“This,” he said, “may not work out.”
“Up to you.”
“I’m interested in your professional opinion because I think it’s a clear case of mental anguish—like what battered wives go through. But I’m not sure, given your history with the police, that you’ll render an impartial opinion.”
“If I get data, I’ll render. If you want someone you can play ventriloquist with, I’m not your man.”
He looked at my card. “I hear a clear prosecution bias.”
“Have it your way.”
“You don’t lean toward the other side?” he said.
“I keep an open mind. If you want a whore, drive down Hollywood Boulevard and flash a twenty.”
His freckles deepened in color and the skin between them turned pink. He gave a deep laugh. “That’s good, I like that. Okay, you’re my guy. Because his mental anguish is so obvious even you’ll see it. And getting someone like you to testify to that will be all the more impressive. A police consultant.”
He held out his hand and we shook. Some of the women in line watched and I could only imagine what they were thinking.
“Let’s go meet Reed,” he said. “And don’t worry, he can’t hurt you.”
CHAPTER
41
“Therapy,” said Muscadine, smiling and flipping his long hair. “Quite a luxury for a starving actor.”
“Ever had any therapy?” I said.
“Just the mind games they put you through in acting class. Probably should’ve, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“My obvious emotional problems. Which is what you’re here to establish, right?”
“I want to know as much as I can about you, Reed.”
“That’s kind of flattering.” He smiled and flipped his hair again. He was in street clothes—a black T-shirt and jeans—but behind glass. A few days of incarceration hadn’t hurt his looks, and his muscles were still huge and well-defined. Push-ups in the cell, probably. He was big enough to defend himself.
The deputy in the corner of the visiting room turned toward us. Muscadine smiled at him, too, and he showed Muscadine a khaki back.
“How are they treating you?” I asked.
“Not bad, so far. Of course, I’m a model prisoner. No reason not to be—shall I tell you about my mother? She really was a piece of work.”
“Eventually,” I said. “But first, tell me about your love for animals.”
The smile left his face and returned, stiffer. I could hear a director shout, “Loosen up, go with the feeling, Reed!”
“Well,” he said, crossing his legs, “they do love me.”
“I know. The reason I’m asking is the day I visited you I noticed how well you got along with Mrs. Green’s bullmastiff.”
“Samantha and I are good buddies.”
“Mrs. Green said Samantha’s very protective of her.”
“She is.”
“But not around you.”
“I lived there,” he said. “I belonged. But yes, you’re right. I do have a special rapport with animals. Probably ’cause they sense I’m at ease with them.”
“Did you have lots of pets as a child?”
“No,” he said. “Mom.”
“She wouldn’t let you have any?”
He shook his head. “Never.” White-toothed snarl/smile. “Mom was an extremely neat woman.”
“And after you left home—how old were you, by the way?”
“College. Eighteen.”
“Ever return home?”
“Not a chance. I—”
“Did you get any pets once you were living on your own?”
“Couldn’t. The places I rented wouldn’t let me. Then my job got in the way.”
“Accounting.”
He nodded. “The old nine-to-five. It wasn’t fair to leave an animal alone all day. When I went back to school and got serious about acting, same thing. I did do some work as a groomer for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, just for a few months, one of those mobile van things. One of the many things I did in order to pursue my craft.”
“Starving actor.”
“Yes, I know I’m a clichÉ, but so what?”
“So am I, I guess. L.A. shrink.”
He chuckled.
“So,” I said. “Grooming must have increased your skills with animals.”
“Definitely. You learn how to touch them, how to speak to them. With animals, ninety-nine percent is nonverbal communication. You feel right about yourself, they’ll feel right about you. And working with them, you learn to read them.”