Free The Clinic by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

It took him nearer the convex mirror and he became a gray smear in the silvered glass.
    Page 46

    “So,” he repeated. “What can I do for you?”
    “Just checking in,” said Milo.
    “No progress.”
    “I’m afraid not, sir.”
    Seacrest nodded, as if bad news were to be expected.
    I took in the house. Center hall plan, the entry modest, floored in vinyl tiles that simulated white marble, the staircase carpeted in faded green.
    Living room to the right, dining room to the left. More fusty furniture, not quite old enough to be antique. He’d inherited the house from his parents. Probably the stuff he’d grown up with.
    Disparate throw rugs spread limply over brown wall-to-wall plush. Beyond the stairs was a small pine-paneled room lined with books. Books on the floor, too. A plaid couch. The grandfather clock hadn’t been set and its pendulum hung inertly.
    Footsteps thumped from the second floor.
    “One of Hope’s students,” Seacrest said, fingering his beard. “Retrieving some research material Hope left behind. I finally had the gumption to go through Hope’s things after the police took everything apart, and repack them. Those first two detectives just threw everything around—one second.”
    He climbed halfway up the stairs. “Almost through?” he called. “The police are here.”
    A voice from above said something. Seacrest came back down slowly, like an unwilling bride.
    “Research material,” said Milo. “It belongs to the student?”
    “They were working together. It’s the norm at the doctoral level.”
    I said, “How many students did she have?”
    “I don’t believe many.”
    “Because of the book?” said Milo.
    “Pardon?”
    “The time demands.”
    “Yes, I suppose so. But also because Hope was particular.” Seacrest glanced toward the stairs.
    “It’s still a mess—Hope’s approach to things was . . . she wasn’t overly . . . compulsive. Which is not to say her mind wasn’t organized. Itwas. Exceptionally so. One of her many talents. Perhaps that was the point.”
    “What was, Professor?”
    Page 47

    Seacrest pointed up the stairs, as if at a chalkboard. “What I mean to say is I always wondered if the reason she could afford to work in disorder was because she was sointernally tidy—so beautifully schematized—that she had noneed for external order. Even as a graduate student she’d study with the radio on, the television. I found that unbelievable. I need absolute solitude.”
    He sniffed. “She was much smarter than I.” His eyes got wet.
    “You’re not getting much solitude tonight,” said Milo.
    Seacrest tried to smile. His mouth wouldn’t go along and it came out a pig’s-tail of ambivalence.
    “So, no new ideas,” he said. “I wish I had some of my own. But madness is just madness. So banal.”
    “Coming down,” said a voice from the stairs.
    The shorter man descended, a cardboard box in both hands.
    He was in his twenties with long, dark, straight hair slicked back from a face so angular it made James Dean’s look pudgy. He had full, dark lips, hollow cheeks, smooth skin, and heavy black eyebrows. The long coat was a scuffed black leather trench and under the hem was an inch of blue denim cuff. Black boots with thick soles and heavy chrome buckles.
    He blinked. Long, curving lashes over dark blue eyes. Upstairs, where the bedrooms were. I thought about Seacrest’s possible warning and wondered about whether he’d come for something other than data.
    Driving Hope’s car . . . quite a privilege for someone else’s student. But for a new friend . . .
    I glanced over at Milo. He hadn’t budged.
    The young man reached the bottom, holding the box out in front of him like an offering. Neat writing in black marker on the side saidSELF-CONTROL STUDY, BATCH 4, PRELIM.He put it down. Half-open flaps revealed computer printouts.
    He had long, slender hands. On the right index finger was a big silver skull ring. Red glass for the skull’s eyes. The kind