Survival of the Fittest (11 page)

He turned to me. “What, Alex?”

“It just seemed too cute. Move the body and there it is. Nothing like that was found near Irit. According to the files.”

“Meaning?”

“Sometimes,” I said, “small things get overlooked.”

He frowned. “You think Montez or whoever killed Latvinia left a message?”

“Or it was in her pocket and fell out, either when she was hung or when Montez cut her down.”

He rubbed his face. “I’ll get to the morgue and look at the evidence bags personally. That is, if the stuff hasn’t been returned to the family. Speaking of which, Carmeli called me this morning, said he has copies of the consulate crank mail, I should come by and pick them up. I’ll do it around five, after I play phone tag to see if anyone’s got deaf or retarded victims that look interesting. If I drop the letters off this evening, could you analyze them?”

“Be happy to, for what it’s worth. Quick cooperation on Carmeli’s part. Attitude adjustment?”

“Maybe he was impressed ’cause I brought along a psychologist.”

“Sure,” I said. “That and the tie.”

I got home at two-thirty. Robin and Spike were out and I drank a beer, went through the mail, paid some bills. Helena Dahl had phoned an hour and a half ago—not long after her session—leaving her work number. And Dr. Roone Lehmann had returned my call.

The Cardiac Care Unit clerk told me Helena was in the middle of a procedure and couldn’t come to the phone. Leaving my name, I phoned Lehmann.

This time no service; an answering tape with a low, dry-but-mellow male voice picked up, and as I introduced myself, the same voice clicked in.

“This is Dr. Lehmann.”

“Thanks for getting back to me, Doctor.”

“Certainly. Officer Dahl’s sister called, too, but I thought I’d speak with you first. What exactly is she after?”

“Some understanding of why he killed himself.”

“I sympathize,” he said. “Of course. But can we ever really understand?”

“True,” I said. “Did Nolan leave any clues?”

“Was he despondent or profoundly depressed, overtly suicidal or making oblique cries for help? Not when I saw him, Dr. Delaware, but—hold on.”

He was off the line for thirty seconds, came back sounding rushed. “I’m sorry. Something came up and I can’t talk at length right now. Not that I could, anyway. Even though the patient’s dead and even though the courts have been hacking away at confidentiality, I’m one of those old-fashioned fellows who takes our vows seriously.”

“Is there anything you can tell me that might help her?” I said.

“Anything,” he repeated, drawing out the word. “Hmm .   .   . let me think on that—do you ever get downtown? I could give you a few moments. Because I’d rather not discuss these things on the phone. A police case and all that, the current climate. One never knows where the media lurks.”

“Do you see lots of police cases?”

“Enough to be cautious. Of course, if it’s too much of a problem to drive all the way—”

“No problem,” I said. “When?”

“Let me check my calendar—I do want to emphasize that I can’t promise anything until I go over the file. And I’d prefer not to speak to the sister directly. Please tell her we talked.”

“Sure. Have you had problems with these types of cases?”

“Not .   .   . as a rule. Ounce of prevention and all that—there’s something you might want to consider, Doctor. As the sister’s therapist. The search for understanding is normal, but the value of digging things up varies from case to case.”

“You don’t think this case merits it?”

“What I’m .   .   . let’s just say Officer Dahl was .   .   . an interesting fellow. Anyway, I’ll leave it at that, for the moment. I’ll be in touch.”

An interesting fellow.

Warning me?

Some dark secret that Helena was better off not knowing?

I thought of what I’d learned about Nolan.

Mood swings, sensation seeking, sudden shifts to political extremes.

Had he stepped over the line—in the course of police work? Something best left unexplored?

Something political—on the fringe?

A police case and all that. The current climate.

Videotaped beatings of suspects, cops sitting around as rioters torched the city, bungling of evidence in major cases, case after case of felonious cops caught in the act. LAPD was as popular as an abortionist at the Vatican.

The media lurking.

Had Lehmann been involved in other cop cases that had left him gun-shy?

Whatever the reason, he was definitely trying to steer me away from a psychological autopsy of Nolan.

The department hadn’t argued when Helena had chosen to skip the full-dress funeral.

Eager to move things along?

Nolan, bright, different because he read books.

Alienated.

The switch from West L.A. to Hollywood.

Because he liked action?

Illegal action?

Had he gotten himself into something that left suicide the only option?

As I thought about it, Helena phoned, sounding breathless.

“Rushed?” I said.

“Busy. We just had a patient infarct in the middle of an angio. Big artery the cardiologist hadn’t known about, he’s Roto-Rootering one and the other jams up. But he’s okay, the patient, things have quieted down. The reason I called is, right after our session I went over to Nolan’s apartment, all motivated to go through his stuff, maybe find something.” She paused and I could hear her inhale and blow it out. “I went to the garage first and it was fine but someone broke into the place, Dr. Delaware. It was a wreck. They took his stereo and his TV, his microwave, all his flatware, a couple of lamps, pictures off the walls. Probably some clothes, too. Someone must have come with a truck and loaded up.”

“Oh, boy,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Lowlifes.” Her voice shook. “Scumbags.”

“No one saw anything?”

“They probably did it at night. It’s a duplex, just Nolan and the landlord and she’s a dentist, out of town at a convention. I called the police and they said it would take at least an hour to get there. I had to be at work by three, so I gave my number and left. What can they do, anyway? Write a report and file it? The damage is already done. Even if the bastards come back, there’s nothing to take except .   .   . Nolan’s car—God, why didn’t I
think
of that! His Fiero. In the garage. Either they didn’t see it or they didn’t have time and are coming back—God, I’ve got to go back there, get someone to take me so I can drive the Fiero over to my place .   .   . so many things to handle, the lawyer just called me about the final papers .   .   . robbing a cop. This
damn
city .   .   . his rent is paid up for the month but eventually I’m going to have to clean everything up and .   .   . go back there   .   .   .”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure.”

“That’s so nice, but no, I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay, Helena. I don’t mind.”

“I just—you’re serious?”

“Where’s the apartment?”

“Mid-Wilshire. Sycamore near Beverly. I can’t leave right now, too many iffy patients. Maybe midshift, if we’re staffed enough. If they take the damn car before then, fine.”

“Tonight, then.”

“I can’t impose on you to come out late, Dr. Delaware—”

“It’s no problem, Helena. I’m a night person.”

“I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be free.”

“Call me when you are. If I’m free, I’ll meet you there. If not, you’re on your own. Okay?”

She laughed softly. “Okay. Thanks so much. I really didn’t want to go alone.”

“Have a minute?” I said.

“Unless someone else starts dying.”

“I spoke with Dr. Lehmann.”

“What’d he say?”

“As we expected, nothing, because of confidentiality. But he did agree to reread Nolan’s file and if he comes up with something he feels comfortable discussing, he’ll meet with me.”

Silence.

“That is, if you want me to, Helena.”

“Sure,” she said. “Sure, that’s fine. I started, might as well finish.”

Chapter

13

Milo chomped a dead cigarillo and carried the consulate crank letters in an oversized, unlabeled white envelope.

“A year’s worth,” he said, remaining out on the terrace.

“What do they do with the old ones?”

“Don’t know. This is what Carmeli gave me. Or rather, his secretary. Still haven’t gotten past the hall, yet. Thanks, Alex. Back to the phones.”

“No luck yet?”

“Lots of callbacks pending. Hooks has started to work on Montez. So far, the guy’s clean. Totally. Just to be careful I double-checked the offender files. Nothing. See you.”

He patted my shoulder and turned to leave.

“Milo, are you aware of any scandals brewing in the department? West L.A. or Hollywood, specifically?”

He stopped short. “No. Why?”

“Can’t say.”

“Oh,” he said. “The Dahl kid. Someone bad-mouthed him? Do
you
know something?”

I shook my head. “I’m probably overreacting, but his therapist implied I shouldn’t ask too many questions.”

“No reason?”

“Confidentiality.”

“Hmm. Nope, nothing that I’ve picked up. And even though I’m not Mr. Popular if it was something big-time I think I’d know.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Yeah .   .   . happy analysis.”

I emptied the envelope on my desk. A square of blue paper was stapled to each letter, saying
L.A.
and listing the date received.

Fifty-four letters, the most recent, three weeks ago, the oldest, eleven months.

Most were short, viciously to the point.

Anonymous. Three main themes.

1. Israelis are Jews and, hence, the enemy because all Jews are part of a capitalist banker/Masonic/Trilateral Commission conspiracy to dominate the world.

2. Israelis are Jews and, hence, the enemy because all Jews are part of a Communist/Bolshevik/cosmopolitan conspiracy to dominate the world.

3. Israelis are the enemy because they’re colonial usurpers who stole land from the Arabs and continue to oppress the Palestinians.

Lots of misspellings, more disorganized handwriting than I’d seen in a long time.

The third group—Israel versus the Arabs—contained the most grammatical errors and awkward phrases, and I assumed some of the writers were foreign-born.

Five of the letters in group 3 also carried references to murdered Palestinian children and I set those aside.

But no specific warnings of revenge upon consulate children or other Israelis and no references to DVLL.

I shifted to the envelopes, examining the postmarks. All California. Twenty-nine had been mailed within L.A. County, eighteen from Orange County, six from Ventura, one from Santa Barbara.

Of the five with allusions to children, four were local, one from Orange County.

Another read. Run-of-the-mill racial venom and I couldn’t see any way to connect it to Irit.

The office door opened and Robin came in with Spike. As I scratched his neck, her eyes lowered to the letters.

“Fan mail,” I said.

She read a sentence, turned away. “Vile. Were these sent to the girl’s father?”

“To the consulate.” I began scooping up the letters.

“Don’t quit on my account,” she said.

“No, I’m finished. Dinner?”

“I was going to ask you.”

“I could cook.”

“You want to?”

“Wouldn’t mind feeling useful, if you don’t mind quick and simple. How about lamb chops? We’ve got some frozen. I’ll steam some corn. Salad, wine, ice cream—the works, babe.”

“Wine
and
the works? My girlish heart swoons.”

Concentrating on the grill helped me relax. We ate outside, slowly, quietly, and ended up in bed an hour later. At seven-thirty, Robin was in the tub and I lay atop the sheets.

Ten minutes later, Helena called and said, “I can get away, now, but you really don’t have to bother.”

I went into the bathroom and told Robin.

“Well,” she said, “you’ve already done your good deeds here, so why not?”

Sycamore was an attractive, shaded street just west of Hancock Park, full of high-style duplexes dating from the twenties. Nolan Dahl’s building was of that vintage, but a plain cousin. White lumpy stucco, no architectural embellishments, narrow windows like wounds, a few yucca plants pushing up against the front window, a fuzzy square of lawn. It gave no hint of falling victim to anything but tight budgeting.

I got there two minutes before Helena drove up.

“Sorry, had some discharge forms to finish. Hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“Just arrived.”

Waving a key, she said, “His is the downstairs unit.”

We walked to the front door. A business card had been slipped between the door and the jamb and she pulled it out.

“Detective Duchossoir,” she read. “Well, thanks for showing up, guy—they never called me for a statement. What a joke.”

She unlocked the front door, turned on a light, and we stepped into disarray dimmed by heavy gold velvet curtains that looked as old as the building. The living room was nice-sized with beamed ceilings and off-white walls but it smelled of old dust and sweat and looked like a war zone. The furniture the burglars had left was upended and damaged: broken legs on wooden folding chairs, a brown corduroy sofa with Naugahyde trim turned onto its arms, the bottom slashed open, the wounds exposing coils and stuffing. A cheap ceramic lamp lay shattered on the green shag carpet, white grit littering the pile. Nothing on the walls but dark rectangles where something had once hung.

In the dining area a card table had been tossed against the wall, cracking the plaster. More folding chairs. In the tiny kitchen, drawers were open, most of them emptied to the yellow paper lining. Nolan’s meager collection of crockery was strewn all over the lumpy linoleum floor. As Helena had said, no flatware.

The refrigerator, an old white Admiral too small for the nook provided, could have come from a thrift shop. I opened it. Empty.