Bad Love Read online

  “Only silk I know is in my ties.”

  “One thing I can tell you, your tape's not an exact lift off the video. The footage has Hewitt screaming for just over twenty-seven seconds out of the thirty-five, and your segment only lasts sixteen. I had a brief go at it before I came over here—tried running both tapes simultaneously on two machines to see if I could pick out any segments that coincided exactly. I couldn't—it was tricky, going from machine to machine, on-off, on-off, trying to synchronize. And it's not like we're dealing with words, here—doesn't take long before all the screaming starts to sound the same.”

  “What about doing some kind of voiceprint analysis? Trying to get an electronic match.”

  “From what I know, you need actual words for a match. And the department doesn't do voiceprints anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Probably not enough call. What they're useful for, mostly, is kidnapping ransom calls, and that's usually the FBI's game. Also phone scams, bunco stuff, which is low priority with all the buckets of blood. I think one guy at the sheriff's is still doing them. I'll find out.”

  The dog finally put his head in the bowl and began slurping water. Milo lifted his bottle, said, “Cheers,” and emptied it.

  “Why don't you and I try a little bit of low-tech teamwork right now?” I said. “You take audio, I'll take video—”

  “And I'll be in Screamland afore ye.”

  He took the portable tapedeck into the library and loaded the video. We sat across from one another, listening to screams, trying to shut out the context. Even with two people it was difficult—hard to divide the howls into discrete segments.

  We played and rewound, doing it over and over, trying to locate the sixteen seconds of the bad love tape amid the pain and noise of the longer video segment. The dog tolerated only a minute or so before scooting out of the room.

  Milo and I stayed and sweated.

  After half an hour, a triumph of sorts.

  A discrepancy.

  A second or two of sing-song, wordless jabber at the tail end of my tape that didn't materialize anywhere on the soundtrack of the video.

  Ya ya ya . . . the screamer lowering his volume just a bit—a barely discernible shift not much longer than an eyeblink. But once I pointed it out, it mushroomed, as obvious as a billboard.

  “Two separate taping sessions,” I said, as stunned as Milo looked. “Has to be, otherwise why would the shorter tape have something on it that's missing from the longer segment?”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly, and I knew he was angry at himself for not catching it first.

  He sprang to his feet and paced. Looked at his Timex. “When'd you say you were going to the airport?”

  “Nine.”

  “If you're comfortable leaving the place unguarded, I could go get something done.”

  “Sure,” I said, rising. “What?”

  “Talk to the clinic director about Hewitt's social life.”

  He collected his things and we walked to the door.

  “Okay, I'm off,” he said. “Got the Porsche and the cellular, so you can always reach me if you need to.”

  “Thanks for everything, Milo.”

  “What're friends for?”

  Ugly answers flashed in my head, but I kept them to myself.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Just as I was preparing to head out for LAX, Dr. Stanley Wolf returned my call. He sounded middle-aged and spoke softly and hesitantly, as if doubting his own credibility.

  I thanked him and said I'd called about Dr. Grant Stoumen.

  “Yes, I got the message.” He asked several tortuous questions about my credentials. Then: “Were you a student of Grant's?”

  “No, we never met.”

  “Oh . . . what do you need to know?”

  “I'm being harassed by someone, Dr. Wolf, and I thought Dr. Stoumen might be able to shed some light on it.”

  “Harassed?”

  “Annoying mail. Phone calls. It may be linked to a conference I co-chaired several years ago. Dr. Stoumen delivered a paper there.”

  “A conference? I don't understand.”

  “A symposium on the work of Andres de Bosch entitled “Good Love/Bad Love.' The term “bad love' was used in the harassment.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Seventy-nine.”

  “De Bosch—the child analyst?”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, child analysis is outside of my . . . purview.”

  “Did Dr. Stoumen ever talk about de Bosch—or this particular conference?”

  “Not to my recollection. Nor did he mention any . . . annoying mail?”

  “Maybe “annoying' is too mild,” I said. “It's fairly nasty stuff.”

  “Uh-hm.” He didn't sound convinced.

  I said, “Last night it went a little further. Someone trespassed on my property. I have a fish pond. They took a fish out, killed it, and left it for me to see.”

  “Hmm. How . . . bizarre. And you think this symposium's the link?”

  “I don't know, but it's all I've got so far. I'm trying to contact anyone who appeared on the dais, to see if they've been harassed. So far everyone I've tried to reach has moved out of town. Do you happen to know a psychiatrist named Wilbert Harrison or a social worker named Mitchell Lerner?”

  “No.”

  “They also delivered papers. The co-chairs were de Bosch's daughter, Katarina, and a New York analyst named Harvey Rosenblatt.”

  “I see. . . . Well, as I mentioned I'm not a child analyst. And unfortunately, Grant's no longer with us, so I'm afraid—”

  “Where did his accident take place?”

  “Seattle,” he said, with sudden strength in his voice. “At a conference, as a matter of fact. And it wasn't a simple accident. It was a hit-and-run. Grant was heading out for a late-night walk; he stepped off the curb in front of his hotel and was struck down.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Yes, it was terrible.”

  “What was the topic of the conference?”

  “Something to do with child welfare—the Northwest Symposium on Child Welfare, I believe. Grant was always an advocate for children.”

  “Terrible,” I said. “And this was in May?”

  “Early June. Grant was on in years—his eyesight and hearing weren't too good. We prefer to think he never saw it or heard it coming.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Eighty-nine.”

  “Was he still in practice?”

  “A few old patients stopped by from time to time, and he kept an office in the suite and insisted on paying his share of the rent. But mostly he traveled. Art exhibitions, concerts. And conferences.”

  “His age made him a contemporary of Andres de Bosch,” I said. “Did he ever mention him?”

  “If he did, I don't recall it. Grant knew lots of people. He was in practice for almost sixty years.”

  “Did he treat especially disturbed or violent patients?”

  “You know I can't discuss his cases, Dr. Delaware.”

  “I'm not asking about specific cases, just the general tenor of his practice.”

  “The little that I saw was pretty conventional— children with adjustment problems.”

  “Okay, thanks. Is there anyone else who could talk to me about him?”

  “Just Dr. Langenbaum, and he knows about as much as I do.”

  “Did Dr. Stoumen leave a widow?”

  “His wife died several years ago and they had no children. Now I really do have to get going.”

  “Thanks for your time, Dr. Wolf.”

  “Yes . . . hmm. Good luck on . . . working this through.”

  I got my car keys, left a lot of lights on in the house, and turned on the stereo to loud jazz. The dog was sleeping noisily on his towel bed, but he roused himself and followed me to the door.

  “Stay and guard the home front,” I said, and he harrumphed, stared for a moment, finally sat
down.

  I walked out, closed the door, listened for a protest, and when I didn't hear any, went down to the carport. The night had cooled, massaged by sea current. The waterfall seemed deafening and I drove away listening to it diminish.

  As I coasted down toward the Glen, a sense of dread dropped over me, dark and smothering, like a condemned man's hood.

  I paused at the bottom of the road, looking at black treetops and slate sky. A faint bit of light from a distant house blinked through the foliage like an earthbound star.

  No way to gauge its distance. I had no real neighbors because an acre-wide strip of county land, unbuildable due to a quirky water table, cut through this section of the Glen. Mine was the only buildable site on the plot plan.

  Years ago the isolation had been just what I wanted. Now a nosy streetmate didn't seem half bad.

  A car sped down the Glen from the north, appearing suddenly around a blind curve, going too fast, its engine flatulent with power.

  I tensed as it passed, took another look backward, and hooked right, toward the Sunset on-ramp of the 405 south. By the time I got on the freeway, I was thinking of Robin's smile and pretending nothing else mattered.

  Slow night at the airport. Cabbies circled the terminals and skycaps looked at their watches. I found a space in the passenger loading zone and managed to stay there until Robin came out, toting her carry-on.

  I kissed her and hugged her, took the suitcase, and put it in the trunk of the Seville. A man in a Hawaiian shirt was looking at her over cigarette smoke. So were a couple of kids with backpacks and surfer hair.

  She had on a black silk T-shirt and black jeans, and over that a purple and red kimono-type shirt tied around her waist. The jeans were tucked into black boots with tooled silver toes. Her hair was loose and longer than ever—well past her shoulder blades, the auburn curls bronzed by the light from the baggage claim area. Her skin gleamed and her dark eyes were clear and peaceful. It had been five days since I'd seen her, but it seemed like a long separation.

  She touched my cheek and smiled. I leaned in for a longer kiss.

  “Whoa,” she said, when we stopped, “I'll go away more often.”

  “Not necessary,” I said. “Sometimes there is gain without pain.”

  She laughed and hugged me and put her arm around my waist. I held the door open as she got in the car. The man in the Hawaiian shirt had turned his back on us.

  As I drove away she put her hand on my knee and looked over at the back seat. “Where's the dog?”

  “Guarding hearth and home. How was your talk?”

  “Fine. Plus I may have sold that archtop guitar I did last summer—the one Joey Shah defaulted on. I met a jazz musician from Dublin who wants it.”

  “Great,” I said. “You put a lot of time into that one.”

  “Five hundred hours, but who's counting.”

  She stifled a yawn and put her head on my shoulder. I drove all the way to Sunset before she woke up, shaking her curls. “Boy . . . must have hit me all of a sudden.” Sitting up, she blinked at the streets of Bel Air.

  “Home sweet home,” she said softly.

  I waited until she'd roused herself before telling her the bad news.

  She took it well.

  “Okay,” she said, “I guess it goes with the territory. Maybe we should move out for a while and stay at the shop.”

  “Move out?”

  “At least till you know what's going on.”

  I thought of her studio, separated from the mean streets of Venice by a thin veneer of white windows and locks. Saws and drills and wood shavings on the ground floor. The sleeping loft in which we'd made love so many times . . .

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I can't stay away indefinitely—the house needs maintenance. Not to mention the fish that're left.”

  That sounded trivial, but she said, “That poor fish. And you worked so hard to keep them alive.”

  She touched my cheek.

  “Welcome home,” I said glumly.

  “Don't worry about that, Alex. Let's just figure out how to deal with this stupidity until it's resolved.”

  “I don't want to put you in any danger. Maybe you should move to the shop—”

  “And leave you alone in the middle of this?”

  “I just want to make sure you're okay.”

  “How okay do you think I'm going to be, worrying every minute about you? I mean, the fish are wonderful, Alex, but you can hire someone to feed them. Hire someone to look after the whole house, for that matter.”

  “Pack up the wagons and head out?”

  “What's wrong with being a little cautious, honey?”

  “I don't know . . . it just seems awfully drastic—all that's really happened is malicious mischief.”

  “So why were you so upset when you told me about it?”

  “Sorry. I didn't want to upset you.”

  “Of course it upsets me,” she said. “Someone sending you weird tapes, sneaking in and . . .” She put her arm around my shoulder. The light changed to green and I turned left.

  “Goes with the territory,” she repeated. “All those troubled people you've worked with over the years. All that misdirected passion. The surprising thing isn't that it happened. It's how long it took.”

  “You never said it worried you.”

  “It wasn't a matter of worry—I didn't obsess on it. Just thought about it from time to time.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “What would have been the point? I didn't want to upset you.”

  I lifted her hand from my shoulder and kissed it.

  “Okay,” she said, “so we protect each other, Curly. Ain't that what true love's all about?”

  I pulled up in front of the house. No obvious signs of intrusion.

  I said, “Just let me check around for a sec before you get out.”

  “Oh, really,” she said. But she stayed in the car.

  I gave the pond a quick inspection. The fish moved with nighttime languor, and none was missing.

  I jogged up the stairs to the landing, checked the front door, peered in through the living room window. Something moved as the drapes parted. The dog's face pressed against the glass, wetting it. I raised my hand in greeting. He pawed the window. I could hear the jazz through the redwood walls.

  By the time I got back down, Robin was lifting her valise from the trunk. When I tried to take it from her, she said, “I've got it,” and headed for the steps.

  As I unlocked the front door, she said, “We could at least get an alarm. Everyone else has one.”

  “Never been a slave to fashion,” I said, but when she didn't smile, I added, “Okay. I'll call a company tomorrow.”

  We walked in and almost tripped over the bulldog, who'd positioned himself on the welcome mat. He stared from Robin to me, then back to her, where he lingered with Churchillian dignity.

  Robin said, “My God.”

  “What?” I said.

  “He invented cute, Alex. Come here, sweetie.” She bent down to his level with one hand extended, palm down.

  He trotted forward without hesitation, jumped up, put his paws on her shoulders, and embarked on a lick-fest.

  “Ooh!” She laughed. “What a handsome boy you are—what a cutie—look at those muscles!”

  She stood, wiping her face, still laughing. The dog continued to nuzzle and paw her legs. His tongue was out and he was panting.

  She placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a grave look. “Sorry, Alex. There is now another man in my life.” Bending, she rubbed him behind the ears.

  “Crushed,” I said, placing a hand over my heart. “And you might reconsider—he doesn't have gonads.”

  “Them's the breaks,” she said, smiling. “Look at that face!”

  “Also, he snores.”

  “So do you, once in a while.”

  “You never told me.”

  She shrugged. “I kick you and usually you stop—well, just look at you, you li
ttle hunk. Apathy's not your problem, is it?”

  She knelt back down and got her face rebathed. “What a doll!”

  “Think of the ramifications on your social life,” I said. “Meatloaf and kibble by candlelight.”

  She laughed again and roughed the dog's fur.

  As the two of them played, I picked up the suitcase and carried it into the bedroom, checking rooms as I passed, trying not to be obvious. Everything looked fine. I took Robin's clothes out and arranged them on the bed.

  When I got back, she was on the leather couch, the dog's head in her lap. “I know this is heartless, Alex, but I hope his owner never calls. How long, legally, do you have to run the ad?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “There's got to be a limit, right? Some sort of statute of limitations?”

  “Probably.”

  Her smile disappeared. “With my luck someone'll show up tomorrow and cart him off.”

  She covered another yawn. The dog looked at her, fascinated.

  “Tired?” I said.

  “A little. Everything okay around here? I'm sure you looked.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I'll get unpacked.”

  “Did it,” I said. “Why don't you run a bath? I'll put your stuff away, then join you.”

  “That's sweet of you, thanks.” She looked at the dog. “See, he really is a nice guy, our Dr. D. How 'bout you—you like baths, too?”

  “As a matter of fact, he hates the water. Won't even get near it. So it's just you and me, kid.”

  “How Machiavellian of you—where does he sleep?”

  “Last night he slept in the bed. Tonight he moves back into the kitchen.”

  She pouted.

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh, no way.”

  “Oh, c'mon, Alex. It's just temporary.”

  “Do you want those eyes watching us?”

  “Watching us do what?”

  “The crossword puzzle.”

  “He'll be lonely out there, Alex.”

  “All of a sudden we're into voyeurism?”

  “I'm sure he's a gentleman. And as you so unkindly pointed out, he has no . . .”

  “Balls or no balls, he's a nudist, Robin. And he's got the hots for you. The kitchen.”

  She tried a bigger pout.

  I said, “Put it out of your mind.”