'Do you see him as a danger to himself and others? Because if he is, I'll get a seventy-two-hour hold.'
'Possibly, but don't ask me to go there. Get someone else for that.'
He massaged the tabletop. 'I understand, conflict of interest.'
Yet another.
'Speaking of which,' he said, 'let's discuss Detective Sturgis. I know we've talked about this and please don't be offended, but I believe in an ounce of prevention. What you saw tonight-nothing gets repeated.'
'Of course.'
'Good,' he said. 'Taken care of. And again I apologize. Now as far as Stacy's concerned, you do agree she needs to be out of here? At least for tonight.'
'Do you have a place for her to go?'
'My house. I live in Hancock Park, have plenty of room, and my wife won't be put out. She's used to entertaining.'
'Entertaining clients?'
'Clients, guests, she's a very social person. Tomorrow night's our Sabbath, Stacy can have a multicultural experience. Shall I call Mrs. Safer?'
'If you can get Stacy to agree.'
'I think I can,' he said. 'Stacy impresses me as a very reasonable young woman. Quite possibly the one sane person in this… museum of psychopathology.'
He went upstairs and I sat in the kitchen nursing my jaw. Thinking about Eric's rage.
Forgiveness is all. And Richard hadn't forgiven, so now he was paying for it.
He and Eric, two kegs of explosives… not my concern. Not unless it affected Stacy, I had to focus on Stacy.
Safer was right, she needed to be out of here. A night or two at his house might work out, but after that…
Safer returned. 'I convinced her, she's packing a bag. Let me go tell Richard.'
I accompanied him into the living room. The mess was partially cleaned-dust and fragments swept into piles, brooms leaning against the shattered cases.
Richard and Eric sat on the floor, their backs to a sofa. Richard's arm around Eric's shoulder, Eric's head against Richard's chest, his eyes closed, his face tear-streaked.
Pieta in the Palisades.
Richard looked different. Not flushed, not pale. Expressionless. Crushed. Dragged to the edge and dropped off.
He didn't seem to notice as Safer and I approached, but when we got within two feet of the case, he turned slowly and held Eric tighter. Eric's body flopped. The boy's eyes remained shut.
'He's tired,' said Richard. 'I need to put him to bed. I used to do that when he was little. Tell him stories and put him to bed.'
Safer gave a start. Remembering his own son?
'Do that,' he said. 'Take care of him. I'm bringing Stacy to my house.'
Richard's eyebrows arched. 'Your house? Why?'
'To keep things simple, Richard. I promise to take good care of her. I'll get her to school on time tomorrow and she'll spend the weekend with us. Or with friends, if she so prefers.'
Not the Manitows, I thought.
Richard said, 'She wants to go?'
'My idea,' said Safer. 'She agreed.'
Richard licked his lips, turned to me.
I nodded.
'Okay,' he said. 'I guess. Tell her to come in before she leaves. Let me give her a kiss.'
CHAPTER 29
I CLIMBED THE stairs, nursing my jaw. Stacy sat on her bed. Her voice came out small and wounded. 'I'm tired, please don't make me talk.'
I stayed with her for a while. When I returned to the kitchen, Joe Safer was talking on the phone, elbow resting on the counter near a black-and-chrome coffee machine from Germany. I found a jar of espresso in one of the refrigerators, packed enough for six cups, and sat listening to the drip and thinking about what guilt and expiation really meant to Eric. Safer left the room and kept talking. I drank by myself. A while later, the doorbell rang and Safer came back in the kitchen accompanied by a tall, husky young man with wavy blond hair and a briefcase.
'This is Byron. He'll be staying here tonight.'
Byron winked and inspected the appliances. He wore a blue oxford shirt, khakis and penny loafers, had hyphens for eyes and facial muscles that looked paralyzed. When we shook hands, his felt like a bone carving. Safer went upstairs. Byron and I didn't talk.
No sound from the living room. The entire house was too damn quiet. Then I heard footsteps from above and a few seconds later Stacy entered, followed by the lawyer.
Safer was carrying a small floral overnight bag. Stacy looked tiny, shriveled, much too old.
I followed the two of them outside and watched him help her into his Cadillac. Byron remained in the doorway, hands on hips.
'What is he, exactly?' I said.
'Someone who helps me. Richard and Eric seem calm, but just in case.'
'Were you an oldest child, Joe?'
'Oldest of seven. Why?'
'You like to take care of things.'
His smile was weary. 'Don't think I'm paying for that bit of analysis.'
He drove away and I watched the Cadillac's taillights disappear. Down the block, the unmarked hadn't moved. The night had turned dank, redolent of fermenting seaweed. My jaw ached and my clothes had sweated through. I trudged to the Seville. Instead of turning around and heading south, I drove farther north till I found it.
Six houses up. Big Tudor thing behind brick walls and iron gates, vines encircling the brick, the tip-off: Judy's white Lexus visible through the rails. Another vanity plate: HCDJ.
Here Come Da Judge. The first time I'd seen it was when I'd accompanied her from her courtroom to her parking space. One of the many times we'd worked together.
All those referrals. This would be the last, wouldn't it?
I stopped in front of her house, looking for… what?
Light glowed behind a couple of curtained mullioned windows. Movement flashed on the second story- central window. Just a smudge of a silhouette, shifting, then freezing, then moving again. Human, but that's about all I could say.
Hooking a three-pointer, my headlights aimed through the Manitow gate, I paused, half hoping someone would notice and show themselves. No one did and I headed back toward Sunset, passing the unmarked. Movement there, too, but the drab sedan remained in place.
I drove east, trying not to think about anything. On the way home I stopped at a twenty-four-hour drugstore in Brentwood and bought the strongest Advil I could find.
Friday morning, I woke up before Robin, just as the sun whitened the curtains. My jaw felt tender, but the swelling wasn't too bad. I drew the covers over my face, pretended to sleep, waited till Robin had risen, showered and left. Not wanting to explain. Eventually, I'd have to.
Using the bedroom phone, I called Safer's office.
'Good morning, Doctor. How's your battle wound?'
'Healing. How's Stacy?'
'She slept soundly,' he said. 'I had to wake her to get her to school on time. Lovely girl. She even tried to make breakfast for my wife and me. I hope she survives her family. Psychologically speaking.'
I thought about Stacy's little speech about self-determination, wondered if it would stick.
