“No,” she said. “Never, nothing like that, he never laid a finger on me. Not for anything creepy or for normal affection. The fact is, I can’t remember him ever touching me. He’s a cold fish. And guess what: He and Mom finally got divorced. He got himself a bimbo, some slut he met on the job – So they never told you they canceled, that it wasn’t my idea. Figures. They brought me up with lies.”

“What kind of lies?”

The blue eyes met mine. Got hard. “Doesn’t matter.”

“That day at the golf course,” I said. “What happened?”

“What happened? Nothing happened. We played a few holes, finally I said I was bored, started nagging and whining to be taken home. He tried to convince me. I sat down on the green and wouldn’t budge. He got mad – got all red-faced like he does, finally drove me home, steaming. Mom was in her room – It was obvious she’d been crying. I thought it had to do with me. I thought everything had to do with me – thought it all the time, and it just sat there in my head like a tumor. Now I know better; they were totally messed up all along.”

She crossed her legs. “A few weeks later he walked out. Filed for divorce without telling her. She tried to get child support out of him, he claimed business was lousy, never gave us a penny. I told her to sue his ass, but she didn’t. Not a fighter – she never has been.”

“So you lived with her.”

“For a little while. If you call it living. We lost the house, moved into an apartment in Panorama City, real dive – gunshots at night, the whole bit. Things sucked, we were broke, she was always crying. But I was having a great time ’cause she wasn’t even trying to discipline me and finally I could do what I wanted. She wouldn’t fight with me either.”

She took a tissue from the box I position strategically, crumpled it into a ball, picked it open.

“Men suck,” she said, staring at me. “Now let’s talk about last night.”

“Last night was unfortunate.”

Her eyes sparked. “Unfortunate? That’s the best you can do? You know the problem with this goddamn world? No one ever says they’re sorry.”

“Lauren-”

“Forget it.” She waved the tissue dismissively. “I don’t know why I even bothered.” She began rummaging through the leather bag. “End of session. How much do you charge now? Probably more, now that your name gets in the papers.”

“Please, Lauren-”

“No,” she said, shooting to her feet. “The time’s mine, so don’t tell me how to spend it. No one tells me what to do anymore. That’s what I like about my job.”

“Being in control.”

Her hands slapped onto her hips, and she glared down at me. “I know you’re giving me shrink talk, but in this case you happen to be right. Last night you were probably too turned on to notice, but I was in charge – Michelle and me. All you guys with your mouths hanging open and your dicks stiff, and we were calling the shots. So don’t judge me as if I’m some brainless slut.”

“No judgments.”

Her hands fisted and she stepped closer. “Why’d you have to leave like that? Why were you ashamed of me?”

As I considered my answer, she gave a knowing smile. “I turned you on and that freaked you out.”

I said, “If you were a stranger, I probably would’ve stuck around. I left because I was ashamed of myself.”

She smirked. “Probably would’ve stuck around?”

I didn’t answer.

“But we are strangers,” she said. “How can you say we’re not?”

“The fact that you’re here-”

“So what?”

“Lauren, once you came to me for help, I had a duty to be there for you. Like a surrogate parent. I felt my presence caused you shame too, but it was my own embarrassment that got me out of there.”

“How noble,” she said. “Man, you’re confused. Like all guys are – Okay, I got what I came for. Now I’m going to pay you.”

“There’s nothing to pay for.”

She wagged a finger. “Oh no, you don’t. You’ve got the title and respectability, and in your eyes I’m just some stripper-slut. But once I pay you, the balance of power equalizes.”

“I am not judging you, Lauren.”

“You say.” She whipped a wad of cash out of her jeans pocket. “What’s the tab, Doc?”

“Let’s talk about-”

“How much?” she demanded. “What’s your hourly fee?”

I told her. She whistled. “Not too shabby.” She peeled off bills, handed them to me. “Okay, here you go, and you don’t even have to declare it to the IRS. I’ll find my own way out.”

I followed her anyway. When we reached the door, she said, “My roll – that stash I paid you from? Did you see the size of it? That’s my tip money, honey. I do great with tips.”

CHAPTER 4

NOW, FOUR YEARS later, I had to talk to her mother.

Mrs. Jane Abbot.

So she’d remarried. Was life treating her more kindly? Had the spot on her lung recurred? I was curious but could’ve lived without finding out.

Life would be so much easier if I was one of those flakes who felt no obligation to return calls.

My pompous little speech to Lauren about surrogate parenthood rang in my ears. I put off the call anyway. Revved up the coffee machine, tidied up an already clean kitchen, checked the stores in the pantry. When I returned to the kitchen I discovered I’d forgotten to put coffee in the filter and started from scratch. Listening to the machine bubble offered another few minutes of respite, and when I finally sat down to drink I dropped a little brandy in the mug, took my time sipping, scanned a newspaper I’d already covered from front to back.

Finally, the inevitable. Staring at the big pine that nearly blocks the kitchen window, I punched numbers.

Two rings. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Abbot?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Dr. Delaware.”

Two beats of silence. “I didn’t know if you’d phone – Do you remember me?”

“Lauren’s mom.”

“Lauren’s mom,” she said. “My claim to fame.” Her voice broke. “It’s Lauren I’m calling about, Dr. Delaware. She’s missing. For a week. I know you work with the police. I’ve seen your name in the papers. Lauren saw it too. That impressed her. She always liked you, you know. It was my husband – my ex-husband – who stopped her from seeing you. He was a very mean man – is a mean man. Lauren hasn’t had contact with him in years. But that’s neither here nor there – The problem I’ve got now is I can’t find her. She’s been living on her own for a while, but this – it just feels wrong. By the third day I called the police, but they say she’s an adult and unless there’s evidence of a crime there’s nothing they can do other than have me come in and file a report. I could tell they weren’t taking me seriously. But I know Lauren just wouldn’t take off like that. Not without telling me.”

“Does she ever travel?”

“Occasionally, but not for this long.”

“So you’re in regular communication with her,” I said, wondering if Lauren was still stripping, and did her mother know.

Pause. “Yes. Of course. I call her, she calls me. We manage to stay in touch, Dr. Delaware.” Adding, “I live in the Valley now,” as if that explained the lack of face-to-face contact.

“Where does Lauren live?” I said.

“In the city. Near the Miracle Mile. She wouldn’t just walk out without telling me, Doctor. She didn’t tell her roommate anything either. And it doesn’t look as if she packed a suitcase. Don’t you think that’s frightening?”

“There could be an explanation.”

“Please, Dr. Delaware, I know how things work. It’s who you know. You’ve worked with the police – With your contacts, they’ll listen to you. You must know someone who can help.”

“What’s Lauren’s address?”

She recited some numbers on Hauser. “Near Sixth Street. Not far from the museum complex – the La Brea Tar Pits. I used to take her to the tar pits when she was little – Please, Dr. Delaware, call your contacts and ask them to take me seriously.”