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“Is there a reason for you to know, Ree?”

  “No, guess not,” she said. “Actually, yes. There’s a reason. So I can know what’s going on so I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night with my heart going boomp boomp and I’m thinking terrible things and I can’t go back to sleep.”

  “The uncertainty’s tough.”

  “That’s the worst. Almost worse than …” She shook her head. Another sudden smile. Soft—seductive. “You could fix all that, Doctor. A word from you and there’s a happy ending.”

  I stood.

  “I understand,” she said. “You can’t tell me. But I’m hoping. What’s she like? The judge.”

  Same question I’d answered before. “She seems like a nice person.”

  “Sure as hell hope so—’cause you’re right, Doc, you’re a hundred percent right, it’s the uncertainty that’s the hell. Not worse than losing, though. And I’m not gonna lose. Myron told me in the eyes of the law I’ve got the winning side.”

  She studied me for confirmation.

  I said, “So next Thursday. Looking forward to meeting Rambla.”

  She sprang up. “Yeah, sure, I gotta go home. Rambla needs me.”

  “Who’s taking care of her?”

  “My friend Winky. Not that he’s got to do anything, I put Rambla down for a nap. But she’ll be getting up soon, don’t want my baby waking up and not seeing her mama. She needs to see me all the time, otherwise she gets to crying.”

  She ran from the office, was out of the house before I reached the front door.

  The following day, I called Connie Sykes’s office to set up an appointment.

  The receptionist said, “Dr. Connie’s been waiting for you. I’ll read you her openings.”

  I said, “How about we start with my openings.”

  “Oh … well, she’s a really busy person.”

  “No doubt.” I gave her two options. She said, “Well, I’m not sure about those.”

  “That’s what I’ve got.”

  “Well, that could be a problem.”

  “Call me back and let me know which works better.”

  “Hold on—one second please. Doctor.”

  Forty seconds of dead air was followed by the same voice, softer, tighter. “Dr. Connie says the sooner the better, she’ll take that one tomorrow.”

  “See her then.”

  “Have a nice day, sir.” The ice in her voice shoved that way past insincerity.

  Next morning, my bell rang ten minutes early.

  I opened the door on two women. A medium-sized, fortyish, square-faced blonde with her hair done up in waves that recalled decades past had to be Dr. Connie. Similar facial structure to her sister but none of the hard-living veneer. She wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, wine-colored pants and jacket and matching suede loafers, dangled a calfskin briefcase from one unadorned hand.

  The right loafer tapped the landing as the woman standing slightly in front of her moved closer to me.

  She was younger, late twenties to early thirties. Sixty-three inches of silky-haired brunette with a tiny waist, an assertive bust, and muscular legs, all of that showcased by a sleeveless, figure-hugging white knit mini-dress and aqua snakeskin stiletto sandals. A strand of massive South Sea pearls circled a smooth neck. The dark hair was long and meticulously cut. Bare arms showcased a mini-collection of bangles. Her watch was a diamond-studded ladies’ Patek. The teeth in her smile outshone her bling.

  Two cars were parked near Robin’s truck: cream-colored Lexus sedan, black Mercedes convertible.

  I said, “Dr. Sykes?”

  The young brunette said, “As the primary component of Dr. Sykes’s legal entity, I’m part of this appointment.” Thrusting her card at me. Medea L. Wright, J.D.

  “The appointment’s for her alone, Ms. Wright.”

  Wright’s lovely blue eyes wavered then hardened—annealed by challenge. “Well, I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be, Doctor. This is a legal proceeding and I’m the legal professional.”

  I looked past her, to her client. Connie Sykes had turned to study the pines, sycamores, and coast redwoods that ring my driveway.

  “Sorry, Counselor.”

  Medea Wright said, “This is unacceptable.”

  I said, “Dr. Sykes, you can come in, if you’d like. If not, our time today is over and I’ll talk to the judge about alternatives.”

  Connie Sykes frowned but kept her eyes on the trees.

  Medea Wright stepped even nearer, put herself squarely in my personal space. A little music and we could tango. The aroma of scented powder wafted from her, mixed with grassy perfume. Then a bitter overlay. Adrenaline sweat.

  She shook her head. “Obviously, I need to orient you, Dr. Delaware.”

  “About what?”

  “The legal system. Beginning with objectivity and parity.”

  “Parity with whom?”

  The question cheered her. I’d allowed her to lead.

  “You’ve spoken to Mr. Ballister, hence you’re obligated to do the same for me.”

  “I’ve never exchanged a word with Mr. Ballister.”

  “He says different.”

  “Then he’s lying.”

  “Re-ally.” She chuckled.

  I looked at my watch.

  Maybe the movement was what caused Connie Sykes to turn. She faced me. Her eyes were flat, brown, bored. “Medea? Do you think you should be alienating him so early in the game?”

  “Dr. Delaware is being presented to us as an objective professional. Should the facts turn out not to—”

  “Whatever, Medea. I’m ready to get up and at it, put an end to this travesty.”

  “Connie—”

  “Whatever legal nonsense you’re worried about, I’ll bear full responsibility. I’m busier than both of you, let’s get going.”

  Wright flinched. “Doctor, do I understand that you’re asserting you’ve had no contact whatsoever with Myron Ballister? Are you claiming that to be true telephonically as well as in person?”

  My turn to smile. “I already answered that question.”

  Connie Sykes stepped forward, swinging her briefcase. Continuing past Wright, she sidled by me, entered the house.

  No scent at all from her.

  But Wright’s vapors were now favoring adrenaline. Her body had turned rigid. As if to reverse that, she cocked a hip, laid two manicured fingers atop my wrist. Lots of body heat. “I regret, Doctor, if anything I’ve said can be construed as combative. If Ballister really hasn’t attempted to poison the well, then there’s no reason to …”

  She waited.

  Connie Sykes stood in the middle of my living room, her back to me.

  I said, “You’re welcome to wait in here, Counselor, but Dr. Sykes and I will be going to my office.”

  “No, I’ll go, I’ve got more things to do than you can imagine. You’re on your own, Connie. Have a nice day, Dr. Delaware.”

  Second time in twenty-four hours someone who didn’t mean it had wished me well. It was starting to sound like a hex.

  CHAPTER

  6

  I led Connie Sykes toward my office. She took long strides, surging past me and continuing beyond the destination.

  As I stopped to open the door, she kept going like a dieseling engine, finally realized she’d overstepped and put the brakes on. Not a hint of embarrassment as she retraced.

  I held the door for her. She entered as if she knew the place, chose the precise spot on the leather couch occupied by her sister, and pressed her knees together.

  No facial movement, no giveaway tics, the brown eyes remained as still as taxidermy. But as I delayed by shuffling papers, she began wringing her hands just as Ree had. Reached for her hair like Ree. No braid to play with; an arched thumb stroked the bottom of a particularly dramatic wave.

  “That,” she said, “was unfortunate. The little contretemps with Medea. I’d like to believe you won’t hold her assertiveness against me.”

  “No prob
lem.”

  “No problem for you, but for me, it could be a big problem if she mucks things up. I’ve already paid her a fortune and she refuses to guarantee anything close to results. Some racket, this law business, no? We caregivers operate on a higher level.”

  If that was a play for common ground it wasn’t backed up by anything close to warmth. She had an odd mechanical way of phrasing her words. Clipped, precise, uniform spacing between words that evoked digital processing.

  When I didn’t comment, she tried something that might have ended up as a smile if her lips had gone along with the plan. “Think I should fire her?”

  “Not my place to say one way or the other.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “You’re just Solomon with a Ph.D., trying to figure out how to divide the baby with a minimum of bloodshed.”

  I said, “Tell me why you brought the lawsuit, Dr. Sykes.”

  “Why?” As if the question was absurd. “Because I had to. In good faith.”

  “Faith in what?”

  “Faith in optimal child rearing. Dedication to the child. You’ve met my sister.”

  I said nothing.

  “Soul of discretion, and all that, eh?” Connie Sykes unclasped her briefcase but left it on the floor. “You ask the questions, I give the answers. Fine. But there’s no reason to be cryptic. I know that you’ve met my sister because Medea told me you have. Then again, she was certain you’d talked to that courtroom hack, Ballister. But no matter, even if you haven’t met my sister, you’ve surely read some of the material we’ve sent you. So you understand what I’m dealing with.”

  “Which is …”

  “Ah, there it is,” she said, “the classic psychiatric riposte, parrying questions with questions. I learned all about that when I rotated through psychiatry in med school. What was it called—patient-directed dialogue?” She crossed her legs. “Not my cup of tea, psychiatry. Too ambiguous. More shamanism than science. I’ve heard that psychologists operate at a more data-based level.”

  I said, “What aspect of your sister are you dealing with?”

  “Total irrationality. Part and parcel of her psycho-emotional makeup, I’ll leave the specific diagnoses up to you. What may not be evident to you, yet, is that she’s also what used to be called of low moral character. Back when morality counted and every bad act didn’t elicit a disease label. Shall I be specific? She has little or no impulse control. Coupled with a relatively low IQ, the result has not been salutary. In sum, she’s incapable of supporting herself financially and psychologically, let alone of raising a child.”

  She removed her glasses, twiddled them by one sidepiece. “Then, there’s the coup de grâce: years of chronic drug addiction and concomitant criminal history.”

  “What drug is she addicted to?”

  “I don’t know what currently amuses her. But I can tell you that over the years she’s admitted to sampling opiates, cocaine, amphetamines, hallucinogens, you name it. Plus far too much alcohol. Of course she denies all that, now.” She twirled a curl. “If I were you, I’d call for a hair follicle analysis. Clear up that nonsense, once and for all.”

  I said, “Does she have any criminal convictions beyond three misdemeanors?”

  “Ah,” she said. “So you know about those. Aren’t three misdemeanors sufficient evidence of lack of fitness, nowadays? Or have standards tumbled that low? As an expert, I’m sure you’re aware that for every conviction there are half a dozen offenses never accounted for. Per the FBI.”

  “You’ve been doing your research.”

  “Am I not obligated to do just that? In the best interests of the child?”

  Before I could answer, she said, “Now I’d like to educate you in greater detail regarding my sister’s psychiatric profile.”

  My sister. The child.

  In her world, names were a nuisance.

  At the onset of every evaluation, I work at keeping an open mind, but impressions form and more often than not they’re confirmed by the facts. After a few moments with Connie Sykes, observing the flatness in her eyes, hearing the machine-like diction, I couldn’t help conjuring a pathologist perched on a lab stool, observing a specimen on a slide.

  I said, “Go on.”

  “First off, she’s an unhealthily dependent individual. And she directs those immature impulses at a particularly unsuitable peer group.”

  “Bad friends,” I said.

  “She consorts with low-life degenerates whose poor character matches her own. Specifically, we need to be careful about two individuals. Either one of whom could very well be the child’s father.”

  Withdrawing a manila file from the briefcase, she placed it on her lap.

  “We begin with a disreputable man named William J. Melandrano. Aka ‘Winky.’ Origin of that nickname is still unknown to me but given this person’s obvious attention deficit disorder, I have my theories. Sample two is one Bernard V. Chamberlain. Aka ‘Boris.’ ”

  She let out a dry laugh.

  I said, “You believe one of them is Rambla’s father.”

  “Neither will come forward and attest to such, nor will my sister shed light on the matter, but she’s been intimate with both of them over the years. During the same time period, which should tell you something.”

  “You know this because—”

  “I’ve seen them with her. The way they touched her. My sister loves attention.” She shuddered.

  “Ree won’t confirm paternity.”

  “Yet another indication of poor character,” she said. “Isn’t knowledge of paternity any child’s birthright? A vital component of a child’s proper development?”

  “Both these men are bad influences but Rambla needs to know which one’s her father.”

  “If for no other reason than to be wary.”

  “How did you meet Melandrano and Chamberlain?”

  “My sister introduced me to them. Prevailed upon me to hear them.” She huffed. “They’re alleged musicians. An alleged band called—are you ready for this? ‘Lonesome Moan.’ The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create.”

  “Not virtuosos.”

  “Good grief,” she said, covering her ears. “The entire situation—my sister’s milieu—is repellent. For her whole life she’s made decisions that have left her bereft of the normal material and emotional nutrients enjoyed by decent individuals. Now she’s made the supreme error of delivering a child out of wedlock. I cannot, in good conscience, visit her sins upon her offspring.”

  “You believe she puts Rambla in danger.”

  Giving her a chance to use the toddler’s name.

  “I don’t believe it, I know it. Because unlike you and the judge and the attorneys—all of whom are intelligent enough and, I hope, well intentioned—I’m the only one able to draw upon a comprehensive data bank that offers the complete picture.”

  Her foot nudged the briefcase.

  I said, “All those years with your sister.”

  “Must you do that?” she said. “Paraphrase everything I say? This isn’t psychotherapy, it’s fact finding.”

  I said, “What’s in the briefcase?”

  “The chronicle of a lifetime spent with my sister. May I summarize?”

  “Please do.”

  “I was close to eight when she was born. Soon it became apparent that she wasn’t up to Connor and myself intellectually.”

  “Not as smart as her sibs.”

  “No doubt you think my remark was unkind. But the facts back it up. I was a straight-A student, graduated as high school salutatorian, and the only reason they didn’t make me valedictorian was I hadn’t accumulated enough ‘social points.’ Whatever that means. I attended Occidental College on a full scholarship, graduated with a four point oh, Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, departmental honors in chemistry, advanced to medical school at UC San Francisco, where I also served my internship and my residency in pathology.”

  “You were alway
s academically gifted.”

  “Quite. After residency I enjoyed a stint at Harbor General Hospital, then I obtained an executive position with a private lab. Ten years ago, I began my own lab and experienced immediate and consistent success. Currently, I specialize in the analysis of esoteric tropical diseases as well as immune disorders, including but not limited to HIV. My referrals emanate from private physicians and institutions as well as several governmental agencies secure in the knowledge of my total discretion. Since completing my residency, I’ve earned six figures consistently, have invested wisely, and I enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, including ownership of my own thirty-five-hundred-square-foot house in Westwood. I am able to provide anything a child could possibly desire. A fact my sister was well aware of when she abdicated the care of her child to me for three months while she went gallivanting across the country with Melandrano and Chamberlain and engaged in who-knows-what. It was only after she returned and apparently experienced some feeble variant of maternal pangs that she changed her mind and began making a fuss.”

  She put her glasses back on, sat back.

  Long speech and an obvious invitation for me to ask more about the details of the “fuss.”

  I said, “Tell me about your brother.”

  “Connor was also an excellent student. Not at my level, but solid A’s and B’s. He attended Cal State Northridge, obtained a degree in accounting. With honors … I’m not certain if it was magna or just cum, but definitely honors, I distinctly remember the asterisk next to his name in his graduation program—a ceremony that my sister did not attend, because, apparently, she had better things to do. More like worse things … in any event, Connor was always a solid boy.”

  “He’s an accountant?”

  “Much better, Doctor. He’s an executive at a firm up in Palo Alto. Very successful. So you see.”

  “You and Connor,” I said. “Then there’s Ree.”

  “She was never close to our level and I’m certain the discrepancy affected her. No doubt that’s why she ran away. When she was fifteen. Did she mention that?”

  “What led her to run away?”

  “You’d have to ask her.” Sly smile. “If you already haven’t. No, won’t fall into that trap, Doctor. Giving you unsubstantiated information—innuendo, rumor. I want you to be certain that when I say something it’s based on fact. Why did she run away? Obviously, she was unhappy.”