Killer

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.”

“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 brand. “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.”

“She seems reasonable.”

“Oh, man, I sure hope so — it’s so weird, someone I don’t know judging me.” Laughter. “Guess that’s why they call her a judge. You’d never catch me doing that. For a job.”

Her eyes moistened. I handed her a tissue. “It’s really hard, Dr. Delaware. I never did anything to start this. It’s all her.”

“Your sister.”

“Bitch,” she growled. “And I’m not going to say pardon my French because that’s how I righteously feel, she’s a bitch, always has been, jealous of everyone and everything. Can’t get a man of her own because she’s too damn busy making money and bossing everyone around so now she wants what’s mine!”

“You two never got along.”

“Never — no, that’s not true, sometimes when we were kids we were okay with each other. I mean it’s not like we were kissy-kiss or tight. But we let each other be. Never hit each other. Never really fought.”

“Constance is seven years older.”

“How’d you — oh, yeah, the files. That’s right, seven, almost eight so it’s not like we were hanging out. There’s our brother in between, even though he was a boy I hung out more with him. Not like Connie, she never hung around with anyone.”

“A loner.”

“Exactly! You hit it on the nose, Dr. Delaware, she’s a loner, doesn’t get people, doesn’t even like people, she’s totally more into numbers. Math, science, that kind of thing, she always had her head in the books when Daddy would let her.”

“Daddy didn’t like books?”

“Daddy didn’t like anything when he drank. One beer, he’s smiling, two, he’s still smiling. Three, he gets quiet. By the time six, seven, eight rolls around he’s all red in the face and his shoulders bunch up and you’d better not be in his pathway or you’re gonna get rolled over on. Like one of those things they use to flatten the tar when they build roads.”

“Steamroller.”

“Steamroller, exactly. Not hitting or anything but still looking scary and yelling and breaking stuff. Daddy gets to rolling, you stay out of his way. So, yeah, if Connie was concentrating on a library book and he happened to roll into our room and she was at the desk and he fixed it upon himself to not like that, that book would turn into confetti. And what makes it crazier is he liked to read.”

“Sounds frightening.”

“It was,” she agreed. “It was real frightening but you learn to avoid it, you know?”

“Where was your mother when all this was happening?”

“Quiet drunk. She’d go under quicker than Daddy and just fall asleep.”

“You and Connie had a challenging childhood.”

“Me and Connie and Connor — he was in between us, Connor learned to be a real good runner because Daddy would yell at him the most. He ran in high school and college. Long distance, he won awards, could go for miles.”

“Where does Connor live?”

“Up north,” she said. “He’s got a nice family.”

“When your parents weren’t drunk, what were they like?”

“Working,” she said. “Mommy secretaried at a trucking company and Daddy drove one of their semis.”

“So he was gone a lot.”

“Thank God.”

“Did he treat you and Connie differently?”

“Hmm … I’d have to say yes. Her, there’d be books turned into confetti. Me — truthfully I wasn’t one for books, reading wasn’t my favorite thing, friends were — having a social life. So there was no confetti.”

“Did he take out his anger differently with you?”

“Not really. Truthfully, he didn’t do much to me because I’d have to say he liked me the best. Because he’d tell me that. When he was sober. ‘Ree, you’re the pretty one, you make sure you stay pretty so you can get married. Connie, she’s just gonna bury her nose in a book and make like she’s smarter than everyone, no man will want that.’ ”

“So Connie had it the roughest.”

“If she’d been friendlier, it could’ve been better for her.”

“Friendlier to your father?”

“To him, to everyone — Dr. Delaware, I have to tell you: That girl was weaned on a sour pickle — that’s what Mommy always said. Never smiled, always off to herself, pretending to ignore you when you said something. It’s like she thought she was better than everyone else.”

“Nose in a book.”

“In the library more than she was at home. That meant I had to do extra chores. If Daddy and Mommy were sober, they’d probably gone after her to make her do her chores.”

“They were drunk so Connie got to do what she wanted.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you, Ree?”

“Did I what?”

“Get to do what you wanted?”

“After I left home I sure did.”

“When was that?”

Black eyes shifted to the floor. “A long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I was young, I admit it.”

I waited.

She said, “Fifteen.”

“You ran away.”

“Nope, I just walked out the door and no one tried to stop me.” Sudden smile, Death Valley — dry. “They never even reported me missing.”

“How’d that make you feel?”

“Did it insult me?” she said. “Maybe if I cared it would’ve. I knew if they found me it would just be more of the same.”

“Avoiding your father when he was drunk.”

“That, too,” she said. “But I’m talking about how boring it was. Nothing ever happened. I got to wondering if that was what life was gonna be like if I stayed there.”

“Out on your own, you had adventures.”

She studied me. “I had experiences. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Why would I?”

“Alternative lifestyle, Doctor. That’s what her bitch lawyer called it. Like I’m some kind of freak. I just lived my life the way I wanted and didn’t hurt no one. So don’t judge me for any of that, okay? Please. And how about we talk about right now and not get into the past? ’Cause the past doesn’t exist anymore, right?”

“I do need to ask about a few things that happened in the past.”

“Like what?”

“Have you and your sister ever had any financial connections?”

“What kind of connections?”

“Has she made substantial loans to you?”

“Because she’s rich and I’m not?”

“Because obligations can create issues.”

“Well, they’re not issues for me. I’m happy with my life, if I wanted to be rich I’d go be rich. I figured it was better to bring joy and love into my life. She thought different and look where she is now.”

“Alone.”

“Alone and all dried up and mean as a wolverine. Not that it bothers her, Doc. She really doesn’t like people. That’s why she became a microscope doctor. So she can sit in her lab and not talk to patients. It was always like that with her. Study study study, no friends, no parties, no fun. You daren’t go into her room when the big genius had her nose in the books.”

“So no financial entanglements between you.”

She fidgeted. “I loaned from her a few times. Small stuff. But I always paid it back. Now look how she’s paying me back!”

“What do you think motivated her to bring the suit?”

“Hatred,” she said. “Pure and evil hatred. I was always the pretty one, I had friends. There was always that hatred.”

“Why do you think she chose now to take you to court?”

“Ask her.”

“The suit was filed two months after you retrieved Rambla from her care. It takes time to hire a lawyer and start building a case, so it sounds like she started the process soon after.”

“So?”

“Maybe she started to think of herself as Rambla’s mom.”

“Fuck her and fuck what she thought.”

I said nothing.

Cherie Sykes yanked her braid hard. “Sorry. It just makes me so … she’s hurting me, she’s really chewing me up inside. It’s like she’s trying to kill me.” Another pat of her breast. “Whatever — yeah, she probably was plotting all along but not because she cared about Rambla, Doc. All she thinks about is herself, she wanted to carve out my heart and watch me bleed but I went and took my heart back and she couldn’t stand it and she figured she could tell me what to do and I’d just do whatever because when we were kids it was sometimes like that.”

“Connie called the shots.”

“She sure as hell tried. And when I was little, I bought into it. Then I got smart.” She pushed her head forward. “To tell the truth, one of the reasons I left was to get away from her.”

“From being dominated.”

“Yeah, and now she figures she can use her money to … terrorize me. Her and that rich-bitch Beverly Hills lawyer.” She snapped her fingers. “Little Ree didn’t play the sucker, little Ree went and got her own legal representation so forget that—do you have something to drink? All this talking’s taken the spit out of my mouth.”

I fetched her water.

“Thanks, Doc. Anything else you need from me?”

“Let’s talk about the three months Connie took care of Rambla.”

Her jaw jutted. “She keeps saying three months. It was eighty-eight days.”

“Fair enough, Ree. Tell me how it came to be.”

“I was afraid you’d get to that. Why’s it important?”

“Connie’s citing it as evidence you wanted her to have guardianship.”

She put the cup down hard enough to resonate. “That’s fucking bullshit!”

“How’d the arrangement come about?”

“There was no arrangement,” she said. “No arrangement at all. I was playing with Rambla and out of the clear blue Connie came over. She was nice — a different Connie. She brought me stuff for Rambla. Baby clothes, diapers — like I didn’t have the brains to buy diapers. The ones she brought were the wrong brand and wrong size, but no matter, I said thank you because that’s the kind of person I am, I always see the best in everyone. And truthfully, Doctor, I was happy with my life, no reason to be unfriendly.”

“Connie was being nice.”

“Like for once she cared about someone else, not just herself. She even said I was doing a good job — which is something that bitch lawyer of hers denies. So when she asked to hold the baby, I said sure. Even though she didn’t know how to do it right and Rambla started fussing and I had to teach her to unstiffen her arms so Rambla would be mellow.”

Black eyes turned to chunks of obsidian. “Big mistake. Teaching her anything. She was already scheming.”

“To take the baby.”

“What else? She never came over, now she was coming over?”

“How often did she visit?”

“I dunno, like … once a week? Whatever. It’s not like she was babysitting or really helping. That whole time I never went out even one night, I was taking my obligation seriously. And yeah, Connie tried giving me money.”

I said, “Tried? You didn’t accept.”

“I accepted, why wouldn’t I accept? Not loans, gifts. She volunteered, I never asked. No way, not after I already loaned from her and paid it back, I didn’t want any … what you called it, entanglements. But if she was insisting to give me something and she’s got more than she needs and it can help Rambla, why not?”

“So for a while, you and Connie developed a better relationship.”

“It was phony, Doctor. Totally phony. I’m a truster, that’s part of my problem, I have faith in people more than I should. So when the chance came to travel with L.M. — that’s a band, some friends I know, Connie was like, ‘Sure, go, have fun.’ ”

“L.M.”

“Stands for Lonesome Moan. They do Lynyrd Skynyrd covers, Sir Douglas, Stevie Ray, original material. I known ’em for a long time, sometimes I do some singing for ’em, help out with percussion, that kind of thing. Local clubs, no farther than Reno. But this time they got offered a tour farther. Two weeks, Arizona and New Mexico, doing lounge shows at Indian casinos. They asked me to come along, do some roadying, do some singing. I was like, Don’t think so guys, I’m a mom, now. But Connie was like, ‘Go, Ree, it’s an opportunity, take a break, no problem, I’ll take care of her.’ I taught her to be okay with Rambla and by then Rambla didn’t mind being with her but even so I’m ‘Nah, I don’t think so.’ ”

She crossed her legs, lifted the cup of water, drank it empty. “Connie kept working me, Doc. She’s like, ‘Don’t worry.’ And then she … I’ll be totally honest, okay? She gave me some money. For the road. I figured she was being nice, knew how hard I was working with Rambla, wanted me to catch a break. Now I see what she was up to. Bribing me. Moving me out of the way so she could take over.”

“For two weeks.”

More of that splotchy pallor. “It stretched a bit. The shows were good, L.M. kept getting more bookings, the bus kept going. But I called in regularly. Connie almost always didn’t answer. The few times she did she always said Rambla was sleeping. So I figured she was fine. So yeah, I did another week. Then another …”

Two weeks stretching to eighty-eight days. I tried to keep my face neutral but maybe I failed because she sighed and threw up her hands and tears flowed down her cheeks. “I screwed up bad, didn’t I, Doc? Just kept going on that bus and let myself be a little happy.”

I said, “What brought you home?”

She dabbed with the tissue. “I should make myself look good by telling you it was Rambla brought me back, just her, nothing else. Myron told me I should say that, he threw words at me that I should memorize.”

“What kind of words.”

“Separation anxiety, maternal urges. And, sure, that was part of it, I missed her like crazy. That’s why I kept calling in but with Connie telling me don’t worry, keep having fun, it’ll be a missed opportunity, you may never get another, she’s fine, she loves you as much as ever, she’s perfectly fine, I figured …”

“There was another reason you returned.”

Three slow nods.

I waited.

She said, “I’m telling you the God’s truth so you’ll see I’m an honest person. So you’ll trust everything else I say.”

“Okay.”

“The reason, Dr. Delaware, is no more gigs for L.M.”

“The tour ended.”

“And we all came home.”