“The studio’s paying the bills.”
“You bet. They don’t want anything blocking his creativity.”
“Will I be listed on the credits?”
He laughed. “You know, I could probably swing that — maybe assistant producer? If you produce something I can use. If you say no, I’ll go down the list and we both lose out. Guess who’s up?” He named two psychologists on the panel. Mediocre hacks. “Either’s likely to screw up, meaning both sides will end up hiring private consultants and it’ll drag on for forever. That sound good for the kids, Alex?”
“Give me a couple days, Marv.”
“Fair enough. You know us wise men, we’re all about fair.”
Nancy Maestro had asked me if the media had glommed into Connie’s murder and I’d said no. But the story was traveling the courthouse rumor mill even though it hadn’t reached the press.
Logging onto the family court website, I key-worded applebaum and got Marv’s page, complete with his chubby avuncular headshot and smaller photos of his staff. His aides were an administrator named Mary Johnson, a bailiff named Lionel Wattlesburg, both long-time vets whom I knew, and a young, thin-faced, dark-haired woman named Kiara Fallows, identified as the clerk. Phoning the administrative number got me Wattlesburg on the line.
He said, “Hey, Doctor. You doing that you-know-who case for us? Maybe win an Oscar for best supporting shrink?”
“Maybe, Lionel.”
He whistled. “Gonna be fun.”
I said, “Is Kiara Fallows around?”
“Nope, quit, she notified this morning. Been here maybe three months. Kids today, no staying power.”
“Job stress?”
“Didn’t ask her,” said Wattlesburg. “She’s coming in for her check today or tomorrow. Want me to give her your number?”
“Not necessary.”
“I agree, Doc. Screw quitters.”
The following morning, I phoned Marv and told him I’d take the case if I could bring Robin to Singapore at the studio’s expense.
He said, “Hmm. That could be tricky — maybe if you go business instead of first? But who knows, they could kick in the entire shaboom, let me inquire.”
“How many kids are we talking about and how old are they?”
“Two boys, four and six. I’ll make the call, try to score you two sleeping compartments in first, maybe even a suite at the Fullerton.”
“Thanks, Marv.”
“You’ll be thanking me even more once you’re there. Someone robs or steals they cane his ass, then they toss him in jail. You can’t chew gum, the sidewalks are clean enough to eat off.”
“Orderly,” I said.
“The things I see every day,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
Twenty minutes later, he was back: “It’s all set, the works, but I can’t tell you when because a ton of new financial motions from both sides just landed on my desk. I’ll keep you posted.”
I walked through the garden to Robin’s studio with two cups of coffee, stepped into relative quiet. She was hand-sanding a rosewood guitar back, power tools dormant. Blanche snored from her dog bed in the corner.
Robin said, “I’m getting spoiled.” Wiping her hands, she took my face in her hands and kissed me. Blanche’s eyes fluttered open. Stretching and yawning, she toddled over. I fetched her a Milk-Bone and she did the coquette bit, cocking her head to one side and smiling.
I put my arm around Robin’s small, tight waist. “You’ll be thanking me more once you’re in Singapore.”
“Pardon?”
I told her about the trip.
She said, “You’re serious.”
“You bet.”
“Talk about perks. Wow. I have heard it’s an interesting place.”
“Orchids grow like weeds and if you’re naughty they whup your butt before slamming you into a cell.”
“I promise to be good. When exactly are we talking about?”
“A month at the earliest, likely later.”
“A month … I’ll check my project list. How long of a trip?”
“Work will probably be a few days, we could stay longer if you want, take a side trip somewhere.”
“They’re flying you there just to evaluate a kid?”
“Two kids.”
She laughed. “Well, that explains it.” She tousled my hair. “This is very cool. My baby is such a genius, people lay down big bucks for his wisdom.”
I said, “Here’s some freebie wisdom: Buy low, sell high, look both ways before crossing the street, don’t talk to strangers, never eat anything larger than your head.”
She said, “Gosh, what a lucky girl I am.”
I scanned the news fruitlessly for anything on Connie and Ree. Maybe what went on at the court building stayed at the court building.
On the afternoon of the fourth day since I’d heard from him, Milo dropped by looking preoccupied, didn’t bother with greetings as he continued toward the kitchen. After the usual fridge-scrounge, he stood over the sink committing assault and battery on a loosely assembled, wet sandwich of leftover chicken, veal shoulder, Bibb lettuce, coleslaw, potato salad, and sliced tomatoes. All of that stuffed between three slices of rye bread past its prime. A beer rinsed it down. Washing and drying his plate, he sat down.
I said, “Greetings.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been incommunicado. ’Cause there’s been nothing to communicate.”
“There is now? You found her?”
“If only. For an amateur she’s done a damn good job of disappearing. No credit card or ATM or cell phone usage, no credible sightings anywhere along a whole bunch of Amtrak lines, no applications for welfare or any kind of assistance for herself or the kid. The marshals checked women’s shelters near the major train stops and nada. If she was in the obvious places, their street-sources would tell them. So now I’m wondering if the whole car-at-the-train-station was a ruse, she never left, is crashing with a friend, maybe an old hippie from back in the day. She ever mention anyone like that besides the Lonesome Moaners?”
“No.”
“I called her brother — Mr. Porn. He denies hearing from her but I didn’t take his word for it, had his local PD do a few drive-bys past his house, looking for diaper boxes, any sign she and the kid were holed up there. Nothing. And now I’ve got additional reason to believe she’s still in L.A. — Hollywood, in particular. Last night someone tried to shoot Boris Chamberlain.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was.”
“Hollywood narco wasn’t watching his building?”
“Hollywood narco had just stopped watching his building — funny thing ’bout that, huh? Shortly after eleven p.m., they raided and busted the charming Cat and Jeremy. Around an hour later, ol’ Boris must’ve been feeling confident because he went out for a jog, crossed Franklin, started trotting up toward the hills. He didn’t get far before a car drove by and boom boom boom. Three shots, three close calls, Chamberlain drops to the ground, rolls into some bushes, plays dead. If the shooter was planning to come back to check, they changed their mind when a bunch of residents turned on their lights.”
I said, “Any shell casings?”
“Three 9mms.”
“Not a .25.”
“So she’s got more than one gun, figured a bigger load would be better from a distance.”
“North of Franklin at midnight isn’t exactly safe jogging territory.”
“Granted, not the smartest choice but Chamberlain told me he ran there all the time, figured his quote unquote ‘build’ would discourage a mugger, it always had. With the tweakers being out of the picture, maybe he was starting to see the world as a kindly, loving place again.” Small smile. “Always a mistake.”