I walked out the long drive toward Mulholland. The gate swung open when I got there, and I went through, and then the gate closed. I got into the Corvette and closed the door and took a deep breath and rubbed very hard at my eyes. I pressed my fingers into my cheeks and under the line of my jaw and behind my neck and over my temples. The muscles in my neck and at the base of my skull and the tops of my shoulders were as tight as spinnaker lines and I couldn't make them loosen.
I drove back along Mulholland to the Stop amp; Go, and called Carol Hillegas. In the past, when I've had to find runaways who'd taken to the streets, Carol has always proven a help. She knows kids, and counsels them at her halfway house in Hollywood. I gave her the short version and said I needed her help and asked if I could stop by. She told me she'd make some time around eleven. I hung up, then called Jillian Becker. I said, "I need you to meet me in Hollywood in half an hour."
She said, "I'm really very busy."
"It's about Mimi."
"Have you found her?" She said it slowly. Scared, maybe.
"Will you meet me?"
She didn't answer.
I said, "This isn't a time to worry about business. I know where she is and I've spoken with her and now there are some things that have to be discussed. Is Bradley back from Kyoto?"
"Yes."
"I don't want to involve Bradley or Sheila until after we've talked."
"Why not?"
I didn't say anything.
After a very long while, she said, "All right. Where should I go?"
When I got to the halfway house, Jillian Becker was out front, leaning against her BMW. She was wearing a cream-colored pants suit with a white silk blouse and black Sanford Hutton sunglasses with electric-blue mirrorshade lenses. The halfway house was in what used to be a two-story pre-war apartment building on a ratty street called Carlton Way, one block south of Hollywood Boulevard, off Gower. There was a liquor store on the corner where guys with no place to go sat on the curb, and old Taco Bell cups littered the street, and a stack of empty Texaco oil cans on a plot of dead grass, and a tiny bungalow house with a hand-painted sign hanging from the porch that said PALMISTRY. The halfway house had a neat lawn and a fresh coat of paint and was the best-kept property on the street. I think Jillian Becker was hiding behind the sunglasses.
I said, "One thing about me, I really know how to show a girl a good time."
She said, "Is Mimi in there?"
"No."
"Why do you want me here and not Bradley and Sheila? If this has to do with Mimi, Bradley and Sheila should be here."
"No," I said, "if Bradley were here I would shoot him."
Jillian Becker stared at me through her mirrorshades, then looked over at the unshaven men sitting on the curb, then looked back at me. She said, "You really mean that, don't you?"
"Let's go inside."
We went through the little gate and up the walk and into the house. There was a tiny entry with a hardwood floor and an old-fashioned coat rack and a sign that said LEAVE THE BULLSHIT AT THE DOOR. To our left there was a stair that went up to the second floor, and to our right there was a little reception area with a yellow Formica counter and a telephone and a blackboard for group announcements. A blond boy with long straight hair and a little blue cross tattooed on the back of his left hand was sitting behind the counter. He was reading a worn-out, spine-rolled copy of Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. He looked up when we walked in. "Hi," I said. "We're here to see Carol."
The blond kid closed the Heinlein on a finger, said he'd tell Carol, and came around the counter to take the stairs up two at a time.
Jillian Becker took off the mirrorshades and stood stiffly by the Formica counter. "What kind of place is this?"
"Halfway house for kids. Most of the kids here are runaways from middle-class homes and middle-class mommas and daddies. Things got a little out of hand back in Ohio. Sometimes things got a lot out of hand. So they end up here in the Land of Dreams hooking or peddling dope or scamming and they get grabbed by the cops. If they are very lucky, the cops give them over to Carol."
The blond kid came back down the stairs, said Carol was making coffee, and that we could go on up. We did. There was a narrow landing on the second floor and a long hall that went past four dormitory rooms, two for boys and two for girls. A girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was on her hands and knees scrubbing the baseboard. She had a bright pink scar running along the length of her left tricep. Knife. Jillian Becker stared at the scar.
Carol Hillegas's office was at the end of the hall. She appeared in the door, took my hand, gave me a kiss, then introduced herself to Jillian Becker and showed us in. Carol Hillegas was tall and thin and wearing her hair shorter than the last time I'd seen her. There were new streaks of gray in it. She had a long face and thin lips and was wearing a pair of faded Levi's and a green Hawaiian shirt with flowers and birds on it and open-toed Mexican sandals. She wore the shirt tucked into her pants. The office had a new coat of paint, but the secondhand desk was the same and so were the wooden chairs and the textbooks and file cabinets and diplomas on the wall. There was an aluminum-frame sliding window in the north wall. If you looked out, you could see the big red X of the Pussycat Theatre up on Hollywood Boulevard. "Very nice, Carol," I said. "Upgrading."
"It's all this government subsidy. I'm thinking about putting in a Jacuzzi."
When we were seated and had coffee, Carol looked at Jillian and smiled. "What's your position in this case, Ms. Becker?"
"I work for the girl's father. I'm not related to her."
I said, "Jillian's here because I'm going to need help with the parents. The more she knows, the more help she'll be."
"So far," Jillian said coolly, "I don't know anything. He hasn't told me what's going on."
Carol gave Jillian a warm smile. "He's like that. Secrets give him a sense of power."
"Bitch," I said.
Carol laughed, then leaned back in her chair and said, "Tell me about this little girl."
I told Carol Hillegas all of it. When I got to the part about the cigarettes, Jillian Becker sat forward and brought one hand to her mouth and stayed like that. I told them about Eddie Tang and following him to the Pago Pago Club and finding Mimi, and then following her to Kira Asano's. When I mentioned Asano, Jillian moved her hand from her mouth and said, "Bradley opened a hotel in Laguna Beach last summer. Asano had a showing in the hotel gallery."
I said, "Would Mimi have gone to the opening?"
"Yes. She probably went down with Sheila."
I told them about my talk with Mimi, and about her refusal to return home. Then I told them why. "She said she couldn't go home because her father sexually molests her."
Jillian Becker drew in a breath as sharp as a rifle's crack. She said, "My God." Then she stood up and went to the window.
Carol said, "You left her at Asano's?"
"Yes."
Jillian Becker shook her head and said, "This can't be. I've known these people for years." She shook her head twice.
Carol Hillegas got up and poured herself another cup of coffee. I'd once seen Carol Hillegas drink fourteen large cups of 7-Eleven coffee in a single Saturday morning. She said, "Leaving her at Asano's was probably all right. Mimi's there because she feels secure, and that's probably the most important thing right now. In an environment where there is an incestuous relationship, the child loses all sense of security because there is never a safe, nurturing time. The person whom the child should be able to trust most is the source of fear and anxiety."
Jillian Becker turned away from the window, came back, and sat on the edge of her seat. "I can't believe Sheila could even suspect this and keep quiet." She looked at me. "You've seen how she is."
Carol drank more coffee and leaned back in her chair. She looked at Jillian and her face took on a more female quality, as if what she were about to say was somehow more female than male. "The mother might not know. She might only suspect, and there is a high likelihood that she would reject that suspicion out of hand. Somewhere along the line whatever the mother had with the father stopped, and he turned to their daughter. A way to look at it is that the daughter has usurped the mother's power and position in the household. The daughter has proven herself more desirable and more satisfying to the male. More womanly. That's not an easy thing to accept."
"Sheila has a tough household position," I said. "Wow."
Carol looked at me and the female thing in her face was cool. "Understand that incest is a family problem with a tremendously complex dynamic. It is also one of the most socially shameful things a person can confront. No one wants to admit it, everyone feels guilty about it, and everyone is afraid of it."
I said, "Great."
"Something like this cannot be handled privately. By law, any licensed therapist or counselor has to report a suspected or admitted case of incest to the Department of Public Social Services Child Abuse Unit. The Department dispatches a field investigator who works with the private therapist, if there is one, or the district attorney's office and police, if those two agencies are required. Incest is a violation of the criminal code and charges can be filed, but they usually aren't if the offending parent and family agree to participate in therapy."
Jillian said, "What if the parent refuses?"
"As I said, charges could be filed, but if the child won't testify, and most of them won't, there's really nothing that can be done. The child would have to go into single therapy, but unless the parent and child work together, it is very difficult to get past the scars this kind of thing leaves."
I said, "What about Mimi?"
"There's no way I can make a diagnosis based on hearsay. You have to work with the client, and it can take many, many hours over many, many weeks. But clearly this girl is demonstrating severe aberrational behavior. She repeatedly inflicts pain upon herself, and she went to bizarre lengths to escape her environment. Most kids want to run, they just run. They don't need to stage a phony kidnapping. The anger this child must be feeling is enormous, and most of it is directed at herself. That's why the masochistic behavior. Another reason is that, subjectively, Mimi is looking for someone who will love her. When a person hurts herself the way Mimi has, they're doing it because they want someone to make them stop."
Jillian was nodding. "And the person who makes them stop is the person who loves them."
Carol Hillegas said, "Essentially, yes. Sexual abuse isn't love. It's abuse." She looked at me. "Mimi is like everyone else. She just wants to feel loved."
"Should I call the cops?"
Carol shrugged. "The cops won't kill her. They'll take her in and when this comes out they'll refer it to the DA and to Social Services and they'll get her a counselor. Your instinct was to avoid the trauma of the arrest and the questioning, and in an ideal world that would be the best way to go. Mimi's had enough trauma."
I said, "If I can get Mimi and her parents to agree to come in, will you help?"
"Yes."
"What's the most trauma-free way to do it?"
"The girl should be in a stabilized environment, and should have established some trust with the therapist. If that's me, I'd like to spend some time with her and some time with the parents before we try to bring them together. After we're used to each other, we can begin the group work on neutral ground and see where it leads us."
Jillian Becker said softly, "Bradley will never agree."
I looked at her and leaned forward in my chair. "Yes, he will."
She looked at me.
"I'm going to talk to Bradley and Sheila and I'm going to get them to agree to this, but I don't want to do it at Bradley's office. I want you to get them together at home. Can you do that?"
Carol Hillegas said, "How are you going to convince them?"
I ignored her. "Can you do that, Jillian?"
"Yes."
"Will you?"
"Yes."
I stood up. "Then let's do it."