“Hello, Mr. Baker. Your table's ready.”
We were shown to a waterside table big enough for four but set for two. I could smell brine and boat fuel and someone's sautÉed lunch.
“Nonviolent,” I said. “Yet he chose police work.”
Baker unfolded a navy napkin and placed it on his lap. “Theoretically there shouldn't have been a conflict. The goal of the police officer is to reduce violence. But of course, that's not reality.”
Removing his glasses, he looked through them, blew off a speck of something, and put them back on. “The reality is that police work entails being constantly submerged in violence. Take a sensitive kid like Nolan and the result can be disillusionment.”
“Did he talk about being disillusioned?”
“Not in so many words, but he wasn't happy. Always kind of down.”
“Depressed?”
“Looking back, maybe, but he showed no clinical signs.” He stopped. “At least that I'd know, being a layman. What I mean is, his appetite seemed fine and he was always on the job, ready to go. He just never laughed or got happy. As if he'd been dipped in some kind of protective coating— emotional lacquer.”
“To avoid getting hurt?”
He shrugged. “I'm out of my element here. I'm as puzzled as everyone by what he did.”
A young waiter brought French bread and asked for our drink order.
“Vodka and tonic,” said Baker. “Doctor?”
“Iced tea.”
“I'm ready to order, too. The calamari salad's great if you go for seafood?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Two, then, and let's go with a nice white.” He looked up at the waiter. The young man's expression said his last audition hadn't gone well. “Do you still have that Bear Cave sauvignon blanc in stock?”
“The eighty-eight? I believe so.”
“If you do, bring us a bottle. If not, what's in the same league?”
“There's a good Blackridge sauvignon blanc.”
“Whatever's reasonable. The doctor here is paying.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter left and Baker sniffed his finger. “Ah, a fine nose. Pretensions of peach and old leaves and the faintest hint of 7Up.”
He broke off some bread and chewed slowly. “What Nolan did has been bothering the hell out of me on two levels. Most important, of course, the act itself. The waste. But also narcissistically. Why didn't I see it?”
“How long did you work with him?”
“Three months, day after day. He was the fastest learner I've ever seen. An interesting kid. Different from other rookies I'd had but nothing that led me to believe he was high-risk— how much do you know about police suicide?”
“I know it's on the rise.”
“Sure is. The rate's probably doubled in the last twenty years. And those are only the acknowledged ones. Throw in guys taking excessive risks, accidents that really aren't, other “undetermined deaths,' and you probably double the count again.”
“Accidents,” I said. “Suicide by work?”
“Sure,” he said. “Cops like doing it that way because it spares the family the shame. The same thing happens with the people cops deal with: Some profoundly depressed character gets drunk or dusted, stands in the middle of the street waving a gun, and when the patrol car arrives, instead of dropping it he points it at the windshield.”
He pulled an imaginary trigger. “We call that suicide by cop. Only difference is, the character's family hires a lawyer, sues the city for wrongful death, and collects. Depression and litigation make a great combination, Dr. Delaware.”
“Do cops litigate, too?” I said.
He took off his glasses and stared reflectively out at the harbor. “Live ones do, Doctor. Stress pensions, all that good stuff. Lately, the department's been clamping down. Why? Does the sister want to sue?”
Casual tone and he was looking at his bread plate.
“Not that I know,” I said. “She's just looking for answers, not blame.”
“In the end, it's the suicide who's to blame, isn't it? No one else put that gun in Nolan's mouth. No one else pulled the trigger. Were there signs beyond his not being the life of the party? Not that I saw. He took things seriously, took his work seriously. I saw that as positive. He was no slacker.”
Our drinks arrived. As Baker tasted his, I said, “Besides being a fast learner, how was Nolan different from the other rookies?”
“His seriousness. His intelligence. We're talking major bright, Doctor. We'd go on Code 7s— breaks— and he'd whip out a book, start reading.”
“What kinds of books?”
“The penal code, politics. Newspapers and magazines, too. He always brought something. Not that I minded. I'd rather read a good book any day than talk about the usual cop stuff.”
“What's that?”
“Harleys, Corvettes, guns and ammo.”
“He had a sports car. Little red Fiero.”
“Did he? Never mentioned it. Exactly the point. When we were out cruising, he concentrated on work. When we broke, he didn't make small talk. Intense. I liked that.”
“Did you choose to train Nolan because he was smart?”
“No. He chose me. When he was still at the academy I was over there to give a lecture on rules of arrest. Afterward he came up to me and asked if I'd be his T.O. when he graduated. Said he was a quick learner, we'd get along fine.”
Baker smiled, shook his head, and spread thick, bronze hands on the tablecloth. The sun was beating down. I could feel the heat on the back of my neck.
“Pretty damn audacious. I figured what he was really after was a West L.A. placement. But I was intrigued, so I told him to come to the station after shift and we'd talk.”
He rubbed the tip of his nose. “The very next day he showed up, on the dot. Not pushy at all. Just the opposite— deferential. I asked him what he'd heard about me, he said I had a reputation.”
“For being intellectual?” I said.
“For being a T.O. who'd show him the way things really were.”
He shrugged. “He was smart but I didn't know how he'd do on the street. I figured it would be interesting, so I said I'd see what I could work out. In the end, I decided to take him, because he seemed the best of the lot.”
“Bad class?”
“The usual,” he said. “The academy's not Harvard. Affirmative action has made things more . . . variable. Nolan did well. His size helped— people tended not to mess with him and he never bullied anyone or lorded it over the characters. By the book.”
“Did he ever talk politics?”
“No. Why?”
“Just trying to get as full a picture as possible.”
“Well,” he said, “if I had to guess, I'd say his politics were conservative, simply because you don't find too many flaming liberals in the department. Was he waving any Klan flags? No.”
I'd asked about politics, not racism. “So he got along well with the people you policed.”
“As well as anyone.”
“What about other policemen? Did he socialize much?”
“A couple of times he and I had dinner. Other than that, I don't think so. He stuck to himself.”
“Would you say he was alienated from the other rookies?”
“Can't answer that. He seemed comfortable with his own lifestyle.”
“Did he ever tell you what led him to become a cop?”
He put the glasses back on. “Before I took him on I asked him that and he said he wouldn't spin me some yarn about helping people or being a New Centurion, he just thought it might be interesting. I liked that, an honest answer, and we never discussed it again. In general, he was a closemouthed kid. All work, eager to learn the ropes. My policing style is to make lots of arrests, so most of the time we were pursuing calls aggressively. But no John Wayne stuff. I stay within bounds and so did Nolan.”
He looked away. The fingers remained on the table but their tips had whitened. Sensitive topic?
“So there were no egregious problems on the job.”
“None.”
“Any alcohol or drug abuse?”
“He was health-oriented. Worked out after-hours at the station gym, jogged before shift.”
“But a loner,” I said.
He looked up at the sky. “He seemed content.”
“Any women in his life?”
“Wouldn't surprise me, he was a good-looking kid.”
“But no one he mentioned.”
“Nope. That wasn't Nolan's style— look, Doctor, you need to understand that the police world's a subculture that doesn't tolerate weakness. You need real symptoms to justify seeking help. My job was to teach him to be a cop. He learned fine and functioned fine.”
The waiter brought our lunch and the wine. Baker went through the tasting ritual, said, “Pour,” and our glasses were filled. When we were alone again, he said, “I don't know that we should toast to anything, so how about a generic “cheers.' ”
We both drank and he waited for me to begin eating before approaching the calamari, sawing each squid in half and studying the forked morsel before popping it into his mouth. Wiping his lips with the napkin every third or fourth bite, he sipped his wine very slowly.
“Someone sent him to therapy,” I said. “Or maybe he sent himself.”
“When was he in therapy?”
“I don't know. The therapist is reluctant to discuss details.”
“One of the department psychologists?”
“A private one. Dr. Roone Lehmann.”
“Don't know him.” He looked away again. Ostensibly at some gulls diving the harbor, but he'd stopped chewing and his big eyes were narrow.
“Therapy. I never knew that.” His jaws began working again.
“Any idea why he transferred from West L.A. to Hollywood?”
He put his fork down. “By the time he transferred, I'd moved to headquarters. An administrative carrot they'd been dangling in front of me for a while: revising the training curriculum. I have no great love for paperwork but you can't keep saying no to the brass.”
“So you didn't know about his transfer?”
“That's right.”
“After the training period you and Nolan lost contact.”
He looked at me. “It wasn't a matter of losing contact— breaking off some major father-son relationship. The training period's time-limited. Nolan learned what he needed to learn and went out into the big bad world. I found out about the suicide the day after it happened. Police grapevine. My first reaction was to want to wallop the crap out of the kid— how could someone that smart be so stupid?”
He speared a calamari. “The sister. What does she do?”
“She's a nurse. Did Nolan ever talk about her?”
“Never mentioned her. The only thing he said about his family was that both his parents were dead.”
He pushed his plate away. Half the calamari were gone.
“What do you think about the way he did it?” I said. “So publically.”
“Pretty bizarre,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Could he have been making a statement?”
“Such as?”
I shrugged. “Had Nolan shown any exhibitionistic tendencies?”
“Showing off? Not in the course of duty. Oh, he was into his body— getting buffed, tailoring the uniform, but lots of young cops are that way. I still don't know what you mean by a statement.”
“You mentioned before that cops always tried to minimize the shame of suicide. But Nolan did just the opposite. Made a spectacle of himself. Almost a public self-execution.”
He said nothing for a long time. Lifted his wineglass, drained it, refilled, and sipped.
“You're suggesting he punished himself for something?”
“Just theorizing,” I said. “But you're not aware of anything he might have felt guilty about.”
“Not something on the job. Did his sister tell you anything along those lines?”
I shook my head.
“Nope,” he said. “That just doesn't make sense.”
The waiter approached.
“I'm finished,” said Baker.
I seconded the motion, declined dessert, and handed over my credit card. Baker took out a big cigar and wet the tip.
“Mind?”
“No.”
“Against restaurant rules,” he said. “But they know me here and I sit where the wind carries it away.”
He inspected the tight brown cylinder. Hand-rolled. Biting off the tip, he placed it in his napkin and folded the linen over the scrap. Taking out a gold lighter, he ignited the cigar and puffed. Bitter but not unpleasant smoke filled the space between us before dissolving.
Baker eyed the boats in the marina and sat back, catching sun.
Puff, puff. I thought of how he'd likely stuffed Milo's locker full of porn.
“Supreme waste,” he said. “It still bothers me.”
But sitting there, smoking and drinking wine, cleanly shaved face buttered by sun, he looked the picture of happiness.
20
I left him on the terrace with his cigar and the rest of the wine. Just before I stepped onto the pathway that led back to the hotel parking lot, I stopped and watched him smile as he said something to the maitre d'.
Man at leisure. No clue he'd been talking about the death of a colleague.
Would it have bothered me had Milo not warned me about him?
For all his open manner, he'd told me less than Dr. Lehmann: Nolan had been an isolated, smarter-than-usual cop who played it by the book.
None of the serious problems Lehmann had alluded to. On the other hand, Baker had been Nolan's training officer, not his therapist.
Still, it was my second face-to-face meeting for no apparent reason.
People scurrying to protect themselves in the event of a lawsuit?
Over what?
Helena still hadn't called. Maybe she'd decided that only Nolan would understand what Nolan had done. If she dropped out of therapy, it was out of my hands, and on some level that didn't bother me. Because Lehmann was right: Real answers were often unobtainable.
Once home, I tormented myself with a faster-than-usual run up the glen, showered and changed, and set out for Beverlywood at four-fifteen, reaching the Carmeli home with ten minutes to spare for the five o'clock meeting.
The house was a neatly kept single-story ranch on a block full of them. A negligible lawn sloped up to a used brick driveway. Parked on top were a blue Plymouth minivan and a black Accord, both with consulate plates. The curbs were empty save for two Volvo station wagons and a Suburban parked down the block and an electrical-company van across the street. Other driveways hosted more vans and wagons, lots of infant seats. Utility and fertility.
Tucked east of the Hillcrest Country Club and south of Pico, Beverlywood had been developed in the fifties as a starter community for the families of junior executives on their way to senior partnerships and manses in Brentwood and Hancock Park and Beverly Hills, and some people still called it Baja Beverly Hills. L.A. had essentially abandoned street maintenance, but Beverlywood looked manicured because of a homeowners' society that set standards and kept the trees trimmed. A private security company patrolled nightly. The land boom of the seventies had raised housing prices to the half-million mark and the downslide had kept them at a level where striving families found themselves at the top of their dream, nesting here permanently.
Milo pulled behind me two minutes later. He had on a bottle-green blazer, tan slacks, white shirt, and yellow-and-olive tartan tie. Green giant, but not jolly.
“Finally managed to locate six more creeps from the initial M.O. files, all moved to Riverside and San Berdoo. None check out time-wise, and their P.O.'s and/or therapists vouch for them. Nothing on DVLL, either, so I'm ready to chuck that one into the garbage file.”
At the house, Zev Carmeli answered Milo's knock, wearing a dark suit and a grim expression.
&nbs
p; “Come in, please.”
There was no entry hall and we stepped right into a low, narrow, off-white living room. The deep green carpeting was amazingly similar in hue to Milo's jacket and for a second he looked like a fixture. The tan couches and glass tables could have been rented. The beige drapes drawn over the windows were filmy but most of the light came from two ceramic table lamps.
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