“Just temporarily,” I said.
“Temporarily? If this person’s done everything you think he has, he waits years! So what kind of temporary are we talking about here?”
I had no answer.
She said, “No. No way, Alex, I won’t leave you. To hell with him–he can’t do that to us.”
“Robin, she was pregnant. I saw what he did to her.”
“No,” she said, eyes brimming. “Please. I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Okay,” I said.
She pitched forward as if falling and grabbed my shoulders with both hands.
Pulling me closer, she held on tight, as if still off balance. Her cheek was up against mine and her breath was in my ear, hot and quick.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll work it out.”
She squeezed me. “Oh, Alex, let’s just move to another planet.”
The dog jumped from the couch to the floor, sat down and stared at us.
Whistling noises came from his compressed nostrils, but his eyes were clear and active, almost human.
“Hey, Spike,” I said, reaching over. “He been good?”
“The best.”
The affection in her voice made his ears go up. He trotted up to the edge of the couch and rested his flews on her knee. She caressed his head and he lifted his chin and gave her palm a long, wet tongue swipe.
“You could take him with you,” I said. “You’d have constant masculine attention.”
“Put it out of your mind, Alex.” Her nails dug into my back. “We probably won’t have him much longer, anyway. I got a call this morning from a group called French Bulldog Rescue. Very sweet lady over in Burbank–you wrote to the national club and they forwarded it to her.
She’s putting out feelers, says these little guys are almost never intentionally abandoned, so it’s just a matter of time before the owners call to claim him.”
“No one’s reported him missing so far?”
“No, but don’t get your hopes up. She’s got a pretty good communication network, seems pretty sure she’ll find his owner. She offered to come by and take him off our hands, but I said we’d care for him in the meantime.”
The dog was looking up at me expectantly. I rested my hand on his head and he made a low, satisfied noise.
Robin said, “Now I know how foster parents feel.” She grabbed a handful of soft chin and kissed it. Her shorts had rolled high on her thighs and she tugged them down. “Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.”
“I bought stuff–chilies rellenos, enchiladas. Even got a sixpack of Corona, so we could pretend we were party animals. It’s a little late now to start a whole feast, but I can put something together if you’re hungry.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll make a sandwich.”
“No, let me, Alex. I need something to do with my hands. Afterward we can get in bed with the crossword and some really bad TV and who knows what else.”
“Who knows?” I said, drawing her to me.
We turned off the lights around midnight. I fell away easily, but I woke up feeling as if I’d been drained of body fluids.
I endured breakfast, feeding the dog bits of scrambled egg and making conversation with Robin until the two of them went to the garage.
As soon as I was alone, I called Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt in Manhattan and got the same taped message. I repeated my pitch, told her it was more urgent than ever, and asked her to get in touch as soon as possible. When no callback had come in by the time I’d finished showering, shaving, and dressing, I phoned Jean Jeffers. She was out for the day–some kind of meeting downtown–and hadn’t left word with her secretary about Lyle Gritz. Remembering her eagerness to look for him, I figured she’d come up empty.
Information had no listing for a Ramona or Rowena Basille, but there was a “Basille, R.” on 618
South Hauser Street. Right near Park LaBrea.
An older woman’s voice answered, “Hello.”
“Mrs. Basille?”
“This is Rolanda, who’re you?” Scratchy timbre, the midwestern tones I’d grown up with.
“My name’s Alex Delaware. I’m a psychologist, consulting to the Los Angeles Police Department–” “Yes?” Rise in pitch.