“Meaning you’ll do a good job on it.”
He didn’t answer. I slowed down for a couple of turns, got on a straight stretch, and glanced at him. The merest excuse for a smile wormed its way across his lips.
“What a pal,” he said.
The following morning I had an early breakfast with Allison Gwynn before her first patient. Her office is in Santa Monica, on Montana, east of Boutique Row, and we met at a pastry shop nearby. It was 7:40 A.M., and the place hadn’t yet filled with people of leisure. Allison had on a white linen suit and white sandals that set off her long black hair. She never goes out without makeup and an assortment of serious jewelry. Today it was coral and gold, pieces we’d picked up on a recent trip to Santa Fe.
She was there when I arrived, had finished half a cup of coffee. “Good morning. Don’t
I kissed her and sat down. “Morning, Gorgeous.”
We’d been seeing each other for a little over six months, were still in that stage where the pulse quickened and the body flushed.
We ordered sweet rolls and set about getting into conversational gear. At first it was small things, then sexual banter, then work. Shoptalk can kill a relationship, but so far I’d enjoyed it.
She went first. Busy week, grading papers for the courses she taught, a full patient load, volunteering at a hospice. Eventually, we got around to talking about the previous night. Allison takes an interest in what I do- more than an interest. She’s attracted to the ugliest aspects of human behavior, and sometimes I wonder if that isn’t part of what cements us. Maybe it’s life experience. She was sexually humiliated as a teenager, widowed in her twenties, carries a gun in her purse, and loves to shoot at paper human targets. I don’t think much about it. Too much analysis, and there’s no time to live.
I described the crime scene.
She said, “ Mulholland Drive. When I went to Beverly, we used to go up there to park all the time.”
“We?”
She grinned. “Me and the other alleged virgins.”
“A religious experience.”
“Not back then, you can be sure of that,” she said. “Young boys and all that- too much enthusiasm, not enough finesse.”
I laughed. “So it was a well-known make-out spot.”
“That you missed out on, you poor Midwest boy. Yup, my dear, Mulholland was
“There are two families who probably feel that way right now.”
She pushed hair behind her ear. “Tragic.”
The sweet rolls arrived, coated with almond slivers, warm. She said, “A vacant house. That creative we weren’t. They probably spotted the FOR SALE sign and the open gate, seized the opportunity. Poor parents. First the boy’s accident, now this. You said he changed. In what way?”
“His room was a sty, and his mother claimed he’d once been neat. She didn’t say much. It wasn’t the time to press.”
“No, of course not.”
I said, “His ex-girlfriend’s father described him as obsessive.”
“In what way?”
“Showing up at the girl’s house unexpectedly. When she wasn’t home, he’d bug the father, hang around asking questions. The father also implied Gavin had been overly persistent with his daughter. His first reaction when he thought his daughter was dead was that Gavin had done something to her.”
“That could be more like Protective Dad.”
“Could be.”
“Was there any postconcussive syndrome?” she said. “Loss of consciousness, blurred vision, disorientation?”
“Some transitory memory loss is all the mother mentioned.”
“The crash was ten months ago,” she said. “And the mother’s still talking about him as changed.”
“I know,” I said. “The damage might’ve been permanent. But I’m not sure any of that matters, Ally. Make-out spots attract voyeurs and worse. Either Gavin and the girl were interrupted midcoitus, or they were positioned to look that way.”
“A sicko.” She studied her sweet roll but didn’t touch it. Smiled. “To be technical.”
“It’s a little early in the day for technical,” I said.
“ Mulholland Drive,” she said. “The things we do when we think we’re immortal.”
We strolled the three blocks to her office. Allison’s hand clasped my biceps. Her open-toed white shoes had generous heels, and that brought the top of her head to my bottom lip. A bit of ocean breeze lifted her hair, and soft strands brushed against my face.
She said, “ Milo volunteered for this one?”
“He didn’t seem to need any convincing.”
“I guess it makes sense,” she said. “He’s been looking pretty bored.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’d know better, but that’s how it’s seemed to me.”
“He’ll be getting plenty of stimulation on this one.”
“So will you.”
“If I’m needed.”
She laughed. “Be good for you, too.”
“I’ve been looking bored?”
“More like restless. All that caged animal energy.”
I growled and beat my chest with my free hand and let out a low-volume Tarzan roar. Two women power- walking our way scrunched up their lips and gave us wide berth as they passed.
“You just made their day,” she said.
When had Allison seen him last… two weeks ago. Late-night dinner at Cafe Moghul, the Indian restaurant near the West L.A. station that he uses as a second office. The proprietors believe his presence ensures them peace and security and treat him like a maharajah.
That night, Allison and I, Rick, and the big guy had been treated to a gut-stretching banquet. Allison and Milo happened to sit next to each other and ended up talking for most of the evening. It’s taken him a while to warm up to her. To the notion that I’m with someone new. Robin and I were together for over a decade, and he adores her. Robin had found happiness with another man. I thought I was dealing with that pretty well as she and I struggled to build a new kind of friendship. Except for when I wasn’t.
I was waiting for Milo to stop acting like a kid caught in a custody dispute.
The morning after the Indian dinner, he called me, and said, “You have your quirks, but when you settle on one, she’s a keeper.”
