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.”