Private Eyes

34

Ramp slipped into a deep sleep. I cleared the bottle, glass, and cup from the table, put them in the bar sink, and dimmed the lights until they were no longer cruel. A phone-in to my service yielded no messages from Boston, just a few business calls that I handled for half an hour.

At four-thirty the phone rang: someone wanting to know when the Tankard would be open again. I said as soon as possible and hung up feeling like a bureaucrat. Over the next hour I disappointed lots of people wanting to make dinner reservations.

At five-thirty I felt cold and adjusted the air-conditioning thermostat. Pulling a cloth off one of the other tables, I draped it over Ramp’s shoulders. He continued to doze. The great escape. More in common with Melissa than either of them would ever know.

At five-forty, I went into the restaurant’s kitchen and fixed myself a roast beef sandwich and cole slaw. The coffee urn was cold, so I settled for a Coke. Bringing all of it back to the bar, I ate and watched Ramp continue to sleep, then phoned the house he’d once called home.

Madeleine answered. I asked if Susan LaFamiglia was still there.

“Oui. One momen’.”

A second later the attorney came on. “Hello, Dr. Delaware. What’s up?”

“How’s Melissa?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“How’s she doing right now?”

“I got her to eat, so I suppose that’s a good sign. What can you tell me about her psychological status?”

“In terms of what?”

“Mental stability. These kinds of cases can get nasty. Do you see her as someone who can deal with court without cracking up?”

“It’s not a matter of cracking up,” I said. “It’s the cumulative stress level. Her moods tend to go up and down. She alternates between fatigue and withdrawal, and bursts of anger. She’s not stabilized yet. I’d watch her for a while, wouldn’t get right into litigation until I was sure she’d settled down.”

“Up and down,” she said. “Kind of a manic-depressive thing?”

“No, there’s nothing psychotic about it. It’s actually pretty logical, considering the emotional roller coaster she’s been on.”

“How long do you think it’ll take for her to settle down?”

“It’s hard to say. You can work with her on strategy- the intellectual part of it. But avoid anything confrontational for the time being.”

“Confrontational is mostly what I’ve seen from her. That surprised me. What with her mother being dead only a few days- I expected more grief.”

“That may relate to something she learned in therapy years ago. Channeling anxiety to anger in order to feel more in control.”

“I see,” she said. “So you’re giving her a clean bill of health?”

“As I said, I wouldn’t want to see her go through any major upheaval right now, but in the long run I expect her to do okay. And she’s certainly not psychotic.”

“Okay. Good. Would you be willing to say that in court? Because the case may end up hinging on mental competence.”

“Even if the other side has engaged in illegal activities?”

“If that turns out to be the case, we’ll be in luck. And I’m looking into that angle, as I’m sure Milo told you. Jim Douse just went through a very expensive divorce and I know for a fact that he bought too many junk bonds for his personal portfolio. There’s talk of some funny business up at the State Bar, but it may turn out to be nothing more than dirt thrown around by his ex-wife’s attorneys. So I’ve got to cover all bases, assume Douse and the banker acted like saints. Even if they didn’t, with the way books can be juggled, major skullduggery can be hard to uncover. I deal with movie studios all the time- their accountants specialize in that. This case is sure to get nasty, because it’s a sizable estate. It could drag on for years. I need to know my client’s solid.”

“Solid enough,” I said. “For someone her age. But that doesn’t mean invulnerable.”

“Solid’s good enough, Doctor. Ah, she’s coming back now. Do you want to speak to her?”

“Sure.”

A beat, then: “Hi, Dr. Delaware.”

“Hi. How’re things going?”

“Fine… Actually, I thought maybe you and I could talk?”

“Sure. When?”

“Um… I’m working with Susan now and I’m getting kind of tired. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is. Ten in the morning okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Dr. Delaware. And I’m sorry if I’ve been… difficult.”

“You haven’t been, Melissa.”

“I’m just- I wasn’t thinking about… Mother. I guess I was… denying it- I don’t know- doing all that sleeping. Now, I keep thinking about her. Can’t stop. Never seeing her again- her face… knowing she never will… again.”

Tears. Long silence.

“I’m here, Melissa.”

“Things will never be the same,” she said. Then she hung up.

Six-twenty, still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I phoned my service and was told Professor “Sam Ficker” had called and left a Boston number.

I phoned it and got a young child on the line.

“Hello?”

“Professor Fiacre, please.”

“My daddy’s not home.”

“Do you know where he is?”

An adult female voice broke in: “Fiacre residence. Who’s calling?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning Professor Fiacre’s call.”

“This is the babysitter, Doctor. Seth said you might be calling. Here’s the number where you can reach him.”

She read off the number and I copied it down. Thanking her, I gave her the Tankard’s number for callback, hung up, and dialed the one she’d given me.

A male voice said, “Legal Seafoods, Kendall Square.”

“I’m trying to reach Professor Fiacre. He’s having dinner there.”

“Spell that, please.”

I did.

“Hold on.”

A minute passed. Three more. Ramp appeared to be rousing. Sitting up with great effort, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve, blinked, looked around, and stared at me.

No apparent recognition. Closing his eyes, he drew the tablecloth around his shoulders and settled back down.

Seth came on the phone. “Alex?”

“Hi, Seth. Sorry to bother you at dinner.”

“Perfect timing- we’re between courses. I couldn’t get much on the Gabneys, other than that their leaving wasn’t totally voluntary. So they may have been up to something unsavory but I sure couldn’t find out what it was.”

“Were they asked to leave Harvard?”

“Not officially. Nothing procedural as far as I can tell- the people I spoke to really didn’t want to get into details. What I gathered was that it was a mutual thing. They gave up tenure and split, and whoever knew something didn’t belabor it. As to what that something is, I don’t know.”

“Anything on the types of patients they were treating?”

“Phobics. That’s about it. Sorry.”

“I appreciate your trying.”

“I did run a search through Psych Abstracts and Medline to try to find out what kind of work they were doing. As it turns out, not much. She never published anything. Until four years ago, Leo was still cranking the stuff out. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. No more experiments, no clinical studies, just a couple of essays- very soft stuff. The kind of rÉsumÉ-filler he’d never have gotten published if he wasn’t Leo Gabney.”

“Essays on what?”

“Philosophical issues- free will, the importance of taking personal responsibility. Spirited attacks on determinism- how any behavior can be changed, given the proper identification of congruent stimuli and reinforcers. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“Doesn’t sound too controversial.”

“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s old age.”

“What is?”

“Getting philosophical and abandoning real science. I’ve seen other guys go through it when they hit menopause. Gotta tell my students if I ever start doing it, take me out and shoot me.”

We traded pleasantries for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. When the line was clear, I called the GALA Banner. A recording informed me that the paper’s office was closed. No beep for messages. I dialed Boston Information and tried to get a home number for the editor, Bridget McWilliams. A B. L. McWilliams was listed on Cedar in Roxbury, but the voice that answered there was male, sleepy, tinged with a Caribbean accent, and certain he had no relation named Bridget.

By six-forty, I’d been alone in the restaurant for over two hours and had grown to hate the place. I found some writing paper behind the bar, along with a portable radio. KKGO was no longer playing jazz, so I made do with soft rock. I kept thinking about missed connections.

Seven o’clock. Scratch marks on paper. Still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I decided to stick around until Milo reached Sacramento, then call him and beg off the assignment. Go home, attend to my fish eggs, maybe even call Robin… I phoned my exchange again, left a message for Milo in case I was out when he called.

The operator recorded it dutifully, then said, “There’s one for you, if you want it, Doctor.”

“From whom?”

“Someone named Sally Etheridge.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“Just her name and number. It’s long distance- another six-one-seven area code. What is that, Boston?”

“Yes,” I said. “Give me the number. Please.”

“Important, huh?”

“Maybe.”

A human being answered, “Uh-huh.” Female. Music in the background. I switched off my radio. The music on the other end took shape: rhythm and blues, lots of horns. James Brown, maybe.

“Ms. Etheridge?”

“Speaking.”

“Dr. Alex Delaware calling from Los Angeles.”

Silence. “I was wondering if you’d call back.” Hoarse and husky, Southie accent.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m not the one asking.”

“Did Bridget McWilliams give you my number?”

“Bingo,” she said.

“Are you a reporter on the Banner?”

“Oh, yeah, right. I interview circuit breakers. I’m an electrician, mister.”

“But you do know Kathy- Kate Moriarty?”

“These questions are coming awfully fast,” she said. Talking slowly- deliberate slowness. Small laugh at the end of the sentence. I thought I detected an alcohol slur. But maybe being with Ramp all this time had biased my perceptions.

“Kate’s been gone for over a month,” I said. “Her family-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that tune. Got it from Bridge. Tell the family not to get bent out of shape. Kate disappears a lot- that’s her thing.”

“This time it may not be routine.”

“Think so?”

“I do.”

“Well,” she said, “you’re entitled.”

“If you’re not worried, why’d you bother to call?”

Pause. “Good question… I don’t even know you. So why don’t we cut our losses and make bye-bye-”

“Hold on,” I said. “Please.”

“A polite one, huh?” Laugh. “Okay, you got a minute.”

“I’m a psychologist. The message I left for Bridget explained how I could be-”

“Yeah, yeah, I got all that, too. So you’re a shrink. So excuse me if that’s not real comforting.”

“You’ve had bad experiences with shrinks?”

Silence. “I like myself just fine.”

I said, “Eileen Wagner. That’s why you called.”

Long silence. For a moment I thought she’d left the line.

Then: “You knew Eileen?”

“I met her when she was a pediatrician out here. She referred a patient to me, but when I tried to get in touch with her to talk about it, she never got back to me. Guess she’d left town by then. Went overseas.”

“Guess so.”

“Were she and Kate friends?”

Laughter. “No.”

“But Kate was interested in Eileen’s death- I found a clipping she’d put in her scrapbook. Boston Globe, no byline. Was Kate free-lancing for the Globe at that time?”

“I don’t know,” she said harshly. “Why the hell should I care what the hell she was doing and who the hell she was working for?”

Definite booze slur.

More silence.

I said, “I’m sorry if this is upsetting you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

That caught me off guard, and before I found my answer, she said, “You don’t know me from Eve- why the hell should you care how I feel?”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s not compassion for you specifically. It’s force of habit. I like making people happy- maybe it’s partly an ego trip. I went to school to be a yea-sayer.”

“Yea-sayer. Yeah, I like that. Yea, yea, yea- you and the Beatles. John, Paul, Whatsisname, and Ringo. And Shrink. Psyching the crowd… I wanna hold your gland.”

Brittle laughter. In the background, James Brown was begging for something. Love or mercy.

I said, “Eileen was also a yea-sayer. I’m not surprised she went into psychiatry.”

Four more beats of Brown.

“Ms. Etheridge?”

Nothing.

“Sally?”

“Yeah, I’m here. God knows why.”

“Tell me about Eileen.”

Eight bars. I held my tongue.

Finally she said, “I’ve got nothing to tell. It was a waste. A fucking waste.”

“Why’d she do it, Sally?”

“Why do you think? ’Cause she didn’t wanna be what she was… after all the…”

“All the what?”

“The fucking time! The hours and hours of bullshit-rapping. With shrinks, counselors, whatever. I thought we’d put that fucking shit behind us. I fucking thought she was happy. I fucking thought she was fucking convinced she was okay the way God in Her infinite mercy made her. God damn her!”

“Maybe someone told her the opposite. Maybe someone tried to change her.”

Ten bars of Brown. The song title popped into my head: “Baby, Please Don’t Go.”

She said, “Maybe. I don’t fucking know.”

“Kate Moriarty thought so, Sally. She found out something about Eileen’s therapists, didn’t she? That’s what brought her all the way out to California.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t know. All she ever did was ask questions. She never talked much about what she was doing, thought I was obligated to talk to her because she was gay.”

“How’d she get in contact with you?”

“GALA. I did all the wiring on their goddam offices. Opened my mouth and told her about… Eileen. She lit up like a Christmas tree. All of a sudden we were sisters in arms. But she never talked, only asked. She had all these rules- what she could talk about, what she couldn’t… I thought we were- But she- Oh, fuck this! Fuck this whole thing. It’s been too fucking long and I’m not putting myself through it again, so fucking forget it and fuck you!”

Dead air. No music.

I waited a moment, called back. Busy signal. Tried five minutes later, same result.

I sat there putting it together. Seeing things in another light. Another context that caused everything to make sense.

Time to ring another number.

Different area code.

This one was listed. Surname and first initial only. I copied, dialed, waited five rings until someone picked up and said, “Hello.”

I hung up without returning the greeting. No air blowing through the vents, but the room felt even colder. After draping a second cloth around Ramp’s shoulders, I left.