BY THE THIRD day Robin1 still hadn't called, and I tried to drag myself out of inertial sludge into a walking depression.
Finding Agnes Yeager was easy.
Olivia Brickerman, LCSW, a friend and former mentor2 at Western Pediatrics, now a professor of social work at the gracious old school crosstown, had full command of the Medi-Cal and private insurance data banks, and it took thirty seconds for her to pull up the name.
"The age of privacy," she said. "Always wear clean underwear. Yeager, Agnes Mavis, DOB fifty-one years ago. . . . Looks like she did some time at County Gen. . . . From the billing codes, endocrinology, cardiology, some lung workups ... a psych consult—short-term consult, four sessions. After that she was transferred to the rehab unit at Casa de los Amigos for a month, then discharged to an aftercare facility in San Bernardino—SweetHaven. Sounds like something from a kiddie book. That's the last thing I've got. Last billing was thirteen months ago." She read off the convalescent home's phone number. "So how's Gorgeous Robin?"
"Terrific."
"And you?"
"The same."
"Yeah?"
"What, I don't sound terrific?"
"The doctor gets defensive," she said, cheerfully. "You're forgetting, boychik, that before I became a big-shot academic I did what you do. And right now my third ear is telling me you're not smiling."
"Okay, now I am," I said. Actually forcing my lips into position. "How's that?"
"Meat but no motion, boychik—you're sure you're okay?"
"I'm terrific. How about you?"
"Changing the subject. Don't you think I deserve a more subtle form of resistance— I'm fantastic, Alex. Menopause is everything they claim and more. But my fine spirits should be obvious. Unlike other people I don't have that schleppy tone permeating4 my voice."
"Lack of sleep, that's all."
"Lack of sleep and Agnes Mavis Yeager?"
"No," I said. "It's complicated."
"With you it tends to be. We should have lunch, it's been a long time. You can tell me stories and I'll pretend to be your mother."
"It's a deal, Liv."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Meanwhile, I won't eat on the chance that if you do call my mouth won't be full."
A phone call to SweetHaven Convalescent Home leavened5 by a few lies got me the information that Agnes Yeager had moved out three months ago. Forwarding address: the Four Seasons Hotel, on Doheny. The personnel office there confirmed that Ms. Yeager was cleaning rooms on the eight A.M. to three P.M. shift.
Working again, so she'd mended, physically6.
Returning to L.A., so maybe she hadn't given up.
At 2:15 P.M. I drove to the Four Seasons, handed the doorman a ten, and asked him to keep the Seville up front. I'd just had the car washed and waxed, and he smiled as he nosed it between a Bentley Arnage and a Ferrari Testarossa.
The lobby teemed7 with grim, skinny things in all-black, and I pushed past them and used the house phone to call Housekeeping. Once I got a supervisor8 on the line, I talked quickly and ambiguously, said it was important that I speak to Mrs. Yeager, old friend, some kind of family issue.
"Is this an emergency, sir?"
"Hard to say. I just need a few minutes."
"Hold on."
Several minutes later a weak, sibilant voice came on. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Yeager, my name is Alex Delaware. I'm a psychologist who works with the police and I've been looking into Shawna's case— I've just begun, nothing to report, I'm afraid. But I was wondering if we could talk."
"A psychologist? What, some kind of research?"
"No, ma'am. I consult to the police, am trying to find some answers— I know it's been a long time—"
"I like psychologists. One of them helped me. I was sick—they thought it was . . . Where are you, sir?"
"Down in the lobby."
"Here? Oh. Well, I'm off in a few minutes, I'll meet you out on Burton Way, near the employee exit."
She was there by the time I walked around the corner, a small, thin, gray-haired woman wearing a charwoman's pink uniform. Her hair was cropped and coarse, and her eyeglasses were steel-rimmed rectangles. Freshly applied9 scarlet10 lipstick11 screamed from chapped lips, and her cheeks had been rouged12. High-waisted and flat-chested, she looked ten years older than fifty-one.
"Thank you so much for doing this, Dr.— Was it Delavalle?"
"Delaware. I'm afraid I can't promise you—"
"I'm past promises. I'm parked a few blocks down, do you mind walking?"
"Not at all."
"It's a nice day anyway," she said. "At least weather-wise."
We headed east on Burton, and she thanked me again for reopening Shawna's case. I tried to offer a disclaimer, but she wasn't hearing it. Went on about how it was about time, the police had never really investigated fully3. "And that detective they assigned—Riley. Didn't do a darn thing. Not that I want to speak ill of the dead."
"He died?" I said.
"You didn't know? Just over two months ago. Retired13 to the desert and spent all his time playing golf and just keeled over on the golf course. I know because I used to call him—not too often, because frankly14 I didn't have much faith in him. But he was ... a link to Shawna. He wasn't a bad man, Riley. Just not. . . energetic. He did give me his home number when he retired. Last time I phoned him, his poor wife told me, and I ended up comforting her. So you see, I'm not hoping for miracles, but at least I have an open mind. 'Cause in my opinion, Riley and the rest of them never did. I'm not saying they deliberately15 set out not to care, but I feel, to this day, that they just thought finding Shawna was hopeless and never really tried."
No anger. A speech she'd recited often.
"What do you think they could've done?"
"Publicize more. I tried the newspapers, but they weren't interested. You have to be rich and famous to get attention. Or get killed by someone rich and famous."
"Sometimes it's like that in L.A.," I said.
"Probably everywhere, but all I know is L.A., 'cause that's where my Shawna died—you see, I'm not denying that anymore. I got past that. The last time I spoke16 to him, Leo Riley tried to tell me not to hope for the best. It was kinda funny the way he got all nervous and stuttery, like he was telling me something I didn't know. But I'd gotten there a long time ago. No way could my Shawna be missing this long without telling me and not be ... gone. All I want, now, is to know what happened. Know where she is, give her a decent Christian17 burial. The psychologist I talked to—Dr. Yoshimura—she said everyone made a big deal about closure but closure was foolishness made up by people who write books—it didn't exist, how could you ever heal something like that?"
She tapped her chest. "It leaves a big hole that can never be filled, but you try to learn what you can, and if you succeed maybe you coat it around the edges a little. She was terrific. Yoshimura. I did counseling with her 'cause one day I collapsed—everything went black and I fell down. Everyone thought I had a heart attack, they put me through every test known to modern mankind, found out I did have high cholesterol18 but my heart was still okay. In the end they said it was nerves. Anxiety. Dr. Yoshimura taught me how to relax. I became a vegetarian19, stopped smoking. I could accept relaxing from Dr. Yoshimura because she wasn't telling me to get some closure the way everyone else was. That was the thing about Mr. Riley. He was real relaxed except when it came to talking about real things. Like the fact that he hadn't learned a thing about Shawna— He'd pretend to listen, but I knew he wasn't. I called him even after he retired because I figured it was rent he should be paying. And now he's gone. . . . Here, I'm parked on Swall."
We turned up a tree-lined block full of luxury apartment condominiums, and she led me to an old Nissan Sentra, once red, now faded to dusty rose. The car's trunk was littered with leaves.
"Two-hour limit," she said, pointing to a parking sign, "but usually they don't check. Sometimes I park in the employee lot under the hotel, but sometimes it's full. And I don't like those subterranean20 things. Spooky."
She unlocked the car. "Do you mind sitting in here? All my Shawna things are in here."
I got into the front passenger seat, and she opened the trunk and closed it and came back with a foot-square box marked KITCHENWARE and tied with a yellow ribbon that she loosened.
"I know I shouldn't keep it in the car," she said, "but I like to have it close by. Sometimes I get a sandwich and come out here and go through it. Dr. Yoshimura said that was fine."
Looking to me for confirmation21. I nodded.
She pulled a small, pink satin album from the carton and handed it to me. "This is Shawna when she was little."
Thirty pages of snapshots, from infancy22 to sixth grade. Mostly solos of a beautiful, golden-haired girl. From early on Shawna Yeager had possessed23 a flair24 for the optimal25 pose.
Agnes Yeager was present in a handful of shots, dark-haired, plain. A few others—early, faded photos—featured a very tall, fair-haired man with a movie-idol face marred26 by protuberant27 jug28 ears. In the snaps where he and Agnes were together, both parents smoked. Shawna surrounded by loving smiles and haze29.
"Shawna's dad?" I said.
"My Bob. He was a long-distance trucker, worked for himself, then Vons markets. He was killed by a drunk driver when Shawna was four. Not even driving. Walking from the men's room to his rig at a truck stop in Indio. Shawna didn't remember him—even when he was alive he wasn't home much. But he was a loving man and a virile30 man. Not much for expressing his feelings, but never a cross word. And he did love Shawna—she got her looks from him, color-wise and size-wise. He was six foot four and a half, a big basketball star in high school. Shawna ended up five-nine. I'm five-two and a quarter."
As I studied Bob Yeager's face, something struck me. I kept it to myself, returned the album, only to receive another, larger, blue-bound.
"This is her pageant31 stuff," said Agnes. "Local newspaper stories, each time she won. I never pushed her into none of it. The first time she saw the Miss America pageant on TV she said, 'Mommy, dat what I want.' She was four."
I paged through the clippings, endured smile after smile.
Agnes Yeager said, "I know none of this will help you, but maybe this—the stories this kid reporter for the college paper did. He was really interested in Shawna, wrote up a lot of stories—"
"Adam Green."
"You talked to him."
"I have."
"Did he tell you his suspicions about Shawna?"
"Suspicions?"
"That she'd taken off her clothes and posed for dirty pictures— He didn't actually come out and say it. He thought he was being subtle, but from the questions he was asking, I could tell that's where he was leading. So of course I got mad and managed to end the conversation and didn't take any more of his calls. Later, I wondered if that had been a mistake. 'Cause that boy was the only one who seemed to have any interest in what happened to Shawna. And even though I got offended ..."
"Do you think there's a chance Shawna might've posed?"
Her shoulders rose and fell. "I wish I could say no way. But time passes and your head clears— The truth is Shawna loved her looks. Loved her body. One day she came home with an old mirror she'd picked up at some junk shop and hung it in her bedroom—a huge mirror. She was fourteen. I didn't argue—everyone also says choose your battles. Besides, you didn't want to go up against Shawna. She was headstrong. The truth is, if she could've hung four walls of mirrors, she would've. Probably my fault, a day didn't go by when I wasn't telling her how gorgeous she was. And if 7 wasn't, other people were."
"Did she have any boyfriends back home?"
"The usual. Boys coming and going, she'd dump them like the trash. One of them—this stringbean named Mark, a basketball player like her dad—seemed a little more serious, and I asked her if they were boyfriend and girlfriend and she laughed and said, 'No, Mom.' You know, in that tone they get? 'No, Mom. He's just my boy, comma, friend.'"
"Mark was her age?" I said.
"No, he was a senior, and she was a freshman32, the older boys always went for her, and it was mutual—she liked them mature, looking old for their age. And tall, real tall. Why do you ask about Mark?"
"Just trying to get a feel for her state of mind."
"You're thinking 'cause she lost her dad she was looking for a dad, right? Someone older and tall. Maybe some older guy asked her to pose and she did it because she was vulnerable."
I stared at her.
She said, "I've had plenty of time to think. So am I right?"
"That did cross my mind."
"Crossed mine, too. And Dr. Yoshimura's. She and I went all through that, her helping33 to analyze34 everything. But as far as Shawna having any much older boyfriends back home, I don't think so. Mostly she didn't have time for dating, was really concentrating on her pageants35 and getting into college— That's one thing about Shawna, she was always a serious student. I never had to tell her to study. And if she didn't get an A it was a world tragedy, she'd be arguing with the teacher." Weak smile. "And sometimes she got her way—let me show you. Those report cards are on the bottom."
As she rummaged36 I said, "Just to be thorough, where's Mark now?"
She looked up. "Him? Oh, no. He joined the Army right out of school, got stationed in Germany, married a German girl. He was out of the country when Shawna disappeared. Wrote me the sweetest condolence card when he found out— I've got that, too. Right here."
A hearts-and-flowers Hallmark landed in my palm. Soppy verse, and a block-printed notation37:
Dear Mrs. Yeager,
Please accept our sincerest condolense about Shawna. We know she's up with the angels.
Astrid and Mark Ortega, and Kaylie
Stapled38 to the facing page was a studio shot of a skinny, blond, young man, crew-cut and mustachioed, a chubby39 brunette woman, and a grinning, pie-faced baby.
"Nice boy," said Agnes. "But Shawna was too much for him. She needed someone to stimulate40 her brain. Lord knows I couldn't do it, never finished high school— Here we go, these are her report cards."
She handed me a rubber-banded stack. Twelve grades' worth of nearly straight A's. Achievement tests consistently above the ninety-fifth percentile. Teachers' comments: "Shawna's a very bright little girl, but she does tend to visit with her neighbors." "A joy, wish they were all like her." "Has a firm grip of the material and loves to learn." "Strong-willed, but she always ends up doing the work."
At the bottom of the stack was a transcript41 from the U.
Four courses during the quarter she'd never finished. A quartet of in-completes.
"It arrived after she was gone," said Agnes. "When I opened the envelope, I just lost it. That word. 'Incomplete.' When you're in that state, everything's got a double meaning. You're looking for something to be angry about. I nearly ripped this into shreds42. Now I'm glad I didn't. Though I did give away the clothes Shawna left behind. Waited until a few months ago, but I was able to do it."
I stared at the transcript, placed it back on the bottom.
"Smart," said Agnes. "See what I mean?"
"Yes, I do, Mrs. Yeager. Is there anything else?"
"Well, you might tell me what you're planning to do."
"I'm going to review Shawna's file. I know that sounds vague and bureaucratic43, but I'm just starting out. If I think of something, may I call you?"
"You'd better." She grabbed my hand in both of hers. "I have a feeling about you. You're a serious person. However it comes out, you're going to give it your best. Thank you very, very much."
"Thank you," I said. "I hope to justify44 your confidence."
"I'm not asking for my daughter back," she said. "All I want to do is bury her. Know where she is, so I can visit on Christmas and anniversaries. That doesn't seem like too much to ask for, does it?"
"No, ma'am. Thanks for your time." I opened the car door.
"Can I have that back?" she said.
Pointing to the stack of report cards.
"Oh, sure. Sorry."
"Anything you need a copy of, I can get you.*
I gave her hand a squeeze and left.
收听单词发音 |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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leavened
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| adj.加酵母的v.使（面团）发酵( leaven的过去式和过去分词 )；在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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supervisor
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| n.监督人，管理人，检查员，督学，主管，导师 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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cholesterol
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| n.（U）胆固醇 | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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optimal
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| adj.最适宜的；最理想的；最令人满意的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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notation
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| n.记号法，表示法，注释；[计算机]记法 | |
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stapled
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| v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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transcript
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| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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bureaucratic
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| adj.官僚的，繁文缛节的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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