Her Sister's Keeper

Melanie herself appeared, edging around the receptionist. She had her checkbook in hand and a determined look in her eye. “I prefer to pay as I go, Dr. Mattson. What do I owe you for that session?”

“I’m afraid your money’s no good here, Ms. Harris. If you couldn’t share this office for thirty minutes with me, then I obviously don’t deserve payment. Should you at any time change your mind, give me a call.” Kent pulled a business card out of the brass holder on his desk, rose to his feet and extended it toward her.

“You should probably know that I’ve never believed in…therapists. Half the people I work with see one regularly,” she said with a flash of rebellion, but she took the card.

“And you think they’re being weak for seeing a…shrink?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, as well as extremely self- centered,” she replied with a faint flush of embarrassment. “If I stayed for the allotted time, would you accept my payment?”

“Not for your first visit. The rules are the rules. However, you’re more than welcome to stay. I’ll even fix you a cup of coffee or tea, and you don’t have to say a word. At least that way, if you do come back, you’ll be officially into your second visit and I can charge you an arm and a leg.”

“I won’t come a second time, Dr. Mattson. I can guarantee you that.”

Kent walked over to the side table. “Coffee, or tea?”

She hesitated, and he knew he’d won when her chin dropped fractionally. “I’ll take green tea, please,” she said, and resumed her seat. While Kent fixed her tea and replenished his coffee, she sat gazing at the office walls. “Thank you,” she murmured as he handed her the mug. She rose from her seat and walked to the bookshelf, perusing the leather-bound volumes. She studied the framed photographs on the wall. His diplomas from grad school and the criminal justice academy. She stepped closer to read the assorted plaques, lifting her cup to sip her tea. Her eyebrows raised and she glanced at him.

“You won a national police pistol-shooting contest?”

“Three years in a row,” he said. “The fourth year my boss sent me to a symposium on forensic psychology in New York City, so I couldn’t enter.”

“And did he win, with you out of the picture?”

Kent grinned and nodded. “She won. My boss at the police department happens to be a woman, and a damned fine shot.”

“Then, you’re a police officer?”

“Only part-time, for now,” Kent said. “I divide my time between my office here and the LAPD.”

“ Interesting,” Melanie said. “This is quite a trophy wall you have here, Doctor. I wouldn’t expect such hobbies from a…psychologist. But then again, this is Beverly Hills.”

“You betcha. We shrinks gotta get our thrills in while we can.” Kent took a swallow of coffee, kicked back in his chair and glanced at his watch. Five more minutes until she bolted. Five more minutes to make her realize she needed him so he could pad his bank account a little more.

“Your parents?”

She’d returned to the photographs. “Yes. That picture was taken ten years ago. They’ve both passed away since.”

“I’m sorry. I know how hard it is to lose your parents. I lost both of mine when I was eighteen. Car accident.” She glanced back at the photograph. “That looks like an old Mexican ranch in the background.”

“Chimeya. One of the oldest in California. Authentic, right down to the two-foot-thick adobe walls. I was raised there.”

“That must have been nice,” she said, studying the photograph closely. “Horses, dogs, cattle and lots of wide open space. A good place for children to grow up… I suppose it’s been sold off and developed, like everything else worth preserving in this day and age.”

Kent was surprised by the bitterness in her voice. “Actually, the ranch is still very much in the Mattson family. I live there.”

Her eyebrows raised again. “Then the ranch must not be around here, that’s for sure. There’s no smog in that picture.”

“Nope. Chimeya’s far enough away to escape the smog, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.”

“And you commute?”

“The ranch has a decent landing strip.”

She gave him an appraising stare, then turned her attention back to the pictures. “Your horse?”

“His name’s Seven. He likes Budweiser beer, doggin’ steers and long rides into the hills.”

“Ah, so you’re a cowboy at heart.” The faintest of smiles warmed her pale features as she spoke.

“I guess you could say that. I started out giving psychotherapy to the horses, but it didn’t pay, and on several occasions my efforts got me kicked. So I went to school to learn how to psych out human beings.”

She laughed, a beautiful sound. He caught a faint whiff of her subtle perfume and wondered if something had happened to the air-conditioning in his suddenly very warm office. Just as he was pushing out of his chair to check the thermostat, Melanie set her teacup down and faced him.

“Thank you, Dr. Mattson. I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. It wasn’t easy for me to come here.”

“You survived the experience with flying colors,” Kent said.

The faint smile warmed her face once again. “I fulfilled a promise to a friend and a recommendation from my doctor,” she amended. “My allotted time is up. Thank you again. Please, let me pay you.”

Kent shook his head. “Against policy. If you want to come back, by all means, do so, but you don’t pay a cent until your second visit.”

“Then I’m afraid this is goodbye,” Melanie said, extending her hand.

Kent took it in his own, surprised at the firmness of her grip. The tremble he’d detected earlier was completely gone. “Goodbye, Ms. Harris,” he said. “You have my card if you should have a change of heart.”

She pulled her hand out of his and left him standing there, still marveling at the idea of a woman sitting in silence for ten whole minutes. He wouldn’t have thought such self-restraint was possible. Too bad to have lost that potential gold mine, but there’d be others. Not nearly as pretty, though. Not by half. The woman’s legs would stop the most jaded drivers on Santa Monica Boulevard. Kent’s phone rang as he was tucking his very brief notes into the Melanie Harris folder.

“Murphy here. We have a situation.”

“Damn, Murph, gimme a break. This is my day of raking in the big bucks so I can afford to keep working for you,” Kent said, pushing the file aside and rocking forward in his chair. “What’s up?”

“We’re at the Beverly Hills Regency. A young woman was found dead in her room an hour ago by maid service.” There was a brief, ominous pause. “There are no signs of foul play, but I’d like you to have a look at the scene if you can. T. Ray’s still with the body. This looks very similar to that young woman who was found earlier this morning.”

“Say no more. I’m on my way.”

“Kent?” There was a hiss of static as Captain Carolyn Murphy paced with her cell phone the way Kent had seen her do on many occasions. He could picture the rigid set of her shoulders and that dark gaze gathering like a storm. “The thing is, according to the desk clerk, this victim checked into the hotel last night with a newborn infant. There are baby things scattered around the room, but the baby’s missing.”

His heart rate accelerated and his adrenaline level soared. “Don’t let them disturb anything at the scene, Murph. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Kent hung up the phone, buzzed his receptionist and informed her he was leaving early.

“You have three more appointments, Dr. Matt¬ son,” she reminded him with disapproval. “Mrs. Forsythe, Sienna Bernstein and…Wanda Wendell.” The latter name was spoken with understandable trepidation. Wanda Wendell’s sole reason for living was to make other people’s lives miserable.

“Call them and reschedule. I have a police emergency.”

Kent reached for his jacket and grabbed his car keys and briefcase on the way out the door. His mind was racing even as he descended the stairs two at a time, the five flights faster by far on foot than by elevator. He burst out the ground floor stairwell and took the basement shortcut to the parking garage, running to his reserved parking area. He was out of breath by the time he reached the place where his new Audi should have been, and stared at the dark, vacant slot in disbelief. What the hell? Grand theft auto wasn’t supposed to happen in this garage, which was precisely why he’d paid an outlandish fee for a reserved space in a place that had an armed security guard controlling access. Kent began a fresh sprint toward the gate, heart hammering.

The security guard was young and ignorant, professing no knowledge of Kent’s Audi leaving the garage without him. Kent didn’t have time to argue. “Call me a cab, and make it quick,” he snapped. He heard a car approaching the gate from behind and stepped out of the way, glancing at the driver as the window lowered and a slender, graceful hand extended with the ticket. Melanie Harris. Her timing was a minor miracle, considering the infamously slow office elevator. Kent threw his arms up to stop her. “Ms. Harris! Could you give me a ride to the Beverly Hills Regency? My car’s been stolen and there’s a police emergency.”

Those turbulent green eyes met his, and she didn’t hesitate. “Get in,” she said, and as Kent climbed into the passenger seat of her silver Mercedes sports coupe, breathing the mingled scents of leather upholstery and perfume, hearing the muted strains of Handel’s Water Music from the stereo, she waved off his thank-you. “Think nothing of it,” she said, pulling out into the midday traffic and accelerating smoothly ahead. “Consider my thirty-minute debt to you repaid.”