When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

coffee almost went up my nose.
    “He’s been out of the closet for about two years. Marriage in medical school, messy divorce, excommunication by family. The whole bit. Fantastic guy, you’ll have to meet him.”
    “I’d like to.”
    “Give me a few days to slog through Morton Handler’s life history and we’ll double.”
    “It’s a deal.”
    It was five to four. I let the Los Angeles Police Department pay for my lunch. In the best tradition of policemen the world over, Milo left an enormous tip. He patted Bettijean’s fanny on the way out and her laughter followed us out on to the street.
    Santa Monica Boulevard was beginning to choke up with traffic and the air had started to foul. I closed the Seville’s windows and turned on the air-conditioning. I slipped a tape of Joe Pass and Stephane Grappelli into the deck. The sound of “Only a Paper Moon,” delivered hot forties style, filled the car. The music made me feel good. Milo took a cat nap, snoring deeply. I eased the Seville into the traffic and headed back to Brentwood.

4
    T OWLE’S OFFICE was on a side street off San Vicente, not far from the Brentwood Country Mart—one of the few neighborhoods where movie stars could shop without being harassed. It was in a building designed during the early fifties, when tan brick, low-slung roofs and wall inserts of glass cubes were in vogue. Plantings of asparagus fern and climbing bougainvillaea did something to relieve the starkness, but it still looked pretty severe.
    Towle was the building’s sole occupant and his name was stenciled in gold leaf on the glass front door. The parking lot was a haven for wood-sided station wagons. We pulled in next to a blue Lincoln with a SPEAK UP FOR CHILDREN bumper sticker that I figured belonged to the good doctor himself.
    Inside, the decor was something else. It was as if some interior decorator had tried to make up for the harshness of the building by cramming the waiting room full of mush. The furniture was colonial maple with nubby seat cushions. The walls were covered with needlepoint homilies and cutesy-poo prints of little boys fishing and little girls preening themselves in front of mirrors, wearing mommy’s hat and shoes. The room was full of children and harried-looking mothers. Magazines, books and toys cluttered the floor. There was an odor of dirty diapers in the air. If this was Towle’s lull I didn’t want to be there during his busy period.
    When we walked in, two childless males, we drew stares from the women. We had agreed beforehand that Towle would relate better doctor to doctor, so Milo found a seat sandwiched in between two five-year-olds and I walked to the reception window. The girl on the other side was a sweet young thing with Farah Fawcett hair and a facealmost as pretty as that of her role model. She was dressed in white and her name tag proclaimed her to be Sandi.
    “Hi. I’m Dr. Delaware. I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Towle.”
    I got a smile fronted by lots of nice, white teeth.
    “Appointments don’t mean much this afternoon. But come right in. He’ll be with you in just a minute.”
    I walked through the door with several pairs of maternal eyes boring into my back. Some of them had probably been waiting for over an hour. I wondered why Towle didn’t hire an associate.
    Sandi showed me into the doctor’s consultation office, a dark-paneled room about twelve by twelve.
    “It’s about the Quinn child, isn’t it?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I’ll pull the chart.” She came back with a manila folder and placed it on Towle’s desk. There was a red tag on the cover. She saw me looking at it.
    “The reds are the hypers. We code them. Yellow for chronically ill ones. Blue for specialty consults.”
    “Very efficient.”
    “Oh, you have no idea!” She giggled and placed one hand on a shapely hip. “You know,” she said, leaning a bit closer and letting me have a whiff of something fragrant, “between you and me that poor