'You said Schwinn was a devious sort,' I said. 'Suspicious, verging on paranoid. LAPD dumped him, but he continued to think like a rogue cop, played games to the end, in order to cover his rear. He decided to communicate with you, but set it up so that only you
would get it. That way, if the book went astray, or was ever traced
back to him, he could disclaim ownership. He took pains to make
sure it wasn't traced to him - no fingerprints. Only you were likely
recall his photography hobby and make the connection. He
might have planned to send you the book himself, but changed his
mind and chose someone else as a go-between, as another layer of
security. He studied the dead black man. Paged to the truck-crash nightmare, then Janie. Repeated the process.
'Willie and Caroline's surrogates... too weird.'
I pointed to the black man's corpse. 'How old does he look to
you?'
He squinted at the ashen face. 'Forties.'
'If Willie Burns were alive today, he'd be forty-three. That means Schwinn saw the dead man as a surrogate for Willie in the here and now. Both the pictures are faded, probably decades old. But Schwinn oriented them toward the present. Meaning he finished the book fairly recently, wanted to focus you on the present.'
He rolled the empty shot glass between his palms. 'Bastard was a good detective. If the department got rid of him because someone was worried about what he knew about Janie, that means they didn't worry about me.'
'You were a rookie-'
'I was the dumb shit they figured would just follow orders. And guess what?' He laughed.
'It's likely when Schwinn learned he'd been forced out and you hadn't, it confirmed his suspicions of you. Maybe he figured you'd played a role in his dismissal. That's why he didn't tell you what he'd learned about Janie for years.'
'And then he changed his mind.'
'He came to admire you. Told Marge.'
'Mr Serenity,' he said. 'So he enlists his girlfriend or some old cop washout to serve as go-between. Why'd whoever it was wait until seven months after Schwinn died?'
I had no answer for that. Milo tried to pace, but the confined quarters of the laundry area made it a two-step exercise.
He said, 'Then the guy falls off a horse.'
A horse so gentle Marge felt comfortable with Schwinn riding up
into the hills alone. But Akhbar got spooked, anyway. Marge said by "something." Maybe it was someone.
He stared past me, reentered the kitchen, washed out the shot glass, returned, and glared at the book. 'Nothing says Schwinn's death wasn't an accident.'
'Nothing at all.'
He pressed his hands flat against the wall as if straining to push it down.
'Bastards,' he said.
'Who?'
'Everyone.'
We sat down in his living room, each of us thinking in silence, neither of us coming up with anything. If he felt as weary as I did, he needed a break.
The phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. 'This is him... what? Who - yes... one week. Yeah... I did... that's right. What's that? Yeah, I just told you that, anything else? Okay, then. Hey, listen, why don't you give me your name and number and I'll-'
The other party cut him off. He held the phone at arm's length, began gnawing his upper lip.
'Who was that?' I said.
'Some guy claiming to be from Department Personnel downtown, wanting to verify that I was indeed taking vacation time and how long did I plan to be away. I told him I'd filled out the forms.'
'Claiming to be from Personnel?'
'I've never known the department to make calls like that, and he hung up when I asked his name. Also, he didn't sound like a department clerk.'
'How so?'
'He sounded like he gave a damn.'
He slipped the murder book back into the plastic bag, and said, 'This goes in the safe.'
'Didn't know you had a safe,' I said.
'For all my Cartier and Tiffany. Wait here.'
He disappeared and I stood there, humbled once more by the truism I'd learned a thousand patients ago: Everyone has secrets. At the core, we're alone.
That made me think of Robin. Where was she? What was she doing? With whom?
Milo returned, minus his necktie. 'Hungry?'
'Not really.'
'Good, let's eat.'
He locked up and we got back in the car. I said, 'That call from Personnel. Maybe procedures have tightened up with John Brous-sard in charge. Isn't troop discipline his pet issue?' 'Yeah. How about Hot Dog Heaven?'
I drove to San Vicente just north of Beverly and parked at the curb. Hot Dog Heaven was built around a giant hot dog, yet another testament to L.A.'s literal thinking. The fast-food joint became a landmark when the pony ride that had occupied the corner of La Cienega and Beverly for decades was replaced by the neon-and-concrete assault known as the Beverly Center. Too bad Philip K. Dick had committed suicide. A few years later and he'd have seen Blade Runner spring to life. Or maybe he'd known what was coming.
Back during pony-ride days, the dirt track had been a favorite
weekend visitation hangout for divorced dads and their kids. Hot Dog Heaven had thrived peddling nitrites to lonely men who smoked and hung around the low-slung corral, watching their progeny go round and round. Where did displaced dads go now? Not the mall. The last thing kids at the mall wanted was proximity to their parents.
Milo ordered two jumbo chili cheese dogs with extra onions, and I got a knockwurst. We filled out the bill with two large Cokes and sat down to eat as traffic roared by. It was late for lunch and early for dinner and only two other tables were occupied, an old woman reading the paper and a tall, long-haired youth in hospital blues -probably a Cedars-Sinai intern.
Milo wolfed the first chili dog without the aid of respiration. After tweezing every scrap of cheese from the wax paper with his fingers, he gulped Coke and got to work on the second. He finished that one, too, sprang up, and bought a third. My wurst tasted fine, but it was all I could do to feign hunger.
He was counting his change when a bronze Jeep Cherokee parked in front of my Seville and a man got out and walked past me toward the counter. Black suit, pearl shirt, soot-colored tie. Smiling. That's what made me notice him. A big, wide, toothy grin, as if he'd just received terrific news. I watched him stride quickly to the counter and come to a stop just behind Milo, where he waited, bouncing on his heels. His black suede loafers were lifted by two-inch heels. Without them he was an easy six feet. He stood close to Milo, kept bouncing. Milo didn't seem to notice. Something made me put down the wurst and keep my eyes on both of them.
Smiley was thirty or so, with dark hair gelled and combed back, curling over his collar. Big-jawed face, prominent nose, golden tan. The suit was well cut - Italian or pretending to be, and it looked brand-new, as did the suede shoes. The gray shirt was satin-finish silk, the tie a bulky knit. Dressed for an audition as a game show host?
He edged even closer to Milo. Said something. Milo turned and answered.
Smiley nodded.
Milo picked up his food and returned to the table.
'Friendly sort?' I said.
'Who?'
'The guy behind you. He's been smiling since he left that Jeep.'
'So?'
'So what's to smile about?'
Milo allowed his own mouth to curl upward. But he let his eyes drift back to the counter, where the smiling man was now conversing with the counter girl. 'Anything other than that bother you
about him?'
'He was standing close enough to you to smell your cologne.'
'If I wore any,' he said, but he continued to watch the goings-on at the counter. Finally sat back and sank his teeth into the third chili dog. 'Nothing like health food.' He regarded my half-finished wurst. 'What's with the anorexia?'
'Just out of curiosity, what did he say to you up there?'
'Oh, boy...'
He shook his head. 'He wanted to know what was good, okay? I told him I liked anything with chili. Heavy-duty intrigue.'
I smiled. 'Or flirting.'
'Me?'
'Him.'
'Oh, sure, strangers always come up and hit on me. The old fatal charm and all that.'
But he hazarded another glance at the counter, where Smiley was still gabbing with the girl as he paid for his dog. Plain, no chili. He sat down at the table closest to ours, unfolded a napkin over his lap, nipped his hair, beamed at Milo, said, 'Chickened out on the chili.'
'Your loss.'
Smiley laughed. Tugged at his lapel. Took a bite. A dainty little bite that didn't alter the shape of the hot dog.
I mumbled, 'Fatal charm.'
Milo said, 'Enough,' and wiped his face.
Smiley continued to nibble without making much progress. Dabbed his chin. Showed off his dental work. Made several attempts at catching Milo's eye. Milo moved his bulk around, stared at the ground.
Smiley said, 'These really are a mouthful.'
I fought back laughter.
Milo nudged my arm. 'Let's go.'
We stood. Smiley said, 'Have a nice day.'
He got to his feet as we reached the car and jogged toward us, sandwich in one hand, the other waving.
'What the hell,' said Milo, and his hand sidled under his coat.
Smiley reached into his own jacket and all at once Milo had interposed himself between the stranger and me. A flesh barrier, immense; tension seemed to enlarge him. Then he relaxed. Smiley was still waving, but the something in his hand was small and white. A business card.
'Sorry for being so forward, but I... here's my number. Call me if you'd like.'
'Why would I do that?' said Milo.
Smiley's lips drew back, and his grin morphed into something hungry and unsettling. 'Because you never know.'
He dangled the card.
Milo stood there.
Smiley said, 'Oh, well,' and placed the card on the hood of the Seville. His new face was serious, vulpine, purposeful. He trotted away from us, tossed the uneaten hot dog in the trash, got into the Jeep, and sped away as Milo hustled to copy down his license plate. He picked the card off the hood, read it and handed it to me.
Off-white vellum with a faintly greasy feel, engraved letters.
Paris M. Bartlett Health Facilitator
Below that, a cell phone number.
' "Because you never know," ' said Milo. 'Health facilitator. Do I look sick?'
'Other than stains on your shirt you look perfectly put-together.'
'Health facilitator,' he repeated. 'Sounds like something from the AIDS industry.' He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed in Paris Bartlett's number. Frowned again. 'No longer in service. What the hell...'
'Time to DMV the plates?' I said.
'DMVing is illegal when I'm on vacation. Using departmental resources for personal reasons, big no-no.'
'John G. would disapprove mightily.'
'Mightily.' He made the call to State Motor Vehicles, recited the plate, waited a while, wrote something down. 'The plates belong to a two-year-old Jeep, so that's kosher. Registered to the Playa del Sol Corporation. The address is right here in West Hollywood. I recognize it. Parking lot of the Healthy Foods market on Santa Monica. There's a post-office box outlet there. I know because I used to rent there myself.'
'When?'
'Long time ago.'
A safe. A POB. All the new things I was learning about my
friend.
'Dead number, shadow address,' I said. 'Playa del Sol could be nothing more than a cardboard box in someone's apartment, but it does have the ring of a real estate outfit.'
'As in the Cossacks.' He studied the card. 'That and the call about my vacation time. Right after we talk to Marlene Baldassar. Maybe she can't be trusted.'
Or maybe he hadn't covered his trail. I said, 'It could be just a pickup attempt.' But I knew that was wrong. Paris Bartlett had bounded out of his car with clear intention.
He slipped the card in his pocket. 'Alex, I grew up in a big family, never got much attention, never developed a taste for it. I need some alone time.'
I drove him back to his place, and he hurtled out of the Seville, mumbled something that might've been 'Thanks,' slammed the door, and loped toward his front door.
I made it to my own front door thirty-five minutes later, told myself I'd be able to walk right past the phone. But the red blinking 1 on the answering machine snagged me, and I stabbed the message button.
Robin's voice: 'Looks like I missed you again, Alex. There's another change in schedule, we're adding an extra day in Vancouver, maybe the same in Denver. It's crazy around here, I'll be in and out.' Two-second delay, then several decibels lower: 'I love you.'
Obligatory add-on? Unlike Pierce Schwinn, I didn't need drugs to prime the paranoia pump.
I phoned the Four Seasons Seattle again and asked for Ms Castagna's room. This time if they gave me voice mail, I'd leave a message.
But a man answered. Young, one of those laughing voices. Familiar.
Sheridan. He of the ponytail, the cheerful outlook, and the Milk-Bone for Spike.
'Robin? Oh, hi. Yeah, sure.'
Seconds later: 'This is Robin.'
'And this is Alex.'
'Oh... hi. Finally'
'Finally?'
'Finally we connect. Is everything okay?'
'Everything's peachy,' I said. 'Am I interrupting something?'
'What - oh, Sheridan? No, we were just finishing up a meeting. A bunch of us.'
'Busy busy.'
'I've got time now. So how are you? Busy yourself?'
This was too much like small talk, and it depressed me. 'Muddling along. How's Spike?'
'Thriving. There's a bunch of other dogs along for the ride, so there's a nice kennel space. Spike's getting pretty sociable. There's an eighty-pound shepherd bitch who seems to have caught his fancy.'
'Does the kennel space include a ladder for him to reach her?'
She laughed, but sounded tired. 'So...'
I said, 'So are you getting in any social time?'
'I'm working, Alex. We're putting in twelve-, thirteen-hour days.'
'Sounds tough. I miss you.'
'Miss you, too. We both knew this would be difficult.'
'Then we were both right.'
'Honey - hold on, Alex... someone just stuck their head in.' Her voice got muffled and distant; hand over the phone. 'I'll see what I can do, give me a little time on it, okay} When's sound-check? That soon? Okay, sure.' Back to me: 'As you can see I haven't had much solitude.'
'I've had plenty.'
'I'm jealous.'
'Are you?'
'Yes,' she said. 'We both like our solitude, right?'
'You can have yours back anytime.'
'I can't exactly walk out on everyone.'
'No,' I said. 'As Richard Nixon said, that would be wrong.'
'I mean I - if there was some easy - if that would really make you happy, I'd do it.'
'It would ruin your reputation.'
'It sure wouldn't help it.'
'You're committed,' I said. 'Don't worry about it.' Why the hell is Sheridan so happy?
'Alex, when I do get a minute to breathe, I think of you, wonder if I did the right thing. Then I plan all the things I'm going to tell you, but then when we finally talk... it doesn't seem to go the way I'd planned.'
'Absence makes the heart cranky?'
'Not my heart.'
'Guess it's me, then,' I said. 'Guess I don't do well with separation. Never got used to it.'
'Used to it?' she said. 'Your parents?'
My parents were the last thing I'd been thinking of. Now bad old memories ignited: the wasting away of the two people who'd brought me into this world, bedside vigils, a pair of funerals in as many years.
'Alex?'
'No,' I said. 'I was just talking generally.'
'You sound upset,' she
said. 'I didn't mean to-'
'You didn't do anything.'
'What did you mean by that? Never getting used to separation?'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 16 - The Murder Book Page 20