Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“The woman who died on Enid’s property claimed she was the daughter of Zina Rutherford, Enid’s half sister.”

“Claimed?” he said. “You think she was raving?”

I’d said nothing about mental illness.

Rather than waiting for an answer, he went on. “You know better than me, Doctor. People claim they see little green men. Pink elephants.” Going on too long, his voice losing conviction.

No sense challenging him. I said, “She was mentally ill but that doesn’t mean there was no truth to her claim.”

“Zina’s daughter,” he said. “Never met Zina, let alone her daughter.”

“What was Enid like?”

“The first time I saw her was at Scandia, they had a lattice gazebo at the back of the main room, a bunch of us were dining there and Averell entered with a woman and everyone noticed her. Was she gorgeous? If you like Bette Davis. Tall, blond, nice shoulders, great haunches — she wore a blood-red dress, designed to show off what she had.”

His hands formed an hourglass.

I said, “Making a statement.”

“A classy statement, those days every woman of means projected class. So did the fellows, we wore suits and ties to the Rose Bowl.”

“Bette Davis,” I said. “A little hard around the edges?”

“More like strength of character — her, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, Ida Lupino. Some fellows go for that, my taste runs to pillowy and emotionally vulnerable — Monroe. I met her, such a fragile gal.”

He laughed. “Not that I ended up with vulnerable. My wife’s Japanese, I thought I’d be getting a geisha and woke up with a samurai. Though she has remained gorgeous. What does Enid look like nowadays?”

“Keeps herself up, elegant. She has a boyfriend.”

“Really. Who?”

“J. Yarmuth Loach.”

“Him? He’s younger than her.”

I waited.

Cohen said, “Got to be what, ten years younger?”

“Three.”

“I would’ve thought more. Back then, he seemed like a kid.”

“How’d you know him?”

“He worked for Av. I thought of him as a kid but I guess he had to be late twenties. Yarmie and Enid, huh? Guess it makes sense, he imitated everything Av did — four-in-hand tie knot, same phraseology. If Av wore an ascot, a few days later you’d see one on Yarmie. Av used to joke about it, I’m Pete, he’s Repeat. Not in a nasty way, I think he enjoyed being emulated. Being held up as the standard of Wasp savoir faire.”

“Loach didn’t share that background.”

“With his name, you’d have thought so,” said Cohen. “J. Yarmuth, don’t recall what the J stood for... I know he didn’t come from money because during the Pete and Repeat conversation Av said look how far a Bakersfield hick can go with good tailoring. I remember that because it made me wonder what Av really thought of me. My parents never owned a house, I went to Bronx High School of Science, got into Harvard on a scholarship and caught plenty of bigotry there. I resolved to keep my own name and not pretend I was someone else. That’s why I moved here. L.A. was wide open for anyone with brains and drive. Where are you from?”

“Missouri.”

“Come from money?”

“Not even close.”

“And look at you, a man of sophistication, a healer of minds. And a self-styled Sherlock.”

“What did Loach do for Av?”

“He was also a lawyer but didn’t want to be. Instead of clerking or joining a firm, he took a low-paying apprenticeship at Av’s company. What that entailed, I couldn’t tell you.”

He shook his head. “Young Yarmie consorting with Enid, go know.”

“He’s practicing law now.”

“Where?”

“Revelle, Winters, Loach, Russo.”

“He’s a named partner? Bakersfield made it big,” said Cohen. “Don’t know the firm, never had dealings with them. Must be downtown, not the Westside.”

“Seventh Street.”

“As downtown as you can get. What’s Yarmie’s specialty?”

“Estates and trusts.”

“For that, training with Av would be an asset.”

I said, “He doesn’t seem to work much, could be a rainmaker.”

Cohen looked at me. “You’ve been researching him, too? You suspect both of them are up to something? Are you saying this insane woman really was the sister’s offspring and put the screws on Enid for serious moolah and Yarmie overstepped trying to defend his honey?”

I stared at him.

He said, “Been deducing for a long time.” He looked away. Even old lawyers give up tells.

I said, “That’s all it is, deduction?”

“What else would it be?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Cohen, that’s a helluva lot of information to pull out of the air. I also find your remark about raving interesting since I never mentioned mental illness.”

He took a second to answer. “I don’t have a crystal ball, Doctor, deduction is all it is — logic. You said she was homeless and broke into Enid’s place. To me that sounds crazy.”

Plausible, but no conviction at all in his voice.

Is anyone else involved?

“Mr. Cohen, I get the feeling I’m not the first person asking you these questions.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You asked me if anyone else besides Lieutenant Sturgis was involved. And despite your explanation, that question about raving was a significant conceptual leap.”

“Homeless? The majority of them aren’t seriously disturbed?”

I smiled.

He faced me. “Who do you think I talked to?”

“All I can do is guess, Mr. Cohen. Someone also interested in ‘psychological’ issues. Maybe a psychiatrist named Lou Sherman?”

He stopped short, pitched forward scuffing dirt, held his hands out for balance.

I reached out to brace him; he shook me off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. So what is this, a game? You know the answers but you’re testing me? The way cops do with suspects — what I do when I cross-examine? When I passed the bar, I said no more tests. Got that?”

“Just trying to get to the truth, Mr. Cohen.”

He puffed his lips. Above us, a cloud passed over the sun, leaving a glare that turned his dyed hair the hue of bloody cotton. For an instant, he looked like a battered man. Then another cloud arrived and restored him to mere cosmetic pretense.

I said, “Lou Sherman would want you to talk to me. We were friends and colleagues, he’s the one who got me involved with Zelda. That’s her name, by the way. Zelda Chase. But you already know that, don’t you?”

“Then have Dr. Sherman release me from confidentiality.”

“Unfortunately, he’s passed on.”

Cohen flinched.

I said, “Not everyone benefits from spare parts—”

“I get it,” snapped Cohen. He resumed walking. “If you’re playing on my survivor guilt, you’re succeeding. When did he die?”

“A little over two years ago. When did he come to see you?”

Cohen sighed. “Good man, Dr. Sherman. He impressed me as a shrink who actually cared about his patients, you don’t see that often.”

He paused again, pivoted sharply but managed to maintain his balance, eyes narrow and acute. “You really were colleagues?”

“If you’d like I can send you his chart on Zelda. My name’s in there, that’s how I reconnected with her.”

“No, no, I believe you. He came to me around four years ago. What was your involvement?”

“Lou asked me to evaluate Zelda’s son. To see how he was functioning and to find out if Zelda was competent to care for him. At the time, she was. The boy’s eleven, Mr. Cohen. If he’s alive. He hasn’t been seen since Zelda began living on the streets. I’m trying to find out if he’s okay.”

“And if he’s not?” said Earl Cohen. “That’ll be tough to hear.”