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“I guess.”
“So what, you like her as the main target or not?”
“Don’t know.”
His exhalation came through the phone as a wheezy gush. “Two victims and no clue which one to focus on. Guess now it’s officially different, amigo, so you no longer need to worry about me doling out alms. Anything else?”
“Not for now.”
“Long as we’re chatting, I’ll catch you up,” he said. “Zilch from the canvass, tried every Italian number in Giovanni’s phone and got a whole bunch of Italian voicemail. Hopefully someone’ll understand a message in English. What does intrigue me is no callback yet from Douglass March.”
“How much detail did you give him?”
“Just that I need to talk to him. You get that outta the clear blue, you don’t respond? Or at least check it out?”
A beat. “Hopefully he hasn’t ducked out.”
—
I was putting the phone down when Robin came into the bedroom.
“Three guesses,” she said. “Milo, Milo, or Milo. Anything interesting?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“You called him.”
“Just checking in.”
“At ten p.m.,” she said. “In pajamas.”
“How’s the guitar?”
“Point made,” she said. “How is it? It’s talking to me in a much friendlier voice. I tucked it in, kissed it, said nighty-night.”
She slid in beside me, laid her head on my chest. “Pleasant dreams to you, too, my fellow compulsive.”
CHAPTER
9
I woke up early on Monday, took a brief run while trying to ignore the lingering buzz in my ribs. Had coffee and a couple of scrambled eggs and spent the next four hours writing reports and talking to judges.
Two active custody cases had finally been put to rest, same for the evaluation and treatment of a bright, gentle five-year-old boy who’d been injured in a freeway pileup that had broken his mother’s legs. The damage to him had been less severe: soft tissue bruising. Which I could easily relate to. His body had healed quickly, not unusual for kids. Emotional injury had endured.
Once I sign off on custody recommendations, I rarely see the kids they affect. No matter how careful and fair I try to be, someone’s bound to be resentful and it’s best to fade out and permit a new beginning. Injury cases, on the other hand, often do become treatment cases because of my training in pediatric trauma. The freeway disaster had led to three and a half months of rapport-building and intervention aimed at restoring security and mastery.
Addressing and sealing three legal-sized envelopes brought satisfaction. I was waiting by the gate when the courier service came topick them up. A driver who’d been here before. Per usual, I had a can of Perrier ready for him.
“How’s it going, Frank?”
“It’s going.” He took the can. “Not necessary, Doc, but thanks, you rock. So…these to the court, this one to a lawyer on Seventh. Keep working, Doc. Helps me to do the same.”
As he drove off, my phone buzzed.
Milo said, “Finally heard from ol’ Dougie. He’s on his way back, should be here by five, said meet him at his place.”
I said, “How’d he react when you filled him in?”
