’ But maybe you can locate him and he’ll be able to tell you something.”

“Again, Karen, thanks.”

“One more thing, talk about a warning sign,” she said. “The form asks for family members and Zelda listed ‘father of my only son.’ She put down his name as Joseph Bethlehem, living at her address. I searched, just in case, but of course it wasn’t real. Guess she saw herself as the Virgin Mary.”

And eventually, God.

“She was so ill, Doctor. Nobody noticed.”

Twenty-three Stan or Stanley Guest s floating in cyberspace. Of the three in California, Stanley Z., seventy-one, at a Northridge address kicked out by a real estate site, seemed the most likely. Number listed in the directory; maybe he was still trolling for business.

The man who picked up said, “Guest residence, Jamal.”

“Mr. Guest, please.”

“What about?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m looking for a Stan Guest who represented a patient. Was Mr. Guest once a TV agent?”

A beat. “Yeah, so?”

“The patient just passed away and—”

“ Sir. Stan can’t tell you anything, he’s got Alzheimer’s end stage.”

“Sorry to hear that. Are there family members I could talk to?”

“The guy who was his partner bailed after the first six months.”

“And you—”

“I’m a home-hospice worker.”

“So Mr. Guest is nonverbal.”

“ Sir. He’s non- everything. ”

Joseph Bethlehem.

Lou Sherman had missed the extent of Zelda’s disease and I’d returned a five-year-old to her custody.

Don Quixote whispered in my ear: “Give it up, fool. You’re only going to feel worse.”

I called in for messages. Two from lawyers, whose questions I took care of quickly. Saving the best for last: Milo, a few minutes ago.

He said, “There’s someone you’ll want to meet. Can you be in Culver City in, say, thirty?”

“I was just there.” I started to summarize the talk with Karen Jackson.

He said, “This might be worth a return trip.”

Dr. William Bernstein, senior pathologist at the crypt, was midfifties, built strong and blocky, with a wide pug-nosed face crowned by kinky gray-blond hair. Square steel-rimmed bifocals were a bad cosmetic choice but they did the job, magnifying pale-blue eyes that remained skeptical when at rest.