Flesh and Blood (5 page)

No reason at all for me to feel I'd failed, and I told myself I felt comfortable with that. But as the afternoon grayed Lauren's disappearance continued to chew at me. Just after two P.M. I left the house, gunned the Seville down the glen to Sunset, and headed east, through Beverly Hills and the Strip, to the roller-coaster ramp that was the crest of La Cienega. Catching Third just past the Beverly Center, I picked up Sixth at Crescent Heights and cruised past the tar pits. Plaster mastodons reared, and groups of schoolkids gawked. They pull bones out of the pits daily. One of L.A.'s premier tourist spots is an infinite graveyard.

Lauren's apartment on Hauser sat midway between Sixth and Wilshire, a putty-colored six-unit box old enough for fire escapes. I made my way up a chunky cement path to a glass door fronted by wrought-iron fettuccine. Through the glass: dim hallway and dark carpeting. A column of name slots and call buttons listed TEAGUE/SALANDER in apartment 4.

I pressed the button, was surprised to be buzzed in immediately. The hallway smelled of beef stew and laundry detergent. The carpeting was an ancient wool—flamingo-colored leaf forms over mud brown, once pricey, now heeled and toed to the burlap. Mahogany doors had been restained streaky and lacquered too thickly. No music or conversation leaked from behind any of them. A flight of chipped terra-cotta steps at the rear of the building took me upstairs.

Unit 4 faced the street. I knocked, and the door opened before my fist lowered. A young man holding a white washcloth stared out at me.

Five-six, one-thirty, fair-haired and frail-looking, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, very blue jeans cinched by a black leather belt, black lace-up boots. A heavy silver chain looped a front jeans pocket.

"Oh. I thought you were ..." Breathy-voiced, pitched high.

"Someone else," I said. "Sorry if I'm interrupting. My name's Alex Delaware."

No recognition in the wide, hazel eyes, just residual surprise. The fair hair was dun tipped with yellow, clipped nearly to the skull. Zero body fat, but what was left was string, not bulk. Tiny gold ring in his right earlobe. A tattoo—"Don't Panic" in elaborate blue-black script—capped his left shoulder. A band of thorns in the same hue circled his right biceps. He looked to be around Lauren's age, had the round, unlined face, pink cheeks, and arched brows of an indulged child. As he looked me up and down, surprise began to give way to suspicion. He clenched the washcloth, and his head drew back.

"I'm an old acquaintance of Lauren's," I said. "One of her doctors, actually. Her mother called me, concerned because she hasn't heard from Lauren for a week—"

"One of her doctors? Oh . . . the psychologist—yes, she told me about you. I remember your name was one of the states—are you Native American?"

"Kind of a mongrel."

He smiled, pulled at the silver chain, produced a saucer-sized pocket watch. "My God, it's two-forty!" Another eye rub. "I was catching a nap, heard the bell, thought it was three-forty, and jolted up."

"Sorry for waking you."

He let the washcloth unfurl, waved it in a tight little arc. "Oh, don't apologize, you did me a favor. I have ... an old friend dropping by, need the time to pull myself together." A hip cocked. "Now, why are we having this conversation out in the hall" A bony arm shot forward. His grip was iron. "Andrew Salander—I'm Lauren's roomie."

He swung the door wide open, stepped aside, and let me into a large parlor with a high, cross-beamed ceiling. Heavy ruby-and-gold brocade drapes sealed the windows and plunged the space into gloom. New smells blew toward me: cologne, incense, the suggestion of fried eggs.

"Let there be light," said Andrew Salander as he rushed over and yanked the curtains open. A cigar of downtown smog hovered above the rooftops of the buildings across the street. Exposed, the living room walls were lemon yellow topped by gilded moldings. The cross-beams were gilded as well; someone had taken the time to hand-leaf. French cigarette prints, insipid old seascapes in decaying frames, and frayed samplers coexisted in improbable alliance on the walls. Deco and Victorian and tubular-legged moderne furniture formed a cluttered liaison. A close look suggested thrift-shop treasures. A keen eye had made it all work.

Salander said, "So Mrs. A called you. Me, too. Three times in as many days. At first I thought she was being menopausal, but it has been six-plus days, and now Fm starting to get concerned about Lo myself."

He pulled a tattered silk throw off a sagging olive velvet divan and said, "Please. Sit. Excuse the squalor. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No thanks. It's far from squalid."

"Oh, please." A hand waved. "Work in progress and very little progress at work—Lo and I have been going at this since I moved in. Sundays at the Rose Bowl Swap Meet, Western Avenue, once in a while you can still find something reasonable on La Brea. The problem is neither of us has time to really give it our all. But at least it's habitable. When Lo lived hereby herself, it was utterly bare—I thought she was one of those people with no eye, no artistic sense. Turns out she has fabulous taste—it just needed to be brought out."

"How long have you been rooming together?"

"Six months," he said. "I was in the building already—downstairs in Number Two." He frowned, sat on a mock-leopard-skin ottoman, crossed his legs. "Month to month, I was supposed to move out to ... Then things changed, as they so often do, and the landlord leased my space to someone else and suddenly I found myself without hearth or home. Lo and I had always had a good rapport—we used to chat at the laundromat, she's easy to talk to. When she found out I was stuck, she invited me to move in. At first, I refused—charity's one of many things I don't do. But she finally convinced me two bedrooms were too much for her and I could share the rent."

A fingertip grazed a plucked eyebrow. "To be honest, I wanted to be convinced. Being alone's so ... dark. I hadn't . . . And Lo's a wonderful person—and now she's flown off somewhere. Dr. Delaware, do we need to worry? I really don't want to worry, but I must admit, I am bothered."

"Lauren didn't give a clue where she was going?"

"No, and she didn't take her car—it's parked in her space out back. So maybe she did fly off—literally. It's not as if she's a Greyhound girl. Nothing slow suits her, she works like a demon—studying, doing research."

"Research at the U?"

"Uh-huh."

"On what?"

"She never told me, just said that between her classes and research job she had a full plate. You think that's what might've taken her somewhere—the job?"

"Maybe," I said. "No idea who she worked for?"

Salander shook his head. "We're chums and all that, but Lo goes her way and I go mine. Different biorhythms. She's a morning lark, I'm a night owl. Perfect arrangement—she's bright and chirpy for classes and I'm coherent when the time rolls around for my work. By the time I wake up, she's usually gone. That's why it took a couple of days to realize her bed hadn't been slept in." He shifted uncomfortably. "Our bedrooms are our private space, but Mrs. A sounded so anxious that I did agree to peek in."

"The right thing to do," I said.

"I hope."

"What kind of work do you do, Mr. Salander?"

"Andrew. Advanced mixology." He smiled. "I tend bar at The Cloisters. It's a saloon in West Hollywood."

Milo and Rick sometimes drank at The Cloisters. "I know the place."

His brows climbed higher. "Do you. So why haven't I seen you before?"

"I've driven by."

"Ah," he said. "Well my Bombay martinis are works of art, so feel free to breeze in." His face grew grim. "Listen to me, Lauren's gone and I'm sitting here prattling— No, Doctor, she never gave me a clue as to where she was headed. But till Mrs. A called I can't say I was ready to panic. Lauren did go away from time to time."

"For a week?"

He frowned. "No, one or two nights. Weekends."

"How often?"

"Maybe every two months, every six weeks—I can't really recall."

"Where'dshego?"

"One time she told me she spent some time at the beach. Malibu."

"By herself?"

He nodded. "She said she rented a motel room, needed some time to decompress, and the sound of the ocean was peaceful. As for the other times, I don't know."

"Those weekends, did she usually take her car?"

"Yes, always. ... So this is different, isn't it?" He rubbed his armband tattoo, wincing as if the art were new, the pain fresh. "Do you really think something's wrong?"

"I don't know enough to think anything. But Mrs. Abbot seems to be worrying."

"Maybe Mrs. A's getting us all overwrought. The way mothers do."

"Have you met her?"

"Only once, a while back—two, three months ago. She came to take Lo out to lunch and we chatted briefly while Lo got ready. I thought she was nice enough but rather Pasadena, if you know what I mean. Coordinated ensemble, several cracks past brittle. I saw her as a perfect fiftiesperson—someone who'd drive a Chrysler Imperial with all the trimmings and pile the backseat full of Bullocks Wilshire shopping bags."

"Conservative," I said.

"Staid," he said. "Theatrically sad. One of those women fighting the future with mascara and matching shoes and tiny sandwiches with the crust trimmed."

"Doesn't sound like Lauren."

"Hardly. Lauren is tres natural. Unaffected." The washcloth was wadded once more. "I'm sure she's fine. She has to be fine." He sighed, massaged the tattoo some more.

I said, "So the time you met Mrs. Abbot, she and Lauren went out to lunch."

"Long lunch—must've been three hours. Lo came back alone, and she didn't look as if she'd had fun."

"Upset?"

"Upset and distracted—as if she'd been hit on the head. I suspected something emotional had gone on, so I fixed her a gimlet the way she likes it and asked if she wanted to talk about it. She kissed me here"—he touched a rosy cheek—"said it wasn't important. But then she drank every drop of that gimlet and I just sat there emitting that I'm-ready-to-listen vibe—it's what I do, after all—and she—" He stopped. "Should I be telling you this?"

"I'm beyond discreet," I said. "Because of what I do."

"I suppose. And Lauren did say she liked you. ... All right, it's nothing sordid, anyway. She simply told me she'd spent her childhood fighting not to be controlled, had made her own way in the world, and now her mother was trying to do the same old thing, again."

"Control her."

He nodded.

"Did she say how?"

"No— I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm just not comfortable flapping my trap. There's nothing more to say, anyway. That's the entire kit and caboodle."

I smiled at him. Didn't budge.

He said, "Really, I've told you everything—and only because I know Lo liked you. She came across your name in the paper, some kind of police case, said, 'Hey, Andrew, I knew this guy. He tried to straighten meout.' I made some remark—how it obviously hadn't taken. She thought that was runny, said maybe it was patients like her who'd driven you to quit doing therapy and work with the cops. I"— his cheeks flamed—"I made some crack about shrinks being more screwed up than their patients, asked if you were . . . like that. She said no, you seemed pretty . . . I think conventional was the word she used. I said, how boring, and she said no, sometimes conventional was exactly what you needed. That she'd screwed up, not making good use of her therapy, but looking back it had all been a setup anyway."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"She realized that her parents had set her up to rebel. Tried to use you as a weapon against her, but you hadn't gotten sucked into their game, you had integrity— You're sure I can't get you a drink?"

My throat had gone dry. "A Coke would be fine."

He laughed. "The soft stuff? Recovering juice fiend?"

"No, it's just a bit early for me."

"Trust me, it's never too early. But all right, one cola-bean juice, coming up pronto. Lemon or lime?"

"Lime."

He hurried into the kitchen, returned with a tall drink on ice and a glass of white wine for himself. Settling back down, he rested one elbow on a knee, placed his chin in a cupped palm, stared into my eyes.

I said, "So Lauren felt her mother was trying to control her but she didn't say how."

"And the next day she was going about her business with nary a mention of mama. Truth is, I don't think Mrs. A looms large in her life. She's been on her own for years. And that's absolutely all I can tell you about her family dynamics, so drink up." He drew out the pocket watch.

"Your friend," I said.

He flinched. "Yes."

"Does Lauren have any friends I could talk to?"

"No."

"No one at all?"

"Not a one. She doesn't date, nor does she chum around with the girls. We're both social isolates, Doctor. Yet another tie that binds."

"The night owl and the morning lark," I said.

"Makes for a cozy little aviary—this is absolutely the best living ar-rangement I've ever had. Lauren's a living doll and I simply insist that she be okay. Now, if you'd like, I can pour that drink into styrofoam and you can take it to go—"

As charming a dismissal as I'd encountered. Placing the drink on a side table, I stood. "Just a few more questions. Mrs. A said Lauren didn't pack a suitcase."

"I told her that," he said. "I know every item in Lauren's wardrobe— She has luscious things. After I moved in I organized her closet. She owns two pieces of luggage—a pair of vintage Samsonites we picked up for a prayer at the Santa Monica flea market, and they're both here. So is her backpack from school. And her books. So she must be planning to return."

He began to sip wine, stopped himself. "That isn't good, is it? Running off without luggage."

"Not unless Lauren's the impulsive type."

"Impulsive as in meet someone hot and fly off to Cuernavaca? That would be nice." He sounded doubtful.

"But unlikely."

"Well," said Salander. "I just don't think that's Lo— If she'd fallen in love, I'd have known. She was a creature of routine: got up, jogged, went to class, studied, went to sleep, got up and did the same thing all over again. To tell the truth, she was a bit of a grind."