“Seems?”
“He loves her.”
“Listen to me,” she said. “I’ve never met the girl and I’m meddling.”
The reflexive response never made it out of my mouth:
Robin and I used to talk about having children. Years ago, after our first breakup, she got pregnant by a man she barely liked and terminated at six weeks. Since then, the topic hadn’t come up.
During that time I’d healed hundreds of other people’s children, considered the possibility that I might never be a father. Sometimes I was able to appreciate the irony. When that didn’t work I busied myself with the pathologies of strangers.
Blanche panted for more rice and Robin obliged. When the next gulp was followed by begging, she said, “We don’t want to stress your tummy, cutie,” and began clearing the dishes. Standing at the sink, she said, “Her staying with him is probably for the best. We’d do our best to be cool hosts but being under our roof would’ve stifled her.”
I got up and placed my hands on her shoulders.
She said, “Let’s take a drive.”
When we have nowhere to go, we usually end up somewhere on Pacific Coast Highway. This time, Robin said, “How about bright lights, big quasi-city?”
I drove Sunset east through Hollywood and the Los Feliz district, crossed into Silver Lake where she’d heard about a new jazz club.
The Gas Station turned out to be a former Union 76 outlet that still sported blue paint and smelled of motor oil. Inside were antique gravity pumps, mismatched plastic chairs and tables, photo blowups of musical geniuses.
Five other customers in a room that held forty. We sat close to the stage, under the piercing glare of Miles Davis.
A quartet of guys in their sixties was pushing lightweight bebop. Robin had worked on the guitarist’s Gibson archtop and he acknowledged her with a smile and a spirited solo on Monk’s “Well You Needn’t.” When the set was over, he and the drummer sat down with us and made thin, alcoholic conversation. Somewhere along the line, Robin worked in the topic of Blaise De Paine. Neither of the musicians had heard of him. When Robin told them about his mixes, they cursed viciously, apologized, and went out for air.
We stuck around through the next set, made it home by eleven forty-five, put on pajamas, fell asleep holding hands.
Just after three a.m., I was sitting up in bed, wrenched awake by a pounding heart and throbbing temples. Gnawing pain below my rib cage felt like mice clawing my diaphragm. I deep-breathed some of that away.
Then the tape loop began:
I pictured her leaving the library alone, late at night.
Robin stirred.
I sank back down.
Seconds of respite.
The next morning I pretended to be rested.
When Robin got out of the shower, she said, “Did you have a rough night?”
“I was playing the sinus-tuba?”
“No, but you moved around a lot.”
“Maybe that’s the cure,” I said.
“Being restless?”
“Symptom substitution.”
“I’d rather you be peaceful.”
“I’m fine, babe.”
We dressed in silence. “Breakfast, Alex?”
“No, thanks, not hungry.”
“What’s on your mind, sweetie?”
“Nothing, really.”
She took my hand. “You’ve done what you can for her. With all those detectives looking, those creeps will be found.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Let’s at least have coffee before I go.”
After she left for work, I drove to the U., parked in a pay lot on the south end, and walked to the science quad. Hordes of students and faculty crossed the square. No sign of Robert Fisk or Blaise De Paine. Or Tanya.
I drifted north to the inverted fountain, walked through the physics building. Exited at the back and continued along a tree-shaded pathway. Foot traffic was heavy for the summer. Seconds later I spotted a small, muscular, shaved-head guy among the students. Wearing all black; perfect fit to Fisk’s stats.
Sauntering along the outer edge of the crowded pathway.
I got closer, trailed him until the front steps of the anthropology building, where two young women in tight jeans ran up to greet him.
As he turned toward them, I caught a glimpse of his face. Mid-forties, clean-shaven.
One of the women said, “Hi, Professor Loewenthal. Could we talk to you about the exam?”
I bought coffee at a kiosk, strolled to the library, was just about to enter when my phone beeped.
Milo said, “Ballistics just came back on the bullets that killed Moses Grant. Perfect match to the slugs dug out of Leland Armbruster. Little Petey was
“She’s moving in with Kyle.”
“Girl in a big house,” he said. “So now it’s Gothic. Think it’s a good idea?”
“It’s what they’ve decided.”
“Kyle playing Lord Protector. A few more years of living and he might conceivably be minimally qualified.”
“He’s green but motivated. The larger problem is he can’t be with her every second. What do you think about faxing the photos of De Paine and Fisk over to the unicops?”
“Sure, but don’t expect too much. First thing outta those guys’ mouths is always how understaffed they are. Let’s talk later about beefing up security for her. Meanwhile, we just might be getting a little closer to whatever happened ten years ago. Mary Whitbread left her house at nine thirty and Biro followed her. She’s still out, trying on designer duds at Neiman Marcus. Petra got to the neighborhood by ten fifteen, found someone on Blackburn who remembered the bad old days. Lives right behind Mary. He wouldn’t talk at his house or the station but Petra convinced him to meet over in Encino where his office is. One p.m.” He read off the address.
“Nervous fellow,” I said.
