Not One Clue (13 page)

I considered telling her the whole story, but I had a client due to tell me his/her problems in approximately ninety seconds. It probably wouldn’t be good if I was crying about my own. “Just a little trouble in the neighborhood.”

She stared at me. “Umm-huh,” she said finally. “Anyhow, you rushed off without breakfast again, didn’t you?”

“I appreciate—”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. Reaching into her bottom drawer, she pulled out a white bag and handed it to me. I peeked inside. A breakfast burrito smiled up at me.

“Get in there now,” she said, and shooed me away. “Hurry up.”

“But don’t I have—”

“I don’t care what you have,” she said. “Nobody can’t do no good on an empty stomach. I’ll keep your first appointment busy until you give me a buzz on the phone.”

I tried to argue, really I did, but in a moment I was alone with the burrito and then it just seemed rude not to eat it.

I’d like to say I felt guilty for my caloric transgressions, but really I felt much better afterward, almost ready to meet my first client of the day.

Mr. Howard Lepinski is a mousy little man with a mustache and a thousand neuroses. He is also one of my greatest successes, someone who had gone from being a patently unhappy man who constantly obsessed about every minute detail of his life to a relatively happy man who only occasionally worried about every minute detail of his life. It had taken a good deal of harsh reality, a divorce, and a new relationship with a woman who didn’t criticize his every breath to reach that pinnacle of sterling sanity.

“How was your weekend?” I asked as he took a seat on my couch.

He wobbled his scrawny neck, a mannerism indicative of his newfound relaxation. When I’d first begun seeing him he’d been as stiff as a kayak paddle.

“So-so. The stocks are still in the pits, my accounts are down by eighteen percent thanks to this danged recession, and I think I’m allergic to raspberry compote,” he said, itching madly at a tiny rash on his arm.

“Raspberry compote?” I said.

He nodded.

“Raspberry compote that your lovely wife made?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Raspberry compote that your lovely wife made because she
adores
you?”

“Yeah,” he said, and grinning like a contented little spider monkey, forgot all about the stocks and the recession and the tiny rash.

By the time Emily Christianson arrived I almost felt worthy of the psychology license matted and framed on my office wall.

She looked as crisply thin and tightly strung as the first time I had seen her.

“How are you today?” I asked, and settled in for the long haul.

“I am well,” she said, and sat down on the couch. I watched her. Most people are okay. Some are good. A few are awful and actually know it. But not many are “well.”

“Did you get that A minus taken care of?” I asked.

“Mr. Brickman allowed me to do extra credit.”

“So you’re still on track for an A plus?”

She nodded. Her lips were pursed. I wondered how she saw herself. If she realized she exuded tension like an open wound.

I watched her for a moment while neither of us could think of anything to say. “I wasn’t sure you would return,” I said finally.

“As I said, my parents asked that I speak to someone.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t accompany you.”

Her left thumb, resting just so atop the right, jerked. Just a little. “They’re extremely busy.”

“Oh?” I gave her my best “Talk to me” smile. “What do they do?”

“My mother is a cellist with the Philharmonic Orchestra.”

“Here in L.A.?”

“Yes. Gustavo is quite demanding.”

“Gustavo?”

“The director.” She seemed to be doing a decent job of containing her disdain for my ignorance. I couldn’t help but feel grateful. “I don’t believe he appreciates Mother’s drive. She also teaches at Thornton and plays with Sawallisch in the Johannes String Quartet.”

“I see.” I didn’t really. “And your father?”

“He’s an anesthesiologist at the Palmdale Medical Center.”

“In Palmdale?”

For a moment I thought she didn’t intend to honor that little piece of genius with a response, but finally she nodded crisply.

“It’s a long commute, and a high-stress occupation. As you can imagine, my parents are hoping for something better for me.”

Holy crap. Better than that? Even
I
had heard of L.A.’s legendary orchestra. And anesthesiologists make a butt-load of money. Three years ago I had discovered I was fostering a baby kidney stone. After a fair amount of projectile vomiting, I had checked into Oakview’s emergency room. The ensuing bill had made me consider leaving my spleen as a down payment.

“And you’re their only child?”

Her lips pursed a little more. “Perhaps that’s why they expect so much of me.”

“What
do
they expect?”

She shrugged. The movement was stiff. “Responsible behavior. Good grades. Respect.”

I smiled and wondered if she would crack if she did the same. “There’s a difference between good grades and straight A pluses,” I said.

“Father says it is a shame to waste one’s gifts.”

“And what happens if you
do
waste them?” I asked.

“They are disappointed.”

The session went on like that for a while. Except for the scars on her left wrist, she was, it seemed, the perfect daughter. She was also perfectly miserable, all but seismic with angst.

People should be required to take a test before becoming parents. If the standards were up to snuff we would not only see fewer traumatized children, we’d probably lick that overpopulation problem within a generation. If I had my way, there would be about one kid born every fourteen years. But so far Congress hasn’t asked for my opinion.

Micky Goldenstone was my fifth client of the day. He looked somber but steady as he entered my office.

“Micky.” I rose to my feet and took his hand. A few phone calls had assured me that he was well and free, awaiting a trial. “How’s Jamel?”

He exhaled through his nose as he sat. His eyes looked grim. “I took him back to Glendale yesterday.”

“To Lavonn’s?”

He snorted a laugh. “She was awarded guardianship, but that place ain’t hers. Jackson’ll make sure she never forgets that. Sold her damned soul for rosewood flooring.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s still pissed.”

I wanted to ask what the chances were that she and her boyfriend would come to my house and shoot me in my sleep, but I didn’t think it would sound professional. “What about Jackson?”

“They think he’ll be out of the hospital in a couple of days.”

I didn’t know whether to cheer or mourn. “Back to Lavonn’s?”

“Yeah,” he said, and after staring out the window for a moment, covered his eyes with his palm. “Shit. I should have left things alone.”

“You don’t think you should have tried to prove paternity?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and dropping his hand, leaned back against the couch’s ivory cushions.

“Do you still want custody?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I fucked up.”

“How so?”

“By losing my temper.” He shook his head. “I should have kept my ass home. Now I’ll be lucky if my son gets to visit me in
jail.”

“But there must have been drugs in Jackson’s system. Don’t you think that will weigh in your favor?”

He half laughed. “Shit, Doc, this is L.A. There’s probably crack in the fucking ventilation system.”

I almost wished that was true. I could use a little something to dull the aches and fatigue that plagued me. “Isn’t crack supposed to make you feel good?” I asked.

He looked at me and grinned a little. “You
do
kinda look like you been hit by a train.”

I resisted checking the little round mirror stashed in my purse.

“Do you still hope to gain custody of Jamel?” I asked.

He watched me with solemn regard, then rose and walked to the window. I have a tantalizing view of the coffee shop next door. “He’s my son,” he said.

“There’s no law against saying no to that question.” I kept my tone soft. Emily Christianson carried her stress in the tight clasp of her hands. Micky wore his on his face.

“He’s not safe where he is.”

“But if he were … if he were safe and happy, would you still want him to live with you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “You know what he said this morning?”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. A patron had exited the coffee shop. He’d tip the scale at a solid three hundred. It almost made me regret my breakfast burrito. At least I should have refrained from eating the bag.

“He said he wanted to grow up to be president. That Barack Obama did it, so he knew he could, too.”

“Big goals.”

“Yeah, I told him that would take a lot of work. That he’d better do well in school.”

I waited.

“He gave that some thought, then said maybe he’d just marry one of Obama’s daughters, then, ’cuz they’re hot.”

I watched as he turned toward me. There were tears in his eyes. My heart tied itself in a tricky little knot in my chest.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want him.”

* * *

T
he rest of the day slipped by. Trying to make recompense for breakfast, I had a late lunch, which consisted of nothing but yogurt, and made it through the afternoon without falling asleep or dying of malnutrition.

Ramla called at 3:20. I hadn’t heard from her since Thursday when she’d left a voice mail saying all was well. Shirley put her through to me.

“Allah blesses you,” she said.

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. My first reflex was to ask her to thank him for me, but that might sound kind of cheesy and I needed all the blessings I could get. “So Aalia is doing okay?”

“She is resting and healing. Safe and whole. Because of you. Already, though, she becomes impatient to be out on her own. To see this new country.”

I thought I heard a little worry in her voice. “There’s a lot to see, and maybe she feels she’s been told what to do long enough.”

“This is just what she says. But I have no wish for her to reject the ways of our people. It is … how do you say … who she is.”

I wondered to myself if poor little Aalia had any idea who she was. When a man promises to love and honor, but ends up abusing and debasing, it tends to mess with a girl’s head.

“She has some decisions to make,” I said. “But I’m sure she’ll figure things out. She’s very clever.”

“She has always been so.” Ramla’s tone was rife with that deep maternal pride some older sisters develop. I wondered what it would be like to have a sibling who adored you instead of three bothers who consistently tried to make you spew Jell-O out your nose.

“Has she said anything about the men at the airport?”

“She said that you should be very careful.”

My heart slowed dramatically. That wasn’t exactly what I had been wanting to hear. I had hoped that after she was able to relax she would realize there was nothing to fear.

“She still doesn’t think she recognized any of them?”

“No. But she said that her husband …” Ramla made a spitting noise. I waited patiently until it ended. “She said he has many friends she was not allowed to meet.”

I
called Elaine a couple hours later. She answered on the third ring.

“When will you be home for supper?” she asked.

“You’re cooking?”

“Jeen is.”

That was not good news. It meant that Solberg was in my house. Touching my worldly possessions. But at least it meant that Laney
wasn’t
cooking. Laney’s meals generally consisted of something that slurped out of her juicer and had a high likelihood of being nutritious. God help us.

My last client left my office at 8:57. Outside the strip mall where I work, it was almost as dark as the inside of my head. I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the previous night and the early morning jog had only made me more tired.

My little Saturn was one of the few cars left in the parking lot. It sat like a quiet sanctuary under a tall light. I had strategically parked there in case of an attack of turbaned men, irate junkies, or old flames. But suddenly the asphalt stretched in front of me like a desert. The night seemed abnormally quiet. There was not a person in sight. Had there been a music reel to my life it would be playing the kind of spooky stuff that makes moviegoers hold their breath and wait for the blood.

As for me, I stood frozen, also waiting for the blood. A noise clicked off to my right. I turned, ready to scream, frozen. A marmalade cat trotted around the corner, tail tweaked at the end, looking jaunty.

I put my hand to my chest and said a little prayer just as a man stepped into view. He lurched toward me. I squawked like a chicken and jerked up my Mace, fumbling madly for the button, ready to spray, but at the last second, a few commonsense cells filtered erratically into place.

“Ms. McMullen! Don’t shoot!”

It was then that I recognized Willard Benson from the office three doors down. I lowered my weapon and tried to do the same with my blood pressure. No go. It was off the charts and rising.

I slumped back against the building. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Holy cow! Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”
Be an idiot
.

“That’s okay. No problem. Best to be careful,” he said, but there was a little more hustle in his step as he scurried away.

I remained as I was, still breathing hard, hands still shaking, until I felt I could convince my knees to do my bidding. Taking a deep breath, I shook my head at my own foolishness and headed for the Saturn.

All was well. I realized now that there were half a dozen patrons in the nearby coffee shop. I strode across the asphalt almost like a normal person. I was not abandoned to the miscreants of the world. I had my Mace and my cell phone close at hand.

I popped the locks on the Saturn and rounded the front bumper.

I felt his presence, even before I heard the rustle of his movements behind me. Even before he spoke.