The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,79
If my damn head explodes, duck.”
* * *
—
Dealing with my best friend can be like doing therapy. What you don’t say matters more than what you do so I kept my mouth shut.
We’d just merged onto the 405 South before he spoke again, droning at a low volume.
“The kid’s from Iowa. So what, I talk to the parents? It’s telephonic, talk about hampering my charm. Even if I could fly out there and meet them face-to-face, what the hell would I say? The daughter who destroyed your lives by ending hers—accidentally—was maybe spurred on to shoot herself up, or better yet murdered by some power-hungry psychopath who’d already had his way with her and convinced her to wear Lycra? Not that I know this for a fact or have anything resembling evidence in that regard, Mr. and Mrs Booker. It’s just one of those detective feelings. So I thought I’d share.”
I said nothing.
He said, “You’re the shrink. Can it be done with greater sensitivity?”
“Not that I can see.”
“So I just stash this morsel away.”
I said, “I’d look for a link between Suzanne and Cassy.”
“A habitually lying stripper and a nineteen-year-old Iowa girl? Only link I can see is The Brain somehow knew both of them and right now, he’s arm in arm with his honey sucking on a cone of gelato.”
“I’ll keep trying with Maxine, see if she can learn more about the DIY program, even confirm a relationship between Cassy and Amanda. You were talking about surveilling Amanda. Maybe now would be a good time.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Definitely.”
CHAPTER
31
He stopped in front of my house, keeping the engine running. “Gonna set up the watch schedule for tonight, maybe I’ll get lucky and catch Mandy doing something bad. Have a nice rest-of-the-day.”
Before I could answer, he’d sped away.
* * *
—
Robin’s Post-it was stuck to the inside of the front door. Out delivering a Baroque lute to a rock musician in Pacific Palisades who didn’t play Baroque music or the lute. (“Took Blanchie. I need intelligent conversation.”)
I went to my office and tried Maxine Driver again.
She said, “You are persistent. I was just about to text you, good, this saves my fingernails. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to report. I made all the calls I could think of without arousing suspicion. Got a general sense that no one wants to talk about the program.”
“The suicide?”
“I was told it just didn’t work, kids dropped out. What I did manage to pry out is that it wasn’t a touchie-feelie group thing. No meetings of all the kids, just individual mentoring when requested.”
I said, “When requested. Sounds like a loose setup.”
“That was the point, another do-your-own-thing. That’s the way it is nowadays, Alex. Too much structure’s a no-no because if you offend the little bastards they slime you on Yelp, you might as well be a sushi bar or a shoe store. You’d expect administration to back up the faculty. You’d be wrong. They read the ratings and get all antsy about fewer applications leading to a lower rating in U.S. News leading to Academic Armageddon.”
I said, “Toddlers running the nursery.”
“Except toddlers are cute. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Who mentored these tots?”
“Outside advisors.”
“Not regular faculty?”
“Nope.”
“Academics from other colleges?”
“No idea, Alex. For all I know they used volunteer alumni. The program only lasted two quarters, which in postmodern, ADHD college terms means it never happened.”
I said, “Poor you, Maxine. Short attention spans must be tough for a historian.”
“It’s death on wheels. I mention Darfur I get blank looks. I talk about socialism and the little darlings think it means a lot of likes on Facebook and Instagram.”
“Thanks, Maxine.”
“Wish there was something to thank me for. Any progress at your end?”
“We got a victim I.D. but it could be false. Suzanne DaCosta. Please tell me she sat in your class next to Amanda.”
She laughed. “Want me to see if she was ever enrolled here?”
“If you could.”
“Easy-peasy,” she said. “Compared with all that CIA attitude I get when I ask about that stupid program.”
* * *
—
I phoned Robin.
She said, “On the way home, sitting on Sunset near the Archer School. Two blocked lanes, guys in orange vests and hard hats standing around near big machines looking way too mellow.”
A couple of miles west of the Glen. “ETA?”
“At least half an hour.”
I groaned.
She said, “Exactly. I thought I’d cook but now I don’t feel like it. Let’s go out.”