I also decided that if Troy’s death turned out to be a suicide beyond reasonable doubt, I would drop the case, Lucy not withstanding.
Lucy awakened around Santa Maria. She spent most of the last hour staring glumly into the darkness. I told her I wanted her permission to talk with Judy’s father. She brightened momentarily. “I’ll give you his number,” she said. “He was in Santa Barbara today, I mean yesterday, to claim the body. Let me call first. I don’t know how he’ll feel. Would you rather have your daughter commit suicide or be murdered? Some choice!”
I drove directly to John’s house. “Are you okay? Do you want to sleep here?” I asked Lucy. She said she’d prefer to go back to the Worthingtons, and slipped over into the driver’s seat as I got out. “I’ll call you when I get up, then,” I said.
I walked unsteadily to the front door, let myself in, and debated briefly whether to shower or crash immediately. Grime was the final arbiter. I showered, brushed my teeth, wrapped myself, still wet, in a terrycloth quilt, fell into bed, and slept dreamlessly.
The phone woke me at the decent hour of 9:30. “Dagny, Charles here.”
I murmured a good morning.
“I’ll be in the laboratory until this afternoon. I want to let you know what’s happening. I guess you got home safely.”
“No sweat. I was pretty wired. What’s up?”
“I called the Santa Clara County medical examiner. Turns out I know the chap slightly, a Dr. Bob Peters. We met at a conference last year. I explained as much as I knew. He was intrigued. He agreed to let the body cook and suggested I come up and we’d autopsy together on Monday.”
“You’d have to take Monday off. Do you mind?” I was being polite. I was glad Charles could be there.
“Not a bit. I’ve some holiday due me. I’ve actually been thinking of visiting San Francisco one weekend.”
“You should,” I agreed, and a thought popped into my head. Before I could decide what to do with it, Charles continued.
“I don’t suppose you’d want to show me around, would you?”
I wasn’t aware of the telepathic capabilities of the telephone network. Most convenient, leastwise in this case, for I might have lost my nerve. I forced myself not to sound too eager. “I’ve got to drive down to L.A. today to interview Judy’s father. If I get that out of the way, I guess I could leave tomorrow.”
“Wonderful! I’m glad you’re going with me. I’ll arrange to take holiday Friday and Monday. Would you ring me when you’re back from L.A.?”
I said I would. I clicked the phone off, then on, and punched in the Worthington’s number. Ernie answered. I identified myself and asked to speak with Lucy.
“I called Mr. Raskin half an hour ago,” said Lucy, when she got on the line. “He’s pretty upset. He thinks the cops ought to investigate if there’s anything suspicious. He may give you a hard time.”
“Did he agree to see me?” I was half hoping he wouldn’t. Interviewing a grieving parent even before the child is laid to rest ranks right up there with bamboo splinters under the fingernails. And didn’t I remember Lucy saying that he’d lost his second wife under similar circumstances?
Lucy said, “I told him the cops wouldn’t follow up based on my suspicions, but that you would. I think he’ll see you because of my friendship with Judy.”
I got Raskin’s address and phone number from Lucy, who promised to call ahead to tell him what time to expect me. I’d have to stop by the office for an hour to fend off any pressing matters. I’d get to Beverly Hills by around one in the afternoon.
There is no freeway to Beverly Hills. Maybe that’s why it’s so exclusive. If you come in on the 101, the best route is to take the 405—the San Diego Freeway—across the Santa Monica Mountains to Sunset Boulevard, and then wind east on Sunset with the estates of Bel Air on the left and UCLA on the right until you finally reach the northwest side of Beverly Hills.
On various corners you can purchase “Maps to Stars’ Homes” for a self-tour of where the rich and famous reside. One nearly expects to encounter Matt Dillon or Cameron Diaz, live, crossing the street. No particular structure makes Beverly Hills world famous. No Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower. Just a lot of multimillion-dollar homes on meticulously tended grounds, block after block. Raskin’s address was on Cardinal Drive, one of many estate-lined streets that run between Sunset Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard. The house number indicated a location closer to Sunset, and, as it was an odd number, on the west side of the street.
I turned onto Cardinal and crept along until I found the right address. A circular drive looped through the front lawn, with a spur going around back for deliveries and domestic service. I parked near the front door, trusting that the Taurus would not burp any drops of black oil onto the spotless driveway.
A large brass knocker turned out to be purely decorative. I rang the doorbell. I heard sounds from within, and a few seconds later the door opened to reveal a fiftyish man in sandals, shorts, and a polo shirt, clearly not the butler. “Mr. Raskin?” I inquired. “I’m Dagny Jamison.”
“I’m Bill Raskin. Please come in,” he said, extending a hand. The foyer was large enough to hold a grand piano. In one corner, under a staircase, was a small botanical garden. In another corner was a curved love seat, situated perfectly for observing the art on the opposite wall.
As we entered the main part of the house, a man around Charles’s age joined us. Raskin introduced him as “my son, Bill.” I assumed that he was Judy’s half-brother from Houston. “We can sit and talk in the lounge,” said the senior Raskin. He led the way past the conservatory, the billiard room, the library, the study, and other such rooms found in your average Beverly Hills home. Here, one might have a game of Clue with real rooms, real people, and, as I glimpsed a pair of heavy brass candlesticks, real weapons.
Soft drinks had been set out, along with some snack foods, in anticipation of my visit. I was offered a chair near the refreshments, and took a Coke when asked to help myself. The others did the same and we all popped the tops of the cans at the same time and poured the contents with exaggerated deliberateness into the chilled glasses that were also provided.
Bill Senior was a handsome man—lean, energetic, and giving the impression of a coiled spring. Only streaks of gray in the hair and crinkles about the eyes suggested late rather than early fifties. Bill Junior had not inherited his father’s aquiline nose, high cheekbones, or limpid brown eyes. He must have taken more after his mother.
Before our silence became awkward, Bill Senior began. “This is a hard time for us, as I’m sure you appreciate, Ms. Jamison. I don’t understand why a private investigator would concern him…, uh, herself in a death that didn’t interest the police. And particularly, if I may say so, one about my daughter’s age who might pass more easily for a fashion model than a detective.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” I said, wondering how the job market was for one-breasted models; maybe not too bad, there being tens of thousands of women in a similar state. “I’ve had my California P.I. license for five years. I was in the military police in the service, I have a degree from UCLA, and I have my own practice in Raleigh, North Carolina. In my role today I represent Jamison and Jamison, a private investigation firm in Santa Barbara that’s a respected, professional organization.”
I was riding way too high on my horse and disregarding wisdom learned from my dogs: avoid biting when a simple growl will do. I was worn and weary from the events of the past two days, and this house of misery weighed heavily on me. Tactlessness was the result.
Raskin raised his hands in a mock pose of surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend, and I’m not making a pass. Lucy explained her side of it, and I accept that for now. How can we help you?”
I expressed sympathy for their loss. I apologized for appearing at a time when Judy’s funeral was uppermost in their minds. I asked questions that would encourage them to talk about Judy. Bill Senior did most of the talking, with Junior nodding in agre
ement from time to time. Both men controlled their grief, which took a great effort on the part of Senior. Junior’s presence, I sensed, owed more to filial duty than to any strong affection for his dead half-sister. The second wife, Judy’s mother, never came up in the conversation.
When both men had relaxed, I cut to the quick of my visit. “Who might benefit from Judy’s death?” I asked. Junior stirred uneasily. Eventually, he would, but not soon, I judged.
In answer to my question, Bill Senior handed me some papers that had been lying on the table beside him. “Judy, Troy Stanton, and three other people took out a twenty-five-year lease on a gold mine. They formed a partnership. If a partner dies, the surviving partners inherit. It’s all in these papers, signed and legal, near as I can tell.”
My jaw dropped; my eyebrows rose. That’s what I love about this business. You go from zero to warp speed faster than you can say Millennium Falcon. I struck gold with this gold mine, for here indeed was the missing motive, a motive universally acknowledged: greed.
Chapter 7
I had trouble believing my daughter’s suicide, continued Raskin. “I don’t want to air family laundry, but her mother died in a similar way. How can such a thing happen twice in a man’s life? What kind of a God overlooks these hideous affairs? I’d give all this”—he swept his arms—“to the next person through my front door if it would undo the horror.” He paused to regain his composure. Junior looked shocked.
He began again, more deliberately. “My conversation with Lucy fed my disbelief. Dead is dead, I suppose, but I didn’t want her to have died out of misery, as her mother had. I thought she was…I wanted her to be a happy person, not one who’d take her own life. I tried to think of why anyone would want her dead. A lovers’ quarrel turned violent was my first thought. I met Troy Stanton several times. How can you tell if someone’s capable of violence?”
His misery was now undiluted by attempts at composure. “Now Troy’s dead,” he continued, his voice cracking, “and I don’t know what that has to do with Judy. I thought of other relationships she’d had, whether they had ended acrimoniously. I know she dated an older man for a while when she was at UCLA. She teased me once or twice, saying she liked older men because they reminded her of me. She never brought him home. I’m not sure I ever knew his name. Did you, Bill?” he asked. He lowered his head, squeezed his eyes, and wiped them. Junior had to switch his head motions from nodding agreement to a quick shake to indicate that he didn’t know the name.
The older man was probably the “gangsta.” If it proved to be necessary, I felt sure I could discover his identity, if only by going through Judy’s personal effects at a later, more appropriate time.
Bill Senior continued, “Then I remembered the gold mine. A couple of years ago—the exact date’s on the paperwork—Judy told me she wanted to invest in a gold mine. It’d been worked to the point of unprofitability, but new technology might improve future yields. But the real reason she wanted to do it wasn’t for the money, she said. One of the partners was a high-ranking Churok Indian. She felt the partnership would cement her ties with him. He was helping her with her research.”
“Who were the other two?”
“A married couple. They’re in Guatemala, helping poor farmers through one of those new age cultist churches. Judy knew them from school. They bought a forty percent interest and made a deal with God, Judy told me: any money earned from the gold mine would be donated to the church.”
“Do they ever come back here?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” said Bill, “but then I wouldn’t have any reason to know. I never met them.”
“Does the mine make any money?”
“I doubt it. When they closed the deal two years ago, the five of them went up to the Churok Reservation and camped out by the mine. There was a ceremony led by the Churok partner to coax the earth gods into giving up their treasure. I remember Judy being excited by it. She said it deepened her knowledge of the ritual language. Troy was enthusiastic for a different reason. He thought they could reopen the mine and make a killing.”
I asked to borrow the papers. They’d have the location of the mine and the names and addresses of the partners. With that information, I could track down the two in Guatemala. I could also find both the gold mine and the Churok partner, who might be glad to see me when I told him he now had a third interest in a gold mine instead of a fifth. I promised to make copies right away and return the originals by registered mail. Junior put on a disapproving air but said nothing.
I had one more loose end to clear up before driving back. “Did Judy use a pharmacy down here?” I asked her father.
“Yes, the one on Little Santa Monica. Kirk’s Pharmacy, it’s called. Why?”
“I’d like to find out what medications she was taking, if any.”
“They won’t tell you. They wouldn’t even tell me if I were to ask. Nobody’s entitled to her medical records without a subpoena.”
“That’s okay. It’s not important. If you think of anything, would you call me?” I handed each man a business card. They both showed me to the door. As I walked to my car I turned for a final wave goodbye. Bill Senior was looking thoughtful as he fingered my card. Bill Junior looked relieved.
I completed the semicircle back to Cardinal Drive. I turned right in the direction of what the locals called Little Santa Monica, a spur of the same Santa Monica Boulevard that takes one to Santa Monica Beach. I parked by the Exxon station at the corner of Little Santa Monica and Cardinal. A bunch of kids just out of school jostled noisily by, boys in one group, girls tagging behind in the other. The red and yellow sign of Kirk’s Pharmacy was in view a block and a half away to the east. On my cell phone, I got Kirk’s number from directory assistance and had it dialed automatically. I asked for the pharmacy.
Charles had given me a crash course in anabolic steroids, which are synthetic male sex hormones. Used legitimately, Nandrolex may be part of a chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer. (It wasn’t part of my regimen, however.) Used illegitimately, it’s favored by athletes of both sexes, because it promotes muscle growth, reduces muscle recovery time after exercise, and decreases healing time after muscle injury.
Nandrolex is a popular steroid for “pyramiding,” Charles had explained. The athlete uses increasing amounts of the drug over a six-to-ten-week period. This is followed by decreasing amounts over an equal period of time, followed finally by a period of abstention called cycling. During cycling, workouts are tuned to achieve peak performance on the day of an event. Cycling also ensures that the athlete will pass any blood or urine tests.
There are also adverse reactions, or side effects. One of them, unique to Nandrolex, is the fingernail alteration that Charles had observed on Judy’s corpse. More pernicious side effects in females are acne, unwanted hair growth, and irreversible clitoral enlargement. Charles had checked for these, and others, when he autopsied Judy. He had found nothing to accompany the white striations on her nails.
A female voice came on the line and said, “This is the pharmacist.”
“This is Judy Raskin and I’d like to refill a prescription,” I lied.
“Do you have the prescription number?” asked the pharmacist.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have it with me. It’s for Nandrolex. I’m sure I have several refills remaining. My oncologist suggested two more weeks of it.”
“What was your name, again?” asked the voice in the telephone.
“Judy Raskin, R-a-s-k-i-n.”
After a pause, “I’m sorry, Miss Raskin. I brought up your records and we don’t have a prescription on file for Nandrolex. Are you sure you have the right pharmacy? This is Kirk’s in Beverly Hills.”
“I’m sure. I fill all my prescriptions there. My family lives just up the street on Cardinal. Would you check carefully? Could I have gotten the name of the steroid wrong?”
“Miss Raskin, I’d like to help. I don’t show you ever having received Nandrolex or any of the Na
ndrolone anabolics. Who’s your doctor? I’d be happy to call for you.”
“No, it’s okay. Maybe I did get the medicine elsewhere. Sometimes the drugs confuse me and I’m not feeling too well. I’ll call the hospital. They’ll know what to do.”
I keyed off. Judy might have obtained steroids illegally, or even through some other licit channel, but why? She wasn’t into bodybuilding, or athleticism of any kind, nor did she have any of the nasty conditions treated legitimately by anabolic steroids, such as anemia. There wasn’t any point to a personal appearance in Kirk’s so I headed back to Santa Barbara.
The fingernails remained a piece of the puzzle fitted to no other piece, but no clues were forthcoming from my interview with the Raskins. It was after six when I unlocked the front door of John’s house. The one message on the machine was from John. He was still in Vegas with no immediate plans to return home. He left me a list of errands he needed done.
I felt as though I’d had a full day. I called Lucy and brought her up to date. She knew about the gold mine but didn’t know about Troy’s involvement. She was all for driving to the Churok reservation immediately, the previous day’s exhausting trip seemingly forgotten.
I was adamant. I told her I would check out the gold mine myself and if possible, meet with the Churok partner. I also told her that Charles would assist in Troy’s autopsy on Monday, so we’d find out about anything suspicious right away. I stated my unconditional refusal to spend another night in her car.
She started to argue but I interrupted her, then hesitated a moment. I don’t often share the details of my private life with any but close friends, not that there’d been much to discuss lately. I was never half of a giggly twosome that went to the powder room to discuss our dates. But I’d met Charles and Lucy on the same day, met them both due to the circumstances of Judy’s death. I felt enough of a bond among the three of us to tell Lucy of my plans to spend the weekend with Charles.
The Evil That Men Do Page 7