Bad Love

She pitched forward as if falling and grabbed my shoulders with both hands. Pulling me closer, she held on tight, as if still off balance. Her cheek was up against mine and her breath was in my ear, hot and quick.

'It's okay,' I said. 'We'll work it out.'

She squeezed me. 'Oh, Alex, let's just move to another planet.'

The dog jumped from the couch to the floor, sat down and stared at us. Whistling noises came from his compressed nostrils, but his eyes were clear and active, almost human.

'Hey, Spike,' I said, reaching over. 'He been good?'

'The best.'

The affection in her voice made his ears go up. He trotted up to the edge of the couch and rested his flews on her knee. She caressed his head and he lifted his chin and gave her palm a long, wet tongue swipe.

'You could take him with you,' I said. 'You'd have constant masculine attention.'

'Put it out of your mind, Alex.' Her nails dug into my back. 'We probably won't have him much longer, anyway. I got a call this morning from a group called French Bulldog Rescue. Very sweet lady over in Burbank- you wrote to the national club and they forwarded it to her. She's putting out feelers, says these little guys are almost never intentionally abandoned, so it's just a matter of time before the owners call to claim him.'

'No one's reported him missing so far?'

'No, but don't get your hopes up. She's got a pretty good communication network, seems pretty sure she'll find his owner. She offered to come by and take him off our hands, but I said we'd care for him in the meantime.'

The dog was looking up at me expectantly. I rested my hand on his head and he made a low, satisfied noise.

Robin said, 'Now I know how foster parents feel.' She grabbed a handful of soft chin and kissed it. Her shorts had rolled high on her thighs and she tugged them down. 'Have you had dinner yet?'

'No.'

'I bought stuff- chilies rellenos, enchiladas. Even got a six-pack of Corona, so we could pretend we were party animals. It's a little late now to start a whole feast, but I can put something together if you're hungry.'

'Don't bother, I'll make a sandwich.'

'No, let me, Alex. I need something to do with my hands. Afterward we can get in bed with the crossword and some really bad TV and who knows what else.'

'Who knows?' I said, drawing her to me.

• • •

We turned off the lights around midnight. I fell away easily, but I woke up feeling as if I'd been drained of body fluids.

I endured breakfast, feeding the dog bits of scrambled egg and making conversation with Robin until the two of them went to the garage.

As soon as I was alone, I called Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt in Manhattan and got the same taped message. I repeated my pitch, told her it was more urgent than ever, and asked her to get in touch as soon as possible. When no callback had come in by the time I'd finished showering, shaving, and dressing, I phoned Jean Jeffers. She was out for the day- some kind of meeting downtown- and hadn't left word with her secretary about Lyle Gritz. Remembering her eagerness to look for him, I figured she'd come up empty.

Information had no listing for a Ramona or Rowena Basille, but there was a 'Basille, R.' on 618 South Hauser Street. Right near Park LaBrea.

An older woman's voice answered, 'Hello.'

'Mrs. Basille?'

'This is Rolanda, who're you?' Scratchy timbre, the midwestern tones I'd grown up with.

'My name's Alex Delaware. I'm a psychologist, consulting to the Los Angeles Police Department-'

'Yes?' Rise in pitch.

'Sorry to be bothering you-'

'What is it? What's happened?'

'Nothing, Mrs. Basille. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions.'

'About Becky?'

'About someone Becky might have known.'

'Who?'

'A friend of Dorsey Hewitt's.'

The name made her groan. 'What friend? Who? I don't understand.'

'A man named Lyle Gritz-'

'What about him? What's going on?'

'Have you ever heard of him?'

'No, never. What's this got to do with Rebecca?'

'Nothing directly, Mrs. Basille, but Gritz may have been involved in some other crimes. He may also have used the names Silk or Merino.'

'What kind of crimes? Murders?'

'Yes.'

'I don't understand. Why's a psychologist calling- that's what you said you were, right? Psychologist, psychiatrist?'

'Psychologist.'

'If there's murders involved, why aren't the police calling?'

'It's not an official investigation, yet.'

Pause. 'Okay, who are you, buster? Some sleazy tabloid writer? I've already been through that, and let me tell you what you can-'

'I'm not a reporter,' I said. 'I'm who I said I was, Mrs. Basille. If you'd like to verify it, you can call Detective Milo Sturgis at West L.A. detectives. He gave me your name-'

'Sturgis,' she said.

'He handled the investigation of Becky's case.'

'Which one was that- oh yeah, the big one… yeah, he tried to be nice. But where does he come off giving you my name? What are you doing, some kind of psychological study? Want to make me a guinea pig?'

'No, nothing like that-'

'What, then?'

There seemed no choice. 'My involvement's a lot more personal, Mrs. Basille. I'm a potential victim.'

'A vic- of who, this Gritch?'

'Gritz. Lyle Edward Gritz. Or Silk or-'

'Never heard of any of those.'

'There's evidence he's been murdering psychotherapists- several of them over a five-year period.'

'Oh, no.'

'The latest occurred yesterday, in Santa Barbara. A woman named Katarina de Bosch.'

'Yester- oh, goodness.' Her voice changed- lower, softer, still perplexed. 'And now you think he's out for you?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'He may have a thing against psychotherapists. He leaves a message at the crime scene. The words 'bad love'-'

'That's the same thing that scum yelled out!'

'That's why we think there may be a connection. Last week, I received a tape with someone chanting 'bad love.' As well as a sample of Hewitt screaming. Shortly after that, I got a crank phone call, then someone snuck onto my property and did damage.'

'What are you saying? That Rebecca was part of something?'

'I really don't know, Mrs. Basille.'