I said, “Daney works the system. I wonder if he’d dip into his own pocket for an abortion.”
Milo slowed. “Bastard knocks up a ward and bills the state? He’s been getting away with everything else, sure, why not?”
“It’s one thing,” I said, “that we could elevate from theory to fact.”
* * *
Olivia said, “Officially, the files are confidential, so I’m not sure you could use it in court.”
“Let’s see if there’s anything to use,” I said.
“Your call, darling. It could take some time.”
“You’re always worth waiting for.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “My girlish allure.”
* * *
My cell squawked as we drove up the Glen, a mile before my house. “Some time” had been five minutes.
“Nothing under ‘Ramos,’ ” Olivia said, “but the termination of Wilfreda Lee Monahan’s pregnancy was indeed billed to the taxpayers. The provider’s in North Hollywood. The Women’s Wellness Place.”
She recited an address on the six thousand block of Whitsett. Short ride from the Daneys’ house, more of that same tight net.
“Did an adult accompany her?” I said.
“That wouldn’t be in there. State supreme court nixed parental consent back in 1998.”
“Even with her being in foster care?”
“Even with. In fact, with the girl already on the rolls, billing would’ve been a cinch, just toss another code into the mix. Codes, plural. Looks like she also got a full physical, ob-gyn checkup, pregnancy counseling, and AIDS education.”
“Thorough,” I said.
“Sounds like major league chutzpah at play here.”
“You don’t want to know, Liv. Would you do me a favor and run another name through? Leticia Maryanne Hollings, seventeen years old.”
“Another one,” she said. “So it’s worse than chutzpah.”
Leticia Hollings’s abortion had taken place a month before Lee Monahan’s. Same comprehensive billing.
Same clinic.
The Women’s Wellness Place stuck in my head but I couldn’t say why. I asked Olivia to cross-reference the two girls who’d left the Daneys and had reached majority.
One, a girl named Beth Scoggins, now nineteen, had also terminated a pregnancy at the Women’s Wellness Place. Two years ago, when she’d been a foster ward.
Olivia said, “This is getting yucky.”
I told Milo about Scoggins. His eyes blazed and I could hear his teeth grinding as he snatched the phone. From the soft, gentle way he thanked Olivia, you’d never have known.
* * *
We pulled up in front of my house and I rushed ahead of him into my office.
Thirty-eight hits for Women’s Wellness Place. Most citations referred to legitimate programs at major hospitals. Three matched the North Hollywood clinic.
The first explained my déjà vu.
I’d come across it before, researching Sydney Weider. Fund-raiser, eight years ago. Weider and Martin Boestling among the donors. Publicity photo taken during better times.
The other two citations were dated two years later, also parties to finance the “compassionate, nonprofit programs” of the clinic. No mention of Weider or Boestling; by then they’d split up and dropped several social rungs.
What the two hits did offer was a roster of Women’s Wellness’s professional staff.
Alphabetized list. A name as blatant as a scar, sandwiched among M.D.s and Ph.D.s, chiropractors, counselors, art therapists, massage specialists.
Drew Daney, M.Div., Pastoral Consultant.
The growling noise behind me raised the short hairs on the back of my neck.
” ‘I do some work with nonprofits,’ ” Milo said. “Sure you do, dude. You’re a regular fucking saint.”
“Maybe he gets a kickback,” I said. “Percentage of total billings. An additional incentive to get them pregnant and terminated.”
“Additional?”
“Something like that is never just about money.”
* * *
We moved to the kitchen and I brewed coffee.
“At the very least, this guy’s abusing young girls,” said Milo. “If he’s done everything we’ve wondered about, he’s a dimestore Manson. Problem is I can’t do a damn thing about it because officially I’m not allowed to have access to the girls’ medical files. Even with the files there’s no proof Daney was responsible for the pregnancies.”
“As a psychologist, I’m obligated to report abuse,” I said. “The rules of evidence don’t apply.”
“How much proof do you need in order to report?”
“The law says suspicion of abuse. What that means is unclear. Every time I’ve tried to get clarification— from the medical board, my lawyer, the state psych association— I’ve failed. I know colleagues who’ve gotten into trouble for reporting and those who’ve been screwed because they didn’t.”
“The law’s an ass,” he said, bypassing the coffee and getting a beer from the fridge. “One thing puzzles me, Alex. Even with kickbacks, Daney getting all those girls pregnant would be dangerous. Be easier to get them birth control, or use some himself, than risk their telling someone.”
“They haven’t told yet,” I said. “Or maybe they did and no one listened.”
“The poor Ramos kid.”
I nodded. “Even if Daney didn’t murder anyone else, if he was the father of her child, he’s responsible, on some level, for her death.”
He popped his beer but didn’t drink. “So how do I find out?”
“How about this: I could try to talk to Leticia Hollings and Beth Scoggins. Couch it as a general inquiry into foster care. If they mention or hint about being exploited, I’ll have a clear obligation to notify the police.”
“Any police in particular?”
“In a pinch, you’ll do.”
He smiled weakly. “The problem is, Alex, if you approach them as a police surrogate, the confidentiality thing will still get in the way of a criminal investigation.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “I began as a police consultant but veered off to independent research.”
“Thought that was a cover story.”
“It could be real.”
He looked up. “How so?”
“I learned about Lee Ramos’s suicide working with you and got intrigued on an intellectual level.”
“Intrigued about what?”
“The relationship between foster care and suicide. The articles I published years ago on stress and abuse would make it a natural.”
“You still do research?”
“Haven’t for a while, but I’m a full professor and full professors get to do what they want.”
“When did you get promoted?”
“Last year.”
“You never mentioned it.”
“No big deal,” I said. “It’s a clinical appointment. What it boils down to is once in a while they ask me to supervise an intern or a grad student, serve on an ad hoc committee, or read a research proposal.”
“You get paid for that?”
“No,” I said. “It’s my way of giving back.” I formed a halo with my hands and held it over my head.
“What a guy,” he said. “You don’t look a day over associate professor.”
His phone beeped. “Sturgis. Oh hi . . . yeah, long time . . . you’re kidding. That’s great. Thanks a mill. I owe you big time.”
Wide smile. Long time since I’d seen that.
“That was Coroner’s Investigator Nancy Martino, R.N. She found tissue samples from Kristal Malley’s autopsy stored in a cooler. Kidney and stomach sections. Some of it looks degraded but there might be enough for analysis. They’ll hold it until I give them the word.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“For what it’s worth.” His smile died.
“Now what?”
“What’s the DNA really gonna do, Alex? Confirm what we already
know from the eye color: The cowboy wasn’t Kristal’s daddy. What it won’t accomplish is get me any closer to Malley for Rand. Or to Daney for whatever bad stuff he did.”
He tapped a calypso beat against the beer bottle. “Two bad guys, no leads, life is beautiful.”
“Better than no bad guys.”
“How comforting,” he said. “You must be a therapist.”
CHAPTER 33
I copied down Leticia Hollings’s phone number in Temecula and Milo got Elisabeth Mia Scoggins’s last-known address from the DMV in Santa Monica; it matched a phone book listing for Scoggins, E.
Chucking his beer bottle, he saw himself out.
Beth Scoggins lived in an apartment on Twentieth Street near Pico. Low-rent section of the beach city, but the thought that she’d achieved some sort of independence was encouraging.
It was seven-fifteen p.m. Allison’s office was on Montana, the high-rent north end of Santa Monica. I knew she was booked with patients until nine but her usual dinner break was at eight. If I managed to set up a meeting with Beth Scoggins, maybe I’d have time to drop in later. . . .
Mr. Halo.
* * *
A young woman picked up the phone, sounding wary.
“Ms. Scoggins?”
“This is Beth.”
I gave her my name and my title, asked if she’d be willing to talk about her experiences in foster care.
“How’d you find me?” she said.
Panic in her voice made me want to back down. But that might scare her more. “I’m doing research— ”
“Is this . . . is this some kind of rip-off?”
“No, I really am a psychol— ”
“What research? What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry if— ”
“What research?”
“The stresses of foster care.”
Silence.
“I consult to the police and a young woman who was cared for by the same people who cared for you was found— ”
“Cared for? Is that what you said? Cared for? What’s your name?”
I told her.
Scratching sounds; copying it down.
“Ms. Scog— ”
“You shouldn’t be calling me. This is wrong.”
Click.
* * *
I sat there feeling dirty. Plenty of time to drop in on Allison now, but I was in no mood to be social. Logging onto my med school computer account, I ran an Ovid search on suicide and foster care, found no objective studies, only suggestions that kids taken out of their homes were at risk for all kinds of problems.
Gee thanks, academia.
I thought of calling Beth Scoggins back. Couldn’t see any way that wouldn’t make things worse. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Give her time to consider . . .
By eight I was starting to feel the need to eat. Not hunger, more like an obligation to keep my blood sugar up. Maybe I’d be useful to someone.
As I was contemplating canned soup versus tuna, Robin called.
The sound of her voice tightened my scalp.
“Hey,” I said. Eloquent.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay,” she said. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Alex, but I felt it was the right thing to do. Spike’s not doing so great.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Age. He’s got arthritis in his hind legs— you remember the left one was always a little dysplastic? Now it’s really weak. Also, his thyroid function’s low and his energy level’s flagging, I have to put medicine in his eyes, and his night vision’s just about gone. All the other tests are normal except for a slight enlargement of his heart. The vet says it’s understandable, given his age. For a Frenchie, he’s a real old guy.”
The last time I’d seen Spike, he’d hurled his twenty-six pounds three feet in the air and come down insouciant. “Poor little guy.”
“He’s not the same dog you’d remember, Alex. Lies around most of the day and he’s gotten pretty passive. With everyone, even strange men.”
“That’s a switch.”
“I just thought you should know. He’s getting good care, but . . . no buts. That’s it. I thought you should know.”
“Appreciate it,” I said. “Glad you found a good vet up there.”
“I’m talking about Dr. Rich.”
“You’re back in L.A.?”
“Have been,” she said. “For a month.”
“Permanently?”
“Maybe . . . I don’t want to get into that. I can’t honestly say how much longer Spike’s got. This seems better than calling you one day with bad news and have you not prepared.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I mean it.”
“If you’d like, you can come see him. Or I can bring him over sometime.” Pause. “If Allison doesn’t mind.”
“Allison wouldn’t mind.”
“No, she’s sweet.”
“How are you doing?” I said.
“Not great.” A beat. “Tim and I are over.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s for the best,” she said. “But this really isn’t about that, it’s about Spike, so if you do want to see him . . .”
“I’d like to if you think it would be helpful for him. Last time I dropped by he was pretty eager to have you to himself.”
“That was ages ago, Alex. He’s really not the same dog. And deep down he loves you. I think competing with you for my attention gave him a reason to get up in the morning. The challenge of another alpha male.”
“That and food,” I said.
“I wish he still stuffed his face. Now I have to coax him . . . the funny thing is, he never paid much attention to Tim one way or the other . . . no hostility, just ignored him. Anyway . . .”
“I’ll get by soon,” I said. “Where are you living?”
“Same place,” she said. “In the physical sense. Bye, Alex. Be well.”
* * *
Eeny meeny miny mo made it canned soup. Chicken noodle. The decision shouldn’t have taken fifteen minutes. I was opening the can when the phone rang.
Allison said, “Hi, it’s me. Got a problem.”
“Busy? I was thinking we could get together, but tomorrow’s fine.”
“We have to get together,” she said. “Now. That’s the problem.”
* * *
I was at her waiting room twenty minutes later. The space was empty and softly lit. I pushed the red button next to the sign that said Dr. Gwynn and she emerged.
No hug, no kiss, no smile— and I knew why. Her hair was tied up and the day had eaten most of her makeup. She ushered me to the small side office usually occupied by her assistant.
Perching on the edge of the desk, she twisted a gold bracelet. “She says she’s ready.”
“Your patient,” I said. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” she said. “Five months of therapy.”
“Can you tell me how she came to you?”
“I can tell you everything,” she said. “She gave me carte blanche. Not that I’ll use it, because in her present state she can’t be trusted to make optimal decisions.”
“I’m sorry, Ali— ”
“She was referred by one of the volunteer counselors at the Holy Grace Tabernacle. She’d been searching for therapy, took some wrong turns, finally found someone with the good sense to refer out. She’s a resilient kid and on the surface she’s been doing okay. A research study would rate her as doing great because there’s no substance abuse and she’s gainfully employed— works at The Gap. She owns a fifteen-year-old clunker that usually starts and shares a one-bedroom apartment with three other girls.”
“You see her pro bono?”
“There’s no such thing as free,” she said. “I don’t sell delusions.”
Allison volunteered once a week at a hospice. Was one of the few busy Westside therapists who saw patients at deep discount.
&n
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