“Years. I never knew, Hope never complained. Thank God there was never a fire. When Hope told me I was outraged but she kept telling me it was okay, there was no abuse, Lottie always left her plenty of food and drinks, toys, books, a radio, a potty. Later a TV. Hope didn’t seem the least bit angry talking about it. Kept telling me it was okay, Lottie had been doing what she thought was best.”
“Then why’d she bring it up?”
“She said she was worried about Lottie. The things Lottie had done to support the two of them.
The things Lottie was still allowing men to do to her.”
“Lottie was still bringing men home?”
“Guys she met at the Blue Barn and other places. Regulars, Hope called them. She and Lottie had moved into a nice-sized house in Bakersfield by then, and the arrangement was that Lottie would hang one of those Privacy tags you get at a hotel from her bedroom doorknob when she was working. Hope was always supposed to come in through the kitchen door, check the knob.
If the sign was hanging, she had to go straight to her room and stay there til Lottie told her the coast was clear.”
“More confinement.”
She nodded. “Even so, she could sometimes hear what was going on.”
Rubbing her eyes, she said, “And I mean besides sex. Screams. Sometimes there were marks on Lottie.”
“Bruises?”
“And rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Lottie used makeup to cover them but Hope saw them anyway.”
“So Lottie was getting tied up, herself.”
“Can you imagine? That’s what I meant bydespite her home life.”
“Did Hope talk to her mother about it?”
“She said no, as if it were a ridiculous question. “Of course not, Mrs. Campos. She’s mymother
!’ ”
“But she talked about it openly.”
“Yes . . . but then she cut it off. I think she really wanted to unload all the way, but just couldn’t.
I never saw her again.” Again, she looked at the cuckoo clock.
“What was her demeanor when she told you all this?” I said.
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“Calm, except when she cried about Lottie. Worried about Lottie getting hurt by a . . .
customer. She rationalized what Lottie did by saying she had no education and skills and she was just trying to support the two of them the best way she knew how. So what could I say to that?
Face it, child, Momma’s a tramp? I knew she had to be hurting. Still, a prisoner in her own home—can you see bringing friends home to a place like that? I tried to get her to talk about her feelings but she wouldn’t go for it.”
“Poor kid.”
“Yes, but to look at her you’d never know it. Beautiful, poised, perfect hair, the right amount of makeup. And Lottie was obviously still spending on her clothes. Silk blouse, nice wool suit, nylons, pumps. She could’ve passed for twenty. A younglady. And she made a point of telling me she was getting straight A’s at Bakersfield, honor society every semester.”
“School was probably the only place she felt free,” I said, realizing how far Hope really had come.
Getting past the fear and the shame and the isolation only to lose her life on a dark, empty street. I felt a tightening in my chest, at the back of my throat.
“Probably,” she said. “That’s how I rationalized it.”
“Rationalized what?”
“Not doing anything. Not reporting it. No matter how good she looked, she was still a minor in a bad environment and I was the one she confided in. But I told myself she’d found her niche, why upset the cart? And thingswere different back then. What’s to say if I had come forth she wouldn’t have denied it? Or that anyone would have listened to me? Because Lottie worked for Big Micky and he was well-connected with the powers that be. If Lottie asked him to help her out, what was the chance of bucking that?”
“Was there any indication he was Lottie’s pimp? Or her lover?”
She glared, as if I’d finally given her an excuse to be angry. “I told you before, I don’t know those kinds of details.”
“Did Hope talk about Big Micky?”
“No. The only one she talked about was Lottie. Then, as I said, she cut it off, changed the subject. I got the feeling the visit had been an experiment for her: How far was she ready to go?
And I hadn’t encouraged her enough. . . . I lost a lot of sleep over it, Dr. Delaware. Thinking about that poor child tied up, what I should do. Then, with all the hurt things I was taking care of, I managed to forget about it. Until you showed up.”
Another glance at the cuckoo.
“And that’s all I know,” she said, rising and walking quickly to the door. She pushed it open and stepped out onto the porch and a tide of canine noise rose. By the time I reached her she was out in the yard, surrounded by the dogs. Leopold, the Bouvier, watched me imperiously.
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I thought of Hope’s Rottweiler, unable to protect her, probably poisoned.
Hope transforming herself from prisoner to guardian of other women’s rights.
But no one hadever protected her.
Elsa Campos continued to the front gate. “If you find out who murdered her, would you take the time to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“You mean it? Because I don’t want to wait for nothing.”
“I promise.”
“All right, then . . . I’m going to force myself out of here, take a drive up to the Bakersfield library, see if I can find her book. Not too many kids from here become famous.”
The last word came out strangled. Suddenly tears were dripping down her weathered cheeks.
She wiped them with her sleeve.
“Good-bye,” she said. “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you.”
“Good-bye. Thanks for your time.”
I started to go and she said, “When all this comes out, I’ll be the idiot teacher who didn’t report it.”
“No reason for it to come out.”
“No? You’re here because you think it relates to her murder.”
“It may end up having nothing to do with it.”
She gave a short, hard laugh. “Do you know how she rationalized it? Being tied up? She said it had made her stronger. Taught her how to concentrate. I said, “Please, child, it’s one thing not to complain but don’t tell me it was for your own good.’ She just smiled at me, put a hand on my shoulder. As if she were the teacher. As if she pitied me for notunderstanding. I still remember what she said: “Really, Mrs. Campos, it’s no big deal. I turned it to my own advantage. I taught myself self-control.’ ”
I covered the thirty miles to Bakersfield in twenty-five minutes. But when I arrived I knew it had been a waste of gas.
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How long since I’d been up here? At least a decade. The city had maintained some of its country flavor—western-wear outlets, cowboy bars too new and flashy to be the skin joints Elsa Campos had described. But it was a big city, now, any city. Steadily homogenized by Wal-Marts and fast-food stands, the cold, clean comfort of franchise.
No one I spoke to knew anything about the Brooke-Hastings Company but when I mentioned the slaughterhouses to an old man working the counter of a Burger King, he gave me a suspicious look and directions.
The northern edge of the city, melting gradually back to agriculture.
Segments of the railroad track were there—fragmented like discarded playthings.
So was the building, huge, gray, so ugly it was hard to believe anyone had actually designed it.
Square holes where the few windows had been. No roof.
The Brooke-Hastings sign painted in white had eroded to wisps. Other signs:PURE PORK
SAUSAGE. LIVESTOCK AND FEED. PRIME MEAT.
A high barbed-wire fence surrounded the concrete corpse.
Acres of fields in all directions were planted in tomatoes and corn.
Stoop-laborers scuttled through the fastidious rows.
One saw me and smiled.
A Mexican woman, still on her knees, swaddled in layers of clothing despite the heat, hands so dusty they looked like clay models.
Fear in her eyes as she took in my face and clothes, the Seville’s polished grille.
I headed back to L.A.
Self-control.
Years later Hope had reduced it to an academic paper.
A prostitute’s child. It wouldn’t play at the Faculty Club. If Seacrest knew, it was obvious why he’d want to minimize her family history.
Little Micky. Little Hope.
Smartest boy, smartest girl.
Ceremony at the county fair. Smiles, flashbulbs, 4-H banners, brass bands. I could almost smell the corn dogs and horse dung.
A little girl imprisoned. A teenage honor student listening to her mother scream, nightly. Seeing
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the bruises.
Cruvic, smelling the slaughterhouse stench on his father?
The two of them bonded by good grades and high aspirations, the strain for respectability.
High-school pals, maybe sweethearts.
Collaborating. On fertility, abortion, sterilization.
Control.
Big Micky moving to San Francisco. Getting into racier clubs, producing porn—Robert Barone, the lawyer, did pornography defense. From his San Francisco office.
Hope consulted to him, too.
Fertility, termination. What else?
Grown-up 4-H projects? A new slant on animal husbandry?
I’d done 4-H my thirteenth summer. Raising angora rabbits for fur because it meant shearing, not slaughtering. My teacher had been a pretty, black-haired farmer’s wife, serious, with rough hands. Mrs. Dehmers . . . Susan Dehmers. She’d sat me down the first week:Don’t get attached to them, anyway, Alexander. You won’t be living with them forever.
I pictured Big Micky and his bat. The packaging and selling of women as meat.
His son leaving surgical residency after only one year.
Leave of absence at the Brooke-Hastings Institute.
Nice little in-joke.
Had Hope laughed?
I got back just after five. The house was empty and Robin had left a typed note on the dining-room table:
Darling,
Hope your trip went well. A big bargain on some old Tyrolean maple came up out in Saugus and then I’ve got to deliver some instruments to the HotSound studio in Hollywood. Spike and I will try to be back by 10:00 but it could be later.
Here’re the numbers I’ll be at. If you haven’t eaten, check out the fridge. Milo called. Love you.
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Inside the fridge was a hero sandwich cut into six segments. As I phoned Milo at the station, I chewed on one, wondering how the thing had gotten its name. Milo was on another line and I held and got a beer. When he got on, I said, “I know now why control was such a big issue for her.”
When I finished, he said, “Nothing like mother love,” very softly. “Listening through the walls
. . . you think Mama got her involved with clients beyond listening?”
“Who knows.”
“Tied up for her own good. Jesus.”
“She convinced herself it was for her own good, Milo. Grew up and reverted to what she knew.”
“Bound and hurt—so who bruised her, Seacrest or Cruvic or some boyfriend—hell, why not Locking?”
“Why not,” I said. “Talk to Cruvic today?”
“No, he’s avoiding me, big-time. Answering machine at the place on Mulholland—the house is his, but he rents, doesn’t own. And when I called his office, old Nurse Anna came on real cold and referred me to his lawyer. Guess who?”
“Robert Barone.”
“Bing,you get the washer-dryer. How’d you know?”
“Big Micky was a porn merchant in San Francisco.”
“From that to my-son-the-doctor,” he said. “How does he spell his last name?”
I told him.
“I’ll see what S.F. knows about him. I did find out about that hospital in Carson where Sonny went after leaving Seattle. One of those for-profit chains, ran into financial problems and sold out to a bigger chain. The comptroller said Fidelity was one of their less profitable outlets so it got canned. Couldn’t pin him down but my impression was it hadn’t exactly been the Mayo Clinic. So you’re right about it being a come-down for Little Micky. The burrowing bastard.”
“The incident with Ballitser put him in the public eye,” I said, “and he’s got lots of things he doesn’t want scrutinized: the way he practices medicine, his checkered academic history.
Gangster heritage. And maybe Hope’s murder. Anything turn up at Darrell Ballitser’s place?”
“Dope—meth, that’s probably what got him hyped up. But absolutely nothing to tie him to Hope, so unless he confesses, Kasanjian will be able to get him out on bail. And if Cruvic keeps low, the D.A. probably won’t be interested in prosecuting the attempted battery. Which doesn’t bother me, I never saw Darrell as Mr. Stalker. Herr Doktor Cruvic’s looking better and better for that. It’s the best explanation for her being dead and his walking around. Something real bad must have happened that Hope wanted no part of. Cruvic was worried she’d squawk, so he quieted her.”
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“And Mandy Wright,” I said. “Who Cruvic could easily have met through Daddy’s business.”
“You got it. Club None’s exactly the kind of place a gangster’s kid would hang. And Mandy just may turn out to be the wedge that pries the shithead out from behind Barone’s custom suit.
Because Vegas came through, bless their souls, and located Ted Barnaby, the boyfriend. Still dealing blackjack, but not in Nevada. Right here in Palm Springs, one of those Indian-reservation casinos. I’m heading out soon as I clear some paper, gonna do a surprise shake and see what tumbles out.”
“Want company?”
“No plans tonight?”
“Robin’s out for the evening. Were you planning to stay over?”
“Nah, no reason to, I don’t golf. Or tan. Rick took the Explorer so I’ve got the Porsche, which means an hour and a quarter each way and who the hell’s gonna giveme a speeding ticket?”
L.A. to Palm Springs is 120 miles of a single monster interstate, the 10.
The first half of the trip takes you through downtown, Boyle Heights, and the eastern exurbs—Azusa, Claremont, Upland, Rancho Cucamonga—and into San Bernardino County, where the air varies from sweet to toxic depending on wind and God’s whim, and the view from the freeway is a lulling homogeny of marts and malls and car lots and the kind of housing you’d expect to find hugging the freeway. Then comes agriculture and rail yards near Fontana and just after Yucaipa most of the traffic drops off and the air gets dry and healthy. By the time you pass the cherry groves of Beaumont, you’re rolling through a platter of gray dirt and white rock, Joshua trees and mesquite, the San Bernardino Mountains off to the right, capped with snow.