Bad Love (26 page)

“ADW, trespassing, DUI if his blood alcohol’s high enough to prove he drove over here soused. If the Priests go his bail, he’ll probably be out within a few days. I’ll have a talk with them, tell them to lock him in the house. What a clown.”

He chuckled. “Bet your little chokehold didn’t do much for his powers of comprehension, either. What’d you use, one of those karate things I’m always ribbing you about?”

“Actually,” I said, bending and patting the dog’s muscular neck, “
he
gets the credit. Pulled a sneak attack from the back that allowed me to jump Keffler. Plus he overcame his water phobia — ran right up to the pond.”

“No kidding?” Smile. “Okay, I’ll put him up for sainthood.” He bent, too, and rubbed the dog behind the ears. “Congrats, St. Doggus, you’re a K-9 hero.”

The driver of one of the black-and-whites looked up at us and Milo waved him on.

“Good boy,” I said to the dog.

“Seeing as he’s saved your kneecaps, Alex, don’t you think he deserves a real name? My vote’s still for Rover.”

“When I was trying to intimidate Keffler, I called him Spike.”

“Very manly.”

“Only problem is,” I said, “he’s already got a name — someone’s bound to come get him. What a drag. I’m getting kind of attached to him.”

“What?” He elbowed my ribs, gently. “We’re afraid of getting hurt, so we don’t reach out for intimacy? Give him a goddamn name, Alex.
Empower
him so he can fulfill his dogly potential.”

I laughed and rubbed the dog some more. He panted and put his head against my leg.

“Keffler’s not the one who killed the koi,” I said. “When I mentioned it, he fuzzed over completely.”

“Probably,” he said. “That tree branch was too subtle for the Priests. They would have taken out all the fish and mashed ’em up, maybe eaten them and left the bones.”

“Back to our “bad love’ fiend,” I said. “Anything new on Lyle Gritz?”

“Not yet.”

“I was over at the library this morning, checking out the professional directories. No current listings on Rosenblatt or Katarina de Bosch. Harrison moved to Ojai and has no phone number, which sounds like retirement — and the social worker, Lerner, was suspended from the social work organization for an ethics violation.”

“What kind of violation?”

“The directory didn’t say.”

“What’s it usually mean? Sleeping with a patient?”

“That’s the most common, but it could also be financial shenanigans, betrayal of confidentiality, or a personal problem, like drug or alcohol addiction.”

He rested his arms on the top of the railing. The squad cars were gone now. My pond was a dry hole and the sump pump was sucking air. I went down to the garden, dog at my heels, and turned it off.

When I got back, Milo said, “If Lerner was a bad boy,
he
could have done something that pissed off a patient.”

“Sure,” I said. “I looked up de Bosch’s writings on “bad love.’ Specifically, it refers to abuse of parental authority leading to alienation, cynicism, and, in extreme cases, violence. De Bosch actually used the term “retribution.’ But, pardon the whining, I still don’t know what the hell
I
could have done.”

“Why don’t you try to get in touch with Harrison in Ojai, see if he has any idea what’s going on? If his number’s unlisted, I can get it for you.”

“Okay,” I said. “And Harrison may be a good source for another reason. When therapists are suspended, they’re usually required to get therapy. One of Harrison’s specialties was treating impaired therapists. Wouldn’t it be interesting if he treated Lerner? It’s not that farfetched — Lerner turning to someone he knew. Get me that number right now and I’ll call.”

He went to his car and got on the radio. Returned ten minutes later and said, “No listing at all, even though the address is still on the tax roles. Can you spare the time for a little drive? Ojai’s nice this time of year. Cute little shops, antiques, whatever. Take the lovely Miss C for a cruise up the coast, combine business with pleasure.”

“Get out of town for a while?”

He shrugged.

“Okay,” I said. “And Ojai’s close to Santa Barbara — I can extend my trip. De Bosch’s school is defunct, but it might be interesting to see if any of the neighbors remember it. Maybe there was some kind of scandal, something that closed it down and left someone with a long-term grudge.”

“Sure, snoop around. If Robin can stand it, who am I to try and stop you?”

He slapped my back. “I’m off.”

“Where to?”

“A little more research on Paprock and Shipler.”

“Anything new?”

“Nope. I’m planning to drop in on Paprock’s husband tomorrow. He’s still a car salesman at the Cadillac place, and Sunday’s a good day for those guys.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Thought you were cruising to Ojai.”

“Monday,” I said. “Monday’s a good day for psychologists.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“Blue day for everyone else. We get to concentrate on other people’s problems and forget our own.”

I went back into the house and looked through the freezer. In our haste to move, we hadn’t emptied it, and there were several steaks in the top compartment. I took out a choice-cut rib eye and put it in the oven to broil. The dog’s eyes were glued to my every move. As the aroma of broiling meat filled the kitchen, his nose started to go crazy and he got down on the floor in a supplicatory posture.

“Restrain the caballos,” I said. “All good things come to those who salivate.”

I petted him and called my service for messages. Only one, from Jean Jeffers. The clinic director had called at eleven a.m. leaving an 818 return number.

“Did she say what it was about?” I asked the operator.

“No, just to call her, doctor.”

I did and got an answering tape with a friendly-sounding male voice backgrounded by Neil Diamond. I was starting to leave a message when Jean’s voice broke in.

“Hi, thanks for calling back.”

“Hi, what’s up?”

I thought I heard her sigh. “I’ve got some . . . I think it would be best if we met personally.”

“Something about Hewitt?”

“Somethi — I’m sorry, I’d rather just talk about it in person, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Where and when would you like to meet?”

“Tomorrow would be okay for me.”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Great,” she said. “Where do you live?”

“West L.A.”

“I’m in Studio City, but I don’t mind coming over the hill on the weekend.”

“I can come out to the valley.”

“No, actually, I like to come out when it’s not for work. Never get a chance to enjoy the city. Whereabouts in West L.A.?”

“Near Beverly Hills.”

“Okay . . . how about Amanda’s, it’s a little place on Beverly Drive.”

“What time?”

“Say one p.m.?”

“One it is.”

Nervous laughter. “I know this must seem strange coming out of the blue, but maybe . . . oh, let’s just talk about it tomorrow.”

I gave the dog a few bites of steak, wrapped the rest in plastic, and pocketed it. Then we drove to the pet store, where I let him sniff around the food bags. He lingered at some stuff that claimed to be scientifically formulated. Organic ingredients. Twice the cost of any of the others.

“You earned it,” I said, and I purchased ten pounds along with several packets of assorted canine snacks.

Going home, he munched happily on a bacon-flavored pretzel.

“
Bon appetit
, Spike,” I said. “Your real name’s probably something like Pierre de Cordon Bleu.”

Back at the house on Benedict Canyon, I found Robin reading in the living room. I told her what had happened with Hurley Keffler and she listened, quiet and resigned, as if I were a delinquent child with no hope of rehabilitation.

“What a good friend you turned out to be,” she said to the dog. He jumped up on the couch and put his head in her lap.

“So what are they going to do with him — this Keffler?”

“He’ll be in jail for a while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Probably not long. His gang’s likely to make his bail.”

“And then?”

“And then he’ll be out, but he won’t know this address.”

“Okay.”

“Want to take a drive up to Ojai and Santa Barbara, next couple of days?”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Both.” I told her about Lerner and Harrison, my wanting to speak to the Corrective School’s neighbors.

“Love to, but I really shouldn’t, Alex. Too much work down here.”

“Sure?”

“I am, hon. Sorry.” She touched my face. “There’s so much piled up, and even though I’ve got all my gear set up, it feels different here — I’m working slower, need to get back on the track.”

“I’m really putting you through it, aren’t I?”

“No,” she said, smiling and mussing my hair. “You’re the one being put through.”

The smile lingered and grew into a soft laugh.

“What’s funny?” I said.

“The way men think. As if our going through some stress together would be putting me
through
it. I’m worried about you, but I’m glad to be here with you — to be part of it. Putting me
through
it means something totally different.”

“Such as?”

“Constantly diminishing me — condescending to me, dismissing my opinions. Anything that would make me question my worth. Do those kinds of things to a woman and she may stay with you, but she’ll never think the same of you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” she said, laughing and hugging me. “Pretty profound, huh? Are you mad at me for not wanting to go to Ojai?”

“No, just disappointed.”

“You go anyway. Promise to be careful?”

“I promise.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s important.”

We had dinner at an Indian place near Beverly Hills’ eastern border with L.A., washing the meal down with clove tea and driving home feeling good. Robin went to run a bath and I phoned Milo at home and told him about Jean’s call.

“She has something to tell me but wouldn’t elaborate over the phone — sounded nervous. My guess is she found something about Hewitt that scares her. I’m meeting her at one, and I’ll ask her about Gritz. When were you planning to see Ralph Paprock?”

“Right around then.”

“Care to make it earlier?”

“Dealership won’t be open. I suppose we could catch him just as he comes in.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

Sunday morning I drove to West Hollywood. Milo’s and Rick’s place was a small, perfectly kept Spanish house at the end of one of those short, obscure streets that hide in the grotesque shadow of the Design Center’s blue-green mass. Cedars-Sinai was within walking distance. Sometimes Rick jogged to work. Today, he hadn’t: the white Porsche was gone.

Milo was waiting outside. The small front lawn had been replaced by ground cover and the flowers were blooming bright orange.

He saw me looking at it and said, “Drought resistant,” as he got into the car. “That “environmental designer’ I told you about. Guy would upholster the world in cactus if he could.”

I took Laurel Canyon up into the Valley, passing stilt-box houses and postmodern cabins, the decaying Palladian estate where Houdini had done tricks for Jean Harlow. A governor had once lived right around there. None of the magic had rubbed off.

At Ventura, I turned left and traveled two miles to Valley Vista Cadillac. The showroom was fronted by twenty-foot slabs of plate glass and bordered by a huge outdoor lot. Banners were strung on high-tension wire. The lights were off, but morning sun managed to get in and bounce off the sparkling bodies of brand-new coupes and sedans. The cars out on the lot were blinding.

A trim black man in a well-cut navy suit stood next to a smoke-gray Seville. When he saw us get out of my seventy-nine, he went over to the front door and unlocked it, even though business hours hadn’t begun. When Milo and I stepped in, his hand was out and his smile was blooming brighter than Milo’s lawn.

He had a perfectly trimmed pencil mustache and a pin-collar shirt as white as an avalanche. Off to the side of the showroom, beyond the cars, was a warren of cubicles, and I could hear someone talking on the phone. The cars were spotless and perfectly detailed. The whole place smelled of leather and rubber and conspicuous consumption. My car had smelled that way once, even though I’d bought it used. Someone had told me the fragrance came in aerosol cans.

“That’s a classic you’ve got,” said the man, looking through the window.

“Been good to me,” I said.

“Keep it and garage it, that’s what I’d do. One of these days you’ll see it appreciate, like money in the bank. Meanwhile, you can be driving something new for every day. Good lines this year, don’t you think?”

“Very nice.”

“Got those foreign deals beat hands down. Get folks in to actually test drive, they see that. You a lawyer?”

“Psychologist.”

He gave an uncertain smile and I found a business card in my hand.

John Allbright

Sales Executive

“Got a real good suspension this year, too,” he said. “With all due respect to your classic, I think you’ll find it a whole other world, drive-wise. Great sound system, too, if you go for the Bose option and—”

“We’re looking for Ralph Paprock,” said Milo.

Allbright looked at him. Squinted. Put his hand to his mouth and compressed his smile manually.

“Ralph,” he said. “Sure. Ralph’s over there.”

Pointing to the cubicles, he walked away fast, ending up in a glass corner, where he lit up a cigarette and stared out at the lot.

The first two compartments were empty. Ralph Paprock sat behind a desk in the third. He was in his late forties, narrow and tan, with sparse gray-blond hair on top and a bit more of it on the sides, combed over his ears. His double-breasted suit was the same cut as Allbright’s, olive green, just a bit too bright. His shirt was cream with a long-point collar, his tie crowded with parrots and palm trees.

He was hunched over some papers. The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his narrow mouth. The pen in his right hand tapped his blotter very fast. His nails were shiny.