Obsession by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

spiffier in Patty’s day, but this part of town had never been fashionable.
    Climbing the residential ladder, then down to this. Patty had come across solid and stable. Her housing pattern seemed anything but.
    Perhaps it came down to thrift. Saving up cash for a down payment on her own place. Within two years, she’d pulled it off, snagging a duplex near Beverlywood on a nurse’s salary.
    Even so, there had to be better choices than moving Tanya to another “sketchy neighborhood.”
    Then another possibility hit me: That kind of jumping around was what you saw in habitual gamblers and others whose habits roller-coastered their finances.
    Patty had achieved Westside homeownership, a trust fund, and two life insurance policies for Tanya on a nurse’s salary.
    Impressive.
    Remarkable, really. Maybe she’d been a savvy stock-market player.
    Or had acquired an additional source of revenue.
    A hospital nurse with too much money led to an obvious what-if: drug pilferage and resale. Stealthy dope dealer didn’t sync with what I knew about Patty but how well did I really know her?
    But if she had a secret criminal life, why stir up the pot with a deathbed confession and chance Tanya finding out?
    People with secrets parcel out what they want you to know.
    Until something shattered their inhibitions. Had Patty’s proclamation been the agonized product of a disease-addled mind? An illness-fueled stab at confession and expiation?
    I sat in the car and tossed that around. No way, too ugly. It just didn’t sit right.
    Sounds like you’re a bit involved in this one.
    “So what,” I said to no one.
    A muscular guy in a ski cap pulled down to his eyebrows skulked by with an unleashed, pink-nosed white pit bull. The dog stopped, circled back, pressed its snout against my passenger window, created a little pink, pulsating rosebud. No smiling for this canine. A low-pitched growl thrummed the glass.
    Ski-cap was staring, too.
    My day for warm welcomes. I pulled away slowly enough so the dog wouldn’t lose balance.
    No one thanked me.
     
CHAPTER 7
     
    The encounter with the pit made me appreciate Blanche. As soon as I got home, I took her down to the garden for a puppy stroll, made sure her curiosity didn’t land her in the fishpond.
    One message at my service: Dr. Tziporah Ganz.
    I called back, told her I was Tanya Bigelow’s therapist and had some questions about Patty’s mental status during her final days.
    “Tanya’s having psychological problems?” she said. Her voice was soft, slightly accented—Middle Europe.
    “No,” I said. “Just the typical adjustments, it’s a tough situation.”
    “Tragic situation. Why is Tanya concerned about dementia?”
    “She isn’t, I am. Patty charged Tanya with taking care of lots of details that could turn burdensome. I’m wondering if Patty’s intent needs to be taken literally.”
    “Details? I don’t understand.”
    “Postmortem instructions that Patty thought would benefit Tanya. Tanya goes to school full-time, holds down a part-time job, and is faced with living alone. She was devoted to her mother and right now her personality won’t allow her to deviate from Patty’s wishes. Nor would I try to convince her otherwise. But I am looking for an out in case she gets overwhelmed.”
    “The dying person reaches out for one last burst of control,” she said. “I’ve seen that. And Patty
was
an exacting person. Unfortunately, I can’t give you a clear answer about her mental status. Strictly speaking, there were no clinical reasons for the disease to affect her thinking—no brain lesion, no obvious neuropathy. But any severe illness and its effects—dehydration, jaundice, electrolytic imbalance—can affect cognition, and Patty was a very sick woman. If you choose to tell Tanya that Patty was impaired, I wouldn’t contradict you. However, I won’t be comfortable being quoted as a primary source.”
    “I understand.”
    “Dr. Delaware, I don’t want to tell you