Flesh And Blood

“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 of ten, 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 lit’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.”

CHAPTER 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.

No reason at all for me to feel I’d failed, and I told myself I felt comfortable with that. But as the afternoon grayed Lauren’s disappearance continued to chew at me. Just after two P.M. I left the house, gu

Catching Third just past the Beverly Center, I picked up Sixth at Crescent Heights and cruised past the tar pits. Plaster mastodons reared, and groups of schoolkids gawked. They pull bones out of the pits daily. One of L.A.’s premier tourist spots is an infinite graveyard.

Lauren’s apartment on Hauser sat midway between Sixth and Wilshire, a putty-colored six-unit box old enough for fire escapes. I made my way up a chunky cement path to a glass door fronted by wrought-iron fettuccine. Through the glass: dim hallway and dark carpeting. A column of name slots and call buttons listed TEAGUE/SALANDER in apartment 4.

I pressed the button, was surprised to be buzzed in immediately. The hallway smelled of beef stew and laundry detergent. The carpeting was an ancient wool – flamingo-colored leaf forms over mud brown, once pricey, now heeled and toed to the burlap. Mahogany doors had been restained streaky and lacquered too thickly. No music or conversation leaked from behind any of them. A flight of chipped terra-cotta steps at the rear of the building took me upstairs.

Unit 4 faced the street. I knocked, and the door opened before my fist lowered. A young man holding a white washcloth stared out at me.

Five-six, one-thirty, fair-haired and frail-looking, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, very blue jeans cinched by a black leather belt, black lace-up boots. A heavy silver chain looped a front jeans pocket.

“Oh. I thought you were…” Breathy-voiced, pitched high.

“Someone else,” I said. “Sorry if I’m interrupting. My name’s Alex Delaware.”

No recognition in the wide, hazel eyes, just residual surprise. The fair hair was dun tipped with yellow, clipped nearly to the skull. Zero body fat, but what was left was string, not bulk. Tiny gold ring in his right earlobe. A tattoo – “Don’t Panic” in elaborate blue-black script – capped his left shoulder. A band of thorns in the same hue circled his right biceps. He looked to be around Lauren’s age, had the round, unlined face, pink cheeks, and arched brows of an indulged child. As he looked me up and down, surprise began to give way to suspicion. He clenched the washcloth, and his head drew back.

“I’m an old acquaintance of Lauren’s,” I said. “One of her doctors, actually. Her mother called me, concerned because she hasn’t heard from Lauren for a week-”

“One of her doctors? Oh… the psychologist – yes, she told me about you. I remember your name was one of the states – are you Native American?”

“Kind of a mongrel.”

He smiled, pulled at the silver chain, produced a saucer-sized pocket watch. “My God, it’s two-forty!” Another eye rub. “I was catching a nap, heard the bell, thought it was three-forty, and jolted up.”

“Sorry for waking you.”

He let the washcloth unfurl, waved it in a tight little arc. “Oh, don’t apologize, you did me a favor. I have… an old friend dropping by, need the time to pull myself together.” A hip cocked. “Now, why are we having this conversation out in the hall?” A bony arm shot forward. His grip was iron. “Andrew Salander – I’m Lauren’s roomie.”

He swung the door wide open, stepped aside, and let me into a large parlor with a high, cross-beamed ceiling. Heavy ruby-and-gold brocade drapes sealed the windows and plunged the space into gloom. New smells blew toward me: cologne, incense, the suggestion of fried eggs.

“Let there be light,” said Andrew Salander as he rushed over and yanked the curtains open. A cigar of downtown smog hovered above the rooftops of the buildings across the street. Exposed, the living room walls were lemon yellow topped by gilded moldings. The cross-beams were gilded as well; someone had taken the time to hand-leaf. French cigarette prints, insipid old seascapes in decaying frames, and frayed samplers coexisted in improbable alliance on the walls. Deco and Victorian and tubular-legged moderne furniture formed a cluttered liaison. A close look suggested thrift-shop treasures. A keen eye had made it all work.

Salander said, “So Mrs. A called you. Me, too. Three times in as many days. At first I thought she was being menopausal, but it has been six-plus days, and now I’m starting to get concerned about Lo myself.”

He pulled a tattered silk throw off a sagging olive velvet divan and said, “Please. Sit. Excuse the squalor. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thanks. It’s far from squalid.”

“Oh, please.” A hand waved. “Work in progress and very little progress at work – Lo and I have been going at this since I moved in. Sundays at the Rose Bowl Swap Meet, Western Avenue, once in a while you can still find something reasonable on La Brea. The problem is neither of us has time to really give it our all. But at least it’s habitable. When Lo lived here by herself, it was utterly bare – I thought she was one of those people with no eye, no artistic sense. Turns out she has fabulous taste – it just needed to be brought out.”

“How long have you been rooming together?”

“Six months,” he said. “I was in the building already – downstairs in Number Two.” He frowned, sat on a mock-leopard-skin ottoman, crossed his legs. “Month to month, I was supposed to move out to… Then things changed, as they so often do, and the landlord leased my space to someone else and suddenly I found myself without hearth or home. Lo and I had always had a good rapport – we used to chat at the Laundromat, she’s easy to talk to. When she found out I was stuck, she invited me to move in. At first, I refused – charity’s one of many things I don’t do. But she finally convinced me two bedrooms were too much for her and I could share the rent.”