When the Bough Breaks (18 page)

“I have no idea. I’m trying to tell you—I kept out of it.” An edge crept into her voice and I retreated.

“She started out as his patient. Do you have any idea why she went to a psychiatrist in the first place?”

“She said she was depressed.”

“You don’t think she was?”

“It’s hard to tell with some people. When I get depressed everyone knows about it. I withdraw, don’t want anything to do with anybody. It’s like I shrink, crawl into myself. With Elena, who knows? It’s not like she had trouble eating or sleeping. She would just get a little quiet.”

“But she said she was depressed?”

“Not until after she told me she was seeing Handler—after I asked her why. She said she was feeling down, the work was getting to her. I tried to help but she said she needed more. I was never a big fan of psychiatrists and psychologists.” She smiled apologetically. “If you have friends and family you should be able to work it out.”

“If that’s enough, great. Sometimes it’s like she said, Raquel. You need more.”

She put out her cigarette.

“Well, I suppose it’s fortunate for you that many people agree with that.”

“I suppose so.”

There was an awkward silence. I broke it.

“Did he prescribe any medication for her?”

“Not as far as I know. Just talked to her. She went to see him weekly, and then twice a week after one of her students died. Then she was obviously depressed—cried for days.”

“When was this?”

“Let me see, it was pretty soon after she started going to Handler, maybe after they were already dating—I don’t know. About eight months ago.”

“How did it happen?”

“Accident. Hit-and-run. The kid was walking along a dark road at night and a car hit him. It destroyed her. She’d been working with him for months. He was one of her miracles. Everyone thought he was mute. Elena got him to talk.” She shook her head. “A miracle. And then to have it all go down the drain like that. So meaningless.”

“The parents must have been shattered.”

“No. There were no parents. He was an orphan. He came from La Casa.”

“La Casa de los Niños? In Malibu Canyon?”

“Sure. Why the surprise? They contract with us to provide special education to some of their kids. They do it with several of the local schools. It’s part of a state-funded project or something. To mainstream children without families into the community.”

“No surprise,” I lied. “It just seems so sad for something like that to happen to an orphan.”

“Yes. Life is unfair.” The declaration seemed to give her satisfaction.

She looked at her watch.

“Anything more? I’ve got to get back.”

“Just one. Do you recall the name of the child who died?”

“Nemeth. Cary or Corey. Something like that.”

“Thanks for your time. You’ve been helpful.”

“Have I? I don’t see how. But I’m glad if it brings you closer to that monster.”

She had a concrete vision of the murderer that Milo would have envied.

We drove back to the school and I walked her to her car.

“Okay,” she said.

“Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome. If you have more questions you can come back.” It was as forward as she was going to get—for her the equivalent of asking me over to her place. It made me sad, knowing there was nothing I could do for her.

“I will.”

She smiled and held out her hand. I took it, careful not to hold on for too long.

14

I’
VE NEVER BEEN
a big believer in coincidence. I suppose it’s because the notion of life being governed by the random collision of molecules in space cuts at the heart of my professional identity. After all, why spend all those years learning how to help people change when deliberate change is just an illusion? But even if I had been willing to give the Fates their due, it would have been hard to see as coincidence the fact that Cary or Corey Nemeth (deceased), a student of Elena Gutierrez (deceased), had been a resident of the same institution where Maurice Bruno (deceased) had volunteered.

It was time to learn more about La Casa de los Niños.

I went home and searched through the cardboard boxes I had stored in the garage since dropping out, until I found my old office Rolodex. I located Olivia Brickerman’s number at the Department of Social Services and dialed it. A social worker for thirty years, Olivia knew more about agencies than anyone in the city.

A recording answered the phone and told me D.P.S.S.’s number had been changed. I dialed the new number and another recording told me to wait. A tape of Barry Manilow came on the line. I wondered if the city paid him royalties. Music to wait for your caseworker by.

“D.P.S.S.”

“Mrs. Brickerman, please.”

“One moment, sir.” Two more minutes of Manilow. Then: “She’s no longer with this office.”

“Can you please tell me where I can locate her?”

“One moment.” I was informed, once again, who wrote the music that made the whole world sing. “Mrs. Brickerman is now at the Santa Monica Psychiatric Medical Group.”

So Olivia had finally left the public domain.

“Do you have that number?”

“One moment, sir.”

“Thanks anyway.” I hung up and consulted the Yellow Pages under Mental Health Services. The number belonged to an address on Broadway where Santa Monica approached Venice, not far from Robin’s studio. I called it.

“S.M.P.M.G.”

“Mrs. Olivia Brickerman, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Dr. Delaware.”

“One moment.” The line was silent. Apparently the utility of phone-hold Muzak hadn’t become apparent to S.M.P.M.G.

“Alex! How are you?”

“Fine, Olivia, and you?”

“Wonderful, wonderful. I thought you were somewhere in the Himalayas.”

“Why’s that?”

“Isn’t that where people go when they want to find themselves—somewhere cold with no oxygen and a little old man with a beard sitting on top of a mountain munching on twigs and reading
People
magazine?”

“That was the sixties, Olivia. In the eighties you stay home and soak in hot water.”

“Ha!”

“How’s Al?”

“His usual extroverted self. He was hunched over the board when I left this morning, muttering something about the Pakistani defense or some such
naarisbkeit
.”

Her husband, Albert D. Brickerman, was the chess editor for the
Times
. In the five years I’d known him I hadn’t heard him utter a dozen words in a row. It was difficult to imagine what he and Olivia, Miss Sociability of 1930 through ’80, had in common. But they’d been married thirty-seven years, had raised four children, and seemed content with each other.

“So you finally left D.P.S.S.”

“Yes, can you believe it? Even barnacles can be dislodged!”

“What led to such an impulsive move?”

“I tell you, Alex, I would have stayed. Sure the system stank—what system doesn’t? But I was used to it, like a wart. I like to think I was still doing a good job—though I tell you, the stories got sadder and longer. Such misery. And with cuts in funding the people would get less and less—and madder and madder. They took it out on the caseworkers. We had a girl stabbed in the downtown office. Now there’re armed guards in every office. But what the hell, I was brought up in
New York. Then my nephew, my sister’s boy, Steve, he finished medical school and decided to become a psychiatrist—can you believe that, another mental health person in the family? His father’s a surgeon and that was the safest way for him to rebel. Anyway, he’s always been very close to me and it’s been a running joke that when he goes into practice he was going to rescue Aunt Livvy from D.P.S.S. and take her into his office. And would you believe he took me up on it? Writes me a letter, tells me he’s coming out to California and joining a group, and they need a social worker for intakes and short-term counseling, would I like to do it? So here I am, with a view of the beach, working for little Stevie—of course I don’t call him that in front of other people.”

“That’s great, Olivia. You sound happy.”

“I am. I go down to the beach for lunch, read a book, get tan. After twenty-two years I finally feel like I’ve living in California. Maybe I’ll take up roller-skating, huh?”

The image of Olivia, who was built somewhat like Alfred Hitchcock, whizzing by on skates, made me laugh.

“Ah, you scoff now. Just wait!” She chuckled. “Now, enough autobiography. What can I do for you?”

“I need some information on a place called La Casa de los Niños, in Malibu.”

“McCaffrey’s place? You thinking of sending someone there?”

“No. It’s a long story.”

“Listen, if it’s that long why don’t you give me a chance to dig in my files? Come over to the house tonight and I’ll give it to you in person. I’ll be baking and Albert will be meditating over the board. We haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“What are you baking?”

“Strudel, pirogis, fudge brownies.”

“I’ll be over. What time?”

“Eightish. You remember the place?”

“It hasn’t been that long, Olivia.”

“It’s been twice as long. Listen, I don’t want to be a yenta, but if you don’t have a girlfriend there’s a young lady—also a psychologist—who just came to work here. Very cute. The two of you would have brilliant children.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got someone.”

“Terrific. Bring her along.”

The Brickermans lived on Hayworth, not far from the Fairfax district, in a small beige stucco house with Spanish tile roof. Olivia’s mammoth Chrysler was parked in the driveway.

“What am I doing here, Alex?” Robin asked as we approached the front door.

“Do you like chess?”

“Don’t know how to play.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is one house where you don’t have to be concerned about what to say. You’ll be lucky if you get a chance to talk. Eat brownies. Enjoy yourself.”

I gave her a kiss and rang the doorbell.

Olivia answered it. She looked the same—maybe a few pounds heavier—her hair a hennaed frizz, her face rosy-cheeked and open. She was wearing a shift, a Hawaiian print, and ripples went through it as she laughed. She spread her hands and hugged me to a bosom the size and consistency of a small sofa.

“Alex!” She released me and held me at arm’s length. “No more beard—you used to resemble D.H. Lawrence. Now you look like a graduate student.” She turned and smiled at Robin. I introduced them.

“Pleased to meet you. You’re very lucky, he’s a darling boy.”

Robin blushed.

“Come in.”

The house was redolent with good, sweet baking smells. Al Brickerman, a prophet with white hair and beard, sat hunched over an ebony-and-maple chessboard in the living room. He was surrounded by clutter—books in shelves and on the floor, bric-a-brac, photographs of children and grandchildren, menorahs, souvenirs, overstuffed furniture, an old robe and slippers.

“Al, Alex and his friend are here.”

“Hmm.” He grunted and raised his hand, never averting his eyes from the pieces on the board.

“Nice to see you again, Al.”

“Hmm.”

“He’s a real schizoid,” Olivia confided to Robin, “but he’s dynamite in bed.”

She ushered us into the kitchen. The room was the same as it had been when the house had been built forty years ago: yellow tile with maroon borders, narrow porcelain sink, window sills filled with potted plants. The refrigerator and stove were vintage Kenmore. A ceramic sign hung over the doorway leading out to the service porch:
How Can You Soar Like An Eagle When You’re Surrounded by Turkeys
?

Olivia saw me looking at it.

“My going-away present when I left D.P.S.S. To myself from myself.” She brought over a plate of brownies, still warm.

“Here, have some before I eat them. Look at this—I’m growing obese.” She patted her rear.

“More to love,” I told her and she pinched my cheek.

“Mmm. These are great,” Robin said.

“A woman with taste. Here, sit down.”

We pulled up chairs around the kitchen table, the plate set down before us. Olivia checked the oven and then she joined us. “In about ten minutes you’ll have strudel. Apples, raisins and figs. The latter an improvisation for Albert.” She crooked a thumb toward the living room. “The system gets clogged, from time to time. Now then you want to know about Casa de los Niños. Not that it’s any of my business, but could you tell me why?”

“It has to do with some work I’m doing for the police department.”

“The police? You?”

I told her about the case, leaving out the gory details. She had met Milo before—they’d hit it off marvelously—but hadn’t been aware of the extent of our friendship.

“He’s a nice boy. You should find him a nice woman like you found for yourself.” She smiled at Robin and handed her another brownie.

“I don’t think that would work, Olivia. He’s gay.”

It didn’t stop her, only slowed her down. “So? Find him a nice young man.”

“He’s got one.”

“Good. Forgive me, Robin, I tend to run off at the mouth. It’s all those hours I spend with clients listening and nodding and saying uh-huh. Then I get home and you can imagine the depth of conversational interplay I get with Prince Albert. Anyway, Alex, these questions about La Casa, Milo asked you to ask them?”

“Not exactly. I’m following my own leads.”

She looked at Robin.

“Philip Marlowe here?”

Robin gave her a helpless look.

“Is this dangerous, Alex?”

“No. I just want to look into a few things.”

“You be careful, you understand?” She squeezed my bicep. She had a grip like a bouncer. “Make sure he’s careful, darling.”

“I try, Olivia. I can’t control him.”

“I know. These psychologists, they get so used to being in a position of authority they can’t take advice. Let me tell you about this handsome fellow. I first met him when he was an intern assigned for three weeks to D.P.S.S. to teach him what life was like for people without money. He started out as a wise guy but I could tell he was special. He was the smartest thing on two feet. And he had compassion. His big problem was he was too hard on himself, he drove himself. He was doing twice as much work as anyone else and he thought he was doing nothing. I wasn’t surprised when he took off like a missile, the fancy title and the books and all that. But I was worried he was going to burn himself out.”