“A phony?”
“His B.A. and his M.D. are real and there are no claims filed against him. And it’s possible both Brooke-Hastings and Fidelity closed down. But going from a high-prestige teaching hospital to an obscure private place isn’t exactly a horizontal transfer. So it’s possible he didn’t leave because of a change in interest. Maybe he was kicked out for some sort of misconduct, cooled his heels, then applied for an inferior internship in a new area. And maybe his conduct hasn’t gotten any better, since. Holding himself out as a fertility expert is certainly iffy.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Yes, it does begin to take on a certainsmell. And Hope was his consultant—money games gone bad?”
“Maybethat’s what Seacrest is being evasive about. Not infidelity—something financial. That would explain his making such a point about having kept his nose out of Hope’s professional activities.”
“Distancing himself . . . could be.”
“Want me to have another go at him?”
“Prof to prof? Sure, be my guest. . . . Dr. Heelspur . . . he’s the only one we’ve caught in a lie.”
“Like him better as a suspect?”
“Let’s just say I’m developing an incipient, borderline, minor-league crush on him. If I can tie him in with Mandy in any way, I’ll fall head-over-fucking-heels inlove with him.”
It was 7:10 and Robin was still out. Emergency repairs could get complicated. I phoned the country singer’s recording studio and she said, “Sorry, hon, earthquake stuff. This is going to
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take some time—at least another couple of hours.”
“Eat yet?”
“No, I just want to finish up. But don’t go to any trouble, I’ll probably just want something simple.”
“Foie gras?”
She laughed. “Sure, go catch a goose.”
I sat there for a while, drinking coffee and thinking.
Pizza was simple.
And there was a great little place in Beverly Hills that still believed ducks belonged in the water, not on thin crust.
On the way I’d make another stop at Civic Center Drive.
This time I checked the alley first. Once again, the three parking slots behind the pink building were empty. Once again, no lights.
In front, the street was still and dark except for widely spaced streetlamps and the occasional wash of headlight. Everyone was closed up for the night. I pulled into a spot fifty yards from the pink building’s entrance, kept myself alert by imagining the things an unethical doctor could do to a patient.
Cruvic’s wing tips covered with blood . . .
Hyperactive imagination. When I was a kid it had vexed my teachers.
Headlights, up close. Beverly Hills patrol car cruised by from the police station on the other side of the tracks.
Beverly Hills cops were edgy about people sitting in cars without a good excuse. But the car drove on.
Suddenly, I felt foolish. Even if Cruvic showed, what would I say?
Hi, just a bit of follow-up: What exactly is the Brooke-Hastings Institute and what did you do there—and by the way, what’s with the fertility BS?
I started the Seville and was just about to switch the lights on when a grinding sound behind me drew my attention.
The corrugated door of the building next to Cruvic’s was sliding upward. A car with its lights
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already on.
Not a Bentley. A small, dark sedan. It edged out, then turned right. Two people inside. The driver, Nurse Anna, of the tight face and lipsticked cigarettes. Next to her, a male passenger.
So the neighboring building was part of Cruvic’s setup, too.
Anna drove to Foothill Drive, made an incomplete stop, and turned right again.
I backed out and followed.
She made two more rights, at Burton Way and Rexford Drive—a long U-turn that took her into the flats of north Beverly Hills with its seven-figure teardowns, up to Sunset, then across to the Coldwater Canyon intersection.
Headed toward the Valley. Maybe nothing more ominous than a working woman returning home with a spouse or boyfriend.
Two cars got between us. The commuter rush out of the city was over but traffic into the Valley was still heavy enough to slow us to twenty miles an hour. I managed to keep my sights on the small sedan and when it caught a red light at Cherokee Drive I shifted to the right to get a closer look. The car was a Toyota, newish. Two heads inside, neither of them moving.
Then Anna leaned to the right and an orange ember appeared inside the car, like a circling firefly. It flew to the left, kept going as she dangled her left hand out the window and let the cigarette droop. Sparks flicked onto the road. The man in the passenger seat still hadn’t budged.
Either he was sitting low or he wasn’t tall.
Cruvic was no giant. Catching a lift home from his nurse? Or was their relationship more than business?
Affairs on the brain, Delaware. And I didn’t even watch soap operas.
The light turned green and the Toyota shot forward, adding more speed as it took on the Santa Monica Mountains. There were no more stops til Mulholland Drive, where most of the traffic continued the southward descent to Studio City. But the Toyota hooked east on Mulholland and I found myself behind it.
I slowed down. Anna picked up speed, taking turns with the confidence of someone who knew the route. Years ago Mulholland had been undeveloped from Woodland Hills to Hollywood, miles of black ribbon affording a heart-stopping view of the glitter below. Now roadside houses and landscaping blocked most of it out.
No one behind me. I turned off my headlights. Mulholland got darker and narrower and quieter and the Toyota whipped through the curves for another couple of miles before coming to a sudden stop.
I was a ways back but still had to stop short, managing to avoid tire-squeal and skidding only slightly. The Toyota remained on the road, brake lights on. I pulled over to the right shoulder,
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kept the Seville in drive, and watched.
A car was coming from the opposite direction.
When it passed, the Toyota crossed Mulholland diagonally, rolling up a driveway and coming to rest on a wide concrete pad in front of a high iron gate.
Two faint lights—fixtures on brick posts. Everything else was foliage and darkness.
The Toyota’s passenger door opened and the man got out, briefly revealed by the dome light, but his back was to me.
He walked up to one of the gateposts and touched it. Pushing a button.
As the gate started to slide open, I edged back onto the road and drove forward a bit.
Then the Toyota backed out and straightened and I waited til it drove off.
The gate was open and the man was walking through. With my lights still off, I zoomed past—just another bad driver. The sound made the man turn, as I’d hoped he would.
During the split second, I studied him, helped by the gatepost lights.
A face I’d seen before.
Lean, intelligent. Full lips. Long hair slicked back. Hollow cheeks, arched eyebrows.
James Dean with an attitude.
A short man, but not Cruvic.
Casey Locking, Hope’s prize student.
He scratched his ear.
If I hadn’t known about the skull ring, I wouldn’t have seen it, glinting from his delicate white hand.
I sped back toward the Mulholland intersection.
Hope and Cruvic.
Hope’s student with Cruvic’s nurse.
Did Locking live behind the gates?
Nice digs for a grad student. Well-to-do parents? Or was it Cruvic’s place, and time for a conference?
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Stopping, I did a three-point turn and headed back toward the house, pausing far enough from the gateposts to make sure no one was outside, then rolling forward slowly. The address was marked by small white numbers on the left-hand post and I memorized them.
What would a psych grad student have to do with fertility or abortions?
Carrying on Hope’s “consultation”?
Something corrupt in a big way? A wide enough net to snare Hope and Mandy Wright?
Or something benign—a shared academic project on unwanted pregnancies, the psychological effects of infertility, whatever.
But Locking had never mentioned anything like that and Hope hadn’t published on those topics.
And scholarship didn’t explain Locking getting a lift from Cruvic’s nurse.
None of it made sense.
When I pulled up in front of the house Robin and Spike were climbing the steps. I’d forgotten about the pizza.
She waved and he whirled around and stacked himself, head out, feet planted, as if competing at a dog show. Glaring til he heard my “Hi!” Then he began straining at the leash and Robin let him run down to greet me.
As I rubbed his head, he bayed like a hound and butted. Finally he shook himself off and led me up to Robin.
I pulled her up against me and kissed her deeply.
“Boy,” she said. “What perfume did I put on this morning?”
“Forget perfume,” I said. “Eternal love.” I kissed her again, then she unlocked the door and let us in.
“How’d the emergency repair go?” I said.
She laughed and bent her head forward, flexing her neck and shaking out her curls. “Guitar 911, I salvaged most of the instruments. Poor Montana. Top of that I’ve got more work to do, tonight. Promised to fix Eno Burke’s double-neck for a recording session tomorrow.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. At least they’re paying me triple.”
I rubbed her shoulders. “All-nighter?”
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“Hopefully not. I need a nap, first.”
“Want me to make you some coffee?”
“No, thanks, I’ve been coffeeing all day—sorry, Alex, were you planning on some quality time?”
“I’m always open-minded.”
She pressed her back against my chest. “How about a nap, together? You can tell me bedtime stories.”
Later that night, I sat in my robe in my office and went through the mail. Bills, liars trying to sell me things, and a long-overdue check from a lawyer who collected Ferraris.
I couldn’t stop thinking of Locking and Nurse Anna . . . self-control.
I’d been unable to reach Milo anywhere. Then I remembered he was visiting clubs on the Strip tonight.
Lumbering among the beautiful people.
That brought a smile to my lips.
I checked in with my service.
Professor Julia Steinberger had called just after I’d left for Beverly Hills.
Had she remembered something?
She’d left a campus number and a Hancock Park exchange.
Her husband answered at the second ring and said, “She’s not home, probably won’t be back for a while. Why don’t you try her tomorrow at her office.”
Friendly, but tired.
I left my name, put on sweats and a T-shirt, went over to Spike’s resting place in the kitchen, and asked if he wanted to get a little exercise. He ignored me but when I took out his leash, he bounded to his stumpy feet and followed me to the door.
Outside, I could hear Robin hammering.
Spike and I took a long walk up the Glen, turned onto some dark side streets where the sweet smell of budding pittosporum trees was almost overpowering.
Stopping from time to time as he paused, looked around, growled at unseen things.
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At 9:00A.M. I tried Julia Steinberger’s office but she wasn’t in and the Chemistry Department office said she was teaching a graduate seminar til noon.
I had other things to do on campus.
In the Psychology office, three secretaries sat at computer screens but the receptionist’s desk was empty. Mail was piled high on the counter and several students stood at the bulletin board reading employment ads.
I said, “Excuse me,” and the nearest typist looked up. Young, cute, redheaded.
Showing her my faculty card from the med school crosstown, I said, “This probably makes me persona non grata, but perhaps you’ll be kind enough to help me anyway.”
“Ooh,” she said, smiling, still punching keys. “Treason, Doctor? Well, I don’t care about football. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a grad student named Casey Locking.”
“He’s got an office down in the basement but he isn’t here too often, mostly works out of his house.”
She made a trip to the back, came back empty-handed.
“That’s funny. His folder’s gone. Hold on.”
She typed, switched computer files, brought up a list of names. “Here we go. Room B-five-three-three-one, you can use the phone at the end of the counter.”
I did. No answer. I went downstairs, anyway. Most of the basement rooms were labs. Locking’s was marked by an index card. No answer to my knock.
Back upstairs, I told the redhead, “Not in. Too bad. He applied for a job and I was going to set up an appointment.”
“Would you like his home number?”
“I guess I could try it.”
She wrote something down. Out in the lobby I read it: A 213 number with an 858 prefix.
Hollywood Hills, east of La Cienega. Not the Mulholland house.
So he’d gone there to meet someone. Probably Cruvic.
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His folder gone. I used a lobby pay phone and called the number. Locking’s liquid voice said,
“No one home. Speak or forget it.” Hanging up, I left the building.
Time to visit the History Department.
Hays Hall was one of the U’s oldest buildings, just behind Palmer Library and, like Palmer, yellowish limestone grimy with pollution. Seacrest’s office was on the top floor, up three flights and at the end of an echoing, musty hallway lined with carved mahogany doors. His door was open but he wasn’t inside.
It was a big, chilly, pale green room with a domed ceiling and leaded windows that needed washing, brown velvet drapes tied back with brass rings, built-in bookshelves, a tatty Persian rug once red, now pink.
An ugly seven-foot Victorian desk on ball feet was backed by a black cloth orthopedic chair.
Facing it were three cracked red leather club chairs, one of them mended with duct tape. The desk was as neat as his home office: Arranged on the surface were a precisely cornered stack of blue-book exams, two neolithic urns, and a Royal manual typewriter. Half an egg-salad sandwich on waxed paper sat on a green blotter along with an unopened can of Diet Sprite. Not a stain, not a crumb.