Survival of the Fittest (2 page)

“Books,” I said. “Well, there’s a motive for you.”

He laughed. “Guns don’t kill, introspection does?”

I laughed back. But I thought about that.

Helena Dahl called me that evening and I arranged to see her in my home office the following morning. She arrived precisely on time, a tall, handsome woman of thirty, with very short straight blond hair and sinewy arms exposed by a navy blue tank top. The tank was tucked into jeans and she wore tennies without socks. Her face was a lean oval, well-sunned, her eyes light blue, her mouth exceptionally wide. No jewelry. No wedding ring. She gave my hand a firm shake, tried to smile, thanked me for seeing her, then followed me.

The new house is set up for therapy. I take patients in through a side door, crossing the Japanese garden and passing the fish pond. People usually stop to look at the koi or at least comment but she didn’t.

Inside she sat very straight with her hands on her knees. Most of my work involves children caught up in the court system and a portion of the office is set aside for play therapy. She didn’t look at the toys.

“This is the first time I’ve done this.” Her voice was soft and low but it carried some authority. An E.R. nurse would make good use of that.

“Even after my divorce, I never talked to anyone,” she added. “I really don’t know what I expect.”

“Maybe to make some sense of it?” I said gently.

“You think that’s possible?”

“You may be able to learn more, but some questions can never be answered.”

“Well, at least you’re honest. Shall we get right into it?”

“If you’re ready—”

“I don’t know what I am but why waste time? It’s .   .   . you know about the basic details?”

I nodded.

“There was really no warning, Dr. Delaware. He was such a   .   .   .”

Then she cried.

Then she spilled it out.

“Nolan was smart,” she said. “I mean seriously smart, brilliant. So the last thing you’d think he’d end up being was a cop—no offense to Rick’s friend, but that’s not exactly what comes to mind when you think intellectual, right?”

Milo had a master’s degree in literature. I said, “So Nolan was an intellectual.”

“Definitely.”

“How much education did he have?”

“Two years of college. Cal State Northridge. Psychology major, as a matter of fact.”

“He didn’t finish.”

“He had trouble .   .   . finishing things. Maybe it was rebellion—our parents were heavily into education. Maybe he just got sick of classes, I don’t know. I’m three years older, was already working by the time he dropped out. No one expected him to join the police. The only thing I can think of is he’d gotten politically conservative, real law-and-order. But still .   .   . the other thing is, he always loved .   .   . sleaze.”

“Sleaze?”

“Spooky stuff, the dark side of things. As a kid he was always into horror movies, really gross stuff, the grossest. His senior year in high school, he went through a stage where he grew his hair long and listened to heavy metal and pierced his ears five times. My parents were convinced he was into satanism or something.”

“Was he?”

“Who knows? But you know parents.”

“Did they hassle him?”

“No, that wasn’t their style. They just rode it out.”

“Tolerant?”

“Unassertive. Nolan always did what he wanted—”

She cut the sentence short.

“Where’d you grow up?” I said.

“The Valley. Woodland Hills. My father was an engineer, worked at Lockheed, passed away five years ago. My mother was a social worker but never worked. She’s gone, too. A stroke, a year after Dad died. She had hypertension, never took care of it. She was only sixty. But maybe she’s the lucky one—not having to know what Nolan did.”

Her hands balled.

“Any other family?” I said.

“No, just Nolan and me. He never married and I’m divorced. No kids. My ex is a doctor.” She smiled. “Big surprise. Gary’s a pulmonologist, basically a nice guy. But he decided he wanted to be a farmer so he moved to North Carolina.”

“You didn’t want to be a farmer?”

“Not really. But even if I did he didn’t ask me along.” Her eyes shot to the floor.

“So you’re bearing all this alone,” I said.

“Yup. Where was I—oh, the satanic nonsense. No big deal, it didn’t last long and then Nolan got back to normal teenage stuff. School, sports, girls, his car.”

“Did he maintain his taste for the dark side?”

“Probably not—I don’t know why I brought that up. What do you think about the way Nolan did it?”

“Using his service gun?”

She winced. “I meant so publically, in front of all those people. Like saying screw you to the world.”

“Maybe that was his message.”

“I thought it was theatrical,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard.

“Was he a theatrical person?”

“Hard to say. He was very good-looking, big, made an impression—the kind of guy you noticed when he entered a room. Did he milk that? Maybe a bit when he was a kid. As an adult? The truth is, Dr. Delaware, Nolan and I lost touch. We were never close. And now—”

More tears. “As a little kid he always enjoyed being the center of attention. But other times he didn’t want anything to do with anybody, just crawled into his own little space.”

“Moody?”

“A family trait.” She rubbed her knees and looked past me. “My dad underwent shock therapy for depression when Nolan and I were in grade school. We were never told what was going on, just that he was going into the hospital for a couple of days. But after he died, Mom told us.”

“How many treatments did he have?”

“I don’t know, three, maybe four. When he’d come home he’d be wiped out, fuzzy about remembering—like what you see in head-injury patients. They say ECT works better now but I’m sure it damaged his brain. He faded in middle age, took early retirement, sat around reading and listening to Mozart.”

“He must have been severely depressed to get ECT,” I said.

“Must have been but I never really saw it. He was quiet, sweet, shy.”

“What was his relationship with Nolan?”

“There wasn’t much of one that I could see. Even though Nolan was gifted, he was into typical macho stuff. Sports, surfing, cars. Dad’s idea of recreation was   .   .   .”—she smiled—“reading and listening to Mozart.”

“Did they have conflict?”

“Dad never had conflict with anyone.”

“How did Nolan react to your father’s death?”

“He cried at the funeral. Afterward, we both tried to comfort Mom for a while, then he just drifted away again.”

She pinched her lower lip. “I didn’t want Nolan to have one of those big LAPD funerals, gun salutes, all that crap. No one at the department argued. Like they were happy not to deal with it. I had him cremated. He left a will, all his stuff is mine. Dad’s and Mom’s stuff, too. I’m the survivor.”

Too much pain. I backtracked. “What was your mother like?”

“More outgoing than Dad. Not moody. On the contrary, she was always up, cheerful, optimistic. Probably why she stroked out—holding it all inside.” She rubbed her knee again. “I don’t want to make our family sound weird. We weren’t. Nolan was a regular guy. Partying, chasing girls. Just smarter. He got A’s without working.”

“What did he do after dropping out of college?”

“Bummed around, worked different jobs. Then all of a sudden he calls me, announces he’s graduated from the police academy. I hadn’t heard from him since Mom died.”

“When was this?”

“About a year and a half ago. He told me the academy was a joke, Mickey Mouse. He’d graduated high in his class. He said he’d called me just to let me know. In case I happened to see him drive by in a car, I shouldn’t be freaked out.”

“Was he assigned to Hollywood from the beginning?”

“No. West L.A. That’s why he thought I might see him, at Cedars. He might come in to the E.R. with a suspect or a victim.”

In case I happened to see him.
What she’d described was less a family than a series of accidental pairings.

“What kind of jobs did he work before he joined LAPD?”

“Construction, auto repair, crewing on a fishing boat off Santa Barbara. That I remember because Mom showed me some fish he’d brought her. Halibut. She liked smoked fish and he had some halibut smoked.”

“What about relationships with women?”

“He had girlfriends in high school, but after that I don’t know—can I walk around?”

“Sure.”

She got up, covered the room in small, choppy steps. “Everything always came easy to Nolan. Maybe he just wanted to take the easy way out. Maybe that was the problem. He wasn’t prepared for when things didn’t come easy.”

“Do you know of specific problems he was having?”

“No, no, I don’t know anything—I was just thinking back to high school. I used to agonize over algebra and Nolan would waltz into my room, look over my shoulder, and tell me the answer to an equation. Three years younger—he must have been eleven, but he could figure it out.”

She stopped, faced a bookshelf. “When Rick Silverman gave me your name, he told me about his friend on the force and we got into a discussion of the police. Rick said it was a paramilitary organization. Nolan always wanted to be noticed. Why would he be attracted to something so conformist?”

“Maybe he got tired of being noticed,” I said.

She stood there for a while, sat back down.

“Maybe I’m doing this because I feel guilty for not being closer to him. But he never seemed to want to get close.”

“Even if you had been close, you couldn’t have prevented it.”

“You’re saying it’s a waste of time to try to stop someone from killing themselves?”

“It’s always important to try to help, and many people who are stopped never attempt again. But if someone’s determined to do it, they’ll eventually succeed.”

“I don’t
know
if Nolan was determined. I don’t know
him
!”

She burst into loud, racking sobs. When she quieted I handed her a tissue and she snatched it and slapped it against her eyes. “I
hate
this—I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

I said nothing.

Looking to the side, she said, “I’m his executor. After Mom died, the lawyer handling our parents’ estate said we should each write a will.” She laughed. “Estate. The house and a bunch of junk. We rented out the house, split the money, then after my divorce, I asked Nolan if I could live there, send him half the rent. He wouldn’t take it. Said he didn’t need it—didn’t need anything. Was
that
a warning sign?”

Before I could answer, she stood again. “How much more time do we have?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Would you mind if I left early?”

She’d parked a brown Mustang off the property, out on the bridle trial that snakes up from Beverly Glen. The morning air was hot and dusty, the smell of pines from the neighboring ravine piercing and cleansing.

“Thanks,” she said, unlocking the car.

“Would you like to make another appointment?”

She got in and lowered the window. The car was spotless, empty except for two white uniforms hanging over a rear door. “Can I get back to you? I need to check the on-call schedule.”

Patient’s version of
don’t call me, I’ll call you.

“Of course.”

“Thanks again, Dr. Delaware. I’ll be in touch.”

She sped away and I returned to the house, thinking about the meager history she’d given me.

Nolan too smart to be a cop. But plenty of cops were smart. Other characteristics—athletic, macho, dominant, attracted to the dark side—fit the police stereotype. A few years bumming around before seeking the security of a city job and a pension. Right-wing political views; I’d have liked to hear more about that.

She’d also described a partial family history of serious mood disorder. A cop judged “different” by his peers.

That could add to the alienation brought about by the job.

Nolan’s life sounded
full
of alienation.

So even though his sister was understandably shocked, no big surprises, so far.

Nothing that came close to explaining why Nolan had sucked his gun at Go-Ji’s.

Not that I was likely to get any closer to it, because the way she’d left told me it would probably be a one-shot deal.

In my business you learn to make do with unanswered questions.

Chapter

3

Milo called two days later, at 8:00
A.M.

“They just gave me another cold one, Alex. I’m not sure I can pay you, though we did get brownie points on the last thing, so maybe.”

The last thing
was the murder of a psychology professor stalked and stabbed a few yards from her home in Westwood. Thinking it unsolvable after months of no leads, Milo’s superiors had handed it to him as punishment for being the only openly gay detective in LAPD. We’d learned a few secrets about the victim and he’d managed to close the file.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “Why the hell should I do
you
any favors?”

He laughed. “Because I’m such a pleasant fellow?”

I simulated a game-show buzzer. “Try again.”

“Because you’re a shrink and committed to unconditional acceptance?”

“Don’t go on
Jeopardy!
What’s the case?”

I heard him sigh. “A kid, Alex. Fifteen years old.”

“Oh.”

“I know how you feel about that but this is an important one. If you have any time at all I’d appreciate tossing things around.”

“Sure,” I said. “Come over right now.”

He showed up carrying a box of files, wearing a turquoise polo shirt that proclaimed his gut, wrinkled brown jeans, scarred beige desert boots. His weight had stabilized at around 240, most of it distributed around the middle of his six-three frame. His hair was freshly cut in his usual style, though to use
style
in conjunction with Milo was a felony: clipped short at the sides and back, shaggy on top, sideburns to the earlobes. Gray was winning the battle with black and the sideburns were nearly white. He’s nine months older than I am and sometimes looking at him reminds me time is passing.