“What do you mean “possible sighting,’ and why did it take so long to find out if it was spotted that long ago?”
“The source is an off-duty motorcycle guy. He was hanging out at home, listening to his scanner, happened to hear the bulletin and called in. Seems at three-thirty he’d pulled some speeder off onto the left shoulder of the westbound 210, was in the process of writing out a ticket when he happened to notice the Rolls, or one just like it, zip by on the eastbound. It happened too fast for him to get the plates, other than to notice they were English. That answer both your questions?”
“Who was driving?”
“He didn’t see that either. Not that he would’ve if it was her, because of the smoked windows.”
“Did he notice smoked windows?”
“Nope. It was the car he was looking at. The body-style. Seems he’s some sort of collector, has a Bentley from around the same period.”
“Cop with a Bentley?”
“That was my reaction, too. The guy I was just talking to- sergeant at the San Gabriel chippy station- is a buddy of the first guy. The call came in to him, personally- he’s also a motorhead, collects Corvettes. Lots of cops are into wheels- they work extra jobs to pay for their toys. Anyway, he informs me that some of the old Bentleys aren’t that expensive. Twenty grand or so, cheaper if you buy a wreck and fix it up yourself. Rolls from the same year cost more ’cause they’re rarer- only a few hundred of those Silver Dawns were made. That’s why the first guy noticed it.”
“Meaning it’s probably hers.”
“Probably. But not definitely. The guy who saw it thought it was black over gray, but he couldn’t be sure- it might have been all black or dark gray over light gray. We’re talking a sixty-mile-an-hour zip-by.”
“How many old Rolls would there be driving around, that time, that place?”
“More than you might imagine. Apparently, a hell of a lot of them ended up in L.A. back when the dollar was worth something. And there are plenty of collectors concentrated in the Pasadena-San Labrador area. But yeah, I’d say we’ve got a ninety-percent-plus chance it was her.”
“East on the 210,” I said, picturing the wide-open highway. “Where would she be heading?”
“Anywhere, but she’d have had to make a decision fairly soon- the freeway ends around fifteen miles from there, just short of La Verne. North is Angeles Crest and I don’t see her as the type to rough it. South, she could have caught any number of other freeways- the 57 going straight south. Or 10, in either direction, which would take her anywhere from the beach to Vegas. Or she could have continued on surface streets up into the foothills, checked out the sights at Rancho Cucamonga- what the hell is out there, anyway?”
“I don’t know. But my guess is she’d probably stay near civilization.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Her type of civilization. I’m thinking Newport Beach, Laguna, La Jolla, Pauma, Santa Fe Springs. Still doesn’t narrow it much. Or maybe she turned around and headed for her own place in Malibu.”
“Ramp called there twice and she didn’t answer.”
“What if she wasn’t in the mood to pick up the phone?”
“Why would she go in one direction, then reverse herself?”
“Let’s say the whole thing started out impulsively. She’s just driving, for the hell of it. Gets on the freeway, gets swept along- going east by chance. Maybe it’s just a matter of it being the first on-ramp she sees. When the freeway ends she decides upon a specific destination. Closest thing to home: home number two. Or let’s say she was heading east intentionally. That means Route 10 and a whole bunch of other possibilities: San Berdoo, Palm Springs, Vegas. And beyond. The great beyond, Alex- she could drive all the way to Maine, if the car held up. If it didn’t, with her dough she could’ve ditched it, gotten another one fast. All you need to chew up the open road is time and money, and neither of those is her problem.”
“An agoraphobic doing the scenic route?”
“You said yourself she was in the process of getting cured. Maybe the freeway helped it along- all that blacktop, no stoplights. It can make you feel powerful. Make you wanna forget about the rules. That’s why people move out here in the first place, isn’t it?”
I thought about that. Thought of my first time on the open road, heading west for college at sixteen. The first time I’d driven over the Rockies, seeing the desert at night, thrilled and terrified. My first view of the dirt-brown haze looming over the L.A. basin, heavy and threatening but incapable of dimming the gilded promise of the city at twilight.
“Guess so,” I said.
He came around from behind the desk.
I said, “What now?”
“Deliver the news, then get the bulletin expanded- it’s better than even money she’s out of the county by now.”
“Or the car is.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Meaning what?”
“It is possible that something happened to her, isn’t it? That someone else is behind the wheel.”
“Anything’s possible, Alex. But if you were a bad guy, would
“Who was it told me long ago it’s only the stupid ones you catch?”
“You wanna think foul play, fine. At this point I’d have to see something ugly to consider it anything more than an adult runaway. And not one that’s likely to turn me into a hero.”
“What do you mean?”
“Runaways are the hardest m.p.’s to locate under any circumstances. Rich ones are the worst of the worst. Because the rich get to make their own rules. Buying for cash, avoiding jobs, credit unions- all the stuff that leaves a paper trail. What just happened with Ramp and the kid is a perfect example. Your average husband would be a hell of a lot more in touch with his wife’s credit cards and social security number. Your average couple shares. These people live separately- at least where money’s concerned. The rich know the power of the buck- they rope their funds off and protect them like buried treasure.”
“Separate bank accounts and separate bedrooms,” I said.
“Real intimate, huh? He doesn’t seem to
“Maybe she liked his mustache.”
He gave a short, sad smile and walked to the door. Looking back at the windowless room, he said, “Designed for concentration. I couldn’t spend too much time here without going stir-crazy.”
I thought of another windowless room, said, “Speaking of interior design, when I was over at the Gabney Clinic, I was struck by the similarity between Ursula Gabney’s office decor and the way Gina furnished that sitting room upstairs. Exact same color scheme, same style of furniture. And the only art in Ursula’s office was a Cassatt lithograph. Mother and child.”
“So what’s it mean, Doctor?”
“I don’t know exactly, but if the print was a gift, it was a hell of a generous one. The last time I checked an auction catalogue, Cassatt prints in good shape were pricey.”
“How pricey?”
“Twenty to sixty grand for black-and-white. A color one would go for more.”
“The doctor’s print is a color one, too?”
I nodded. “Very similar to Gina’s.”
“Sixty grand plus,” he said. “What’s the current wisdom on therapists accepting gifts?”
“It’s not illegal but it’s generally considered unethical.”
“You think there’s some kind of Svengali thing going on?”
“Maybe nothing that ominous,” I said. “Just overinvolvement- possessiveness. Ursula seems resentful of Melissa- the way one sibling might resent another. Almost as if she wants Gina all to herself. Melissa sensed it. On the other hand, maybe it’s just professional pride. The treatment’s been intensive. She’s brought Gina a long way- changed her life.”
“Changed her furniture, too.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I’m overinterpreting. Or seeing it backwards. Patients influence therapists, too. It’s called
