Private Eyes

flashlight beam blinded me and I raised an arm reflexively.

“Both hands up in the air where I can see them, sir.”

More compliance. The light traveled up and down my body.

Squinting, I said, “I’m Dr. Alex Delaware- Melissa Dickinson’s doctor. I’m expected.”

The cop stepped closer, caught some of the light from the halogen fixture over the left gatepost, and turned into a young white man with a heavy, prognathous jaw, baby skin, and pug features. His hat was pulled low over his forehead. On a sitcom he’d be called Moose.

“Who’s expecting you, sir?” The beam lowered, illuminating my trousers.

“The family.”

“What family?”

“Dickinson- Ramp. Melissa Dickinson called me about her mother and asked me to come over. Has Mrs. Ramp shown up yet?”

“What’d you say your name was, sir?”

“Delaware. Alex Delaware.” With a tilt of my head I indicated the talk box. “Why don’t you call over to the house and verify that?”

He digested that as if it were profound.

I said, “Can I put my hands down?”

“Move to the rear of your car, sir. Put your hands on the trunk.” Keeping his eyes on me, he advanced to the box. Push of a button and Don Ramp’s voice said, “Yes?”

“This is Officer Skopek, San Labrador police, sir. I’m down by your front gate, got a gentleman here who claims to be a friend of the family.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mr. Delaware.”

“Oh. Yes. It’s okay, officer.”

Another voice came out of the box, loud and dictatorial: “Anything yet, Skopek?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep looking.”

“Yes, sir.” Skopek touched his hat and turned off his flashlight.

The pine gates began sliding inward. I opened the door of the Seville.

Skopek followed me and waited until I’d turned the ignition on. When I put the Seville in gear, he stuck his face in the driver’s window and said, “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir.” Not sounding sorry at all.

“Just following orders, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Spotlights and low-voltage accent beams set among the trees created a nightscape Walt Disney would have cherished. A full-size Buick sedan was parked in front of the mansion. Rear searchlight and lots of antennas.

Ramp answered the door wearing a blue blazer, gray flannels, blue-striped button-down shirt with a perfect collar roll, and wine-colored pocket square. Despite the fashion statement, he looked drawn. And angry.

“Doctor.” No handshake. He walked ahead of me, fast, leaving me to close the door.

I stepped into the entry. Another man stood in front of the green staircase, examining a cuticle. As I got closer, he looked up. Looked me over.

Early sixties, just under six feet and hefty, with a big, hard paunch, thin, gray, Brylcreemed hair, meaty features filling a broad face the color of raw sweetbreads. Steel-rimmed glasses over a fleshy nose, bladder jowls compressing a small, fussy mouth. He had on a gray suit, cream shirt, gray-and-black striped tie. Masonic stickpin. American flag lapel pin. VFW lapel pin. Beeper on his belt. Size thirteen wingtips on his feet.

He kept scrutinizing.

Ramp said, “Doctor, this is our police chief, Clifton Chickering. Chief, Dr. Delaware, Melissa’s psychiatrist.”

Chickering’s first look told me I’d been the topic of discussion. The second one let me know what he thought of psychiatrists. I figured telling him I was a psychologist wouldn’t alter that much, but I did it anyway.

He said, “Doctor.” He and Ramp looked at each other. He nodded at Ramp. Ramp glared at me.

“Why the devil,” he said, “didn’t you tell us that bastard was back in town?”

“McCloskey?”

“Do you know of some other bastard who’d want to harm my wife?”

“Melissa told me about him in confidence. I had to respect her wishes.”

“Oh, Christ!” Ramp turned his back on me and began pacing the entry hall.

Chickering said, “Any particular reason for the girl to keep it confidential?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I did. She says she didn’t want to alarm her mother.”

“Then you’ve got your answer.”

Chickering said, “Uh-huh,” and shot me the kind of look vice-principals reserve for teenage psychopaths.

“She could have told me,” said Ramp, stopping his pacing. “If I’d known, I’d have looked out for her, for God’s sake.”

I said, “Is there evidence McCloskey was involved in the disappearance?”

“Christ,” said Ramp. “He’s here, she’s gone. What more do you need?”

“He’s been in town for six months.”

“This is the first time she’s been out on her own. He hung around and waited.”

I turned to Chickering. “From what I’ve seen, Chief, you keep a pretty tight lid on things. What’s the chance McCloskey could have been hanging around the neighborhood for six months- stalking her without being noticed?”

Chickering said, “Zero.” To Ramp: “Good point, Don. If he’s behind it, we’ll know it soon enough.”

Ramp said, “Why all the confidence, Cliff? You haven’t found him yet!”

Chickering frowned. “We’ve got his address, all the particulars. He’s being staked out. When he surfaces, he’ll be snapped up faster than a free turkey dinner on Skid Row.”

“What makes you think he’ll surface? What if he’s off somewhere, with-”

“Don,” said Chickering. “I understa-”

“Well, I don’t!” said Ramp. “How the hell is staking out his address going to do a damn thing when he’s probably long gone!”

Chickering said, “It’s the criminal mind. They tend to return to roost.”

Ramp gave a disgusted look and resumed pacing.

Chickering went a shade paler. Parboiled sweetbreads. “We’re interfacing with LAPD, Pasadena, Glendale, and the Sheriffs, Don. Got everyone’s computers on the job. The Rolls’ plates are on all their alert lists. There’s no car registered to him, but all the hot sheets are being scrutinized.”

“How many cars on the hot sheets? Ten thousand?”

“Everyone’s looking, Don. Taking it seriously. He can’t get far.”

Ramp ignored him, kept pacing.

Chickering turned to me. “This wasn’t a good secret to keep, Doctor.”

Ramp muttered, “That’s for damn sure.”

I said, “I understand how you feel, but I had no choice- Melissa’s a legal adult.”

Ramp said, “What you did was legal, huh? We’ll see about that.”

A voice from the top of the stairs said, “Just get off his case, Don!”

Melissa stood on the landing, dressed in a man’s shirt and jeans, her hair tied back carelessly. The shirt made her look undernourished. She came down the curving flight fast, swinging her arms like a jogger.

Ramp said, “Melissa-”

She stood before him, chin up, hands fisted. “Just leave him alone, Don. He didn’t do anything. I was the one who asked him to keep it secret, he had to listen, so just lay off.”

Ramp drew himself up. “We’ve heard all tha-”