“You’re my girl, Dr. Gwynn. I find you smooching some dude, it won’t be a pretty sight.”
“Right. You, Mr. Civilized.”
“Don’t test me.”
She laughed, this time with heart. “I can’t believe I made this call. The last thing I want is to be possessive.” Her voice caught.
“Sometimes,” I said, “it’s nice to be possessed.”
“It is . . . okay, no more Ms. Mawkish. I’ve got three more patients coming and each needs to perceive me as all-knowing. Then, it’s over to the hospice.”
“Any free time at all?”
“I wish. The hospice is having a potluck dinner for all the volunteers, so I’m eating there. The only breathing time I have is right now, last-minute cancellation. What I should be doing is charting and returning calls, not whining to you.”
“I’ll be over in twenty.”
“What?” she said.
“I’m coming over. I want to see you.”
“Alex, my next patient’s due in forty. The drive, alone, will eat up—”
“I want to kiss you,” I said. “That won’t take long.”
“Alex, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m okay; you don’t have to indulge my—”
“This is for me. I’m going to be in the neighborhood, anyway. Talking to a doctor at St. John’s.” Though I hadn’t made the appointment.
“Baby,” she said, “I can assure you that whatever it was that tweaked my anxiety has passed.”
“I want to see you,” I said.
Dead air.
“Ally?”
“I want to see you, too.”
*
While driving to Santa Monica, I got Dr. Leonard Singh’s number from Information, found out he was on rounds, would be back in an hour. I told his secretary I’d be stopping by and hung up before she could ask why.
When I reached Allison’s office building, she was waiting out on the sidewalk, dressed in a sky-blue cashmere cowl neck sweater and a long, wine-colored skirt, drinking something from a cardboard cup and kicking the heel of one boot. Her black hair was tied back with a clip, and she looked young and nervous.
I swung into the no parking zone in front and she got in the passenger seat. The cup gave off coffee and vanilla fumes.
I leaned over, cupped her chin in my hand, kissed it.
She said, “I want lips,” and drew me close.
We connected for a long time. When we broke, she said, “I have staked my claim. Want a sip?”
“I don’t do girlie coffee.”
“Ha.” She has a soft, sweet voice, and her attempt at a growl made me smile. “That, my darling, is the primeval sound of the alpha female!”
I eyed the cardboard cup. “Alpha females drink that?”
She glanced down at the beige fluid. “In the postfeminist age one can be simultaneously girlie and strong.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s next? You drag me into your cave?”
“I wish.” She removed the clip, shook her hair loose, pushed thick, black strands behind one ear. Her skin was milk white, and I touched the faint, blue veins that collected at her jawline.
She said, “Alpha female, who’m I kidding? I mewl, and you hurry over. My professional advice is don’t encourage that kind of dependent behavior, Alex.”
“What’s your nonprofessional advice?”
She took my hand. The minutes ticked away, too hurried.
She said, “Does ‘not a bad day’ mean you’ve made some progress on Mary Lou?”
I told her about Patty and Franco Gull.
“Is Gull really a suspect?”
“Milo’s looking at him pretty closely.”
“Murderous shrink. There’s another PR coup for our profession.”
“You told me Gull came across slick. Do you recall anything else about him?”
She thought about it. “He just impressed me as really into image. The way he carried himself, the clothes, the hair. I’m certainly not surprised he’s promiscuous. He had that swagger—physical confidence, like someone who developed charisma early.”
“I was thinking high school jock.”
“That would fit,” she said. “If it turned out he slept with his patients, I wouldn’t be shocked either.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just a feeling.”
“But you never actually heard anything to that effect.”
“Never heard anything about him except that he was Mary Lou’s partner. Maybe that colored my judgment. Because of her reputation. For being expensive and publicity-hungry. To me, Gull came across the same way.”