Private Eyes

The white eyebrows tented and the worry lines became inverted V’s. “Oh?”

“The police located him but he had an alibi, so they let him go. We were discussing the fact that his previous modus was to hire someone- there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t do it again. The man he hired the first time is dead, but that doesn’t rule out another scoundrel, does it?”

“No, of course not. Dreadful. Letting him go was absurd- absolutely premature. Why don’t you call the police and remind them of that fact, dear?”

“I doubt they’d pay much attention. Dr. Delaware also feels it’s unlikely anyone could have watched her without being noticed by the San Labrador police.”

He said, “Why’s that?”

“The bare streets, the fact that the local police’s area of competence is looking out for strangers.”

“Competence is a relative term, Ursula. Call them. Tactfully remind them that McCloskey’s behavioral style is contractor, not contractee. And that he may have contracted again. Sociopaths often repeat themselves- behaviorally rigid. Cut out by a cookie cutter, the lot of them.”

“Leo, I don’t-”

“Please, darling.” He took both of her hands in his. Massaged her smooth flesh with his thumbs. “We’re dealing with inferior minds, and Mrs. Ramp’s welfare is at stake.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, said, “Certainly, Leo.”

“Thank you, darling. And one more thing, if you’d be so kind- pull the Saab in a bit. I’m sticking out into the street.”

She turned her back on us and walked quickly to her office. Gabney watched her. Following her sway- almost lasciviously. When she closed the door, he turned to me for the first time since we’d shaken hands. “Dr. Delaware, of pavor nocturnus fame. Come into my office, won’t you?”

I followed him to the rear of the house, into a wide, paneled room that would have been the library. Drapes of cranberry-colored velvet under gold-edged valances covered most of one wall. The rest was bookcases carved with near-rococo abandon and murky paintings of horses and dogs. The ceiling was as low as the one in his wife’s study, but adorned with moldings and centered with a plaster floral medallion from which hung a brass chandelier set with electric candles.

A seven-foot carved desk sat in front of one of the bookcases. A silver and crystal pen-and-inkwell set, bone- bladed letter opener, antique fold-up blotter, and green-shaded banker’s lamp shared the red leather top with an In/Out box and piles of medical and psychological journals, some still in their brown paper wrappers. The case directly behind him was filled with books with his name on the spine and letter-files tagged PEER REVIEW ARTICLES and dated from 1951 through the last year.

He settled himself in a high-backed leather desk chair and invited me to sit.

Second time, in just a few minutes, on the other side of the desk. I was starting to feel like a patient.

Using the bone-knife to slit the wrapper on a copy of The Journal of Applied Behavioral Analysis, he opened to the table of contents, scanned, and put the magazine down. Picking up another journal, he flipped pages, frowning.

“My wife’s an amazing woman,” he said, reaching for a third journal. “One of the finest minds of her generation. M.D. and Ph.D. by the age of twenty-five. You’ll never find a more skillful clinician, or one more dedicated.”

Wondering if he was trying to make up for the way he’d just treated her, I said, “Impressive.”

“Extraordinary.” He put the third journal aside. Smiled. “After that, what else could I do but marry her?”

Before I’d figured out how to react to that, he said, “We like to joke that she’s a paradox.” Chuckling. Stopping abruptly, he unsnapped one shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum.

“Spearmint?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

He unwrapped a stick and got to work on it, weak chin rising and falling with oil-pump regularity. “Poor Mrs. Ramp. At this stage of her treatment she’s not equipped to be out there. My wife called me the moment she realized something was wrong- we keep a ranch up in Santa Ynez. Unfortunately, I had little to offer by way of wisdom- who could expect such a thing? What on earth could have happened?”

“Good question.”

He shook his head. “Very distressing. I did want to be down here in case something developed. Abandoned my duties and zipped down.”

His clothes looked pressed and clean. I wondered what his duties were. Remembering his soft hands, I said, “Do you ride?”

“A bit,” he said, chewing. “Though I don’t have a passion for it. I’d never have bought the beasts in the first place, but they came with the property. It was the space I wanted. The place I settled on included twenty acres. I’ve been thinking about planting Chardonnay grapes.” His mouth was still for a moment. I could see the gum wadded up inside one cheek, like a plug of tobacco. “Do you think a behaviorist is capable of producing a first-rate wine?”

“They say great wine is the result of intangibles.”

He smiled. “No such thing,” he said. “Only incomplete data.”

“Maybe so. Good luck.”

He sat back and rested his hands on his belly. The shirt billowed around them.

“The air,” he said between chews, “is what really draws me up there. Unfortunately my wife can’t enjoy it. Allergies. Horses, grasses, tree-pollens, all sorts of things that never bothered her back in Boston. So she concentrates on clinical work and leaves me free to experiment.”

It wasn’t the conversation I’d have imagined having with the great Leo Gabney. Back in the days when I used to imagine things like that. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me in.

Perhaps sensing that, he said, “Alex Delaware. I’ve followed all your work, not just the sleep studies. “Multimodal Treatment of Self Damaging Obsessions in Children.’ “The Psychosocial Aspects of Chronic Disease and Prolonged Hospitalization in Children.’ “Disease-Related Communication and Family Coping Style.’ Et cetera. A solid output, clean writing.”

“Thank you.”

“You haven’t published in several years.”

“I’m working on something currently. For the most part I’ve been doing other things.”

“Private practice?”

“Forensic work.”

“What kind of forensic work?”

“Trauma and injury-related cases. Some child custody.”

“Ugly stuff, custody,” he said. “What’s your opinion about joint custody?”

“It can work in some situations.”

He smiled. “Nice hedge. I suppose that’s adaptive when dealing with the legal system. Actually, parents should be strongly reinforced for making it work. If they fail repeatedly, the parent with the best child-rearing skills should be selected as primary custodian, regardless of gender. Don’t you agree?”

“I think the best interests of the child are what counts.”

“Everyone thinks that, Doctor. The challenge is how to operationalize good intentions. If I had my way, no decisions about custody would be made until trained observers actually lived with the family for several weeks, keeping careful records using structured, valid, and reliable behavioral scales and reporting their results to a panel of psychological specialists. What do you think of that notion?”

“Sounds good, theoretically. In practical terms-”

“No, no,” he said, chewing furiously. “I speak from practical experience. My first wife set out to murder me legally- this was years ago, when the courts wouldn’t even hear what a father had to say. She was a drinker and a smoker and irresponsible to the core. But to the idiot judge that heard the case, the crucial factor was that she had ovaries. He gave her everything- my house, my son, sixty percent of the paltry estate I’d accumulated as an untenured lecturer. A year later, she was smoking in bed, dead-drunk. The house burned down and I lost my son forever.”

Saying it matter-of-factly, the bass voice flat as a foghorn.

Resting his elbows on the desk, he placed the fingertips of both hands together, creating a diamond-shaped