When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

discuss? I don’t want him or him—” the second jab was at Milo “—around here no more.” She turned to us. “You try and be a good Samaritan and help the cops and you get the shaft! Now my baby’s got the seizures and she’s screamin’ and I’m gonna lose my place. I know I’m gonna lose it!”
    Her face crumpled. She buried it in her hands and began to cry. Towle moved in like a Beverly Hills gigolo, putting his arms around her, consoling her, saying now, now.
    He guided her to the couch and sat her down, standing over her, patting her shoulder.
    “I’m gonna lose my place,” she said into her hands. “They don’t like noise here.” She uncovered her face and looked wet-eyed up at Towle.
    “Now, now, it’s going to be all right. I’ll see to that.”
    “But what about the seizures!?”
    “I’ll see to that, too.” He gave me a sharp look, full of hostility and, I was sure, a bit of fear.
    She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
    “I don’t understand why she has to wake up screaming Daddy Daddy! That bastard’s never been around to lift a finger or give me a cent of child support! He has no love for her! Why does she cry out for him , Doctor Towle?” She looked up at him, a novitiate beseeching the pope.
    “Now, now.”
    “He’s a crazy man, that Ronnie Lee is. Look at this!” She tore the scarf from her head, shook her hair loose and lowered her head exposing the top of it. Giving a whimper she parted the strands at the center of her crown. “Look at this!”
    It was ugly. A thick, raw red scar the size of a fat worm. A worm that had burrowed under her scalp and settled there. The skin around it was livid and lumpy, showing the results of bad surgery, devoid of hair.
    “Now you know why I cover it!” she cried. “ He did that to me! With a chain ! Ronnie Lee Quinn.” She spat out the name. “A crazy, evil bastard. That’s the Daddy Daddy she’s cryin’ out for! That scum!”
    “Now, now,” said Towle. He turned to us. “Do you gentlemen have anything more to discuss with Mrs. Quinn?”
    “No, Doctor,” said Milo and turned to leave. He took hold of my arm to guide me out. But I had something to say.
    “Tell her, Doctor. Tell her those were not seizures. They were night terrors and they’ll go away by themselves if you keep her calm. Tellher there’ll be no need for phenobarbitol or Dilantin or Tofranil.”
    Towle continued to pat her shoulder.
    “Thank you for your professional opinion, Doctor. I’ll manage this case as I see fit.”
    I stood there rooted.
    “Come on, Alex.” Milo eased me out the door.
    The parking lot of the apartment complex was crammed full of Mercedes, Porsches, Alfa Romeo’s and Datsun Z’s. Milo’s Fiat, parked in front of a hydrant, looked sadly out of place, like a cripple at a track meet. We sat in it, glum.
    “What a mess,” he said.
    “The bastard.”
    “For a minute I thought you were going to hit him.” He chuckled.
    “It was tempting. The bastard.”
    “It looked like he was baiting you. I thought you guys got along.”
    “On his terms. On an intellectual level we were good old boys. When things fell apart he had to find a scapegoat. He’s an egomaniac. Doctor is omnipotent. Doctor can fix anything. Did you see how she worshipped him, the goddamned Great White Father? Probably slit the kid’s wrists if he told her to.”
    “You’re worried about the kid, aren’t you?”
    “You’re damn right I am. You know exactly what he’s going to do, don’t you—more dope. She’ll be a total space cadet in two days.”
    Milo chewed on his lip. After a few minutes he said:
    “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m sorry I pulled you into it in the first place.”
    “Forget it. It wasn’t your fault.”
    “Nah, it was. I’ve been lazy, trying for an instant miracle on this Handler mess. Been avoiding the old wear-down-the-shoe leather routine. Question Handler’s associates, get the list of known bad guys