Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“Better than not knowing.”

“So now you toss in guilt over a child’s welfare, wonderful. You understand my reluctance. You’ve already seen me relax my ethical standards and I’m not sure I want to repeat it. For some reason I seem to care what you think of me.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Yadda yadda yadda, as Lenny Bruce would say. Met him, too. All doped up, tragic kid. But people forget how funny he was... so Sherman’s gone. Pity.”

The remaining yoga beauty leashed her dog and left. Cohen said, “Let’s take a load off,” and made his way to the fountain. He sank down precisely where her posterior had rested and I settled next to him.

“All right,” he said. “Since he’s dead, I see an opening. Sherman came to me because he’d already begun his own research and like you, thought I could help him. Why? Because newspaper archives on Enid and Av also contained my name. Social stuff — tennis finals, fundraisers. Like I said, we were chums.”

Wide grin. “Not that mine was the only name but everyone else Sherman looked up was dead. I told him I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or worried. He laughed — he had a hearty laugh. He wasn’t like other shrinks I’ve met, most of them come across like they didn’t get laid much in college. Not you, I’ll bet you had plenty of fun.”

I smiled.

“Enigmatic?” said Cohen. “Monte Lisa?” He crossed a leg, examined a scrawny ankle. “Sherman enjoyed a good single malt. We drank together in the Four Seasons bar and he ponied up for a bottle of Oban. He told me he was looking into Enid and Av due to a personal matter that required professional confidentiality. He insisted on giving me a retainer, though I assured him none was necessary. The basic story was that he had a patient whose veracity couldn’t be taken at face value due to mental health issues. She’d convinced herself she was the child of a movie star who’d disappeared and he wanted to know if there was truth to it, so he could treat her appropriately. I was impressed, Dr. Delaware. His going the extra mile.”

He turned, placed a hand on my shoulder. “I can see why the two of you would get along.”

“Thank you.”

“It is a compliment. I don’t give them out like Halloween candy.”

His hand returned to his lap. “He asked me if I was aware of any vanishing movie stars and I said I wasn’t. He said he hadn’t come up with anything, either, the closest was a wannabe named Zina Rutherford and looking into her led him to the DePauws, apparently he found some out-of-town documents.”

Taking the same steps Milo and I had. Great minds. Suddenly, I missed Lou. Could imagine what it felt like to be Cohen, last man on the mountain.

He said, “Unlike your situation, there was no suggestion of foul play, all Dr. Sherman was trying to verify was a family link between Zina and Enid, which I gave him. That was it. Whether or not he proved to his own satisfaction that his patient — the Zelda woman — was accurate or delusional, I haven’t a clue.”

“You knew Zina.”

“I knew of her. Enid’s much younger, even better-looking sister. In fact, it came up that first night when Enid walked into Scandia with that red dress. Someone gave a low whistle and said Av had snagged himself a looker. Someone else — don’t ask, I have no idea — said, ‘You think she’s something, you should check out her baby sister, Av sure did. Guess he likes them more mature now.’ ”

“Av dated both of them?”

“What I heard was that both girls came to L.A. trying to break into the industry. Enid thought she could buy herself in with her money and did manage to get a few no-dialogue walk-ons that were basically vanity things — crowd scenes, that kind of thing. The harsh truth was, being in her thirties put her over the hill. And there was already one Bette Davis.”

He shook his head. “According to the wags I was with, there was also the matter of talent. Enid had none. Zina was younger, prettier, and at least marginally competent. She landed some small parts in cheapies. But her career also went nowhere.”

Zelda had topped both of them. Had she thrown that in Enid’s face? Probably not, too broken down to muster up a complex thought.

“Failed actresses, they should build a monument to them,” said Cohen. “Like the poor girl who jumped off the Hollywood sign. At least those two had dough to fall back on.”

“They also had an interest in the same man. Who Enid ended up with.”

Cohen nodded. “Spiteful. You’re thinking spite stuck in her soul and was directed at Zelda.”

“I think Zelda might have threatened her directly by declaring herself an heir.”

Cohen smiled. “Look at us. I go psychological, you go financial.”

“It’s all related.”

“Yes, it is, son. Do I believe Enid capable of murder? Can’t say, I spoke to her at parties and such, that’s the extent of it. I recall her as a frosty dame. You’re the one with the license to analyze.”

“Did your dinner companions at Scandia have anything more to say about Zina?”

“They did but it’s... unchivalrous, Doctor. More than that. Rude.”

I said, “Something about her sexual talents?”

Cohen cleared his throat. “The term I believe I heard was ‘crazy sexy.’ Then someone else said, ‘Crazy and sexy is the perfect combination, you can do what you want with one of those.’ And the rest of us laughed. What can I say? Times were different.”

“Any idea what happened to Zina after Enid poached her boyfriend?”

“Dr. Sherman said she’d spiraled downward before disappearing.”

“Did Dr. Sherman say anything about who raised her daughter?”

“He wasn’t certain Zelda was her daughter. He did say Zelda was adopted, had embarked on one of those journeys to discover her roots only to be disappointed because she couldn’t have a reunion with a woman who’d vanished.”

“Who adopted her?”

“He didn’t get into details, just told me they were also deceased and not... what’s the word he used... ‘ideal.’ The implication was the girl had it rough.”

Cohen threw up his hands. “Nice man, paid for the entire bottle. Now he’s gone. It keeps happening to me, son. I call someone to have lunch and learn they keeled over. Guess I’m the only one cursed with immortality.”

Refusing my offer of a ride, the old lawyer shuffled back home.

As I reached the Seville, a homeless couple wheeled his-and-her supermarket carts toward the dry fountain. Two humans camouflaged as shags of filthy cloth, bruised feet barely covered by tattered sneakers. The man’s lips moved. The women’s mouth hung open.

Outpatient mental health in the twenty-first century. The twentieth had been a combination of incarceration and occasional nurturance.

I pictured Zelda, her show canceled, her agent ill, trying to make her way in a city that prized looks and availability.

Crazy and sexy. You can do what you want with one of those.

Learning about her mother’s maltreatment at the hands of her sibs would’ve changed her quest. No more search for her roots, time for payback. As her own mind disintegrated, she’d have struggled to hold on, terrified by suggestions of damaged lineage.

She hadn’t become an ace detective. She’d learned everything from her beyond-the-call-of-duty therapist.

Well-meaning, caring Lou had no idea where his compassion would lead.

I phoned Milo. “I found out how Zelda learned about her family.”

“ I found out there’s no chance for a goddamn warrant.”

“John wasn’t impressed.”

“Hell,” he said, “as I was laying it out, I wasn’t impressed. Bottom line: Without a solid reason to enter the premises, I couldn’t even stroll in if the gates were open.”