"How noble," she said. "Man, you're confused. Like all guys are— Okay, I got what I came for. Now I'm going to pay you."
"There's nothing to pay for."
She wagged a finger. "Oh no, you don't. You've got the title and respectability, and in your eyes I'm just some stripper-slut. But once I pay you, the balance of power equalizes."
"I am not judging you, Lauren."
"You say." She whipped a wad of cash out of her jeans pocket. "What's the tab, Doc?"
"Let's talk about—"
"How much?" she demanded. "What's your hourly fee?"
I told her. She whistled. "Not too shabby." She peeled off bills, handed them to me. "Okay, here you go, and you don't even have to declare it to the IRS. I'll find my own way out."
I followed her anyway. When we reached the door, she said, "My roll— that stash I paid you from? Did you see the size of it? That's my tip money, honey. I do great with tips."
4
NOW, FOUR YEARS later, I had to talk to her mother.
Mrs. Jane Abbot.
So she'd remarried. Was life treating her more kindly? Had the spot on her lung recurred? I was curious but could've lived without finding out.
Life would be so much easier if I was one of those flakes who felt no obligation to return calls.
My pompous little speech to Lauren about surrogate parenthood rang in my ears. I put off the call anyway. Revved up the coffee machine, tidied up an already clean kitchen, checked the stores in the pantry. When I returned to the kitchen I discovered I'd forgotten to put coffee in the filter and started from scratch. Listening to the machine bubble offered another few minutes of respite, and when I finally sat down to drink I dropped a little brandy in the mug, took my time sipping, scanned a newspaper I'd already covered from front to back.
Finally, the inevitable. Staring at the big pine that nearly blocks the kitchen window, I punched numbers.
Two rings. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Abbot?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"Dr. Delaware."
Two beats of silence. "I didn't know if you'd phone— Do you remember me?"
"Lauren's mom."
"Lauren's mom," she said. "My claim to fame." Her voice broke. "It's Lauren I'm calling about, Dr. Delaware. She's missing. For a week. I know you work with the police. I've seen your name in the papers. Lauren saw it too. That impressed her. She always liked you, you know. It was my husband—my ex-husband—who stopped her from seeing you. He was a very mean man—is a mean man. Lauren hasn't had contact with him in years. But that's neither here nor there — The problem I've got now is I can't find her. She's been living on her own for a while, but this—it just feels wrong. By the third day I called the police, but they say she's an adult and unless there's evidence of a crime there's nothing they can do other than have me come in and file a report. I could tell they weren't taking me seriously. But I know Lauren just wouldn't take off like that. Not without telling me."
"Does she ever travel?"
"Occasionally, but not for this long."
"So you're in regular communication with her," I said, wondering if Lauren was still stripping, and did her mother know.
Pause. "Yes. Of course. I call her, she calls me. We manage to stay in touch, Dr. Delaware." Adding, "I live in the Valley now," as if that explained the lack of face-to-face contact.
"Where does Lauren live?" I said.
"In the city. Near the Miracle Mile. She wouldn't just walk out without telling me, Doctor. She didn't tell her roommate anything either. And it doesn't look as if she packed a suitcase. Don't you think that's frightening?"
"There could be an explanation."
"Please, Dr. Delaware, I know how things work. It's who you know. You've worked with the police— With your contacts, they'll listen to you. You must know someone who can help."
"What's Lauren's address?"
She recited some numbers on Hauser. "Near Sixth Street. Not far from the museum complex—the La Brea Tar Pits. I used to take her to the tar pits when she was little— Please, Dr. Delaware, call your contacts and ask them to take me seriously."
My contact was Milo. His turf was West L.A. Division, and Hauser near Sixth was Wilshire. Petra Connor, my only other LAPD acquain-tance, worked Hollywood Homicide. A pair of homicide detectives. Jane Abbot didn't want to hear that.
I said, "I'll make a call."
"Thank you so much, Doctor."
"How's Lauren been doing?"
"You'd be superproud of her—I am. She— We had a few rough years after her father walked out on us. She dropped out of high school without graduating—it was kind of... But then she pulled herself together, got her GED, attended J.C., got her associate's degree with honors, and transferred to the U this past fall. She just finished her first quarter, got all A's. She's majoring in psychology, wants to be a therapist. I know that's your influence. She admires you, Doctor. She always said what a caring person you were."
"Thank you," I said, feeling surreal. "It's midquarter break at the U, for another few weeks. Sometimes students travel."
"No," she said. "Lauren wouldn't have gone anywhere without telling me. And not without luggage."
"I'll do what I can."
"You're a good man, I always sensed that. You were a great influence on her, Doctor. You only saw her that couple of times, but it had an impact. She once told me she wished you were her father instead of Lyle."
I tried Milo at home first, got no answer, just the tape with Rick Silver-man's voice on it. I tried the West L.A. detectives' room.
"Sturgis."
"Morning, this is your wake-up call."
"Got sunrise for that, boyo."
"Putting in weekend overtime?"
"What's a weekend?"
"Thought the murder rate was down," I said.
"Exactly," he said. "So now we're all ball-and-chained to subarctic cold cases. What's up?"
"I need a favor." I told him about Lauren, letting him know she'd been a patient, knowing he'd understand what I could and couldn't say.
"She's how old?" he said.
"Twenty-five. Missing Persons told her mother the only option was filing a report."
"Did she file?"
"I didn't ask her," I said.
"So she wants some strings pulled. . . . Problem is, Missing Persons is right. An adult case, without some evidence of disability or blood and guts or a stalking boyfriend—it comes down to routine for the first few weeks."
"What if it were the mayor's daughter?"
Long sigh. "What if I went down in a light plane off the coast of Cape Cod? I'd be lucky to get two drunks in a rowboat as a search party, let alone a Navy destroyer and a fleet of choppers. Okay, I'll put in a call to MP. Anything else I should know about this girl?"
"She's enrolled at the U, but it's possible she got involved in something less than wholesome."
"Oh?"
"Four years ago she was working as a stripper," I said. "Private parties. She may still be stripping."
"The mother told you this?"
"No, I learned it myself. Don't ask how."
Silence. "Okay. Spell her full name."
I did and he said, "So we're talking bad girl here?"
"I don't know about that," I snapped. "Just that she danced."
He didn't react to my anger. "Four years ago. What else?"
"She's done one quarter at the U. Straight A's, according to her mother."
"Mama knows best?"
"Some mamas do."
"What about this one?"
"Don't know. Like I said, it's been a long time, Milo."
"Your own cold case."
"Something like that."
He promised to get back as soon as possible. I thanked him and hung up, took a longer than usual run, returned home sweat-drenched and faded, showered off, got dressed, went down to the pond and fed the koi without bothering to enjoy their colors. Returning to my office, I started to clear some custody reports.
I ended up thinking about Lauren. From stripping to straight A's at the U. . . . I decided to call Jane Abbot, let her know I'd followed through. Maybe that would be the end of it.
This time a machine answered. A man's voice, robotic, one of those canned recordings women use as a security device. I delivered my message, worked for a few more hours on the reports. Shortly after noon I drove into south Westwood, bought a take-out Italian sandwich and a beer at Wally's, returned to Holmby Park, where I ate on a bench, trying not to look ominous among the nannies and the rich kids and the old people enjoying green grass as cars whizzed by. When I got back the message light on my answering machine was a blinking red reproach.
One call. Milo sounding even more tired: "Hey, Alex, getting back to you on Lauren Teague. Call whenever you've got a chance."
I jabbed the phone. Another detective answered, and it took a few moments for Milo to come on the line.
"The mother did file a report. Yesterday. MP ran a background on Lauren." He coughed. "She's got a record, Alex. They haven't informed the mother yet. Maybe they shouldn't."
"What kind of record?" I said.
"Prostitution."
I kept silent.
He said, "That's all, so far."
"Does that alter the chance that someone will actually look for her?"
"The thing is, Alex, there's nothing to go on. They asked the mother for any known associates, and she came up with zilch. MP detective's feeling is that Mama is not in the loop when it comes to Lauren's private life. And maybe Lauren traveling isn't exactly an aberration. Her arrests weren't only here. Nevada too."
"Vegas?"
"Reno. Lots of girls work that route, hopping on cattle-car flights, doing one-, two-day turnarounds for fast cash. So maybe her picking up without explanation is just part of her lifestyle. Student, or not."
"She's been gone for a week," I said. "Not exactly a turnaround."
"So she stayed to play the tables. Or got herself a lucrative gig she wants to milk for a while. The point is, we're not talking Suzy Cream-cheese wandering away from the church bus."
"When was her most recent arrest?" I said.
"Four years ago."
"Here or Nevada?"
"Good old Beverly Hills. She was one of Gretchen Stengel's girls, got nabbed at the Beverly Monarch Hotel."
Site of Phil Harnsberger's bachelor bash. The hotel's vanilla rococo fafade flashed in my head.
Tip money. I do great with tips.
"What month four years ago?" I said.
"What's the difference?"
"Last time I saw her was four years ago. November."
"Hold on, let me check. . . . December nineteenth."
"Gretchen Stengel," I said.
"The Westside Madam herself. At least she wasn't working the street for crack vials."
I gripped the phone so hard my fingers ached. "Is there any record of a drug history?"
"No, just the solicitation bust. But Gretchen's girls did tend to party hard— Look, Alex, you know passing judgment on people's sex lives isn't my thing, and I don't even think much about dope unless it leads to someone being made dead. But the fact that Lauren's a working girl does have to be taken into account here. Most likely she split for a gig and the roommate's covering for her with Mom. I can't see any reason to panic."
"You're probably right," I said. "Mom may be out of the loop. Though she's not totally unaware—told me Lauren went through some rough times, and her voice tightened up when she said it. And with the last arrest four years ago, maybe Lauren did turn herself around. She did enroll at the U."
"That could be."
"I know, I know—cockeyed optimism."
"Hey, it gives you that boyish charm. ... So you treated her four years ago?"
"Ten. I saw her once four years ago. Follow-up."
"Ah," he said. "Ten years is a long time."
"It's a damned eon."
Long pause. "You still sound . . . protective of her."
"Just doing my job." Surprised at the anger in my voice. I avoided further discussion by thanking him for his time.
He said, "The MP guy did agree to make some calls to hospitals."
"Morgues too?" I said.
"That too. Alex, I know you didn't want to hear about the girl's sheet, but in this case maybe it puts things in a more positive light—she's got a rationale for cutting out without explanation. Best thing to tell the mom is just wait. Nine times out often, the person shows up."
"And when they don't, it's too late to do anything about it anyway."
He didn't answer.
"Sorry," I said. "You've done more than you had to."
He laughed softly. "No, I had to."
"Up for lunch sometime?" I said.
"Sure, after I chip away at some of this ice."
"Subarctic, huh?"
"I wake up middle of the night with penguins pecking my ass."
"What kinds of cases?"
"Potpourri. Ten-year-old child murder, parents probably did it but no physical evidence. Twelve-year-old convenience store robbery-gone-bad, no witnesses, not even decent ballistics, 'cause the bad guys used a shotgun; drunk snuffed out in an alley eight years ago; and my personal favorite: old lady smothered in her bed back when Nixon was president. Should've gotten my degree in ancient history."
"English. It's not a bad fit either."
"How so?"
"Everyone's got a story," I said.
"Yeah, but once I'm listening to them, you can forget happy endings."
5
THE ROOMMATE'S covering for her. . .
A roommate who lived the same life as Lauren? If so, no reason for her to talk to Jane. Or the police. Or anyone else.
Jane Abbot claimed Lauren admired me. I found that hard to believe, but perhaps Lauren had mentioned me to the roommate and I could learn something.
I called the 323 number Jane had given me for Lauren, got another male robot on the machine, hung up without leaving a message.
I thought some more about the path Lauren's life had taken. Given the little I knew about her family life, I supposed there was no reason to be surprised. But I found myself succumbing to letdown anyway.
Ten years ago. Two sessions.
When her father had terminated, had I let it go too easily? I really didn't think so. Lyle Teague had never accepted the idea of therapy. Even if I'd managed to reach him by phone, there was no reason to believe he'd have changed his mind.