Bad Love (7 page)

“Neurology?” I said. “Didn’t know de Bosch was interested in the organic side of things.”

“He wasn’t. Southwick was heavily biological — still is — but Andres was their token analyst. Kind of a . . .” He smiled. “I was about to say “throwback,’ but that wouldn’t be kind. It’s not as if he was some sort of relic. Quite vital, actually — a gadfly to the hard-wire boys, and don’t we all need gadflies.”

We entered the conference room. Ten minutes until the next speech and the place was nearly empty.

“Was it a good year?” I said after we were seated.

“The fellowship? Sure. I got to do lots of long-term depth work with kids from poor and working-class families, and Andres was a wonderful teacher — great at communicating his knowledge.”

I thought: it’s not genetic. I said, “He is a clear writer.”

Rosenblatt nodded, crossed his legs, and looked around the deserted auditorium.

“How’s child analysis accepted here?” he said.

“It’s not used much,” I said. “We deal mostly with kids with serious physical illnesses, so the emphasis is on short-term treatment. Pain control, family counseling, compliance with treatment.”

“Not much tolerance for delayed gratification?”

“Not much.”

“Do you find that satisfying — as an analyst?”

“I’m not an analyst.”

“Oh.” He blushed around his beard. “I guess I assumed you were — then how’d you get involved in the conference?”

“Katarina de Bosch’s powers of persuasion.”

He smiled. “She can be a real ball-breaker, can’t she? When I knew her back in England she was just a kid — fourteen or fifteen — but even then she had a forceful personality. She used to attend our graduate seminars. Spoke up as if she was a peer.”

“Daddy’s girl.”

“Very much so.”

“Fourteen or fifteen,” I said. “So she’s only twenty-five or -six?”

He thought for a moment. “That’s about right.”

“She seems older.”

“Yes, she does,” he said, as if coming up with an insight. “She has an old soul, as the Chinese say.”

“Is she married?”

He shook his head. “There was a time I thought she might be gay, but I don’t think so. More likely asexual.”

I said, “The temptation to think Oedipally is darn near irresistible, Harvey.”

“For girls it’s Elektra,” he said, wagging a finger with amusement. “Get your complexes straight.”

“She drives one, too.”

“What?”

“Her car’s an Electra — a big Buick.”

He laughed. “There you go — now if that doesn’t convert you to fervid belief in Freud, I don’t know what will.”

“Anna Freud never married, either, did she?” I said. “Neither did Melanie Klein.”

“What, a neurotic pattern?” he said, still chuckling.

“Just presenting the data, Harvey. Draw your own conclusions.”

“Well,
my
daughter’s damned
boy
crazy, so I wouldn’t get ready to publish just yet.” He turned serious. “Though I’m sure the impact of such a powerful paternal—”

He stopped talking. I followed his gaze and saw Katarina heading toward us from the left side of the auditorium. Carrying a clipboard and marching forward while looking at her watch.

When she reached us, Rosenblatt stood.

“Katarina. How’s everything going?” There was guilt in his voice — he’d make a very bad liar.

“Fine, Harvey,” she said, looking down at her board. “You’re up in two minutes. Might as well take your place on stage.”

I never saw either of them again, and the events of that autumn soon faded from memory, sparked briefly, the following January, by a newspaper obituary of Andres de Bosch. Cause of death was suicide by overdose — prescription tranquilizers. The eighty-year-old analyst was described as despondent due to ill health. His professional achievements were listed in loving, inflated detail, and I knew who’d provided them.

Now, years later, another spark.

Good love/
bad love
. De Bosch’s term for mothering gone bad. The psychic damage inflicted when a trusted figure betrays the innocent.

So Donald Dell Wallace probably wasn’t behind it. Someone else had picked me — because of the
conference
?

Someone with a long, festering memory? Of what? Some transgression committed by de Bosch? In the name of de Boschian therapy?

My co-chairmanship made me seem like a disciple, but that was my only link.

Some kind of grievance? Was it even real, or just a delusion?

A psychotic sitting at the conference, listening, boiling . . .

I thought back to the seventy strangers in the auditorium. A collective blur.

And why had Becky Basille’s murderer howled “bad love”?

Another
madman?

Katarina might have the answer. But she hadn’t had much use for me back in seventy-nine, and there was no reason to believe she’d talk to me now.

Unless she’d gotten a tape, too, and was frightened.

I punched 805 information. There was no Santa Barbara listing for either the de Bosch Institute or the Corrective School. Neither was there an office number for Katarina de Bosch, Ph.D. Before the operator could get away, I asked her to check for a home number. Zilch.

I hung up and pulled out the latest American Psychological Association directory. Nothing there, either. Retrieving some older volumes, I finally found Katarina’s most recent entry. Five years ago. But the address and number were those of the Santa Barbara school. On the off chance the phone company had messed up, I called.

A woman answered, “Taco Bonanza.” Metallic clatter and shouts nearly drowned her out.

I cut the connection and sat at my desk, stroking the top of the bulldog’s head and gazing at the coffee stain on the brochure. Wondering how and when enlightenment had given way to enchiladas.

Harvey Rosenblatt.

Half past one made it four-thirty in New York. I got the number for NYU’s med school and asked for the department of psychiatry. After a couple of minutes on hold, I was informed that there was no Dr. Harvey Rosenblatt on either the permanent or the part-time clinical staff.

“We do have a
Leonard
Rosenblatt,” said the secretary. “His office is out in New Rochelle — and a Shirley Rosenblatt in Manhattan, on East Sixty-fifth Street.”

“Is Shirley an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”

“Um — one second — a Ph.D. She’s a clinical psychologist.”

“But no Harvey?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any old rosters on hand? Lists of staff members who’ve retired?”

“There may be something like that somewhere, sir, but I really don’t have the time to search. Now if you’ll—”

“Could I have Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt’s number please?”

“One moment.”

I copied it down, called Manhattan information for a listing on Harvey Rosenblatt, M.D., learned there was none, and dialed Shirley, Ph.D.’s exchange.

A soft, female voice with Brooklyn overtones said, “This is Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt. I’m in session or out of the office, and can’t come to the phone. If your call is a true emergency, please press one. If not, please press two, wait for the beep, and leave your message. Thank you and have a lovely day.”

Mozart in the background
. . . beep
.

“Dr. Rosenblatt, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, from Los Angeles. I’m not sure if you’re married to Dr. Harvey Rosenblatt or even know him, but I met him several years ago at a conference out here and wanted to touch base with him on something — for research purposes. If you can help me reach him, I’d appreciate your passing along my number.”

I recited the ten digits and put the phone back in its cradle. The mail came a half hour later. Nothing out of the ordinary, but when I heard it drop into the bin, my hands had clenched.

I went down to feed the fish, and when I got back the phone was ringing.

The operator at my service said, “This is Joan, Dr. Delaware, are you free? There’s someone on the line about a dog, sounds like a kid.”

“Sure.”

A second later a thin, young voice said, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Dr. Delaware.”

“Um . . . this is Karen Alnord. My dog got lost and you said in the paper that you found a bulldog?”

“Yes, I did. He’s a little French bulldog.”

“Oh . . . mine’s a boxer.” Dejected.

“Sorry. This one’s not a boxer, Karen.”

“Oh . . . I just thought — you know, sometimes people think they’re bulldogs.”

“I can see the resemblance,” I said. “The flat face—”

“Yeah.”

“But the one I’ve found’s much smaller than a boxer.”

“Mine’s a puppy,” she said. “He’s not too big yet.”

I put her age at between nine and eleven.

“This one’s definitely full-grown, Karen. I know because I took him to the veterinarian.”

“Oh . . . um . . . okay. Thank you, sir.”

“Where’d you lose your dog, Karen?”

“Near my house. We have a gate, but somebody left it open and he got out.”

“I’m really sorry. Hope you find him.”

“I will,” she said, in a breaking voice. “I’ve got an ad, too, and I’m calling all the other ads, even though my mom says none of them are probably the right one. I’m paying a reward, too — twenty dollars, so if you do find him you can get it. His name’s Bo and there’s a bone-shaped tag on his collar that says Bo and my phone number.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, Karen. Whereabouts do you live?”

“Reseda. On Cohasset between Sherman Way and Saticoy. His ears haven’t been cropped. If you find him, here’s my phone number.”

I wrote it down, even though Reseda was over the hill to the north, fifteen or twenty miles away.

“Good luck, Karen.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope your bulldog finds his owner.”

That reminded me that I hadn’t yet called the Kennel Club. Information gave me the number in New York and another one in North Carolina. Both answered with recorded messages and told me business hours were over.

“Tomorrow,” I told the bulldog.

He’d been observing me, maintaining that curious, cocked head stance. The fact that someone was probably grieving for him bothered me, but I didn’t know what else to do other than take good care of him.

That meant food, water, shelter. A walk, when it got cool enough.

A walk meant a leash.

He and I took a drive to a pet store in south Westwood and I bought a lead, more dog food, biscuits in various flavors, and a couple of nylon bones the salesman assured me were excellent for chewing. When we returned, it seemed temperate enough for a stroll if we stayed in the shade. The dog stood still, tail wagging rapidly, while I put the leash on. The two of us explored the Glen for half an hour, hugging the brush, walking against traffic. Like regular guys.

When I got back, I called my service. Joan said, “There’s just one, from a Mrs. Rodriguez — hold on, that’s your board . . . there’s someone ringing in right now.”

I waited a moment, and then she said, “I’ve got a Mr. Silk on the line, says he wants to make an appointment.”

“Thanks, put him on.”

Click.

“Dr. Delaware.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Mr. Silk?”

No answer. Just as I was about to hang up and redial the service, a low sound came through the receiver. Mumbles — no. Laughter.

A deep, throaty giggle.

“Huh huh huh.”

“Who is this?” I said.

“Huh huh huh.” Gloating.

I said nothing.

“Huh huh huh.”

The line went dead.

I got the operator back on the line.

“Joan, that guy who just called. Did he leave anything other than his name?”

“No, he just asked if you treated adults as well as children and I said he’d have to speak to you about that.”

“And his name was Silk? As in the fabric?”

“That’s what I heard. Why, doctor, is something wrong?”

“He didn’t say anything, just laughed.”

“Well that’s kind of crazy, but that’s your business, isn’t it, doctor?”

Evelyn Rodriguez answered on the first ring. When she heard my voice, hers went dead.

“How’s everything?” I said.

“Fine.”

“I know it’s a hassle for you, but I would like to see the girls.”

“Yeah, it’s a hassle,” she said. “Driving all the way out there.”

“How about if I come out to you?”

No answer.

“Mrs. Rodriguez?”

“You’d do that?”

“I would.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch, I’d just like to make this whole thing as easy as possible for you.”

“Why?”

To show Donald Dell Wallace I can’t be intimidated. “To help the girls.”

“Uh-huh
. . . they’re
paying for your time, right? His . . . bunch a heathens.”

“The judge made Donald Dell responsible for the costs of the evaluation, Mrs. Rodriguez, but as we talked about the first time, that doesn’t obligate me to him in any way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Has that been a problem for you?” I said. “The fact that he’s paying?”

She said nothing for a moment, then: “Bet you’re charging plenty.”

“I’m charging my usual fee,” I said, realizing I sounded like a Watergate witness.

“Bet it includes your driving time and all. Door to door, just like the lawyers.”

“Yes, it does.”

“
Good
,” she said, stretching the word. “Then
you
can drive instead of me — drive
slow
. Keep your meter running and make them devils
pay
.”

Angry laughter.

I said, “When can I come out?”

“How ’bout right now? They’re running around like wild Injuns, maybe you can settle ’em down. How about you drive out here right this
minute
and see ’em? You ready for that?”

“I can probably be there in forty-five minutes.”

“Whenever. We’ll be right here. We’re not taking any vacations to Hono
-lu
lu.”

She hung up before I could ask for directions. I looked up her address in my case file — the ten thousand block of McVine Terrace in Sunland — and matched it to my Thomas map. Setting the dog up with water, food, and a bone, I left, not at all unhappy about running up the Iron Priests’ tab.