The Forgotten (15 page)

Getting a search
warrant on criminals with probable cause was one thing. Getting a warrant on patient files when one of the doctors was still alive was proving to be more difficult. As the hours dragged on, Decker decided to send a team over to the Baldwins’ Beverly Hills office to see if they could talk their way into information. Since Martinez was hunting down Malibu condos for Dee, and Tom and Wanda were still tied up at the scene, Decker gave the daunting task of being charming to Scott Oliver and Marge Dunn.

Neither sounded overjoyed at the assignment.

Riding on the freeway over the hump, Oliver sat in the passenger’s seat of the unmarked and tried not to dump on Marge. He was cranky because he hated officious people, and those who practiced in Beverly Hills tended to be full of themselves—or maybe the correct word was
successful
. Scott figured that Deck had given him the detail on purpose, that the loo was still upset over Oliver’s all-too-brief relationship with Deck’s daughter Cindy. Never mind that the woman had dumped him and was on
her
way to being a rising star in the LAPD. Never mind that he was on the dark side of forty and had reached the pinnacle of his career ten years ago. No, forget all that crap. Oliver decided that Decker’s animosity came from the fact that he was better looking, and could get tons of women any time he wanted just because—

Marge interrupted his fantasies with business. “I talked to one of their psychology associates. Her name is Maryam Estes.” She picked a speck of dirt off of her navy linen/polyester blend slacks. They were supposed to wrinkle a little but still look presentable. The garment definitely had the wrinkle part down pat; presentable was another matter. Still, the deep tone looked good with her pale complexion, her brown eyes, and her dishwater, thin hair. Along with the pants, she wore an oxford weave shirt and a matching blue jacket. Sensible navy shoes with rubber soles, but stylish—a Tod’s knockoff. She always felt lucky when she found decent shoes in size ten wide. Her feet were proportional to her height and weight, but the fact didn’t make it easier to find things in the stores. “She didn’t sound very cooperative over the phone.”

“Did she sound pretty?”

“By pretty do you mean young?”

“Yeah, young is definitely okay.”

“She sounded young.” Marge got off at Sunset and turned left, heading toward Beverly Hills. “Young and very nervous.”

“She doesn’t have the best job security right now.”

“For the moment, Dee’s still alive.” Marge slowed the car as she hooked around the twists and turns of the boulevard.

“Think so?” Oliver adjusted the air-conditioning up a notch. The wool of his charcoal suit was supposedly lightweight, but in today’s sticky, smoggy heat, the fabric was oppressive.

Marge thought a moment. “Either Dee whacked them or she’s running from the people who whacked them.”

“Either option ain’t good for the young-sounding Ms. Estes.” Oliver checked his hair in the vanity mirror. Still relatively thick and still in place. “Or is it Dr. Estes?”

“She didn’t say.”

“What exactly does Decker want?”

“To sniff out the Baldwins’ patients and see if any of them are violent psychos. We’re also supposed to find out all we can about Ernesto Golding and his problems, plus ask about a twenty-three-year-old named Ruby Ranger who was
Ernesto’s girlfriend. But we have to be careful because we don’t have a subpoena and there’s a confidentiality problem.”

“Okay,” Oliver said, “so what’s the plan?”

“Just get her talking.” Marge stopped at a red light, then turned to face him and smiled. “
Enthrall
the words out of her, Scott.”

He straightened his tie and slicked back the salt-and-pepper hair that lined his temples. “Piece of cake.”

Marge turned the car right, onto Camden Drive, a street of large eclectic houses that sat on lots too puny for their size. The sidewalks were lined with magnolias that bathed the lawns and homes in muted light. When she hit Santa Monica, she realized that the street had turned one-way and she was going the wrong way. “I hate this city.”

“So do I.”

“Or maybe I’m just jealous because I can’t afford to live here.”

“I don’t mind not living here. I mind not being able to shop here.”

“You could always hit the sales.”

“Fifty percent off a fortune is still too high.” Oliver looked around. “We’re not too far away from Cindy’s, you know.”

“Now that would be a very bad idea.”

“I wasn’t thinking about anything, just stating a fact—”

“A very, very bad idea—”

“Yeah, yeah. Just concentrate on your driving.”

“Do you still see her?”

“We don’t stick pins in each other’s voodoo dolls if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not asking if you’re enemies, I’m asking if you still
see
her?”

“What do you care?”

Sore point. Marge smiled. “You’re right. It is none of my business.”

“No, I don’t
see
her. Cindy’s idea, not mine.”

No one spoke.

Oliver said, “You passed the address.”

“I should concentrate on my driving,” Marge said. “Now I’m going to have to go around the block again.”

“God is punishing you for asking about Cindy.”

“That’s very medieval thinking. Besides, you brought her up!”

“I’m entitled. But you can’t say anything about it. Isn’t that the way it works?”

“You’re right.”

“Damn right, I’m right.”

“Can we be friends now?”

“That’s implying we were friends to begin with.” When Marge didn’t respond, Oliver frowned. “Okay. We’re friends. Happy?”

Marge patted his knee. The car crawled around the block until she finally parked in an underground lot. Silently, they rode the elevator to the eleventh floor—Oliver looking very sour—then got off and turned right, walking down a plush, quiet hallway to the Baldwins’ office. A young woman with mocha-colored skin and a nest of tumbling black curls met them at the door. She wore a white, short-sleeve, silk blouse tucked into a maroon skirt that brushed the top of her knees. Maroon pumps completed the look. They pulled out their badges, and the woman stepped aside so they could come in. She was breathless.

“I’m Maryam Estes.” Once inside, she closed and locked the door. “This way.”

They followed her down the thick-carpeted hallway, her chunky heels leaving depression marks in the nap. Her walk was stiff and quick.

“Are you a doctor as well?” Oliver asked.

She spoke over her shoulder. “Ph.D.”

Silence.

Oliver whispered to Marge, “I think she likes me—”

“Shut up.”

Panting, she led them into the Baldwins’ resplendent of
fice. Paneled walls hosted verdant landscape oil paintings set into gilt frames; the polished parquet floors were adorned with several Persian rugs. The space was filled with handsome furniture that was old-fashioned in style but looked brand new—tables, chairs, sofas, and bookcases—the centerpiece being a walnut partners desk, its sides intricately carved with flowers, vines, and leaves. Strategically placed mullion windows showed off a city view.

Marge looked about. On the desktop sat two computers, blotters, pens, pencils, file folders, and piles of papers. She ran a finger over an empty spot on the smooth walnut surface—no dust. Someone had recently cleaned up.

Maryam said, “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

Marge settled into a rose upholstered sofa, but Oliver elected to walk around the room, dissecting the young woman in his head. She wasn’t pretty—her face was too round, and her eyes were too close set—but she still was attractive. Hot bod, good skin, and thick, biteable lips.

“Huge place.” He took in her dark eyes and smiled. “You could waltz in here!”

“They hold lots of group therapy sessions.” She averted her gaze. “They need the room.”

“What’s the rent on something like this?”

The woman stiffened. “I don’t know.” Another bristle. “I hardly think that’s important right now.”

“Probably not.”

Good job of enthralling her, Scott
. But Oliver often had some method behind the incompetence. Marge looked at the partners desk. “Did the Baldwins share the same office?”

“They both have private space as well. There’s also an intake suite for interviews.”

“So in addition to the waiting room, an intake suite, and this ballroom, they have individual offices?”

“If you’re doing individual therapy, you can’t be interrupted because your partner needs to look at the files.”

“So these…” Marge pointed to the back wall lined with
oak-veneered cabinets. “That’s where the case files are kept?”

“The recent ones, yes.”

“You don’t lock them up?”

“Of course they’re locked!” Maryam was offended. “Pardon my impudence, but why exactly are you here? Shouldn’t Dee Baldwin be your concern? Shouldn’t you be out
looking
for her?”

“We’re doing that, Dr. Estes—well, not us personally—but the police have made Dee Baldwin a top priority. We are here because we need some help.”

“Help?” Maryam licked her lips. “How?”

“Information kind of help,” Oliver said. “We’re looking into culprits. Since Dr. Baldwin treated some disturbed people, we were wondering if one of his patients might have done this.”

“Like a revenge thing,” Marge added. “Do you know of any patient who swore a vendetta against either one of the Baldwins?”

A shake of the head. “Nothing comes to mind. And even if someone came to mind, I couldn’t help you. Patients have confidentiality.”

“Not when it conflicts with the immediate well-being of someone who’s alive,” Marge said. “You know the Tarasoff case.”

“It doesn’t apply when the person’s already dead.”

“Now, that’s a good point,” Oliver said. “So you shouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions about Ernesto Golding.”

“I can’t help you because I don’t know anything about Ernesto Golding.”

“Maybe we can take a peek at his file?” Oliver said.

“Certainly not!” Maryam protested. “I can’t give you that kind of permission. You’ll have to wait for Dee.”

“That may take a long time,” Oliver said. “Like in forever.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say!” Suddenly, Maryam burst
out crying. “This is just awful! Who could have done something so dreadful? Dr. Merv didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

The two detectives let her cry for a few moments. Then Oliver asked, “How well did you know the Baldwins?”

“Except for the occasional holiday party, I only knew them professionally. I’ve worked here for eighteen months, and not a cross word has been exchanged. They’ve been wonderful to me and wonderful to their patients. Dedicated psychologists and fabulous mentors.” Again, the tears overflowed. “My God, this is so…so upsetting!”

Sobbing once again. Marge got up and placed a soft hand on her back. “I know that you feel as if you’re violating them…by talking about their cases.” A meaningful sigh. “Let’s do this. Tell me what you can about them and their patients. What
you
would feel comfortable with.”

“That’s a very tall order.” She blew her nose into a tissue. “Very tall. As psychologists, our bread and butter is confidentiality. If our patients can’t trust us, they find someone else. And with both of the Baldwins out of commission, it’s going to fall on me. The patients, I mean. I have to ensure that they know I’m trustworthy.”

“Then how about if you just start with the basics,” Marge suggested. “You know…how long you’ve known them…what kind of therapy they did…did they see adults or teens or kids…things like that.”

Maryam looked up and dried her eyes. “His specialty was oppositional teens.” She noticed they were waiting for more. “Kids with behavioral problems.”

Marge nodded. “Any of them seem particularly prone to violence?”

“I’m sure some were, but I didn’t see them personally. Mostly, I handled Dee’s overload. She focuses on anxiety disorders that lead to antisocial behavior. You know, things like acting up in high school—”

“That’s a problem?” Oliver said. “For me, acting up in high school was a pastime.”

“
Serious
acting up.” Maryam gave him a cold look. “Teens with suicidal thoughts, alienation, and lots of anxiety in test taking. I’m talking about entrance exams in the main—mostly college, but some high school and elementary school as well. It was Merv who handled the obstructionistic boys, and handled them through his group therapy and nature camp. The off-site retreats were the main focus of Merv’s therapy, although Dee does participate by giving seminars—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Marge interrupted. “Can you back it up a moment? What do you mean by entrance exams for
high school
?”

“For the private preparatory schools,” Oliver said. “They give entrance exams. You gotta apply to those kinds of schools. You knew that, right?”

Marge was silent.

Oliver refrained from sighing. It wasn’t Dunn’s fault. With altruism as her banner, Marge had adopted a teenager a year ago, and there was a brickyard of knowledge that she just didn’t know.

“So I have to worry about Vega?” Marge asked. “I mean she’s brilliant. Isn’t a brilliant mind enough?”

“They’re all brilliant!” Maryam commented. “It’s how to bring your brilliant teenager to the attention of the admissions committee. Did you know that there are applicants with straight A’s, and 4.3 averages,
and
1600 on the SAT who don’t make it into Harvard?”

“No, I didn’t know.” Marge looked pale. “How do you get past a 4.0 average?”

“Honors classes. They’re worth five points instead of the usual four. And then it always helps if the student has had college courses.”

Marge pondered this. “So the kid has to
be
in college before the kid can get into college?”

“There are honors programs at the local universities,” the psychologist informed Marge.

“So what’s the point in sending them to college, if they’ve
already had college?” Marge grabbed her temples. “Talk about anxious kids. What about anxiety for the adults?”