Bad Love (25 page)

No death notice on her, either.

So maybe I was working myself up for nothing.

I thought of another possible way to locate addresses — bylines in scientific publications. The
Index Medicus
and
Psychological Abstracts
revealed that Katarina had coauthored a couple of articles with her father, but nothing since his death. One of them had to do with child rearing and contained a reference to “bad love”:

The process of mother-child bonding forms the foundation for all intimate relationships, and disruptions in this process plant the seed of psychopathology in later life. Good love — the nurturant, altruistic, psychosocial “suckling” by the mother/parenting figure, contributes to the child’s sense of security and, hence, molds his ability to form stable attachments. Bad love — the abuse of parental authority — creates cynicism, alienation, hostility, and, in the worst cases, violent acting-out that is the child’s attempt to seek retribution from the breast that has failed him.

Retribution. The abuse of parental authority. Someone had been failed. Someone was seeking revenge.

I checked for articles by Harrison and Rosenblatt. Neither had published a word.

No great surprise, most practitioners never get into print. But it still seemed odd that I couldn’t locate any of them.

One therapist to go: the social worker, Mitchell Lerner.

He’d been last counted a member in good standing of the national social work organization six years ago. I made a note of his office address on Laurel Canyon and the accompanying phone number. BA from Cal State Northridge, MSW from Berkeley, clinical training at San Francisco General Hospital, followed by two years as a staff social worker at the Corrective School.

Another disciple. Under specialties he’d listed family therapy and substance abuse.

Not hoping for much, I took the stairs back up to the stacks and pulled out six- and seven-year-old bound volumes of the social work journal.

No obits on him either, but a paragraph headed “Suspensions” just below the death notices in a December issue caught my eye. A list followed. Thirteen clinical social workers dropped by the organization because of ethics violations. Dead center among the names, “Lerner, Mitchell A.”

No details were given about his or any of the others’ sins. The State Board of Behavioral Science Examiners was closed for the weekend, so I jotted down the date he’d been expelled and made a note to call first thing Monday morning.

Figuring I’d learned as much as I could from books, I left the library. Back at the house on Benedict, Robin was working and the dog looked bored. He followed me into the house and slavered as I fixed myself a sandwich. I did some paperwork and shared my lunch with him, and he tagged along as I walked outside to the Seville.

“Where to?” said Robin.

“The house. I want to make sure the fish get transferred okay.”

She gave a doubtful look but said nothing.

“There’ll be plenty of people around,” I said.

She nodded and looked over at the car. The dog was pawing the front bumper. It made her smile.

“Someone’s in a traveling mood. Why don’t you take him along?”

“Sure, but pond drainage isn’t his thing — the water phobia.”

“Why don’t you try some therapy with him?”

“Why not?” I said. “This could be the start of a whole new career.”

The four-man crew had arrived early, and when I got there the pond was half empty, the waterfall switched off, and the fish transferred to aerated, blue vats that sat in the bed of a pickup truck. Workers uprooted plants and bagged them, shoveled gravel, and checked the air lines to the vats.

I checked in with the crew boss, a skinny brown kid with blond Rasta locks and a dyed white chin beard. The dog kept his distance, but followed me as I went up to the terrace to pick up two days’ worth of mail.

Lots of stuff, most of it routine. The exception was a long white envelope.

Cheap paper that I’d seen before.

SHERMAN BUCKLEAR, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
above a return address in Simi Valley.

Inside was a letter informing me that Petitioner Donald Dell Wallace had good reason to believe that I had knowledge of the whereabouts of said petitioner’s legal offspring, Chondra Nicolette Wallace and Tiffani Starr Wallace and was demanding that I pass along said information to said petitioner’s attorney, without delay, so that said petitioner’s legal rights would not be abridged.

The rest consisted of threats in legalese. I put the letter back in the envelope and pocketed it. The dog was scratching at the front door.

“Nostalgic already?” I unlocked the door and he ran ahead of me, straight into the kitchen. Straight to the refrigerator.

Milo’s spiritual son.

Scratch, scratch, pant, pant.

I realized that, in all the haste of moving, I’d forgotten to remove the perishables from the fridge.

I did a quick visual survey of the shelves, spilled out milk and dumped cheese that had turned and fruit that was beginning to brown. Putting the unspoiled food in a bag, I thought of the people under the freeway.

Some meatloaf remained in a plastic container. It smelled okay and the dog looked as if he’d seen the messiah.

“Okay, okay.” I put it in a bowl and set it down before him, bagged the good fruits and vegetables and brought them down to the car.

The pond crew was finishing up. The koi in the truck all seemed to be swimming fine.

The crew boss said, “Okay, we’ve got the sump running, it’ll take another hour or so to drain off. You want us to wait, we can, but you’re paying us by the hour, so you can stick around and turn it off yourself.”

“No problem,” I said, glancing at the truck. “Take care of them.”

“Sure. When do you think you’ll be wanting ’em back?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Some kind of long vacation?”

“Something like that.”

“Cool.” He handed me a bill and got behind the wheel of the truck. A moment later, they were gone and all I heard was the slow gurgle of draining water.

I sat down on the bank of what was now a muddy hole, waiting and watching the level drop. The heat and the quiet combined to lull me, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d been there when someone said, “Hey.”

I jerked up, groggily.

A man stood in the gateway, holding a tire iron.

Late twenties or early thirties, heavy growth of dark stubble, thick black Fu Manchu that drooped to his chin.

He had on greasy jeans and Wellington boots with chains, a black T-shirt under a heavy black leather vest. Black, thinning hair, gold hoop earring, steel chains around his neck. Big tattooed arms. Big, hard belly, bowlegs. Maybe six one, two hundred.

Red-rimmed eyes.

At Sunny’s Sun Valley, next door to Rodriguez’s masonry yard, he’d been wearing a black cap that said
CAT.

The muscular guy at the bar who hadn’t said much.

He whistled once and came closer. Let one hand drop from the iron. Lowered the metal, swung it parallel to his leg in a slow, small arc and came a few steps closer. Looked at my face. His wore a slow, lazy smile of recognition.

“Retaining wall, huh?”

“What do you want?”

“Donald’s kids, man.” Deep slurry voice. He sounded as if he’d come straight from the bar.

“They’re not here.”

“Where, man?”

“I don’t know.”

The iron arc widened.

I said, “Why would I know?”

“You were lookin’ for the little brown brother, man. Maybe you found him.”

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe you
did
, man.” Stepping forward. Just a few feet away, now. Lots of missing teeth. Mustache clogged with dandruff. An angry pus pimple had erupted under his left eye. The tattoos were badly done, a green-blue riot of female torsos, bloody blades, and Gothic lettering.

I said, “I already got a letter from Wallace’s lawyer—”

“Fuck
that
.” He came within swinging range, smelling like the bottom of a clothes hamper that needed emptying.

I backed up. Not much room to maneuver. Behind me was shrubbery — hedges and the maple tree whose branch had been used to skewer the koi.

“You’re not helping Donald Dell,” I said. “This won’t look good for him.”

“Who gives a fuck, man? You’re off the case.”

He swung the iron listlessly, pointing downward and hitting the dirt. Looking at the pond just for a second, then back at me. I searched the area for possible weapons.

Slim pickings: oversized polyethylene bags left behind by the pond crew. Lengths of rubber hosing. A couple of sheets of scummy filter screen. Maybe the koi net. Six feet of stout oak handle below a steel-mesh cup — but it was out of reach.

“Since when?” I said.

“What?”

“Since when am I off the case?”

“Since we said so, man.”

“The Iron Priests?”

“Where’re the kids, man?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

He shook his head and advanced. “Don’t get hurt over it, man. It’s just a job, what the fuck.”

“You like fish?” I said.

“Huh?”

“Fish. Finny creatures. Seafood. Piscinoids.”

“Hey, ma—”

“You like to sneak around, spearing ’em? Breaking branches off trees and doing the old rotisserie bit?”

“What?”

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Sportfishing carp, you sick fuck.”

Confusion tugged at his face, zipping it up into something peevish and tight and offering a hint of what he’d look like on the off-chance he made it to old age. Then anger took its place — a brattish resentment — and he lifted the iron and took a poke at my middle.

I danced away.

“Hey,” he said, annoyed. He jabbed again, missed. Sloshed, but not enough to stagger, and there was force in his movements. “Here, chickie chick.” He laughed.

I kept moving away from his blows, managed to get up on the rock rim of the pond. The stones were slick with algae and I used my arms for balance. That made him laugh some more. He shouted, came after me, clumsy and slow. Caught up in the game as if it were what he’d come for.

He began making barnyard clucks.

I split my focus between the iron and his eyes. Readying myself for the chance to use surprise and his own weight against him. If I missed, my hand would get shattered.

“Boom, boom, boom,” he said. “Chickie-chick.”

“C’mon, stupid,” I said.

His face puffed up and reddened. Two-handing the iron, he made a sudden swing for my knees.

I jumped back, stumbled, pitched forward onto the pond rim, breaking my fall with my palms.

The iron landed on rock and clanged. He raised it high over his head.

The next sounds came from behind him.

Deep bark.

Angry snorts.

He wheeled toward them, holding the iron in front of his own chest in instinctive defense. Just in time to see the bulldog racing toward him, a little black bullet, its teeth bared in a pearly grimace.

Just in time for me to spring to my feet and throw my arms around his front.

Not enough force to knock him over, but I got my hands on the ends of the iron and slammed it hard into his rib cage. Something cracked.

He said, “Ohh,” sounding curiously girlish. Buckled. Bent.

The dog was on him now, fixing his teeth on denim leg, shaking his head from side to side, growling and spraying spit.

The man’s back was pushing against me. I pressed up on the iron, sharply, forcing it under his chin. Got it against his Adam’s apple and pulled in steadily until he made gagging noises and started to loosen his grip.

I held on. Finally, he dropped his arms and let his full weight fall against me. Struggling to remain on my feet, I let him sink to the ground, hoping I hadn’t destroyed his larynx but not torturing myself over it.

The dog stayed on him, grunting and eating denim.

The man sank to the dirt. I felt for a pulse. Nice and steady, and he was already starting to move and groan.

I looked for something to bind him. The polyethylene bags. Telling the dog, “Stay,” I ran to get them. I tied them together, managed to fashion two thick, plastic ropes and used one to secure his hands behind his back, the other his legs.

The dog had stepped back to watch me, head cocked. I said, “You did great, Spike, but you don’t get to eat this one. How about sirloin instead — it’s higher grade.”

The man opened his eyes. Tried to speak but produced only a retching cough. The front of his neck was swollen, and a deep blue bruise that matched his tattooes was starting to blossom.

The dog padded over to him.

The man’s eyes sparked. He turned his head away and grimaced in pain.

I said, “Stay, Spike. No blood.”

The dog looked up at me with soft eyes that I hoped wouldn’t betray him.

The man coughed and choked.

The dog’s nostrils opened and shut. Saliva dripped from his maw and he growled.

“Good boy, Spike,” I said. “Watch him for a sec, and if he gives you any problems, you’re allowed to rip out his throat for an appetizer.”

“What an idiot,” said Milo, putting his notepad away. “His name’s Hurley Keffler and he’s got a sheet, but not much of one. More of a bad guy wannabee. We found his bike parked down the road. He claims he wasn’t stalking you, got here just as the pond people drove away and decided to have a talk.”

“Just one of those impulsive weekend jaunts, huh?”

“Yeah.”

We were up on the landing, watching the police cars drive away. The dog watched, too, sticking his flat face through the slats of the railing, ears pricked.

“I found a letter from the Wallaces’ lawyer in my mailbox,” I said. “He wanted to know where the girls were and threatened me with legal action if I didn’t tell him. Looks like the Priests decided not to wait.”

“It might not be an official Priest mission,” he said. “Just Keffler having a few too many and deciding to improvise. His dinky record, he’s probably low man in the gang, trying to impress the hairy brothers.”

“What are you booking him on?”