Gone (9 page)

The carrier made a show of ignoring us as he went about delivering mail to the other tenants. Milo reached into Box Three, removed a thick stack wedged so tightly he had to ease it out, and thumbed through.

“Mostly junk… a few bills… urgent one from the gas company meaning she was overdue… same deal with the phone company.”

He inspected the postmarks. “Ten days’ worth. Looks like she was gone well before she died.”

“A vacation’s not likely,” I said. “She was broke.”

He looked at me. Both of us thinking the same thing.

Maybe someone had kept her for a while.

W
e sat in the car, in front of Michaela’s building.

I said, “Dylan Meserve cleared out of his place weeks ago. The neighbor heard him and Michaela arguing and Michaela told me she hated him.”

“Maybe he came and got her,” said Milo.

“Took her on another adventure.”

“What about Mr. Sex Criminal Peaty? Maybe he snatched both of them.”

“If Peaty did abduct anyone, he didn’t take them to his place,” I said. “No way to keep that from Mrs. Stadlbraun and the other tenants.”

“Too small to entertain.”

“Still, he’s the one with the record.”

“And he’s weird. So now I’ve got two high-priority bins.”

As we drove away, he said, “Coffee would prop my eyelids.”

I stopped at a place on Santa Monica near Bundy. Scrawled the possibilities as I saw them on a napkin and slid it across the table as Milo returned from making some calls.

1. Dylan Meserve abducts and murders Michaela, then flees.
2. Reynold Peaty abducts and murders Michaela and Dylan.
3. Reynold Peaty abducts and murders Michaela and Dylan’s disappearance is a coincidence.
4. None of the above.

“It’s that last one I love.” Milo waved for the waitress, ordered pecan pie à la mode. Finishing most of the wedge in three gulps, he nibbled the rest with excruciating care, as if that proved self-restraint.

“I called Michaela’s mother again, it was all about her, big time woe-is-me. Too sick to come out to claim the body. The way she was gasping I figure it’s probably true.”

I summarized Michaela’s account of her childhood.

“Ugly duckling?” he said. “Every gorgeous girl says that… what that Jewish lady said, the lifestyle issue, maybe she had a point.”

“Michaela got caught up in the Hollywood thing.”

“You know what that does to the ninety-nine-point-nine percent who fall on their asses. The question is, did it snag her or was it just one of those bad-luck deals.”

“Like running into Peaty.”

He ate the last bit of pie, wiped his mouth, put way too much money on the table, and extricated himself from the booth. “Back to the salt mine. Lots of boring stuff to do.”

Boring was his code word for
I need to be alone.
I drove him to the station and went home.

That evening Michaela’s murder was the lead story on every local broadcast, blow-dried news readers half smiling as they intoned about the “shocking crime” and exhumed mock-solemn memories of Michaela and Dylan’s “publicity stunt.”

Dylan was cited as “a person of interest, not a suspect.” The implication was clear, as it always is when the police phrase it that way. I knew Milo hadn’t given them the quote. Probably some public relations officer, issuing yet another boilerplate release.

Next morning’s paper ran a page-three story with five times the ink space the hoax had merited, graced by two pictures of Michaela: a sultry, airbrushed head-shot taken by a photographer who churned them out for Hollywood hopefuls, and her LAPD booking photo. I wondered if either or both would resurface in the tabloids or on the Internet.

One way to get famous is to die the wrong way.

I didn’t hear from Milo that day, figured the tips would be pouring in and he’d either learn a lot or nothing. I filled my time polishing up reports, thought about getting a dog, took a new referral from an attorney named Erica Weiss.

Weiss had filed suit against a Santa Monica psychologist named Patrick Hauser for molesting three female patients who’d attended his encounter groups. Chances were it would settle and there’d be no court appearance. I negotiated a high hourly fee and felt pretty good about the deal.

I looked up Hauser’s office address. Santa Monica and Seventh. Allison also practiced in Santa Monica, a few miles away on Montana. I wondered if she knew Hauser, thought about calling her. Figured she might see it as an excuse to get in touch and decided against it.

At a quarter to six, when she was likely to be between patients, I changed my mind. Her private line was still on speed dial.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi,” she said. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Fine… I was about to say, ‘How’ve you been, handsome.’ Got to watch those little slips.”

“All compliments will be received with gratitude, oh Gorgeous One.”

“Listen to this smarmy mutual admiration society.”

“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Silence.

I said, “I’m actually calling on a professional matter, Ali. Do you know an esteemed colleague named Patrick Hauser?”

“I’ve seen him at a few meetings. Why?”

I told her.

She said, “I guess I’m not surprised. Rumor has it he drinks. An encounter group, huh? That does surprise me.”

“Why?”

“He seems more the corporate consultant type. How many patients are we talking about?”

“Three.”

“That’s pretty damning.”

“Hauser claims it’s a group delusion. There’s no physical evidence, so it boils down to a he said/they said. The State Board’s been sitting on it for months, still hasn’t handed down a disposition. The women got impatient and contacted a lawyer.”

“All three have one lawyer?”

“They’re framing it as a mini–class action, hoping others will hear about it and come forward.”

“How’d they find out they’d had similar experiences with Hauser?”

“They hung around after session, went for drinks, it came out.”

“Not too smart of Hauser to put them in the same room.”

“Fondling patients is no act of genius.”

“So you think he did it.”

“I’m open-minded but all three were seeing Hauser for mild depression, nothing delusional.”

“Like I said, he’s known to imbibe. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Thanks… so how’s it been?”

“Life in general?” she said. “It’s been okay.”

“Want to join me for dinner?”

Where had
that
come from?

She didn’t answer.

I said, “Sorry. Rewind the tape.”

“No,” she said. “I’m thinking about the offer. When did you mean?”

“I’m open. Including tonight.”

“Hmm… I’ll be free in an hour, have to eat anyway. Where?”

“You name it.”

“How about that steak place?” she said. “The one where we met the first time.”

I asked for a booth away from the mahogany bar with its low-pitched alkie chatter and sports on TV. By the time Allison showed up ten minutes later, I’d finished my Chivas, was working on my second glass of water.

The restaurant was dim and she stood there for a few seconds letting her eyes adjust. Her long, black hair swung free and her ivory face was serious. I thought I saw tension around the shoulders.

She stepped forward, revealed color. An orange pantsuit hugged her trim little body. Tangerine-orange. With that hair of hers, Halloween Costume could’ve been a problem but she made it work.

She spotted me, strode forward on high heels. The usual adornments sparkled at earlobes, wrists, and neck. Gold and sapphire; the stones brought out the deep blue of her eyes and played off the orange. Her makeup was perfect and her nails were French-tipped. The smile that parted her lips was hard to read.

A substantive woman but she takes a long time getting herself together.

The kiss on my cheek was quick and cool. She slid into the booth, just close enough to make conversation feasible but too distant for easy touching. Before we could talk the waiter had planted himself in front of us. Eduardo, the feisty one. Eighty-year-old Argentinian immigrant who claimed he could cook seafood better than the chef.

He bowed before Allison. “Evening, Dr. Gwynn. The usual?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little chilly outside, so I think I’ll have an Irish coffee. Make it decaf, Eduardo, or I’ll be calling you up at three a.m. to play cards.”

His smile said that wasn’t a dreaded outcome. “Very good, Doctor. Another Chivas, sir?”

“Please.”

He marched off. I said, “Been coming here a lot?”

“No. Why?”

“He used your name.”

“I guess I’m here every three weeks or so.”

Alone or with another guy?

She said, “The T-bone made a lasting impression on me.”

Eduardo returned with drinks and menus. Extra whipped cream for Allison’s Irish coffee. Bowing again, he left.

We touched glasses and drank. Allison licked foam from her upper lip. Her face was smooth and white as fresh cream. She’s thirty-nine but when she eases up on the jewelry, she can pass for ten years younger.

She pushed her drink away. “How’s Robin?”

I worked at a casual shrug. “I guess she’s okay.”

“Haven’t seen her much?”

“Not much.”

“Sleeping with her?”

I put my scotch down.

She said, “That means yes.”

When in doubt, revert to shrink tactics. I kept quiet.

“Sorry, that was totally inappropriate.” She smoothed hair away from her face. “I knew it and felt like asking, anyway.”

Bending over her coffee, she inhaled steam. “You’re entitled to sleep with anyone you want, I just yearned to be bitchy. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you myself.”

“Sometimes is better than never.”

“On the face of it, why shouldn’t we?” she said. “Two healthy, libidinous people. We were great together.” Faint smile. “Except when we weren’t… not very profound, is it?”

We drank in silence. The second Chivas brought on a nice warm buzz. Maybe that’s why I said, “So what the hell happened?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you back.”

I shook my head.

She drank, laughed. “Not that anything’s funny.”

Eduardo came over to take the food order, saw the looks on our faces, and turned heel.

Allison said, “Maybe nothing went wrong, it was just evolution.”

“Devolution.”

“Alex, when we started out, there was this rush of feeling every time I saw you. All I had to do was hear your voice and this sympathetic nervous system thing kicked in —
this incredible
flood
of emotion. Sometimes when the doorbell rang and I knew it was you there’d be this heat —
like a hot flash. I started to worry I was going through early menopause.” She looked into her Irish coffee. “Sometimes I’d get sopping wet.
That
was something.”

I touched her hand. Cool.

She said, “Maybe we just had some kind of hormonal thing going on and it faded. Maybe every damn thing boils down to hormones and we’re in the wrong damn field.”

She turned away. Grabbed for her purse, fumbled for a tissue, and poked at her eyes. “One drink and my filter goes bye-bye.”

Her mouth set in a way that thinned her lips. “I’ll probably regret saying this but what really bothered me when I felt things diminishing was that it wasn’t that way with Grant.”

Her dead husband. Wharton grad, rich kid, successful financial type. He’d succumbed young to a freakishly rare cancer. Even when Allison loved me she’d talked about him adoringly.

“You had something great with him,” I said.

“You weren’t a replacement, Alex. I swear.”

“Worse things to be.”

“Don’t be noble,” she said. “It makes me feel worse.”

I said nothing.

She said, “I just lied big time. It
did
fade with Grant. After I buried him he stopped being physical to me and turned into a… a… wraith. I felt —
still feel guilty about that.”

I groped for a reply. Every option sounded like shrinky cant. Coming here had been a mistake.

Suddenly, Allison’s hip was touching mine and she was taking my face in her hands, kissing me hard. She retreated, ended up even farther down the booth.

We sat there.

“Alex, what I felt about you in the beginning was every bit as intense as with Grant. More intense on the physical level. Which also made me feel guilty. I started to think about us in a long-term sense. Wondering what it would be like. Then we had that problem on the Malley case and things just started to change. I know that alone couldn’t have done it, there must’ve been… oh, listen to me, I sound like every other talky broad… it’s confusing. The work stuff was part of what turned me on, and then all of a sudden it repulsed me.”

The Malley case was the eight-year-old child murder. One of Allison’s patients —
a fragile young woman —
had been drawn in. I’d deceived her. All in the name of truth, justice…

Robin had never liked hearing about
the work stuff.
Allison had chased gory details with a vengeance.

I said, “Things change.”

“They do. Dammit.” She looked away. “If I said your place or mine, would you feel manipulated?”

“Maybe for a nanosecond.”

“I’m not going to say it. Not tonight. I’m feeling really unattractive.”

“There’s a delusion for you.”

“
Inside
I’m unattractive,” she said. “I wouldn’t be good, believe me.”

I raised my glass. “To brutal honesty.”

“Sorry. Want to forget about dinner?”

“Dinner wasn’t a ploy to get you in the sack.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know… maybe a ploy to get you in the sack.”

She smiled. I smiled.

Eduardo had positioned himself across the room, spying on us while pretending to be above it all.

I said, “I could eat.”

“I could, too.” She waved him over. “Dinner with a former lover. How civilized in that French-movie kind of way.”