A bell-ring, the tiny door creaked open, and a pair of dark eyes peered out. A TV cartoon soundtrack blared from within. The eyes narrowed.
“Dr. Delaware to see Mrs. Robbins, please.”
I waited, straightening my clothes and finger-combing my hair. Hoping my dress shirt and tie would make the stubble look like intentional hip.
West-side hip. Wrong neighborhood.
The little door opened again. Blue eyes. Pupils contracting.
“Yes?” Young voice, slightly nasal.
“Mrs. Robbins?”
“What can I do for you?”
“My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m trying to locate your sister Kathy.”
“Are you a friend of Kathy’s?”
“No, not actually. But we have a mutual acquaintance.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“Clinical psychologist. I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, and I’ll be happy to show you identification and some professional credentials.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that.”
I pulled the appropriate snips of paper out of my wallet and held them up, one by one.
She said, “Who do you and Kathy both know?”
“It’s something I really need to discuss with her personally, Mrs. Robbins. If you’re not comfortable giving me her number, I’ll give you mine and she can call me.”
The blue eyes moved back and forth. The little door slammed shut again and the big one opened. A woman in her late thirties came out onto the front porch. Five six, trim, strawberry-blond hair cut in a bob. The blue eyes deep-set in a long, freckled face. Full lips, pointed chin, slightly protruding ears that the short hair flaunted. She wore a short-sleeved, boatneck top with horizontal red-and-white stripes, white canvas pants, and tennies without socks. Tiny diamonds in her ears. She could have been one of Las Labradoras.
“Jan Robbins,” she said, looking me over. Her nails were long but unpolished. “It’s best that we talk out here.”
“Sure,” I said, conscious of every wrinkle in my suit.
She waited until I’d backed away a bit before closing the front door behind her. “So why are you looking for Kathy?”
I considered how much to say. Had Kathy Moriarty’s sessions at the clinic been something she’d withheld from her sister? She’d talked openly to Joyce at the restaurant, but strangers were often seen as the safest repositories of confidences.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “It would really be best if I talked to your sister directly, Mrs. Robbins.”
“I’m sure it would, Doctor. I’d like to speak with her directly myself, but I haven’t heard from her in over a month.”
Before I could reply, she said, “Not that it’s the first time, given the way she lives- her career.”
“What career is that?”
“Journalism. Writing. She used to work for the
I said nothing.
She smiled- with some satisfaction, I thought. “It wasn’t exactly a best-seller.”
“Is she from New England originally?”
“No, originally she’s from here- California. We both grew up in Fresno. But she went back east after college, said she considered the West Coast a cultural wasteland.”
She gave a quick look at the van and the toy bikes and frowned.
“Did she come back out on a writing project?” I said.
“I assume so. She never told me- never talked about her work at all. Confidential sources, of course.”
“You don’t have any idea what she was doing?”
“No, not in the least. We’re not- We’re very different. She didn’t spend much time here.”
She stopped, folded her arms across her chest. “Now that I think about it, how did you find out I was her sister?”
“She used you as a reference in order to cash an out-of-state check at a restaurant. The owner gave me your address.”
“Great,” she said. “Figures. Thank God the check didn’t bounce.”
“She have a problem with money?”
“Not with spending it. Look, I’ve really got to get inside. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
She started to turn away.
I said, “So her being gone for a month doesn’t concern you?”
She pivoted sharply. “For her pesticide book, she traveled all over the country for more than a year. We never heard from her unless she ran short of cash. Instead of repaying what she’d borrowed, we got a signed copy of the book. My husband’s a corporate attorney, handles chemical accounts. You can imagine how much he appreciated that. A few years before that, she went to El Salvador- some sort of investigative thing, very cloak-and-dagger. Six months she was gone, not a call, not even a postcard. My mother was scared out of her mind and we never even saw a story come out of that one. So no, it doesn’t concern me. She’s out chasing another intrigue.”
“What kind of intrigue generally interests her?”
“Anything with a hint of conspiracy- she fancies herself an investigative reporter, still thinks the Kennedy assassination makes for fascinating dinner table conversation.”
Pause. Cartoon sounds, from inside the house. She gave a hard swipe at her hair. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be talking to you… In the unlikely event I hear from her soon, I’ll tell her you want to talk to her. Where’s your office?”
“West side,” I said. “Do you have a recent address for her?”
She thought for a moment. “Sure, why not? If she can give out mine, I can give out hers.”
I pulled out a pen and, using my knee for a table, wrote on the back of a business card as she reeled off an address on Hilldale Avenue.
“That’s West Hollywood,” she said. “Closer to your part of town.”
Standing there, as if expecting me to answer some challenge.
I said, “Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
“Sure,” she said, looking at the van again. “I know I sound hardhearted, but it’s just that I’ve tried for a long time to… help her. But she goes her own way no matter who-” She touched her mouth, as if forcefully hushing it. “We’re very different, that’s all.
28
I got back to Sussex Knoll by four-fifteen. Noel’s Celica was parked in front, along with a brown Mercedes two- seater with a DODGER BLUE sticker on the rear bumper and a cellular antenna on the rear deck.
Madeleine opened the door for me.
“How is she?”
She said, “Upstairs, monsieur doctor. She eats a little soup.”
“Has Mr. Sturgis called?”
“
