“Hold on.”
A few seconds passed; then a very loud, deep voice said, “Lowell. Who’re you?”
“Alex Delaware.”
“Delaware. The first state, an ignoble little backwater. What are you, French Canadian? Acadian? Coon-ass?”
“How can I help you, Mr. Lowell?”
“You can’t help me at all. Maybe I can help you. My boy snitched on the girl’s attempt to snuff herself, the implication being, of course, that it was my damned fault, nammer, nammer, nammer. I doubt she’s changed much, the constipated squall, basic character never does, so I can give you some piercing insights. Unless you’re one of those biopsychiatric Frankenmaniacs who believes character is all a matter of serotonin and dopamines.”
“Which of your sons called you?”
“The opium fiend, who else?”
“Peter?”
“Selfsame.”
“Where’d he call from?”
“How would I know? My girl took it. And don’t try arraigning me at the Tribunal of Ruined Progeny. Guilt may be your stock in trade, but it’s not my currency. I’ll see you not tomorrow but the day after. An hour at the most, significantly less if you annoy me. You’ll come to me; I don’t travel.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t talk to you without Lucy’s permission.”
“What?” He laughed so loud I had to move the phone away from my ear. “Bedlam is the New Olympus? The lunatics rule the asylum? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Confidentiality, Mr. Lowell.”
“There are no secrets, boy. Not in the massage-message age. McLuhan’s books are a shitbin—furor loquendi—but it’s true we’re all staring up each other’s assholes. . . . Very well, you’ve lost your chance. Salaam, as the Arabs say, to hell with everyone.”
“If Lucy does consent, I would like the opportunity to talk to you. May I call you back?”
“May you?” He laughed again. “At your own risk. You may also pass Go or eat raw fish with the Japs or take three baby steps or fuck yourself with a garden tool.”
Robin and I had dinner out on the deck. The tide had whipped the sand like cream, and the beach at twilight was a graying plane of peaks and troughs. I couldn’t stop thinking of my conversation with Lowell.
Had he missed a dose of lithium, or was he cultivating nuttiness for attention?
He probably didn’t get much attention anymore.
Why had he called? His offer to provide insights was almost comical.
The opium eater. The hunch about Peter confirmed.
Maybe a shattered career and old age had finally caused Lowell to survey the ruins of his family.
One child dead, the other three estranged.
An addict, an attempted suicide. . . .
Ken seemed a nice enough fellow, but his antipathy for his father was right on the surface.
“What’s on your mind, honey?” said Robin.
“Nothing much.”
She smiled and let her hand rest on my bicep. I tried to chase away clinical thoughts and turned to her. A trace of color remained in the sky—a paint smear of salmon, capping the sinking sun. It played on the auburn in her hair and made her eyes coppery and catlike.
“Still at work?” she said, stroking.
“No more.”
I drew her to me and kissed her deeply. Her tongue lingered in my mouth.
“Carpe foxum,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Seize the babe.”
CHAPTER
17
Despite a decent night’s sleep, my first thought upon waking was: Lucy’s out of the hospital.
I wasn’t happy with the idea of her trying to make it on her own. But if I pushed she’d probably back away, so I decided to give her till noon before calling.
In the meantime, I’d catch Milo up on what Doris Reingold had told me.
He hadn’t come into the station yet and no one picked up at his home. I called the business number he used for his private moonlighting and the tape answered: “Blue Investigations.” I left a message.
It was just after nine; Robin and Spike had been gone for over an hour. I drove to the market at Trancas and bought groceries, thinking about all the places off the highway where a girl could disappear. Just as I got home, Milo phoned.
“I’m at Lucy’s place. Can you come out right now?”