Killer Page 3

“Oh, yeah. There’s that. The sibling relationship. Or lack of. Which didn’t stop Cherie from dumping the kid on Connie while she went gallivanting with some rock band.”

  “For how long?”

  “Eighty-eight days,” she said. “Connie’s lawyer claimed three months, Cherie’s lawyer did a day-by-day count and disputed it. All that took pages of very tedious prose. See what I’m dealing with?”

  I nodded. “Did Cherie have contact with Connie or the child during that time?”

  “Connie claims she got a couple of phone calls, period. Cherie claims she tried to call Connie frequently, couldn’t get through. When Cherie came for the kid, Connie didn’t want to return her. There was a scene at Connie’s work.”

  “Medical office.”

  “More like a lab, Connie’s a pathologist. She claimed bringing the kid there was for optimal care: Rather than pawn Rambla off on some babysitter or day care, she had her staff help her ‘nurture the baby on a regular basis.’ In any event, the showdown was Cherie pushing her way past the staff and grabbing little Rambla.”

  She grimaced. “The names people stick on their prodge. Imagine if the tryst had been on Busch Drive?”

  I said, “Connie got attached, Cherie broke the attachment, they’re mortal enemies.”

  “That sums it up, Doc—Alex okay?”

  “Preferable.”

  “You nailed it, Alex. I’m sure Dr. Connie’s going through some major separation anxiety but she’s wisely avoided citing that in her suit because the court cares nothing about non-parental adults’ emotional issues. Instead, she’s contending that Cherie dumping the kid is clear proof that A., Cherie is unfit, and B., Cherie intended for Connie to keep the baby, they had an oral contract stipulating to such and it was only ‘low impulse control’ that caused Cherie to renege. Connie’s also tossing in the usual allegations about Cherie: dope, destructive lifestyle, deleterious environment. The drug part comes from the fact that two of Cherie’s busts were for marijuana but those were fourteen and twelve years ago, respectively. Her other arrest was shoplifting when she was eighteen—nineteen years ago. Like I said, give me heroin, crack, crank, HIV-positive, dirty needles, whatever. Pot and sticky fingers is b.s.”

  “Cherie’s alleged character issues amount to zero in the eyes of the law.”

  “And to tell the truth, she comes across like a much better candidate for motherhood than Connie.”

  “Warmer?”

  “Warmer, friendlier, social. Also, I’ve seen her with the kid and the kid clearly feels comfortable with her. Haven’t seen the kid with Connie because we just began and I’m not sure I want to put a sixteen-month-old through another separation from her mommy. What do you think?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Good. I will rely upon your expertise the next time Connie’s lawyer hounds me to give her client a chance to demonstrate maternal skills.”

  “Persistent lawyer?”

  “Pain-in-the-ass lawyer,” she said. “A young one named Medea Wright, works for Stark and Stark, I’m sure you know what their approach is, talk about black-hearted litigators.”

  “That could be a problem,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I told her about my experience with Sterling Stark.

  “You’re kidding,” she said. “He was suborning perjury, the old goat. You report him?”

  “No, I just shined him on.”

  “Too bad, you could’ve created serious problems for the bastard.”

  “Not my aim.”

  “Sterling Stark,” she said. “Well guess what, Alex: Good news for us, he’s dead. Keeled over a couple of years ago while walking to the court parking lot. Big funeral in Hancock Park, every judge got invited. I hear a few even showed up. Anyway, there’s no conflict of interest and you are free to deal with Ms. Medea Wright.”

  “Who’s Cherie’s lawyer?”

  “An independent practitioner out in the Valley named Myron Ballister.” She frowned.

  “Not a heavyweight.”

  “Far from it,” she said. “I’m sure he’s not billing at Stark and Stark levels. Is the playing field uneven? Sure, but Cherie’s got the law on her side and Medea’s having the time of her life filing ridiculous motions and racking up billable hours.”

  “Motions you can’t just toss in the circular file.”

  She took another candy. Unwrapped slowly, ate quickly. “Can’t wait to get out of this dump, go after some serious criminals. Are you on board?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great,” she said. “No kids, huh? That help you retain your objectivity?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s just the way things are.”

  She studied me. “Married?”

  “Almost.”

  “Engaged?”

  “Long-term relationship.”

  “Take your time with commitments, huh? Why not, life’s too short for stupid mistakes. Okay, I’ll send you the files.”

  “A question,” I said. “How old was Rambla when Cherie left her with Connie?”

  “She had her from six to nine months.”

  “That period,” I said, “the baby began sitting up, probably crept or crawled or even pulled off some early walking. Verbal behavior would also increase—babbling, saying Ma Ma.”

  “So?” she said.

  “It’s a fun period for a parent. Connie had a good time.”

  “That’s relevant?”

  “I’m trying to get a feel for her experience. To understand why she’s pressing her claim.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I can’t help thinking she just hates her sister’s guts.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Two days after my meeting with Judge Maestro, a court clerk hand-delivered a photocopied Sykes v. Sykes file to my home. The six-inch tome contained a mass of motions and countermotions that added nothing to the summary Maestro had given me. I went through every word because skimming is what gets you in trouble when you’re on the stand.

  By the time I finished, calls had come into my service from Medea Wright and Myron Ballister. Ignoring both attorneys, I emailed the judge and told her I was ready to interview the sisters, contingent upon receipt of my retainer. Estimating what my fees would total, I appended an invoice.

  The amount was lower than my typical custody retainer because the case appeared simple: Cherie Sykes had full legal rights to her child unless the court could be convinced she was a clear and present danger to the baby’s safety, security, and/or psychosocial development.

  Maestro phoned me the following morning: “You’re a businesslike fellow, Dr. Alex. Everything up front, no billing?”

  “I’ve found that works best.”

  She laughed. “Protects you from irate litigants? Okay, I’ll authorize the check and then you can touch base with Wright and Ballister. They’re both eager to talk to you.”

  “They already phoned. I didn’t return their calls, don’t intend to.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re going to reiterate their paperwork and try to prejudice my judgment. Also, if I spent time with them, I’d have to charge you a helluva lot more. For pain and suffering.”

  “You have no affection for members of the bar?”

  “It’s not a matter of affection, Nancy. Life’s too short.”

  The check from the court arrived the following week. I phoned Cherie Sykes’s home number, got a recorded message backed by what sounded like slowed-down, garbled Lynyrd Skynyrd.

  “This is Ree. Leave your little message. Ex-oh-ex-oh-ex-oh.” Giggles.

  I decided to give her a day to respond before trying her sister. She phoned my service two hours later.

  “Hi, this is Ree! You’re the psychologist!” Thirty-seven years old but the tinkly voice and singsong delivery could’ve belonged to a teenager.

  “I am.”

  “I can’t wait to meet you. To finish off with all this bull—with what my sister’s putting me through.”

&n
bsp; “How about tomorrow at ten?”

  “You got it! See you then!”

  “Do you have my address?”

  Silence. “I guess I’d need that. Now you probably think I’m a flake.”

  I recited the information.

  “Do you?” she said. “Think I’m flaky? I’m not, no matter what anyone says. It’s just that I’m nervous.”

  “No one likes being judged.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the main reason, Doc. It’s dealing with my sister. She’s a wicked weirdo.”

  Not so weird you didn’t leave the kid with her for eighty-eight days.

  I said, “Let’s talk about that tomorrow.”

  “You bet,” she said. “We’re gonna need to talk about it a lot!”

  She was five minutes late, flashed a smile as she apologized for “getting lost in all these crazy, winding streets.”

  My house is a white geometric thing perched atop an unmarked road that rises above a former bridle path snaking northwest from Beverly Glen. Once you’ve been there, it’s easy to find. Until then, good luck.

  First-time visitors often comment on the light and views. Cherie “Ree” Sykes stood in my living room and looked down at the floor. I shook her hand. Hers was cold and moist and she withdrew it quickly, as if afraid secretions could betray her.

  Tall and strongly built with hair dyed the color of orange soda, she looked every bit of thirty-seven, and then some. The flaming hair was long and braided. The plait reached the small of her back. Feathery bangs looped over a sun-seamed forehead. Earrings dangled from both lobes. The hard cartilage of her left ear was pierced by a black metal stud. The danglers were stainless steel; miniature chain link interspersed with miniature letters. X’s on one side, O’s on the other.

  Tic tac court battle.

  Her long, narrow face was graced by high cheekbones. Slightly down-slanted black eyes and a full wide mouth suggested a woman who’d once been beautiful. A diagonal scar across her chin, leathery skin, and deep wrinkles attested to adventurous living.

  An indigo tattoo of a snake—from the triangular head, some sort of adder—slid up the left side of her neck. It was a warm day but she had on a long-sleeved, snap-button cowgirl shirt, brown with a black yoke, that looked brand-new. Tight jeans showcased ample hips and long legs that terminated in large, broad feet. Bright green patent-leather sandals with a medium heel added to the five eight genetics had granted her.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, rawboned woman with a weathered look that evoked the Dust Bowl photos of Walker Evans.

  Except for the body art.

  I guessed the sleeves to be a cover for additional ink. If so, they failed to do the trick: Curlicues of blue and red and green cascaded across her hands and spilled over her knuckles. Her nails were blunt and unpolished but minute black chips on some of them said acetone had been applied recently.

  Dust Bowl meets Goth?

  A woman unfettered by expectation.

  I let her stand there for a few moments because it’s a good way to see how people deal with uncertainty. She turned and glanced out a side window and exposed yet more tattoo: Chinese characters bisecting the other side of her neck. For all I knew they described a take-out order of Kung Pao chicken.

  She turned back. Our eyes met. I smiled. She said, “Great view.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I really am sorry to be late.”

  “It’s no problem, Ree.”

  Some people are repelled by easy usage of nicknames; any attempt at premature familiarity. Cherie Sykes relaxed and moved forward as if to shake my hand a second time, caught herself and dropped her arms and said, “Thank you so much for doing this, Dr. Delaware. I really need you.”

  She sat on my battered leather couch and resumed wringing her hands. Red string bracelet on one wrist, studded metal cuff on the other.

  I said, “This has to be tough.”

  “It’s hell,” she said. “Expensive hell. Even with Myron giving me a discount.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “I got him out of the phone book. He probably thought I was nuts, just calling him.” She shifted uncomfortably. “He’s young. I’ve never seen anyone in his office, and he uses this young chick—a kid—for a receptionist.”

  “You’re worried about his experience.”

  “No, no, he’s great, he really is—he listens. Like you can tell when someone gets it, you know?”

  Her look said she hoped I’d qualify.

  I said, “It’s nice to be understood.”

  She sank an inch lower. “It sucks. The whole judging thing. Way I’ve always seen it, people who are into judging others suck the most.”

  “Like your sister.”

  Strong nod. “She’s always been like that—looking down on me, this is just more of the same.” She mouthed a silent obscenity. “She has no life so she tries to eat mine like a breakfast burrito.”

  She stared at me. “Where did that come from? Breakfast burrito? I never do that—use those whatyacallit—metaphors.”

  “You feel like Connie’s trying to devour you.”

  “Yes! That’s exactly how I feel! You’re getting the picture, Dr. Delaware … cool name, is it Indian? I’ve got some Indian in me. Chippewa, or at least that was the story my mom told. You part Indian? You from the state—Delaware? That’s one place I’ve never been to, bet it’s pretty. What’s it like?”

  “Let’s focus on you, Ree.”

  Color left her face. Her bronze-colored makeup was too thick to allow a uniform fade but pale blotches broke out on her cheek and her chin and above one eye. “Sorry for being nosy.”

  “No problem, Ree. If we stay on track we can get this done as quickly as possible.”

  “Yeah, of course,” she said. “Quickly is good. I hope.”

  I started with a developmental history. She knew the basics of Rambla’s physical and behavioral growth, volunteered little in the way of pride or insight. I’ve met mothers who seemed more in touch, others who knew less.

  Her reports of the child’s sleep and appetite patterns were normal. So were Rambla’s milestones. That matched the brief report in the file by a pediatrician at a walk-in clinic in Silverlake. A single page using the kind of general language that suggested a fill-in-the-blanks template.

  I said, “Is Dr. Keeler her regular doctor?”

  More pallid spots. “Not exactly, we see whoever’s in that day. It’s no problem, all the docs there are good. And Rambla’s been totally healthy, she has all her shots, I don’t do that crazy stuff with no immunizations. No way, I keep her healthy and safe.”

  Reaching into her bag, she produced a photo. Probably snipped from one of those four-for-a-buck deals you get at carnival booths.

  Ree Sykes holding a good-sized, chubby, dark-haired toddler. Cute kid, cute smile, a tentatively waving hand. But for down-slanted dark eyes no obvious resemblance to her mother.

  I said, “Adorable.”

  “She’s my heart.” Her voice caught.

  I returned the picture. “Describe a typical day for Rambla.”

  “Like what?”

  “What does she do after she wakes up?”

  “I change her and feed her, we play.”

  I waited.

  She said, “Then … sometimes we just stay in the house and hang out.”

  “What kind of toys does she like?”

  “She’s not much into toys, I give her like empty cereal boxes, hair ribbons, that kind of thing—spoons, she’s really into spoons, likes to bang them on stuff, it’s real cute.”

  I smiled. “So you guys tend to hang out.”

  “We go out. I take her shopping. Or we just go for a walk. She’s a great walker, really gets off on using her little legs, doesn’t want any part of her stroller unless she gets super-tired—I got the safe one. The safe stroller. No recalls on that one. I got it secondhand but it was like in perfect condition except for a couple of little dents at the bottom.” She mentioned a bra
nd. “That’s a good one, right?”

  I nodded. “So you two hang out a lot together.”

  “Like always. It’s just me and her, we’re like BFFs, she’s a really cool kid.” Her lips quivered. “She’s my heart,” she repeated, patting her chest.

  She flung her braid back behind her head, as if tossing a mooring rope. “I love her so much and she loves me. The minute I found out I was carrying her, I … took care of myself. First thing I did, I got vitamins.”

  “Prenatals.”

  She looked to the left. “To be honest—and that’s the way I’m gonna be with you, period, Doc, always honest, always—at first it was just plain vitamins, I went straight to the store and bought regulars. ’Cause I didn’t know anything about … details. But then I went to a clinic. In Malibu, I was working in Malibu back then. Doing what, you probably wanna know. Cleaning rich folks’ houses, big places on the beach. Not that I was living on the beach, I was crash-renting in a mobile park, a little past Cross Creek—you familiar with Malibu?”

  “I am.”

  “So you know what I’m talking about. It’s mobile but it’s nice and clean, I had a good setup.” Inhaling, she sat back.

  I said, “So you went to a clinic …”

  “Oh, yeah. And they said—the clinic—I should use special prenatals so I threw out the regulars and bought prenatals. I took really good care of myself. Rambla was born big—eight pounds, eleven ounces.” She laughed. The girlish giggle I’d heard on her phone message. “Getting that out of me was an experience, I tell you.”

  “Tough delivery?”

  “It’s not something I’d do for fun, Doc, but it was over and I was fine and she was beautiful. Not that I’m saying I deserve an award, you know? For taking care of myself. It’s what you’re spose to do.”

  “But not everyone does it.”

  “Exactly! It was important to me. Being pregnant, having a healthy baby. I … I made sure.”

  “Your life changed,” I said.

  “You heard about that.”

  “About what?”

  “The things I did. Before. Sure, I won’t hide it, like I said this is total honesty. So, yeah, exactly, I made changes. Because she’s my heart and she’s always been my heart and I really don’t see why I have to prove it to some judge—what’s she like? The judge.”