Page 49

CHAPTER 49

DR. ALEX brINDLE’S psychology clinic was run out of a stylish multilevel house with glass balconies at the front on a hill near Dodger Stadium. I was familiar with the street, having waited in the traffic to get into the stadium when I first moved to LA, batting merchandise peddlers away from the windows like flies.

Today there was no game, and the street was clear. Baby sat reading aloud to me the highlights of Daisy and Alex’s conversations from the messages George had sent us the other day. I parked under a big tree and Baby sat with her elbow on the sill and big sunglasses covering her tired eyes.

“From Alex,” Baby said. “ ‘I just sat with a client for an hour and a half, walking her through her divorce, and all I could think about was you. My mouth was moving and I was saying all the right stuff, but my brain was disconnected. I was wondering if you were having a good day. What you were doing for lunch. Whether it’s safe for you to meet with me this afternoon. Maybe I could surprise you with a cheeky Negroni between appointments? Might help me focus on what I’m doing here.’ ”

“Jeez,” I said.

“Gross,” Baby decided.

“Lucky he’s not a neurosurgeon, since he can’t keep his mind on his job,” I said. “Pretty wordy texts. That was a real love letter. I mean, who doesn’t want to hear that they’re driving someone to distraction?”

“She’s wordy too.” Baby scrolled. “I guess you’ve got to be when you’re stepping out on someone. Risky to call. Gotta text all the time.”

“Actually, it’s riskier to text,” I said. “Leaves a trail. Though it’s useful for us. When was that message from?”

“Three months ago.”

“What are the messages like after the lottery win?”

Baby scrolled. I watched a puffy-eyed woman in a floral dress leave Alex’s clinic and walk down the hill past our car. She tucked a fistful of used tissues into her handbag.

“Lots of We need to talk s,” Baby said.

“From Alex or from Daisy?” I asked.

“Both,” she said. “When things are good, they write about it. When they’re bad, they talk about it. So they don’t say anything they’ll regret in writing.”

“Listen to the armchair psychologist over here.” I sighed. “Let’s go talk to the real one.”

We got out and walked up to the house. There was a brass nameplate bolted above the knocker with Dr. Brindle’s name and title stamped on it. I could see just inside the door the usual paraphernalia of a clinic trying to masquerade disarmingly as a family home — potted plants, generic knickknacks, inspirational quotes in brushed white frames.

A curvy Black woman with red-framed eyeglasses opened the door.

“We’re here to see Dr. Alex Brindle,” I said. “Is he in?”

“I’m Alex Brindle.” She smiled at me, then at Baby. “Are you two my eleven o’clock couples session?”

Baby’s lips quirked. I found myself hitting high revs to try to keep up.

“No, we’re not a couple. I’m Rhonda Bird.” Brindle and I shook hands. “We’re here about Daisy Hansen.”

I’d never seen a person’s demeanor flip so quickly. Brindle’s hand shrank in mine, and her posture stiffened; her lips pressed tight against her teeth. Her eyes searched mine.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

When I didn’t answer, Dr. Brindle let go of my hand and gripped the door frame. “Oh God, I’ve killed her. I’ve killed her. I’ve killed her.”