Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  A lie, but I let it pass.

  “I thought you were a student,” he said. As if that explained his ignoring me. Eyes back on the manuscript, he added, “If it’s an associateship you’re after, it will have to wait. I’m not seeing anyone without an appointment. Publisher’s deadline.”

  “New book?”

  Headshake. “Revised edition of Paradigms.” Slash, flip.

  Paradigms of Vertebrate Learning. For thirty years, his claim to fame.

  “Tenth edition,” he added.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose congratulations are in order. However, one almost regrets obligating oneself to a new edition when the onerousness of the task becomes apparent—strident demands by commercially motivated publishers to include new chapters, regardless of the lack of rigor with which they are obtained or the coherence with which they are presented.”

  He slapped the stack of chapters. “Enduring all this rubbish has shown me just how low standards have sunk. The American psychologist trained after 1960 hasn’t a clue about proper research design, nor the ability to construct a grammatical sentence.”

  I nodded. “Damned shame when standards sink. All sorts of strange things start to happen.”

  He looked up, annoyed, but listening.

  I said, “Strange things like an unqualified attention-seeker making department head.”

  The marker froze, midair. He tried to stare me down but his eye contact was spotty. “Given the circumstances, that’s an exceptionally rude remark.”

  “Doesn’t change the facts.”

  “Exactly what’s on your mind, Doctor?”

  “How Kruse managed to bend all the rules.”

  “This is in exceedingly poor taste. What’s your concern with all this?”

  “Call me a concerned alumnus.”

  He sucked his teeth. “Any complaints you may have had against Professor Kruse have been rendered moot by his untimely death. If, as you contend, you’re truly concerned about the department, you won’t occupy my time or anyone else’s on trivial personal matters. We’re all frightfully busy—this whole horrid affair has greatly disrupted the scheme of things.”

  “I’ll bet it has. Especially for those members of the faculty who’d counted on all that Blalock money. Kruse’s death has put all of you in jeopardy.”

  He put the marker down, fought to keep his hand steady.

  I said, “With the rug pulled out from under you, I can see why you’d have to get that tenth edition rolling.”

  Moving stiffly, robotically, he leaned back in his chair, trying to look casual but coming across deflated. “You think you’re such a bright boy, don’t you? Always did. Always barreling your way through everything—‘doing your own thing.’ ”

  “And here I thought you didn’t remember.”

  “Your rudeness jogged my memory, young man. I recall you quite clearly now—the precocious three-year man. In case you don’t know, I was opposed to letting you finish early, even though you completed your requirements. I sensed that you needed seasoning. Maturity. Obviously the passage of time alone hasn’t solved that problem.”

  I moved to the edge of my chair, picked up the yellow marker and put it down. “The issue, Professor, isn’t my maturity. It’s the sorry state of your ethics. Selling the department to the highest bidder. How much did Kruse pay to have you step down and let him take over? Was it in a lump sum or monthly installments? Check or credit card? Or did he bring you cash in a plain brown bag?”

  He paled, started to rise from his chair, sank back down and shook a wobbly finger at me. “Watch your tongue! Don’t be crass!”

  “Crass,” I said, “is a quick-buck, mail-order stop-smoking scheme targeted at the sucker market. What kind of scientific rigor did you muster to come up with that one?”

  He opened his mouth and closed it, moved his head and shoulders in a way that made his clothing seem to swallow him up. “You’ve no comprehension of the situation, Delaware. Not a whit.”

  “Then educate me. What was the payoff?”

  He swiveled away, stared at a thousand books, pretended to be studying the spine on one of the volumes.

  “If you’re clogged,” I said, “let me prime your pump. Kruse funded your little stab at free enterprise—all the ad money, the printing, the manufacture of the tapes. Either his own money or he tapped Mrs. Blalock. What did it come out to—ten thousand? Fifteen? He spent more on his summer wardrobe. But for you it would be major venture capital.”

  He said nothing.

  “No doubt he was the one who suggested the con in the first place,” I said. “Ads in the back of the magazine that ran his column.”

  More silence, but he’d gone pale.

  “Add to that the nonstop flow of Blalock money for your academic research and it was a sweet deal for both of you. No more brown-nosing for grants or pretending to be relevant for you. And Kruse got tenure, instant respectability. In order to avoid wagging tongues and petty jealousies, he probably arranged some funding for the other faculty members too. All you rigorous researchers would be coasting—doing your own thing. Though I suspect the rest of the senior staff would be surprised to learn how much extra Kruse kicked back to you—make for a terrific staff meeting, wouldn’t it, Professor?”

  “No,” he said feebly. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. My regimen for smokers is based on sound behavioral principles. Obtaining private endowments for research is a time-honored tradition. Given the state of our national economy, it’s certainly the wave of the future.”

  “You were never one for the future, Frazier. Kruse shoved you into it.”

  “Why are you doing this, Delaware? Attacking the department? We made you.”

  “I’m not talking about the department. Just you. And Kruse.”

  He made cud-chewing motions with his lips, as if trying to bring up the right word. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak. “You’ll find no scandal here. Everything’s been done through proper channels.”

  “I’m willing to test that hypothesis.”

  “Delaware—”

  “I spent the morning reading a fascinating document, Frazier. ‘The Silent Partner. Identity Crisis and Ego Dysfunction in a Case of Multiple Personality,’ et cetera. Ring a bell?”

  He looked genuinely blank.

  “The doctoral dissertation of Sharon Ransom, Ph.D. Submitted to the department in partial fulfillment. And approved—by you. A single case study, not a shred of empirical research—a clear violation of every rule you pushed through. You signed your name to the damn thing. How’d she get away with it? How much did Kruse pay you to bend that far?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “allowances are made.”

  “This went beyond allowances. This was fraud.”

  “I fail to understand just what—”

  “She wrote about herself. About her own psychopathology. Camouflaged it as a case history and palmed it off as research. What do you think the Board of Regents would make of that? Not to mention APA’s ethics committee. Time and Newsweek.”

  Whatever remained of his composure crumbled and his color got bad. I remembered what Larry had said about a heart attack and wondered if I’d pushed too hard.

  “Jesus God,” he said. “Don’t pursue this. I didn’t know—an aberration. I assure you it will never happen again.”

  “True. Kruse is dead.”

  “Let the dead rest, Delaware. Please!”

  “All I want is information,” I said softly. “Give me some truth and the matter’s dropped.”

  “What? What do you want to know?”

  “The connection between Ransom and Kruse.”

  “I don’t know much about that. That’s the Lord’s truth. Only that she was his protégée.”

  I remembered how soon it was after Sharon arrived that Kruse had filmed her.

  “He brought her with him, didn’t he? Sponsored her application.”

  “Yes, but—”

/>   “Where did he bring her from?”

  “Wherever he was from, I assume.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Florida.”

  “Palm Beach?”

  He nodded.

  “Was she from Palm Beach too?”

  “I have no idea—”

  “We could find out by checking her application records.”

  “When did she graduate?”

  “ ’81.”

  He picked up the phone, called the department, and mouthed a few orders. A moment later he was frowning, saying, “Are you sure? Double-check.” Silence. “All right, all right.” He hung up and said, “Her file is gone.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Delaware—”

  “Call the registrar’s office.”

  “All they’d have would be her transcript.”

  “Transcripts list prior institutions attended.”

  He nodded, dialed a number, pulled rank with a clerk, and waited. Then he used the yellow marker to write something in a column of the manuscript and hung up. “Not Florida. Long Island, New York. A place called Forsythe Teachers College.”

  I used his paper and pen to copy that down.

  “By the way,” he said, “her grades were superb—undergraduate and graduate. Unblemished A’s. No indication of anything other than exceptional scholarship. She might very well have gotten in without his help.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  “Why do you need to know all of this?”

  I stared at him, said nothing.

  “I had nothing to do with her,” he said. “Kruse was the one with a personal interest in her.”

  “How personal?”

  “If you’re assuming something … corrupt, I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Why would I assume that?”

  He hesitated, looked queasy. “It’s no secret that he was known for certain … proclivities. Drives.”

  “Were those drives directed toward Sharon Ransom?”

  “No, I … That’s not the kind of thing I pay much attention to.”

  I believed him. “Think those drives helped her get straight A’s?”

  “Absolutely not. That’s simply—”

  “How’d he manage to get her in?”

  “He didn’t get her in. He sponsored her. Her grades were perfect. His sponsorship was simply an additional factor in her favor—nothing unusual. Faculty members have always been allowed to sponsor applicants.”

  “Tenured faculty,” I said. “When have clinical associates ever had that kind of clout?”

  A long silence. “I’m sure you know the answer to that.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He cleared his throat, as if ready to spit. Expelled a single word: “Money.”

  “Blalock money?”

  “As well as his own—he came from a wealthy family, ran in the same social circle as Mrs. Blalock and her ilk. You know how rare those kinds of contacts are among academics, especially at a public university. He was regarded as more than just another clinical associate.”

  “A clinical associate with training in psychological warfare.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “So he was your bridge between town and gown.”

  “That’s correct. Nothing shameful about that, is there?”

  I remembered what Larry had said about Kruse treating one of the Blalock children. “Was his only connection with Mrs. Blalock a social one?”

  “As far as I know. Please, Delaware, don’t make something ominous out of all this and get her involved. The department was in dire financial straits; Kruse brought substantial funds with him and promised to use his connections to obtain an ample endowment from Mrs. Blalock. He made good on that promise. In return we offered him an unpaid appointment.”

  “Unpaid in terms of salary. He got lab facilities. For his pornography research. Real academic rigor.”

  He flinched. “It wasn’t that simple. The department did not simply yield like a harlot. It took months to confirm his appointment. The senior faculty debated it heavily—there was significant opposition, not least of which was my own. The man was sorely lacking in academic credentials. His column in that crass magazine was positively offensive. However …”

  “However, in the end, expediency won out.”

  He twisted beard hairs, made them crackle. “When I heard about his … research, I realized letting him in had been an error in judgment—but one impossible to undo without creating adverse publicity.”

  “So instead you made him department head.”

  He continued playing with his beard. Several brittle white hairs rained down on the desk.

  “Back to the Ransom dissertation,” I said. “How’d it get through departmental scrutiny?”

  “Kruse came to me requesting that the experimental rule be waived for one of his students. When he told me she planned to submit a case study, I immediately refused. He was persistent, pointed out her perfect academic record. Said she was an unusually skillful clinician—for what that’s worth—and that the case she wanted to present was unique, had major research ramifications.”

  “How major?”

  “Publishable in a major journal. Nevertheless, he failed to sway me. But he kept pressing, buttonholing me daily, coming into my office, interrupting my work in order to argue his case. Finally, I relented.”

  Finally. As in fill the coffers. I said, “When you read the dissertation, did you regret your decision?”

  “I thought it was rubbish, but no different from any other clinical study. Psychology should have remained in the laboratory, true to its scientific roots, never been allowed to venture out into all that poorly defined treatment rubbish. Let the psychiatrists muck around in that kind of silliness.”

  “You had no idea it was autobiographical?”

  “Of course not! How could I? I never met her, except once, at her oral exam.”

  “Must have been a tough exam. Kruse, you as his rubber stamp. And an outside member: Sandra Romansky. Remember her?”

  “Not in the slightest. Do you know how many committees I sit on? Had I the smallest inkling of any impropriety, I would have put my foot down—you can count on that.”

  Reassuring.

  He said, “I was only tangentially involved.”

  “How thoroughly did you read it?” I asked.

  “Not thoroughly at all,” he said, as if seizing on extenuating evidence. “Believe me, Delaware, I barely skimmed the blasted thing!”

  I went down to the department office, told the secretary I was working with Professor Frazier, verified that the file was missing, and called Long Island information to find the number of Forsythe College. Administration there confirmed that Sharon Jean Ransom had attended the school from 1972 through 1975. They’d never heard of Paul Peter Kruse.

  I called my service for messages. Nothing from Olivia or Elmo Castelmaine. But Dr. Small and Detective Sturgis had phoned.

  “The detective said don’t call him, he’ll get back to you,” the operator told me.

  She giggled. “Detective. You getting involved in something exciting, Dr. Delaware?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “Just the usual.”

  “Your usual’s probably a major rush compared to mine, Dr. Delaware. Have a nice day.”

  One forty-three. I waited seven minutes and called Ada Small, figuring to get her between patients. She picked up the line, said, “Alex, thanks for getting back so quickly. That young woman you referred, Carmen Seeber? She came for two sessions, then didn’t show up for the third. I called her several times, finally managed to reach her at home, and tried to talk to her about it. But she was pretty defensive, insisted she was fine, didn’t need any more therapy.”

  “She’s fine, all right. Shacked up with a drug addict, probably giving him every penny she owns.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “From the police.”

 
“I see.” Pause. “Well, thank you for the referral anyway. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You did me the favor.”

  “That’s all right, Alex.”

  I wanted to ask her if Carmen had shed any light on D.J. Rasmussen’s death, but knew better than to try to breach confidentiality.

  “I’ll try calling her next week,” she said, “but I’m not optimistic. You and I both know about the power of resistance.”

  I thought of Denise Burkhalter. “All we can do is try.”

  “True. Tell me, Alex, how are you doing?”

  I answered too quickly: “Just dandy. Why?”

  “If I’m out of line, please forgive me. But both times we’ve spoken recently, you’ve sounded … tight. Tense. On full burn.”

  The phrase I’d used, in therapy, to describe the fast-track mind-set that overtook me during periods of stress. What Robin had always called hyperspace. And managed to soothe me out of …

  “Just a little tired, Ada. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Another pause. “If you ever do need to toss things around, you know I’m here for you.”

  “I do, Ada. Thanks and take care.”

  “You, too, Alex. Take good care of yourself.”

  I walked toward the north end of campus, stopping for a cup of vending-machine coffee before entering the research library.

  Back to the Periodical Index. I found nothing on William Houck Vidal, other than business quotes prior to the Basket-Case Billionaire lawsuit. I backtracked and found a Time piece on the War Board Senate hearings, entitled “Hollywood Meets D.C. Amid Rumors of Scandal”—a piece I’d missed while culling Belding material.

  Vidal had just made his first appearance before the committee and the magazine was trying to flesh out his background.

  A headshot photo showed him with fewer wrinkles, thick blond hair. A blinding smile—the good teeth Crotty had remembered. And wise-guy eyes. Vidal was described as a “socialite who’d parlayed shrewdness, connections and more than a soupçon of charm into a lucrative motion picture consulting position.” Hollywood sources suggested it was he who’d persuaded Leland Belding to enter the movie business.

  Both men had attended Stanford. As a sophomore Vidal had served as the president of a men’s club that Belding also belonged to. But their association was thought to have been casual: The future billionaire had shunned organizations, never attending a single club function.