“Don’t think so.” Her small, fine-boned hand topped my knuckles.
“Look,” I said, stretching my lips with my thumbs and letting go. “Mr. Happy.”
She said nothing. I sat there and enjoyed her face. Another heart-shaped face. Olive-tinted, set upon a long, smooth stalk, framed by the mass of curls. Straight, assertive nose, full lips swelled by a hint of over-bite, the faintest beginnings of crow’s-feet and laugh lines around almond eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Okay.” She played with her hair.
“How was your day?”
“No one bugged me, so I got more done than I’d planned.” Her hand finger-walked over to mine, and she began playing with my thumb. “Just tell me this, Alex: Is it one of your own cases or something Milo’s gotten you into?”
“The former,” I said.
“Got it,” she said, zipping a finger across her lips. “So nothing dangerous. Not that I’m harping.”
“Not remotely dangerous,” I said. Remembering the talk we’d had last year. After I’d role-played with a group of eugenic psychopaths and ended up too close to dead. The pledge I’d given her . . .
“Good,” she said. “‘Cause when I see you . . . burdened, I start to wonder if maybe you’re feeling constrained.”
“It’s just a case from the past that I might’ve handled better. I need to make a few phone calls, and then we can figure out dinner, okay?”
“Sure,” she said.
And that’s where we left it.
I went into my office, poured the contents of my briefcase onto the desk, found the numbers Gene Dalby had given me for Professors Hall and de Maartens, and dialed. Two answering machines. I left messages. Next: Adam Green, the student journalist. Information had four Adam Greens listed in the 310 area code. No sense, at this stage of the game, trying to figure out which, if any, was the kid who’d covered the Shawna Yeager story. He’d spent three weeks of his life on the story a year ago. What could he possibly have to offer?
Arranging the photocopies I’d made of the Daily Cub microfiches, I retrieved the three phone numbers accompanying the want ads. The depression and phobia study listings were out of service, and the Orange County intimacy project—I’d saved the best for last—connected to a Newport Beach pizza parlor. In L.A. it’s not just the tectonic plates that shift.
Finally, I looked up hotels and motels in Malibu and made a dozen calls. If Lauren had checked into any of the establishments, she hadn’t used her real name.
One last call: Jane Abbot. That would wait till tomorrow.
No, it wouldn’t. I dialed the Valley number, planning to be vague but supportive, careful not to leech her hope. The phone rang four times, and I rehearsed the little speech I’d deliver to her robot guardian—ah, here he was: “No one can take your call but if you care to . . .”
Beef.
“Mrs. Abbot, this is Dr. Delaware. I’ve talked to a police detective about Lauren. Nothing really to report, but he’s been made aware of the details. I’ll stay on it, get back to you the moment I learn—”
A real man’s voice broke in, very soft, halting. “Yes?” I identified myself.
Long silence.
I said, “Hello?”
“This is Mr. Abbot.” More of an announcement than an exchange.
“Mr. Abbot, your wife spoke to me recently—”
“•Mrs. Abbot,” he said.
“Yes, sir. She and I—”
“This is Mr. Abbot. Mrs. Abbot isn’t here.””
“When will she be back, sir?”
Several seconds of dead air. “The house is empty. . . .”
“Your wife called me about Lauren, and I was getting back to her.”
More silence.
“Her daughter, Lauren,” I said. “Lauren Teague.”
Still nothing.
“Mr. Abbot?”
“My wife’s not here,” said the frail voice plaintively. “She goes out, comes back, goes out, comes back.”
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m upstairs, trying to read. Robert Benchley—ever read Benchley? Funny as hell, but the words get small …”
“I’ll call back later, Mr. Abbot.”
No reply.
“Sir?”
Click.
8
I HUNG UP, tried to figure out what had just happened.
Robin knocked on the doorjamb and said, “Ready.” She’d put on a tiny little charcoal sweater over a long, gray tweed skirt and glossed her lips. Her smile made putting the call aside a little easier.