I cleared some paperwork, phoned Pali Prep. The secretary knew my name because I’d treated other students. Yes, Stacy had been excused from class. Two hours ago. I tried the Doss home, no answer. No cancellation message left at my service. I wanted to call Richard’s office, but with teenagers you had to be careful not to breach trust, especially when dealing with a parent like Richard.
Also, Milo was with Richard, and that complicated matters.
Ten more minutes and now the session time was gone. Your basic no-show. Happened all the time. It had never happened with Stacy. But I hadn’t seen Stacy in half a year, and six months was a long stretch of adolescence. Maybe seeing me had been her father’s idea and she’d finally stood up to him.
Or perhaps Mate’s death had something to do with it, churning up memories that reminded her what could happen to a woman who allowed herself not to be.
I filed the chart, expecting a phone call from one Doss or the other by day’s end.
But it was Milo who cleared things up.
He showed up at my house just after one P.M.
“Had a quiet morning, huh?” He walked past me and entered the kitchen. My fridge is an old friend of his, and he greeted it with a small smile, removing a half-gallon of milk and a ripe peach. Looking inside the carton, he muttered, “Not much left, why bother with a glass.”
He brought the milk to the table, upended the carton, gulped, wiped his mouth, assaulted the peach as if exacting revenge on all fruit.
“No session with little Ms. Doss,” he said. “Swami Milo knows because Ms. Doss came over to Daddy’s office right around the time she was supposed to be with you. Right when I’d started talking to Daddy. Something about her brother. Looks like he’s run away.”
“From Stanford?”
“From Stanford. Doss moved my eleven up to ten and I’d just gotten into his sanctum sanctorum—ever been there?”
I shook my head.
“Penthouse suite with an ocean view, executive trappings plus your basic private museum. Antiques, paintings, but mostly walls of Oriental breakables—hundreds of bowls, vases, statues, little incense burners, whatever. These glass shelves that make it look as if everything’s floating. Had me worried about breathing too hard, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe throwing me off balance is why he changed the time. He left the message at midnight, it was only by luck that I got it. I figure the plan was I wouldn’t, would show up at eleven, and he’d tell me aw shucks. Anyway, I made it, waited, finally got ushered in, Doss is sitting behind this ultrawide desk, so big that I’ve got to reach over and kill my back to shake his hand—the guy thinks everything out, doesn’t he, Alex?”
I remembered my stretch for the photos. “So what happened?”
“My butt’s just hitting the chair and his intercom burps. ‘Stacy’s here.’ That throws Doss. Before he puts down the phone, the kid runs in, like she’s about to blurt something to Daddy. Then she sees me, gives Daddy one of those we-have-to-talk-in-private looks, Doss asks me to please leave for a second. I head back for the waiting room, but the secretary’s on the phone, has her back to me, so I keep the door open a crack, I know it’s naughty, but…”
Detective’s grin, ripe with suspicion and worst-case glee.
“Mostly what I heard was a helluva lot of anxiety. A few ‘Stanford’s, bunch of ‘Eric’s, so I knew it had something to do with her brother. Then Doss starts asking her questions—’When?’ ‘How?’ ‘You’re sure?’ Like what’s going on is her fault. At that point, the secretary gets off the phone, turns around, shoots me a murderous look and closes the door. I wait out there another ten minutes.”
He chomped the peach, ripping golden flesh away from the pit. Went for the milk, holding the spout inches from his mouth. White liquid arced down his gullet. His throat muscles pulsed. Lowering the empty carton, he crushed it, said, “Ahhh, does a body good.”
“What else? “I said.
“A few minutes later, Stacy comes out looking very uptight and leaves. Then Doss emerges, tells me he can’t talk, family emergency. I do the old protect-and-serve: Any way I can be of service, sir? Doss looks at me like, Who are you kidding, moron. Then he tells me to make another appointment with the secretary, goes back inside the Porcelain Palace. The secretary looks at her book, says, Nothing tomorrow, how about Thursday? I say fine. When I’m back down in the parking garage, I ask the attendant to show me Doss’s car. Black-on-black BMW 850i, chrome wheels, illegally tinted windows, custom spoiler. Shiniest damn thing I’ve ever seen, like he dipped it in glass. There’s only one exit from the garage, so I wait down the block. But Doss never comes out, so whatever the problem is, he’s handling it by phone. One thing I did think of, though: a dark BMW. What Paul Ul-rich saw parked on the road the morning of Mate’s murder.”