The lobby teemed with grim, skinny things in all-black, and I pushed past them and used the house phone to call Housekeeping. Once I got a supervisor on the line, I talked quickly and ambiguously, said it was important that I speak to Mrs. Yeager, old friend, some kind of family issue.
“Is this an emergency, sir?”
“Hard to say. I just need a few minutes.”
“Hold on.”
Several minutes later a weak, sibilant voice came on. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Yeager, my name is Alex Delaware. I’m a psychologist who works with the police and I’ve been looking into Shawna’s case— I’ve just begun, nothing to report, I’m afraid. But I was wondering if we could talk.”
“A psychologist? What, some kind of research?”
“No, ma’am. I consult to the police, am trying to find some answers— I know it’s been a long time—”
“I like psychologists. One of them helped me. I was sick—they thought it was . . . Where are you, sir?”
“Down in the lobby.”
“Here? Oh. Well, I’m off in a few minutes, I’ll meet you out on Burton Way, near the employee exit.”
She was there by the time I walked around the corner, a small, thin, gray-haired woman wearing a charwoman’s pink uniform. Her hair was cropped and coarse, and her eyeglasses were steel-rimmed rectangles. Freshly applied scarlet lipstick screamed from chapped lips, and her cheeks had been rouged. High-waisted and flat-chested, she looked ten years older than fifty-one.
“Thank you so much for doing this, Dr.— Was it Delavalle?”
“Delaware. I’m afraid I can’t promise you—”
“I’m past promises. I’m parked a few blocks down, do you mind walking?”
“Not at all.”
“It’s a nice day anyway,” she said. “At least weather-wise.”
We headed east on Burton, and she thanked me again for reopening Shawna’s case. I tried to offer a disclaimer, but she wasn’t hearing it. Went on about how it was about time, the police had never really investigated fully. “And that detective they assigned—Riley. Didn’t do a darn thing. Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.”
“He died?” I said.
“You didn’t know? Just over two months ago. Retired to the desert and spent all his time playing golf and just keeled over on the golf course. I know because I used to call him—not too often, because frankly I didn’t have much faith in him. But he was … a link to Shawna. He wasn’t a bad man, Riley. Just not. . . energetic. He did give me his home number when he retired. Last time I phoned him, his poor wife told me, and I ended up comforting her. So you see, I’m not hoping for miracles, but at least I have an open mind. ‘Cause in my opinion, Riley and the rest of them never did. I’m not saying they deliberately set out not to care, but I feel, to this day, that they just thought finding Shawna was hopeless and never really tried.”
No anger. A speech she’d recited often.
“What do you think they could’ve done?”
“Publicize more. I tried the newspapers, but they weren’t interested. You have to be rich and famous to get attention. Or get killed by someone rich and famous.”
“Sometimes it’s like that in L.A.,” I said.
“Probably everywhere, but all I know is L.A., ’cause that’s where my Shawna died—you see, I’m not denying that anymore. I got past that. The last time I spoke to him, Leo Riley tried to tell me not to hope for the best. It was kinda funny the way he got all nervous and stuttery, like he was telling me something I didn’t know. But I’d gotten there a long time ago. No way could my Shawna be missing this long without telling me and not be … gone. All I want, now, is to know what happened. Know where she is, give her a decent Christian burial. The psychologist I talked to—Dr. Yoshimura—she said everyone made a big deal about closure but closure was foolishness made up by people who write books—it didn’t exist, how could you ever heal something like that?”
She tapped her chest. “It leaves a big hole that can never be filled, but you try to learn what you can, and if you succeed maybe you coat it around the edges a little. She was terrific. Yoshimura. I did counseling with her ’cause one day I collapsed—everything went black and I fell down. Everyone thought I had a heart attack, they put me through every test known to modern mankind, found out I did have high cholesterol but my heart was still okay. In the end they said it was nerves. Anxiety. Dr. Yoshimura taught me how to relax. I became a vegetarian, stopped smoking. I could accept relaxing from Dr. Yoshimura because she wasn’t telling me to get some closure the way everyone else was. That was the thing about Mr. Riley. He was real relaxed except when it came to talking about real things. Like the fact that he hadn’t learned a thing about Shawna— He’d pretend to listen, but I knew he wasn’t. I called him even after he retired because I figured it was rent he should be paying. And now he’s gone. . . . Here, I’m parked on Swall.”