Johnithan Kellerman – Bad Love

Hewitt may have heard about bad love’ somewhere–probably from another therapist or even from Gritz. When he felt Becky had rejected him, he fell apart, became a betrayed child–and lashed out violently.”

“Betrayed child?” she said. “You’re saying his killing her was a tantrum?”

“A tantrum heated to the boiling point by Hewitt’s delusions. And by his failure to take his medication. Who knows, Gritz may have convinced him not to take it.”

“Gritz,” she said. “How do you spell it?”

I told her. “Be good to know if he was one of your patients.”

“I’ll comb the files first thing tomorrow, take that damned storage room apart if I have to. If he’s anywhere in there, I’ll call you right away. We need to know for our own safety.”

“I’ll be out of town tomorrow. You can leave a message with my service.”

“All day tomorrow?” A touch of panic in her voice.

I nodded. “Santa Barbara and back.”

“I love Santa Barbara. It’s gorgeous. Taking some vacation time?”

“De Bosch used to have a clinic and a school up there. I’m going to try and find out if Hewitt or Gritz were ever patients.”

“I’ll let you know if he was ours. Call me back, okay? Let me know what you find.”

“Sure.”

She looked at her salad again. “I can’t eat.”

I waved Ear over and got the bill.

She said, “No, I invited you,” and tried to take it, but she didn’t put up much of a fight and I ended up paying.

She stashed the notes in her purse and glanced at her watch. “Dick’s not coming back for another half an hour.”

“I can wait.”

“No, I won’t keep you. But I wouldn’t mind some fresh air. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Just outside the restaurant she paused to button her sweater and smooth her hair. The first time, the buttons were out of line and she had to redo them.

We walked to the city lot without speaking. She looked in shop windows but seemed uninterested in the wares they displayed. Waiting until I’d redeemed the keys from the attendant, she accompanied me to the Seville.

“Thanks,” I said, shaking her hand. I opened the driver’s She said, “What I said before still stands, right? About keeping all this quiet?”

“Of course.”

“It’s nothing Detective Sturgis could ever use, anyway,” she said.

“Legally speaking–what does it really prove?”

“Just that people are fallible.”

“Oh, boy, are they.” I got into the car. She leaned in through the window.

“You’re more than just a consultant on this, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your passion. Consultants don’t go this far.” I smiled. “I take my work seriously.” She moved her head back, as if I’d blown garlic in her face.

“So do I,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

Monday morning at nine, I set out for Ojai, taking the 405 to the 101 and making it to the strawberry fields of Camarillo in less than an hour.

Migrant workers stooped in the stubby, green rows. The crop became blue cabbage and the air turned bitter. Kissy-face billboards boosted housing developments and home equity loans.

Just past the Ventura County Fairgrounds, I turned onto 33 north, speeding by an oil refinery that resembled a giant junkyard. Another few miles of trailer parks and mower rental sheds and things got pretty: two lanes draped by eucalyptus, black mountains off to the northwest, the peaks flesh colored where the sun hit.

The town of Ojai was a quarter of an hour farther, announced by a bike and equestrian trail, orange groves, and signs directing the motorist to the Ojai Palm Spa, the Humanos Theosophic Institute, Marmalade Hot Springs. To the south were the clean, green slopes of a country club.

The cars were good-looking and so were the people.

Ojai proper was quiet and slow moving, with one traffic light. The main drag was Ojai Avenue, lined with the kind of low-rise, neo-Spanish architecture that usually means tight zoning laws. Unrestricted parking, plenty of spaces.

Tans and smiles, natural fibers and good posture.

On the left side of the avenue, a colonnaded, tile-roofed building was filled with storefronts. Native American art and antiques, body wraps and herbal facials, a Little Olde Tea Shoppe. Across the street was an old theater, freshly adobed. Playing tonight: Leningrad Cowboys.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *