The Wedding Guest

Chapter 32

Paul Kramer, M.D., office on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, residence on South Camden Drive in the same city.

Sixty-nine years old, board-certified in orthopedic surgery, M.D. from Tufts, internship and residency at Mass General in Boston.

I texted the information to Milo along with what it meant.

My phone pinged an incoming text. Not his reply, Robin letting me know she was hung up in another clot on the western edge of the U., figure at least another fifteen minutes.

So near, yet... Blanche is serene. Good influence on me, I’m deep-breathing.

I answered: Poor you. Bel-Air tonight? It’s still Sunset but later should be okay.

Let me think. OK, thought: Yum!! Give me forty-five to clean up.

No need but sure.

Shameless flatterer. AKA good relationship.

My phone pinged an incoming call.

Milo said, “Kramer. How’d you find all this out?”

“Bothered Basia. Maxine couldn’t tell me much — no evidence of any group meetings — so I tried another avenue.”

“God bless you,” he said. “This is getting interesting in a bad way.”

I said, “Maybe a visit to Dr. Kramer can clarify.”

“Let’s try for tomorrow. Meanwhile I’m watching Amanda and she’s not obliging by doing anything iffy. One short bike ride to get a burger in the Village, then back inside the building. I’m going to wrap it up in another hour and take the chance nothing happens before Alicia’s on shift tomorrow morning. What time would you be up for Kramer’s dad?”

“Whenever he’s available.”

“I’ll call his home at seven a.m., surgeons are early risers.” The sound of chewing intruded on his speech. “Street taco, in case you’re curious. Okay, thanks again for being curious and obsessive. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight, maybe abject terror will keep me up.”

“What are you scared of?”

“That damn building,” he said. “Something’s obviously going on there. What if we’re totally wrong about Garrett and it’s some twisted troll we don’t know about? Lives quietly in one of those units, gets off on sadistic pharmacology? How the hell am I going to pry that out.”

I said, “Ergo following Amanda, persisting with Mr. Pena, and trying Dr. Kramer.”

“Went to parochial school. Latin doesn’t calm me down, just the opposite.”

Robin was home ten minutes later. Forty-five minutes of “cleanup” distilled to half that time, the result an hourglass body in a clinging navy dress set off by quiet but strategic jewelry. Auburn curls fluffed and nearly wild, shining, brown almond eyes huge and clear.

Some perfume I’d never smelled before.

I kissed her long and hard. She pressed against me.

“Ooh. Someone’s got a healthy appetite.”

“For food, as well.”

“Hah.” Taking me by the hand, she led me out of the house and down to the Seville. “Looking forward to a bit of luxe, been a while. And we always get priority parking ’cause the attendants love the car.”

“Blast from the past.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. They really love it. It says you’re someone who prizes loyalty and takes care of what he adores.”

The Bel-Air was redone a few years ago, a smart rehab that managed to hold on to what mattered at the loveliest hotel in L.A. while freshening up. As the attendant who took the Seville whistled and said, “Nice, sir,” Robin winked. Maybe he phoned the restaurant because we scored a quiet outdoor booth that looked out to the swan pond.

Great food, great booze, great service.

More important: We turned off our phones and kept them silent.

As we left, Robin hummed sweetly, her arm locked in mine, her heels clacking on the stone pathway.

Dessert was enjoyed at home.

Flopping against the pillow, the color still rising from her sternum to her chin, she said, “There’s got to be a better word than appetite.”