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.”

“Strict routine except for occasional weekends away.”

“Except for.”

“She’s in between quarters at school,” I said. “What’s she been doing with her vacation?”

“Going to work.”

“The research job.”

“A grind,” he said. “She’d spend every spare moment studying if I didn’t drag her out to do some antiquing.”

“Must have paid off,” I said. “Mrs. A said she got straight A’s.”

“Lo was so proud of that. Showed me her transcript. I thought it was adorable.”

“What was?”

“A grown woman, all excited like a little kid – She’s studying psychology, wants to be a therapist herself. You must have been a good influence.” Staring at me again. “You haven’t touched your drink, is it okay?”

I picked up the Coke and drank. “Terrific.”

“That’s Mexican lime, not Bearss lime. More bite.”

More cola flowed down my gullet. “Does the research job pay the bills?”

“Maybe some of it, but Lo also has investments.”

“Investments?”

“Some kind of nest egg she put away from when she worked full-time. She told me she can coast for a few more years before she has to hit the boards again. I give her a lot of credit, giving up something so lucrative for the sake of her studies.”

“The boards?”

“The runway – modeling,” he said. “Nothing Vogue-coverish or anything like that. She worked the Fashion Mart scene since she was eighteen. Made good money but said she detested being a brainless face and body – Now, Doctor, I’m sorry to be ill-mannered, but my appointment – it’s someone who… hurt me. I’ve been building my courage and finally I’m ready to face him and move on. Please.”

He indicated the door and led me out.

I said, “Thanks very much for your time. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a look at Lauren’s car out back. What kind is it?”

“Gray Mazda Miata. Don’t steal it.” Nervous laugh.

I crossed my heart. “No joyrides today.”

Louder laughter. We shook hands again.

“I’m not going to worry,” he said. “There’s no reason to worry.”

“I’m sure there isn’t.”

“Watch,” he said. “I’ll be sitting here, worrying myself sick, and Lo will come waltzing through this door and I’ll scold her for putting all of us through this.”

He walked me out into the hall, looked toward the staircase. Chewed his lip. “You’re a good listener – Any time you want a career switch, I can get you a job at The Cloisters.”

I grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He laughed. “No, you won’t. For a whole list of reasons.”

Out in back was a carport that fronted the alley. The Miata was the only car parked there, several years old, lots of nicks and dents, coated with days of dust, locked, its oatmeal-colored canvas top set snugly. Campus parking sticker on the rear bumper, Thomas Guide map book in the driver’s door pocket, pair of sunglasses on the center console, just below the gearshift. Nothing else.

I returned to the Seville, trying to organize what I’d learned from Salander.

No friends, no dates. A grind.

Rooming with a gay man said Lauren prized companionship, wasn’t looking for sex.

Because she was still getting paid for it?

Working the Fashion Mart runway since eighteen. Maybe she really had done some modeling, or perhaps it was just a cover for selling her body in another way.

Weekends by herself. One in Malibu, other times unspecified. Keeping it vague to cover her trail as she met up with clients?

The night owl and the morning lark. If she wanted privacy, Salander was a perfect roommate. Still, the guy was perceptive. If Lauren had been working at her old profession, wouldn’t he have caught on?

Maybe he had and chose not to tell me. My gut told me he’d been forthcoming, but you never knew…

I thought of what he’d told me about Lauren’s income. Investments. From her working days. Enough to coast for a few years.

I do great with tips.

Good clothes but otherwise living frugally. Before Salander had moved in, she’d had virtually no furniture. That and the old car said she knew how to make do.

Budgeting but spending on luscious things in her closet.

Dressing for the job?

I wondered about the lunch with her mother, Lauren returning dazed and upset, complaining about Jane trying to control her. But that had been two or three months ago – no reason it would lead her to vanish now.

Vanish. Despite my reassurances to Salander, I was thinking worst-case scenario.

Seven days, no luggage, no car, no explanation.

Maybe Lauren would waltz in any minute. Straight-A student returned from a research trip – some professor asking her to attend an out-of-town meeting or convention, deliver a paper… She’d flown somewhere – that could explain no car. But it didn’t solve the problem of wardrobe, and why hadn’t she let anyone know?

Unless Salander wasn’t as familiar with her wardrobe as he claimed and she had packed something. Tossed casual clothes into a bag.

Research… A project at my alma mater, a psych major, so probably a psych job. At the very department from which I’d obtained my union card.

I headed west on Wilshire, caught snail traffic at Crescent Heights – an orange-vested Caltrans crew, stupidest agency in the state, taking petty-fascist satisfaction in blocking off two lanes. I sat, idling along with the Seville, rolled a foot or two, sat some more, finally got past La Cienega. Unmindful of the noise and the dirt. New focus: yearning to feel useful.

CHAPTER 6

I REACHED THE city-sized campus of the U just after four-thirty. More people were leaving than arriving, and the first two parking lots I tried were being retrofitted for something. University officials gripe about budget constraints, but the jackhammers are always working overtime. It’s a boom time for L.A., might endure till the next time the earth shrugs.

It was nearly five P.M. when I hurried up the stairs to the psych building, hoping someone would be around. The cement-and-stucco waffle had been repainted: from off-white to a golden beige with chartreuse overtones. Uncommonly bright for a place devoted to the joys of artificial intelligence and compelling brain-lesioned rats to race through ever more Machiavellian mazes. Maybe boom times hadn’t loosened up grant money and the new hue was an attempt to connote warmth and availability. If so, eight stories of Skinner-box architecture said forget it.

By the time I entered the main office, half the lights were out and only one secretary remained, locking up. But the right secretary – a plump, ginger-haired young woman named Mary Lou Whiteacre, whose five-year-old son I’d treated last year.

Brandon Whiteacre was a nice little boy, soft and artistic, with his mother’s coloring and scared-bunny eyes. A freeway pileup had shattered his grandmother’s hip and sent him to the hospital for observation. Brandon had escaped with nothing broken other than his confidence, and soon he began wetting his bed and waking up screaming. Mary Lou got my name from the alumni referral list, but the department wasn’t picking up the tab. She was reeling from the crash and still chafing under the financial hardships imposed by a three-year-old divorce. Her HMO offered the usual cruelty. I treated Brandon for free.