“An affair,” I said. “So goddamned mundane. Jean sleeps with Coburg for five years, but Becky gets the death penalty … typical psychopathic thinking, the ego out of control: you hurt me, I kill you.”
“Yeah,” he said, drinking and licking his lips. “So tell me, specifically, how would you get a nut like Hewitt to kill?”
“I’d pick someone with strong paranoid tendencies whose fantasies got violent when he was off his medicine. Then I’d get him off his medicine, either by convincing him to stop taking it or by substituting a placebo, and try to get as much control as I could over his psyche as he deteriorated. Maybe use some age-regression techniques—hypnosis or free association, bring him back to his childhood—get him to confront the helplessness of childhood. To feel it. The pain, the rage.”
“The screams,” he said.
I nodded. “That’s probably why they taped him. They got him to scream out his pain, played it back for him—you remember how hard it was to listen to. Can you imagine a schizophrenic dealing with that? Meanwhile, they’re also teaching him about bad love, evil shrinks—indoctrinating him, telling him he’s been a victim. And insinuating Becky into the delusion, as a major-league evil shrink—the purveyor of bad love. They continue to increase his paranoia by praising him for it. Convincing him he’s some kind of soldier on a mission: get Becky. Then they transfer him to her. But I’ll bet Jean continued to see him on the side. Prepping him, directing him. Backed up by Coburg—another authority figure for Hewitt. And the beauty of it is even if Hewitt hadn’t been killed at the scene and had talked, who would have believed him? He was crazy.”
“That’s about the way I had it,” he said. “But hearing you organize it that way helps.”
“It’s not hard evidence.”
“I know, but the circumstantial case is building up, bit by bit. The DA’s going to let Coburg’s attorney know how extensively Jeffers is ratting him out, then offer a deal: no death penalty in return for Coburg ratting on Jeffers over Becky. My bet is Coburg takes it. We’ll get both of them.”
“Poor Becky.”
“Yeah. Guess how she and Dick got started? Jean had Becky over for dinner, supervisor-student rapport and all that. Eyes across the fried chicken, a couple of knee nudges. Next day Becky and Dick are at a motel.”
“Mrs. Basille said she thought Becky had a new beau. Becky wouldn’t talk about it, which led Mrs. Basille to suspect it was someone she wouldn’t have approved of—what she called a loser. Becky’d gone with married men before—guys who promised to get divorced but never did. Dick was exactly her type—married and disabled.”
“What does disabled have to do with it?”
“Becky had a thing for guys with problems. Wounded birds. Jeffers’ missing leg meshed nicely with that.”
“He’s missing a leg? That’s what the limp is?”
“He wears a prosthesis. Becky’s dad was diabetic. Lost some of his limbs.”
“Jesus.” He smoked. “So maybe there is something to this psychology stuff, huh?”
I thought about Becky Basille, trapped in a locked room with a madman. “Everything Jean and Coburg did was part of the ritual. Like forging Becky’s therapy notes and scripting them to make it seem Becky was having an affair with Hewitt. In addition to diverting us, once more, to Gritz, it added insult to injury by humiliating Becky. As if that could undo the humiliation Becky’d caused Jean.”
He stubbed out his cigar. “Speaking of Gritz, I think I found him. Once I realized Coburg and Jeffers were probably using him as a distraction, I figured the poor sucker’s life expectancy wasn’t too great and started to call around at morgues. Long Beach has someone who fits his description perfectly. Multiple stab wounds and ligature around the neck—a guitar string.”
“The next Elvis. I’d check Coburg’s guitar case.”
“Del Hardy already did. Coburg’s got a bunch of guitars. And a phase shifter and other recording stuff. In one of the cases was a set of brand-new strings. Missing the low E. The other interesting things that came up were a man’s shirt too small to be Coburg’s, torn up and used for a rag, still stinking of booze. And an old Corrective School attendance roster with nineteen seventy-three ripped out.”
“Small shirt,” I said. “Gritz was a little man.”
He nodded. “And a client of the law center. Coburg had gotten him off a theft thing, too, couple of months ago.”
“Any indication he ever knew Hewitt?”
“No.”
“Poor guy,” I said. “They probably lured him with notions of being a recording star—let him play with the guitars and the gizmos, make a demo. That’s why he talked about getting rich. Then they killed him and used him as a red herring. No family connections, the perfect victim. Where was the body found?”
“Near the harbor. Naked, no ID, quite a bit worse for wear. He’d been in one of their coolers with a John Doe toe tag. They figure he’s been dead anywhere from four days to a week.”
“Right around the time you called Jeffers and asked her to speak to me. You said she thought she recognized my name. When I got there she pretended it was because of the Casa de los NiÑos case. But she knew it from Coburg’s hit list—it must have shocked them, their next victim in their face, like that. Your making the connection between the ‘bad love’ tape and what happened to Becky. Someone else might have backed off, but clearing the list just meant too much to Coburg—he couldn’t let go of it. So he and Jean decided to stay on track and use Gritz as extra insurance. Jeffers sends me to Coburg, Coburg just happens to remember Gritz was Hewitt’s friend and directs me to Little Calcutta. Then, just in case we still weren’t biting, Jeffers produces the therapy notes with all those references to ‘G.’ Maybe I should have wondered—Jeffers made such a big deal about Becky being a lousy note taker, then magically these appear. Mrs. Basille said Becky was a real stickler for the rules, but I figured she was just out of touch.”
“There was no way to know,” he said. “These people are from another planet.”
“That lunch with Jeffers,” I said, feeling suddenly chilled. “She sat across from me—touching my hand, letting loose the tears. Bringing Dick along was another ritual: Becky vanquished, Jean was showing off her spoils. After we were finished eating, she insisted on walking me to my car. Stood on the sidewalk, misbuttoned her sweater, and had to redo it. Probably a signal to Coburg, waiting somewhere across the street. She stayed with me all the way to the Seville—tagging the car for Coburg. He followed me up to Benedict and learned where I was hiding out.”
He shook his head. “We hadn’ta caught them, they’d probably run for office.”
“At lunch, I told Jeffers that I was going to Santa Barbara the next day to talk to Katarina. That got them worried I’d learn something—maybe even bring back the school roster. So they were forced to break sequence—Coburg beat me up there and killed Katarina before me. And tossed the house. Any idea why Coburg called himself Silk and Merino?”
“I asked the asshole. He didn’t answer, just smiled that creepy smile. I started to walk out and then he said, ‘Look it up.’ So I did. In the dictionary. ‘Coburg’ is an old English word for imitation silk or wool.… Enough of this, my head’s splitting.… How are you and Robin doing?”
“We’ve been able to go back to the house.”
“Anything left?”
“Mostly ashes.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Alex.”
I said, “We’ll survive—we’re surviving. And living in the shop’s not bad—the smallness is actually kind of comforting.”
“Insurance company jerking you around?”
“As predicted.”
“Let me know if I can do anything.”
“I will.”
“And when you’re ready for a contractor, I’ve got a possible for you—ex-cop, does nice work relatively cheap.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for everything—and sorry about the rental house. I’m sure your banke
r didn’t expect bullet holes in his walls. Tell him to send me the bill.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s the most exciting thing’s ever happened to him.”
I smiled. He looked away.
“Shootout at the Beverly Hills corral,” he said. “I should have been there.”
“How could you have known?”
“Knowing’s my job.”
“You offered to drive us home, I turned you down.”
“I shouldn’t have listened to you.”
“Come on, Milo. You did everything you could. To paraphrase a friend of mine: ‘Don’t flog yourself.’ ”
He frowned, tilted his glass, poured ice down his gullet, and crunched. “How’s Rov—Spike?”
“A few surface cuts. The vet said bulldogs have high pain thresholds. A throwback to when they were used for baiting.”
“Right through the glass.” He shook his head. “Little maniac must have taken a running start and gone ballistic. Talk about devotion.”
“You see it from time to time,” I said. Then I ordered him another Coke.
CHAPTER
34
I drove back to Venice. The shop was empty and Robin had left a note on her workbench:
11:45 a.m. Had to run to the lumberyard. Back at 2. Pls. call Mrs. Braithwaite. Says she’s Spike’s owner.
Pacific Palisades exchange. I phoned it before the disappointment could sink in.
A middle-aged female voice said, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Braithwaite? Dr. Delaware returning your call.”
“Oh, doctor! Thank you for calling, and thank you for caring for our little Barry! Is he all right?”
“Perfect. He’s a great dog,” I said.
“Yes, he is. We were so worried, starting to give up hope.”
“Well, he’s in the pink.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“I guess you’d like to come by to get him. He should be back by two.”
Hesitation. “Oh, certainly. Two it is.”
I busied myself with the phone. Calling Shirley Rosenblatt and having a half-hour talk with her. Calling Bert Harrison, then the insurance company, where I dealt with some truly vile individuals.
I thought about the Wallace girls for a while, then remembered another little girl, the one who’d lost her boxer—Karen Alnord. I had no record of her number. All my papers were gone. Where had she lived—Reseda. On Cohasset.
I got the number from information. A woman answered and I asked for Karen.
“She’s at school.” Brilliant, Delaware. “Who’s this?”
I gave her my name. “She called me about her boxer. I was just wondering if you found him.”
“Yes, we have,” she said edgily.
“Great. Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Good news.”
Mrs. Braithwaite showed up at one forty-five. She was short, thin, and sixtyish, with an upswept, tightly waved, tapioca-colored hairdo, sun wrinkles, and narrow brown eyes behind pearloid-framed glasses. Her maroon I. Magnin suit would have fetched top dollar at a vintage boutique, and her pearls were real. She carried a bag that matched the suit and wore a bejeweled American flag lapel pin.
She looked around the shop, confused.
“Robin’s place of business,” I said. “We’re in between houses—planning some construction.”
“Well, good luck on that. I’ve been through it, and one meets such an unsavory element.”
“Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
I pulled up a chair for her. She remained standing and opened her handbag. Taking out a check, she tried to give it to me.
Ten dollars.
“No, no,” I said.
“Oh, doctor, I insist.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“But the expenses—I know how Barry eats.”
“He’s earned his way.” I smiled. “Charming fellow.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” she said, but with a curious lack of passion. “Are you sure I can’t reimburse you?”
“Give it to charity.”
She thought. “All right, that’s a good idea. Planned Parenthood always needs help.”
She sat down. I repeated my drink offer and she said, “It’s really not necessary, but iced tea would be fine if you have it.”
As I fixed the drink, she inspected the shop some more.
When I gave her the glass, she thanked me again and sipped daintily.
“Does your wife fix violins?”
“A few. Mostly guitars and mandolins. She fixes and makes them.”
“My father played the violin—quite well, actually. We went to the Bowl every summer to hear Jascha Heifetz play. Back when you could still enjoy a civilized drive through Hollywood. He taught at USC—Heifetz did, not Father. Though Father was an alumnus. So is my son. He’s in marketing.”
I smiled.
“May I ask what kind of doctor you are?”
“Psychologist.”
Sip. “And where did you find Barry?”
“He showed up at my house.”
“Where’s that, doctor?”
“Just off Beverly Glen.”
“South of Sunset, or north?”
“A mile and a half north.”
“How odd … well, thank heavens for good samaritans. It’s so nice to have one’s faith in human nature restored.”
“How did you find me, Mrs. Braithwaite?”
“From Mae Josephs at Frenchie Rescue—we were in Palm Desert and didn’t get her message until today.”
The door opened and Robin came in, carrying a bag and holding the dog by the leash.
“Barry!” said Mrs. Braithwaite. She got off the chair. The dog trotted straight to her and licked her hand.
“Barry, Barry, little Barry. You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you!”
She petted him.
He licked her some more, then turned around, stared at me, and cocked his head.
“You look wonderful, Barry,” said Mrs. Braithwaite. To us: “He looks wonderful, thank you so much.”
“Our pleasure,” said Robin. “He’s a great little guy.”
“Yes, he is—aren’t you, Barrymore? Such a sweet boy, even with your snoring—did he snore?”
“Loud and clear,” said Robin. Smiling, but her eyes had that pretears look I knew so well. I took her hand. She squeezed mine and began emptying the bag. Ebony bridge blanks.
The dog padded back over to us and propped his forelegs on Robin’s thigh. She rubbed him under the chin. He pressed his little head to her leg.
“Mother loved that. The snoring. Barry was actually Mother’s—she kept English bulldogs and Frenchies for over fifty years. Did quite a bit of breeding and showing in her day. And obedience training.”
“Did she perimeter train him?” I said. “To avoid water?”
“Oh, of course. She trained all her dogs. She had lily ponds and a big pool, and the poor things sink like stones. Then her back started to go and the English were too heavy for her to carry, so she kept only Frenchies. Then she got too weak even for the Frenchies. Barry was her last little boy. She imported him three years ago. Flew him all the way from Holland.”
A linen hankie came out of the handbag. She took off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes.
“Mother passed away three weeks ago. She’d been ill for a while and Barry was her faithful companion—weren’t you, sweetie?”
She reached out her hand. The dog settled on all fours but remained next to Robin.
Mrs. Braithwaite dabbed some more. “He stayed in bed with her, barked for the nurse when she started to—I do believe he was the reason she kept going as long as she did. But of course, in—when she—the last time we had to call the paramedics, such terror and commotion. Barry must have slipped out. I didn’t realize it until later.…”
“Where did your mother live?” I said.
“Little Holmby. Just off Comstock, s
outh of the boulevard.”
Two miles from my house.
She said, “He managed to cross Sunset—all that traffic.” Dab. “Poor little boy, if anything had happened to you!”
“Well,” said Robin, “thank God he made it.”
“Yes. I see that—you’ve made a nice little home for him, haven’t you?”
“We tried.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that … yes … would you like to have him?”
Robin’s mouth dropped open. She looked at me.
I said, “You don’t want him?”
“It’s not a matter of that, doctor. I adore animals, but my husband doesn’t. Or rather, they don’t like him. Allergies. Severe ones. Dogs, cats, horses—anything with fur sets him off and he swells up like a balloon. As is, I’m going to have to take a bubble bath the moment I get home, or Monty will be wheezing the moment he sees me.”
She pulled something else out of the purse and gave it to me.
An AKC pedigree sheet for “Van Der Legyh’s Lionel Barrymore On Stage.” A family tree that put mine to shame.
Mrs. Braithwaite said, “Isn’t that noble?”
“Very.”
Robin said, “We’d love to take him.”
“Good. I was hoping you were nice people.”
Smiling, but she took another dubious look around the shop. “He likes his liver snaps and his sausage sticks. Cheese, as well, of course. Though he doesn’t seem to have any affection for Edam—isn’t that odd, his being Dutch?”
Robin said, “We’ll support him in the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.”
“Ye-ess …” She glanced furtively around the shop. “I’m sure he’ll love your new home—will it be in the same location?”
“Absolutely,” I said, scooping up the dog and rubbing his tummy. “We’ve been happy there.”
CHAPTER
35
It came in a plain white envelope.
Pressed into my hand as I walked out the shop’s side door, Spike heeling.
I looked up to see Ruthanne Wallace’s kid sister, Bonnie. Tight jeans tucked into cowboy boots, white blouse, no bra, nipples assertive.
She winked at me, tickled my palm with her finger, and ran to the curb. A dark blue Chevy Caprice with chrome wheels and black windows was idling there, blowing smoke. She jumped in, slammed the door, and the car sped off.
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