Flesh and Blood by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

item in Lauren's wardrobe— She has luscious things. After I moved in I organized her closet. She owns two pieces of luggage—a pair of vintage Samsonites we picked up for a prayer at the Santa Monica flea market, and they're both here. So is her backpack from school. And her books. So she must be planning to return."
    He began to sip wine, stopped himself. "That isn't good, is it? Running off without luggage."
    "Not unless Lauren's the impulsive type."
    "Impulsive as in meet someone hot and fly off to Cuernavaca? That would be nice." He sounded doubtful.
    "But unlikely."
    "Well," said Salander. "I just don't think that's Lo— If she'd fallen in love, I'd have known. She was a creature of routine: got up, jogged, went to class, studied, went to sleep, got up and did the same thing all over again. To tell the truth, she was a bit of a grind."
    "Strict routine except for occasional weekends away."
    "Except for."
    "She's in between quarters at school," I said. "What's she been doing with her vacation?"
    "Going to work."
    "The research job."
    "A grind," he said. "She'd spend every spare moment studying if I didn't drag her out to do some antiquing."
    "Must have paid off," I said. "Mrs. A said she got straight A's."
    "Lo was so proud of that. Showed me her transcript. I thought it was adorable."
    "What was?"
    "A grown woman, all excited like a little kid — She's studying psychology, wants to be a therapist herself. You must have been a good influence." Staring at me again. "You haven't touched your drink, is it okay?" I picked up the Coke and drank. "Terrific."
    "That's Mexican lime, not Bearss lime. More bite."
    More cola flowed down my gullet. "Does the research job pay the bills?"
    "Maybe some of it, but Lo also has investments."
    "Investments?"
    "Some kind of nest egg she put away from when she worked full-time. She told me she can coast for a few more years before she has to hit the boards again. I give her a lot of credit, giving up something so lucrative for the sake of her studies."
    "The boards?"
    "The runway—modeling," he said. "Nothing Vogue-coverish or anything like that. She worked the Fashion Mart scene since she was eighteen. Made good money but said she detested being a brainless face and body— Now, Doctor, I'm sorry to be ill-mannered, but my appointment—it's someone who . . . hurt me. I've been building my courage and finally I'm ready to face him and move on. Please."
    He indicated the door and led me out.
    I said, "Thanks very much for your time. If you don't mind, I'm going to have a look at Lauren's car out back. What kind is it?"
    "Gray Mazda Miata. Don't steal it." Nervous laugh.
    I crossed my heart. "No joyrides today."
    Louder laughter. We shook hands again.
    "I'm not going to worry," he said. "There's no reason to worry."
    "I'm sure there isn't."
    "Watch," he said. "I'll be sitting here, worrying myself sick, and Lo will come waltzing through this door and I'll scold her for putting all of us through this."
    He walked me out into the hall, looked toward the staircase. Chewed his lip. "You're a good listener— Any time you want a career switch, I can get you a job at The Cloisters."
    I grinned. "I'll keep that in mind."
    He laughed. "No, you won't. For a whole list of reasons."
    Out in back was a carport that fronted the alley. The Miata was the only car parked there, several years old, lots of nicks and dents, coated with days of dust, locked, its oatmeal-colored canvas top set snugly. Campus parking sticker on the rear bumper, Thomas Guide map book in the driver's door pocket, pair of sunglasses on the center console, just below the gearshift. Nothing else.
    I returned to the Seville, trying to organize what I'd learned from Salander.
    No friends, no dates. A grind.
    Rooming with a gay man said Lauren prized companionship, wasn't looking for sex.
    Because she was still getting paid for it?
    Working the Fashion Mart runway since eighteen. Maybe she really had done some modeling, or perhaps it