Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [37]
“So you’re still on track for an A plus?”
She nodded. Her lips were pursed. I wondered how she saw herself. If she realized she exuded tension like an open wound.
I watched her for a moment while neither of us could think of anything to say. “I wasn’t sure you would return,” I said finally.
“As I said, my parents asked that I speak to someone.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t accompany you.”
Her left thumb, resting just so atop the right, jerked. Just a little. “They’re extremely busy.”
“Oh?” I gave her my best “Talk to me” smile. “What do they do?”
“My mother is a cellist with the Philharmonic Orchestra.”
“Here in L.A.?”
“Yes. Gustavo is quite demanding.”
“Gustavo?”
“The director.” She seemed to be doing a decent job of containing her disdain for my ignorance. I couldn’t help but feel grateful. “I don’t believe he appreciates Mother’s drive. She also teaches at Thornton and plays with Sawallisch in the Johannes String Quartet.”
“I see.” I didn’t really. “And your father?”
“He’s an anesthesiologist at the Palmdale Medical Center.”
“In Palmdale?”
For a moment I thought she didn’t intend to honor that little piece of genius with a response, but finally she nodded crisply.
“It’s a long commute, and a high-stress occupation. As you can imagine, my parents are hoping for something better for me.”
Holy crap. Better than that? Even I had heard of L.A.’s legendary orchestra. And anesthesiologists make a butt-load of money. Three years ago I had discovered I was fostering a baby kidney stone. After a fair amount of projectile vomiting, I had checked into Oakview’s emergency room. The ensuing bill had made me consider leaving my spleen as a down payment.
“And you’re their only child?”
Her lips pursed a little more. “Perhaps that’s why they expect so much of me.”
“What do they expect?”
She shrugged. The movement was stiff. “Responsible behavior. Good grades. Respect.”
I smiled and wondered if she would crack if she did the same. “There’s a difference between good grades and straight A pluses,” I said.
“Father says it is a shame to waste one’s gifts.”
“And what happens if you do waste them?” I asked.
“They are disappointed.”
The session went on like that for a while. Except for the scars on her left wrist, she was, it seemed, the perfect daughter. She was also perfectly miserable, all but seismic with angst.
People should be required to take a test before becoming parents. If the standards were up to snuff we would not only see fewer traumatized children, we’d probably lick that overpopulation problem within a generation. If I had my way, there would be about one kid born every fourteen years. But so far Congress hasn’t asked for my opinion.
Micky Goldenstone was my fifth client of the day. He looked somber but steady as he entered my office.
“Micky.” I rose to my feet and took his hand. A few phone calls had assured me that he was well and free, awaiting a trial. “How’s Jamel?”
He exhaled through his nose as he sat. His eyes looked grim. “I took him back to Glendale yesterday.”
“To Lavonn’s?”
He snorted a laugh. “She was awarded guardianship, but that place ain’t hers. Jackson’ll make sure she never forgets that. Sold her damned soul for rosewood flooring.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s still pissed.”
I wanted to ask what the chances were that she and her boyfriend would come to my house and shoot me in my sleep, but I didn’t think it would sound professional. “What about Jackson?”
“They think he’ll be out of the hospital in a couple of days.”
I didn’t know whether to cheer or mourn. “Back to Lavonn’s?”
“Yeah,” he said, and after staring out the window for a moment, covered his eyes with his palm. “Shit. I should have left things alone.”
“You don’t think you should have tried to prove paternity?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and dropping his hand, leaned back against the couch’s ivory cushions.
“Do you still want custody?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I fucked up.”
“How so?”
“By losing my temper.” He shook his head. “I should have kept my ass home. Now I’ll