Silent Partner (18 page)

"I need to shop."

"Uh-huh." He reached under his shirt and scratched his chest. Paced the kitchen and said,

"How's the lovely Ms. Castagna?"

"Working hard."

"Uh-huh." He kept pacing.

The onions turned translucent. I added more butter to the pan and put the trout in. They hissed and sizzled and the smell of fresh fish filled the room.

"Ah," he said. "Nothing like a friend at home in the kitchen. Do you do windows too?"

"Why'd you come back early?" I asked.

"Too much pristine, unspoiled beauty—couldn't take it. Amazing the things one learns about one's wretched self out in the wilds. Seems both of us are urban sleaze-junkies. All that clean air and calm and we were going through the shakes." He drank more beer, shook his head. "You know how we are, marriage made in heaven until we spend too much time together. But enough about the sweet agony of relationships. How're the trout?"

"Almost done."

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"Be careful not to overcook."

"Want to do it yourself?"

"Touchy, touchy."

I gave him one and a half trout and put half a fish on my plate, then filled two glasses with ice water and brought them to the table. I had a bottle of white wine somewhere but it wasn't chilled. Besides, I didn't feel like drinking, and the last thing Milo needed was more alcohol.

He looked at the water as if it were polluted but drank it anyway. After finishing the trout in a few moments, he looked at my uneaten food.

"Want it?" I said.

"Not hungry?"

I shook my head. "I ate just before you dropped in."

He gave me a long look. "Fine, hand it over."

When the half-trout was gone, he said, "Okay, tell me what the hell is bothering you."

I considered telling him about Robin. Told him about Sharon instead, honoring my pledge to Leslie Weingarden and leaving out the patient seductions.

He listened without commenting. Got up and searched the refrigerator for dessert and found an apple that he demolished in four bites.

Wiping his face, he said, "Trapp, huh? You're sure it was him?"

"He's hard to miss with that white hair and that skin."

"Yeah, the skin," he said. "Some sort of weird disease. I described it to Rick and he gave me a name for it but I forgot it. Auto-immune condition—the body attacks itself by leeching pigment.

No one knows what causes it, but in Trapp's case I've got a theory: Asshole's so full of poison, his own system can't stand him. Maybe we'll be lucky and

he'll fade away completely."

"What do you think about his being at the house?"

"Who knows? I'd love nothing more than to get something on the scrote, but this one doesn't scream felony. Maybe he and your late friend were getting it on and he went back to make sure he hadn't left any evidence. Sleazy but not indictable." He shook his head. "If she was getting it on with him she must have been nuts."

"What about the quick sale on the house?" I asked. "And the twin sister? I know she exists—existed—because I met her six years ago. If she's still alive she'd be Sharon's heir."

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"Six years is a long time, Alex. And who's to say she hasn't been found? Del was right—that's up to the lawyers. Sure, sure, it smells of cover-up, but that doesn't mean what's being covered up is anything juicy, pal. This kind of thing's routine when you're dealing with the pricey crowd. Just last month we had an art theft up in Bel Air. Thirteen million dollars' worth of French Impressionism, gone, like that." He snapped his fingers. "Private chef did it and split to Monaco. We filed the papers; family hired private help. They recovered the pictures; few months later the chef had an accident with scalding water.

"And speaking of accidents, last April the teenage daughter of a 'prominent manufacturer' up in the Palisades got pissed at the family maid for throwing out one of her magazines, stuck the poor lady's hand in a garbage disposal. Bye-bye five fingers, but the maid changed her mind about filing charges. Took early retirement—ten thousand per digit—and shipped back to Guatemala. Then there's a talk show host—everyone knows him, helluva witty and charming guy. His game is getting drunk and putting women in the hospital. The network adds two million a year to his salary for damage control. Ever read a word about any of it? Ever see it on the six o'clock news? Rich folk in awkward situations, Alex. Sweep it under the rug and keep it out of court. It happens all the time."

"So you're saying forget the whole thing."

"Not so fast, Lone Ranger. I didn't say I was going to

forget it. I'll pursue it. But for selfish reasons—the chance of getting something on Trapp. And there's one thing about the film story that does snag my interest—Harvey Pinckley, the guy who caught the call. He was one of Trapp's boys when Trapp was at Hollywood. First-class ass-kisser."

"Del made it sound as if he was okay."

"Del didn't know him. I did. Besides, Del's a good guy, but our relationship's been a bit frosty of late."

"Departmental politics?"

"Marital problems—his wife's giving him grief. He's sure she's stepping out. It's turned him asocial."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Me too. He was the only one in the division who ever treated me human. And don't get me wrong—we're not ripping each other's throats out. But he's not going to extend himself—for anyone. Anyway, the timing's right for a little extracurricular info-gathering. I don't have to report till Monday, and Rick will either be working or sleeping it off all weekend."

He got up, walked around. "Idle hands make the devil's work, lad. Far be it from me to tempt Satan. Just don't expect anything dramatic, okay?"

I nodded, took the dishes to the sink and started washing.

He came over and placed a big, padded hand on my shoulder.

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"You look down. 'Fess up, Doctor. This friend was more than just a friend."

"A long time ago, Milo."

"But from the way you look when you talk about her, it's not that ancient of a history. Or is there something else on that scary thing you call your mind?"

"Nothing, Milo."

He removed his hand. "Do consider one thing, Alex. Are you ready to hear more dirt about her? 'Cause, from what we already know, once we start digging it ain't gonna be buried treasure time."

"No problem," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Uh-huh," he said. And went to get another beer.

WHEN HE was gone my nonchalance faded. How much more dirt did I really want to encounter, when I'd never made sense of what I knew already?

Free follow-up visits.

I'd been followed up too.

The scene with the twin photo left me addled in pain, unable to concentrate on work. Three days later I started calling her, got no answer. Four days later I gathered my resolve and went back to the house on Jalmia. No one home. I inquired at the psych department, was informed she was on temporary leave. None of her professors was worried about her absence. She'd had to take leave before—"family business"—had always made up the work, was a top-notch student. They suggested I talk to her adviser, Dr. Kruse.

When Kruse didn't return a week's worth of phone calls, I looked up his office address and drove there. The building was five stories of anodized steel and bronzed glass on Sunset near Doheny, granite-lobbied and maroon-carpeted, with a noisy French restaurant that opened to a sidewalk cafe on the ground floor. The directory listed an odd mix of tenants: about a third psychologists and psychiatrists, the rest various film-related concerns—production companies, agents, publicists, personal managers.

Kruse's suite was on the top floor. His door was locked. I kneeled, opened the mail slot, and peeked in. Darkness. I got up and looked around. One other suite took up the rest of the floor—an outfit called Creative Image Associates. Its double doors were locked too.

I taped a note under Kruse's nameplate, leaving my name and number, and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible re: S.R. Then I drove up to the house on Jalmia again.

The oil stain in the carport was dry, the foliage wilting. The mailbox was crammed with at least a week's worth of correspondence. I skimmed the return addresses on the envelopes. All junk.

Nothing indicating where she'd gone.

The following morning, before heading for the hospital, I went back to the psych department
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and got Kruse's home address out of the faculty files. Pacific Palisades. I drove there that evening and sat waiting for him.

The tail end of November, just before Thanksgiving. L.A.'s best time of year. The sky had just deepened from El Greco blue to a glowing pewter, swelling with rain clouds and sweet with electricity.

Kruse's house was big, pink, and Spanish, on a private road off Mandeville Canyon, just a short drive down to the coast highway and the high, battering tides of autumn. The street was narrow and quiet, the nearby properties estate-sized, but Kruse's layout was open, no high walls or gates.

Psychology had been good to him. The house was graceful, with two hundred feet of landscaped garden on each side, adorned with verandas, Monterey roofs, hand-turned wooden grillwork, leaded windows. Shading the south side of the lawn was a beautifully warped black pine—giant bonsai. A pair of Brazilian orchid trees had sprinkled the freshly sown rye grass with violet blossoms. A semicircular driveway inlaid with Moorish tile cut an inverted U through the grass.

At twilight, colored outdoor lights came on and highlighted the landscaping. No cars, not a sound. More canyon seclusion. Sitting there, I was reminded of the house on Jalmia—the master's influence—thought about Sharon's inheritance story and wondered again if Kruse had set her up.

I wondered, too, about what had happened to the other little girl in the photo.

He showed up shortly after eight, driving a black, gold pin-striped Mercedes two-seater with the top down. He gunned up the driveway. Instead of opening the door, he swung his legs over it.

His long yellow hair was perfectly windblown, a pair of mirrored sunglasses dangled from a gold chain around his neck. He carried no briefcase, just a small, purselike calfskin shoulder bag that matched his boots. He wore a gray cashmere sport coat, white silk turtleneck, and black slacks. A black silk handkerchief trimmed with scarlet spilled out of his breast pocket.

As he headed toward his front door I got out of the Rambler. The sound of my door slamming made him turn. He stared. I jogged toward him and stepped into the artificial light.

"Dr. Kruse, I'm Alex Delaware."

Despite all the messages, my name evoked no sign of recognition.

"I'm a friend of Sharon Ransom."

"Hello, Alex, I'm Paul." Half-smile. His voice was low, from the chest, modulated like that of a disc jockey.

"I'm trying to locate her," I said.

He nodded but didn't answer. The silence lengthened. I felt obligated to speak.

"She hasn't been home for over two weeks, Dr. Kruse. I was wondering if you knew where she
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is."

"You care about her," he said, as if answering a question I hadn't asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Alex Delaware," he said.

"I've called you several times. Left messages at your office."

Big smile. He gave his head a toss. The yellow hair whipped back, then settled across his forehead. He took his keys out of his purse.

"I'd love to help you, Alex, but I can't." He began walking to the door.

"Please, Dr. Kruse..."

He stopped, turned, looked over his shoulder, flicked his eyes at me, and smiled again. But it came out as a sour twist of his lips, as if the sight of me made him ill.

Paul likes you... He likes what I've told him about you.

"Where is she, Dr. Kruse?"

"The fact that she didn't tell you implies something, doesn't it?"

"Just tell me if she's okay. Is she coming back to L.A. or gone for good."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't talk to you about anything. Therapeutic confidentiality."

"You're her therapist?"

"I'm her supervisor. Inherent in the supervisory relationship is more than a little psychotherapy."

"Telling me if she's all right won't violate confidentiality."

He shook his head. Then something odd happened to his face.

The upper half remained all hard scrutiny—heavy blond brows and pale-brown eyes flecked with green that bored into mine with Svengali-like intensity. But from the nose down he'd gone slack, the mouth curling into a foolish, almost clownish leer.

Two personalities sharing one face. Freaky as a carny show and twice as unsettling because there was hostility behind it, the desire to ridicule. To dominate.

"Tell her I care about her," I said. "Tell her whatever she does, that I still care."

"Have a good evening," he said. Then he went into his house.

An hour later, back in my apartment, I was furious, determined to flush her and her bullshit out of my life. A month later I'd settled down to solitude and a crushing workload, was managing to
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fake contentment well enough to believe it myself, when she called. Eleven P.M. I'd just gotten home, dog-tired and hungry. When I heard her voice, my resolve melted like old slush under a new sun.

"I'm back. I'm sorry—I'll explain everything," she told me. "Meet me at my house in an hour. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

I showered, put on fresh clothes, drove to Nichols Canyon prepared to ask hard questions. She was waiting for me at the door in a flame-red low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her. In her hand was a snifter of something pink and redolent of strawberries. It obscured her perfume—no spring flowers.

The house was brightly lit. Before I could speak she pulled me inside and pressed her mouth against mine, worming her tongue between my teeth and keeping us fastened by pressing one hand hard to the back of my head. Her breath was sharp with alcohol. It was the first time I'd seen her drink anything other than 7-Up. When 1 commented on it, she laughed and hurled the glass at the fireplace. It shattered and left pink snail-tracks on the wall.