Gone (24 page)

Some joker who’d wandered over from the sports bar.

Keep it friendly. My smile was wary.

He tried to straighten up, lost balance, and slapped a hand back on the table, hard enough to slosh water out of our glasses. Robin’s arm shot out before her wine toppled.

The drunk looked at her and sneered.

I said, “Hey, friend—”

“I. Am. Not. Your. Friend.”

Hoarse voice. I looked around for Ms. Perky. Anyone. Spotted a busboy up a ways, wiping tables. I arched my eyebrows. He continued wiping. The nearest couple, two tables down, was engaged in an eye-tango.

I told the drunk, “The bar’s back in there.”

He leaned in closer. “You. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Am?”

I shook my head.

Robin had room to back away. I motioned her to leave. When she started to get up, the drunk roared, “Sit. Slut!”

My brain fired.

Conflicting messages from the prefrontal cortex: rowdy young guys shouting:
“We’re pumped, dude! Pound him to shit!”
A reedy old man’s voice whispering:
“Careful. The consequences.”

Robin sank back.

I wondered how much karate I remembered.

The drunk demanded, “Who. Am. I?”

“I don’t know.” My tone said the old man was losing out to the prefrontal bad boys. Robin gave me a tiny head shake.

The drunk said, “What. Did. You. Say?”

“I don’t know who you are and I’d appreciate—”

“I. Am. Doctor. Hauser.
Doctor.
Hauser. And. You. Are. A. Fucking.
Liar.
”

The old man whispered:
“Self-control. It’s all about control.”

Hauser drew back his fist.

The old man whispered,
“Scratch all that.”

I caught him by the wrist, twisted hard and followed up with a heel-jab under his nose. Hard enough to stun him, well short of driving bone into his brain.

As he tumbled back I sprang up and took hold of his shirt, breaking his fall to give him a soft landing.

My reward was a face full of beery spittle. I let go just before his ass hit the deck. Tomorrow, his tailbone would hurt like hell.

He sat up for a moment, frothing at the mouth and rubbing his nose. The spot where I’d hit him was pink and just a little bit swollen. He worked his mouth to gather more spit, closed his eyes and flopped down and rolled over and started to snore.

A perky voice said, “Wow. What happened?”

A nasal voice said, “That dude tried to hit the other dude and the other dude protected his lady.”

The busboy, standing next to the waitress. I caught his eye and he smiled uneasily. He’d been watching all along.

“You were righteous, man. I gonna tell the cops.”

The cops showed up eleven long minutes later.

P
atrol Officer
J. Hendricks,
stocky, clean-cut, black as polished ebony.

Patrol Officer
M. Minette,
curvy, clean-cut, beige hair ponytailed.

Hendricks eyed the spot where Patrick Hauser had fallen. “So both of you are doctors?” He stood just out of arm’s reach, notepad in hand. My back was to the glass wall. The diners who’d remained in the restaurant pretended not to stare.

An ambulance had come for Hauser. He’d greeted the EMTs by cursing and spitting and they’d restrained him on the gurney. Change had fallen out of his pocket. Two quarters and a penny remained on the deck.

“We’re both psychologists,” I said, “but as I said, I’ve never seen him before.”

“A total stranger assaulted you.”

“He was drunk. A brown Audi Quattro followed me home this afternoon. If you find one in the parking lot, he stalked me, too.”

“All ’cause of this…” Hendricks consulted his notes, “this report you wrote him up on.”

I retold the story, kept my sentences short and clear. Dropped Milo’s name. Again.

Hendricks said, “So you’re saying you hit him once under the nose with your bare fist.”

“Heel of my hand.”

“That’s kind of a martial arts move.”

“It seemed the best way to handle it without inflicting serious damage.”

“That kind of blow could’ve inflicted
real
serious damage.”

“I was careful.”

“You a martial arts guy?”

“Not hardly.”

“A martial arts guy’s hands are like deadly weapons, Doctor.”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“Sounds like you moved pretty good.”

“It happened fast,” I said.

Scribble scribble.

I looked over at Officer Minette, listening to the busboy and writing as well. She’d interviewed Robin, first, then the waitress. I was Hendricks’s assignment.

No handcuffs, that was a good sign.

Minette let the busboy go and came over. “Everyone seems to be telling the same story.” The narrative she recited matched what I’d told Hendricks. He relaxed.

“Okay, Doctor. I’m going to make a call and verify your address with DMV. That checks out, you’re free to go.”

“You might check if Hauser’s got a Quattro.”

Hendricks looked at me. “I might do that, sir.”

I searched for Robin.

Minette said, “Your lady friend went to the little girls’ room. She said the victim called her a slut.”

“He did.”

“That must’ve been irritating.”

“He was drunk,” I said. “I didn’t take him seriously.”

“Still,” she said. “That’s pretty annoying.”

“It wasn’t until he tried to hit me that I was forced to act.”

“Loser insults your date like that, some guys would have reacted stronger.”

“I’m a man of discretion.”

She smiled. Her partner didn’t join in.

She said, “I think we’re finished here, John.”

As Robin and I walked through the restaurant, someone whispered, “That’s the guy.”

Once we got outside, I exhaled. My ribs hurt. Hauser hadn’t touched me; I’d been holding in air for a long time. “What a disaster.”

Robin slipped her arm around my waist.

“You need to know,” I said, “that this was a civil case, nothing to do with police work.” I told her about the harassment charges against Hauser, my interview of his victims, the report I’d written.

“Why do I need to know?” she said.

“The way you feel about the ugly stuff. This was out of the blue, Robin.”

We headed for the Seville and I scanned the lot for the brown Audi.

There it was, parked six slots south. The red letters on the bumper sticker said,
Get Therapy.

I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Wasn’t surprised when we reached the Seville and both of my rear tires were flat. No slash marks; the valves had been opened.

Robin said, “That’s pathetic.”

“I’ve got a pump in the trunk.”

Part of the emergency kit Milo and Rick had gotten me last Christmas. Tire changing kit, flares, orange Day-Glo road markers, blankets, bottled water.

Rick taking me aside and confiding, “I’d have picked a nice sweater, but an
ahem
cooler head prevailed.”

Milo’s voice bellowing from the corner of their living room: “Haberdashery don’t cut it when you’re stranded out on some isolated road with no lights and wolves and God knows what other toothy carnivores are aiming their beady little predator eyes at your anatomy, just waiting to—”

“Then why didn’t we get him a gun, Milo?”

“Next year. Some day you’ll thank me, Alex. You’re welcome in advance.”

I hooked up the pump and got to work.

When I was finished, Robin said, “The way you handled it —
just enough to defuse the situation and no one got hurt. Classy.”

She took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.

We found a deli on Washington Boulevard, bought more takeout than we needed, drove back to Beverly Glen.

Robin walked into the house as if she lived there, entered the kitchen and set the table. We made it halfway through the food.

When she got out of bed, the movement woke me. Sweaty nap but my eyes were dry.

Through half-closed lids, I watched her slip on my ratty yellow robe and pad around the bedroom. Touching the tops of chairs and tables. Pausing by the dresser. Righting a framed print.

At the window, she drew back one side of the silk curtains she’d designed. She put her face against the glass, peered out at the foothills.

I said, “Pretty night.”

“The view,” she said without turning. “Still unobstructed.”

“Looks like it’s going to stay that way. Bob had his lower acre surveyed and it’s definitely unfit for construction.”

“Bob the Neighbor,” she said. “How’s he doing?”

“When he’s in town, he seems well.”

“Second home in Tahiti,” she said.

“Main home in Tahiti. Nothing like inherited wealth.”

“That’s good news —
about the view. I was hoping for that when I oriented the room that way.” She let the curtain drop. Smoothed the pleats. “I did a decent job with this place. Like living here?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

She cinched the robe tighter, half faced me. Her hair was wild, her lips slightly swollen. Faraway eyes.

“I thought it might be strange,” she said. “Coming back. It’s less strange than I would’ve predicted.”

“It’s your place, too,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“I mean it.”

She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed, played with the edges of the comforter. “You haven’t thought that through.”

I hadn’t. “Sure I have. Many a long night.”

She shrugged.

“The place echoes, Robin.”

“It always did. We were aiming for great acoustics.”

“It can be musical,” I said. “Or not.”

She pulled at the comforter, squared the seam with the edge of the mattress. “You do all right by yourself.”

“Says who?”

“You’ve always been self-contained.”

“Like hell.” My voice was harsh.

She looked up at me.

I said, “Come back. Keep the studio if you need privacy, but live here.”

She tugged at the comforter some more. Her mouth twisted into a shape I couldn’t read. Loosening the robe, she let it fall to the floor, reconsidered, picked it up, folded it neatly over a chair. The organized mind of someone who works with power tools.

Fluffing her hair, she got back in bed.

“No pressure, just think about it,” I said.

“It’s a lot to digest.”

“You’re a tough kid.”

“Like hell.” Pressing her flank to mine, she laced her fingers and placed them over her belly.

I drew the covers over us.

“That’s better, thanks,” she said.

Neither of us moved.

O
nce I’m roused, I’m restless for hours.

As Robin slept, I prowled the house. Ended up in my office and composed a mental list. Switched to a written list.

First thing tomorrow I’d contact Erica Weiss and tell her about Hauser. More ammunition for her civil suit. If Hauser’s control was that loose, mounting legal problems might not stop him from harassing me. Or getting litigious himself.

This whole mess could cost me. I tried to convince myself it was the price of doing business.

Must be nice to be that serene.

Replaying the scene at the restaurant, I wondered how Hauser had lasted this long as a therapist. Maybe the smart thing would be filing a preemptive suit against him. Officers Hendricks and Minette had appeared to see things my way, so a police report would help. But you never knew.

Milo would know what to do but he had other things on his mind.

So did I.

My offer to Robin spilling out like Pentothal chatter. If she said yes, would that constitute a happy ending?

So many what-ifs.

Milo said, “I was just about to call you.”

“Kismet.”

“You don’t want this type of kismet.” He told me why.

I said, “I’ll be right over.”

The note I left on the nightstand read:

Dear R, Had to go out, a bit of the ugly stuff. Stay as long as you’d like.
If you have to go, let’s talk tomorrow.

I dressed quietly, tiptoed to the bed, and kissed her cheek. She stirred, reached up with one arm, let it drop as she rolled over.

Girl fragrance mixed with the smell of sex. I took one last look at her and left.

Reynold Peaty’s corpse had been wrapped in translucent plastic, tied with stout twine, and loaded onto the right-hand stretcher in the white coroner’s van. The vehicle remained parked in front of Peaty’s apartment building, rear doors open. Bolted metal racks secured the body and the empty stretcher to its left.

Busy nights in L.A., double occupancy transport was a good idea.

Flanking the coroner’s van were four black-and-whites, roof lights pulsing. Terse recitations from dispatch operators sparked the night but no one was listening.

Lots of uniforms standing around trying to look official. Milo and Sean Binchy conferred near the farthest cop car. Milo talked and Binchy listened. For the first time since I’d known the young detective, he looked upset.

Over the phone, Milo told me the shooting had taken place an hour ago. But the suspect was just being taken down the stairs of Peaty’s building.

Young Hispanic guy, heavily built, broad skull helmeted by dark stubble. Escorted by two huge, gym-rat patrolmen who diminished him.

I’d seen him before, when I’d driven past the building last Sunday.

Father of the young family heading for church. Wife and three chubby little kids. Stiff gray suit that looked out of place.

Kids having kids.

He’d aimed hard eyes my way as I stopped in front of the building. No view of his eyes now. His arms were cuffed behind him and his head hung low.

Barefoot, wearing a black XXXXL T-shirt that nearly reached his knees, saggy gray sweatpants that threatened to slip off his hips, and a big gold fist on a chain that swung over the shirt’s snarling pit bull
BaaadBoyz
logo.