Gone (32 page)

“Good attitude, ma’am.”

“My husband thinks I’m pathologically insouciant, but guess who looks forward to getting up in the morning and who doesn’t? Anyway, there wasn’t much cash in there, maybe eight, nine hundred dollars and I put a stop on the magic plastic.”

“Had anyone tried to use the cards?”

“Thank God, no. My AmEx Black’s limitless. The phone’s no big deal, either, it was time for an upgrade. Now, let me tell you about that guy who was checking me out. He was already there when I pulled into the lot, so he wasn’t stalking me or anything like that. What probably happened is he was casing the lot for a pigeon —
that’s the right term, isn’t it? —
and he saw me as a perfect little dove.”

“Because of the purse.”

“The purse, my clothes, my demeanor.” Bony hands traversed bony flanks. “I was dolled out, guys. Even when hunting
le grande bargainne,
I refuse to dress down.”

“How was this person checking you out?” said Milo.

“Looking at me. Right through his car window.”

“His window was rolled up?”

“All the way. And it was tinted, so I couldn’t get a good look. But I’m sure he had his eye on me.” Curled lashes danced. “I’m not flattering myself, Lieutenant. Believe me, he was looking.”

“What do you remember about him?”

“Caucasian. I couldn’t make out details but the way he was turned I had a full view of his face.” A red-nailed finger touched a collagen lip. “By Caucasian, I mean light skinned. I suppose he could’ve been a pale Latino or some kind of Asian. Not black, that I can tell you for sure.”

“He stayed in the car the whole time?”

“And continued to watch me. I just
know
he was following me with his eyes.”

“Was the engine idling?”

“Hmm… no, I don’t think so… no, definitely not.”

“Everything you saw was through the glass.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t just what I saw, it was what I
felt.
You know, that itchy tingle you get on the back of your neck when someone’s watching you?”

“Sure,” said Milo.

“I’m glad
you
understand because my husband doesn’t. He’s convinced I’m flattering myself.”

“Husbands,” said Milo, grinning.

Wasserman’s return smile tested the outer limits of her skeletal face.

“Could there have been more than one person in the car, Ms. Wasserman?”

“I suppose so, but the
feeling
I got was one person.”

“The feeling.”

“There was just a… solitary flavor to him.” She touched a concave abdomen. “I trust
this.
”

“Is there anything else you can say about him?”

“At first, I just figured it for
guy
behavior —
checking out the goods. After the Badge got stolen was when I started thinking he could’ve been up to no good. Was the phone used?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where’d they call? Outer Mongolia or some crazy place?”

“L.A.”

“Well,” said Angeline Wasserman, “that shows a lack of creativity. Maybe I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“Him being some high-level crime guy and not just a crook.”

“High level because he knew what a Badge was,” said Milo.

“The whole image —
being at Barneys, driving a Rover.”

“A Range Rover?”

“A real pretty one, shiny and new-y.”

“What color?”

“Silver, mine’s anthracite. That’s why it didn’t bother me at first, his looking at me. Both of us with Rovers, parked near each other? Kind of a twinsie karma, you know?”

A
new stack of rugs arrived. Angeline Wasserman inspected a fringe. “These knots are tangled.”

Milo muttered, “Story of my life.”

If she heard him, she didn’t indicate. “Darius, are these the
best
you’ve got?”

Driving to Butler Avenue, I said, “AmEx Black, never used.”

“I know, same as with the Gaidelases. But do you see them tooling around in a Range Rover that just happens to match Nora Dowd’s?”

No need to answer.

When we arrived at the station, Milo demanded his messages from the new receptionist, a terrified bald man in his forties named Tom, who said, “There’s nothing new, Lieutenant, I promise.”

I followed Milo’s chuffy climb up the stairs. When we reached his office, he unpacked his attaché, placed the autopsy file next to his computer, and requested a BOLO on the Range Rover, all before sitting down.

“How about this, Alex: Nora and Meserve have an 805 love nest and those brochures were a diversion. I’m thinking something on the beach because what’s a rich girl without a beach house? Could be right there in Camarillo, or farther north —
Oxnard Harbor, Ventura, Carpinteria, Mussel Shoals, Santa Barbara, or points beyond.”

I said, “Could be points south, too. Maybe Meserve didn’t know Latigo because
he’d
hiked there.”

“Nora’s a Malibu gal,” he said. “Has a rural hideaway tucked in the mountains.”

“Something registered to her individually, not part of the BNB partnership.”

“Easy enough to find out what she pays property tax on.” He flipped the computer on. The screen flashed blue, then black, sparked a couple of times, and died. Several attempts to reboot were greeted by silence.

He said, “Expelling profanities is a waste of oxygen. Let me borrow someone else’s terminal.”

I used the time to leave another message for Robin. Read through Michaela’s autopsy findings again.

Playing with veins and arteries.

The PlayHouse.

Nora tiring of theatrical abstractions. Meeting Dylan Meserve and discovering common interests.

Embalming. Nora’s taste in pets.

Milo returned.

“Good news?” I said.

“If failure’s your idea of success. The circuit that feeds all the computers is down, tech support was summoned hours ago. I’m going downtown to the assessor’s office to do it the old-fashioned way. If tax leeches communicate with their buds in other counties maybe I can get hooked up with Ventura and Santa Barbara. If not, I’m on the road again.”

Humming the Willie Nelson song.

“You’re taking this well.”

“All part of my audition,” he said.

“For what?”

“Mentally stable individual.” Grabbing his jacket, he opened the door and held it for me.

I said, “Taxidermy.”

“What?”

“The coroner’s guess about embalming. Think Nora’s fluffy dog.”

He sat back down. “Some horrific arts and
crafts
thing?”

“I was thinking stage prop.”

“For what?”

“Grand Guignol.”

He shut his eyes, knuckled a temple. “Your mind…” The eyes opened. “If Dowd and Meserve have an evil hobby, why wasn’t Michaela actually messed with?”

“She was rejected,” I said. “Same for Tori Giacomo. Or not. Scattered bones make it impossible to know.”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “That level of pathology, the symbolism can be beyond anyone else’s comprehension.”

“Two pretty girls wrong for the part,” he said. “The Gaidelases, on the other hand, have never been found. Meaning maybe their heads are hanging on a damn wall?”

Another temple massage. “Okay, now that the images are firmly planted in my brain and I’m sure to have a lovely day, let’s get the hell out of here.”

I followed him up the hall. When we reached the stairwell, he said, “Snuff and stuff. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

On our way out, Tom the receptionist sang out, “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

Milo’s reply was sotto voce and obscene. He left me standing on the sidewalk and continued to the staff parking lot.

Seeing his irritation at the lost messages brought to mind the disgusted look on Albert Beamish’s face yesterday.

Constitutional crankiness? Or had the old man, ever eager to spread dirt on the Dowds, poked around and actually learned something useful? Tried to tattle and got no callback?

No sense overloading Milo’s circuits. I drove to Hancock Park.

Beamish’s doorbell was answered by a tiny Indonesian maid in a black uniform clutching a dust-clogged feather duster.

“Mr. Beamish, please.”

“No home.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No home.”

Walking over to Nora’s house, I took a close look at the barn doors of her garage. Bolted. I nudged the panels, felt some give, but my bare hands were unable to spread the doors wide enough. Milo had left it at that. I wasn’t bound by the rules of evidence.

Fetching a crowbar from the trunk of the Seville, I carried it parallel to my leg, went back, and managed to pry the doors an inch apart.

A stale gasoline smell blew out. No Range Rover or any other vehicle. At least Milo could be spared the bother of a warrant.

My cell phone beeped. “Dr. Delaware? It’s Karen from your exchange. I’ve got a message from Dr. Gwynn that was marked priority. He asked if you can come by his office soon as you have a chance.”

“Dr. Gwynn’s a she,” I said.

“Oh… sorry. Louise wrote this one down, I’m new. Do you usually specify gender?”

“Don’t worry about it. When was the call?”

“Twenty minutes ago, just before I came on.”

“Did Dr. Gwynn give a reason for wanting me over?”

“It just says asap, Doctor. Want the number?”

“I know it.”

For Allison to reach out, it had to be something bad. Her grandmother. Another stroke? Worst-case scenario?

Even so, why call me?

Maybe because she had no one else.

Her message tape picked up. I drove to Santa Monica.

Empty waiting room. The red light next to her name was unlit, meaning no session in progress. I pushed open the door to the inner offices, proceeded through a short hall to Allison’s corner suite. Knocked on her door and didn’t wait for an answer.

She wasn’t at her desk. Or in one of the soft white patient chairs.

When I said, “Allison?” no one answered.

This felt wrong.

Before I could process that thoroughly, the back of my head exploded in pain.

Hammer-on-melon pain.

Cartoonists are right; you really do see stars.

I reeled, got smashed again. Back of the neck this time.

I sank to my knees, wobbled on Allison’s soft carpet, fought for consciousness.

A
new
pain burned my right flank. Sharp, electric. Was I being cut?

Heavy breathing behind me, someone straining with effort, blur of dark trouser leg.

The second kick to my ribs took all the fight out of me and I went down on my face.

Hard leather continued to have its way with bone. My brain rang like a gong. I tried to ward off further blows but my arms were numb.

For some reason, I counted.

Three kicks, four, five, six for good meas—

G
ray soupy world, viewed from the bottom of a stockpot.

I drowned in my chair, blinked, trying to clear eyes that wouldn’t open. Someone played a trombone solo. My eyelids finally cooperated. The ceiling swooped down, changed its mind, soared miles above, a white plaster sky.

Blue sky. No, the blue was off to the left.

A smudge of black on top.

Pale blue, same exact color as the burned cork smell in my throat.

The black, Allison’s hair.

The pale blue, one of her suits. Memories flooded my head. Fitted jacket, skirt short enough to show a nice bit of knee. Braiding around the lapels, covered buttons.

Lots of buttons; it could take a long, sweet time to free them.

The pain in my skull took over. My back and my right side—

Someone moved. Above Allison. To the right.

“Can’t you see he needs help—”

“Shut up!”

My eyelids sank. I blinked some more. Turned it into an aerobic activity and finally achieved some focus.

There she was. In one of the soft white chairs where she hadn’t been before… how long ago?

I tried to look at my watch. The face was a silver disk.

My vision cleared a bit. I’d been right: She was wearing the exact suit I’d pictured, give the boy an A for…

Movement from the right.

Standing over her was Dr. Patrick Hauser. One of his hands had vanished in her hair. The other held a knife pressed to her smooth white throat.

Red handle. Swiss Army knife, one of the larger versions. For some reason, I found that ludicrously amateurish.

Hauser’s clothes clinched it. White golf shirt, baggy brown pants, brown wingtips.

Hard-toed wingtips, way too dressy for the outfit. White was the wrong color if you wanted to avoid those stubborn bloodstains.

Hauser’s shirt was sweat-splotched but free of red. Beginner’s luck. No sense rubbing it in. I smiled at him.

“Something funny?”

I had
so
many snappy comebacks. Forgot all of them. Gong. Gong.

Allison’s eyes shifted to the right. Past Hauser, toward her desk?

Nothing else there but a wall and a closet.

Closet blocked by the door when you opened it.

Deep blue irises moved again. Definitely the desk. The far end, where her purse sat.

Hauser said, “Sit up and get that pen.”

I was already sitting. Silly man.

I spread my arms to show him, hit an arm of the wooden desk chair.

Not sitting at all. Slumped, nearly prone, head tilted back, spine in an odd position.

Maybe that’s why everything hurt so bad.

I tried to straighten, nearly passed out.

“C’mon, up, up, up,” barked Hauser.

Every inch of movement heated the toaster coils that had replaced my spinal nerves. It took years to reach a sitting position and the ordeal robbed me of breath. Inhaling was hellish, breathing out, worse.

A few more centuries and my eyes got clearer. I gained a sense of context: Allison and Hauser fifteen feet away. My chair pushed up to Allison’s desk. The side where a new patient might sit, seeking consultation.

Therapy charts and Allison’s desktop doodads on the pale oak surface. She’d been doing paperwork when he’d—