Bad Love

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “He's been pretty careful about keeping his nose clean so far.”

  “It doesn't have to be a major felony, Alex. Son of Sam got busted on a parking ticket. Lots of cases get solved that way, the stupid stuff.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I'll hit the library soon as it opens.”

  He picked up his cup and drank. “So what's Rosenblatt's motive for jumping supposed to have been?”

  “Guilt. Coming to grips with his secret criminal identity.”

  He scowled. “What, he's standing there, about to glom jewelry, and he suddenly gets a guilt flash? Sounds like horseshit to me.”

  “The family thought so, too, but the New York police seemed convinced. They told the widow if she pressed the issue, everyone's name would be dragged through the slime. A private investigator she hired told her the same thing, more tactfully.”

  I gave him names and he jotted them down.

  Looking into his coffee, he said, “You want, there's still some in the pot.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Robin said, “Another fall—just like the other two.”

  “Delmar Parker's run off the mountain,” I said. “That has to be the connection. The killer was traumatized in a major way and is trying to get even. We've got to find out more about the accident.”

  Milo said, “I still haven't had any luck locating Delmar's mother. And none of the Santa Barbara papers covered the crash.”

  “Out of all those Corrective School alumni,” I said, “someone's got to know.”

  “Still no files, anywhere. Sally and the gang pried up Katarina's floorboards. And we can't find any records, yet, of de Bosch applying for government funds.”

  Over the rim of his cup, his face was heavy and beat. He ran his hand over it.

  “It bothers me,” he said. “Rosenblatt—an experienced psychiatrist—meeting someone in a strange apartment like that.”

  “He was experienced, but he had a soft heart. The killer could have lured him there with a cry for help.”

  “That's not exactly standard operating shrink procedure, is it? Was Rosenblatt some kind of avant-garde guy, believed in on-the-scene treatment?”

  “His wife said he was an orthodox analyst.”

  “Those guys never leave the office, right? Need their couches and their little notebooks.”

  “True, but she also said he'd been very upset by something that had happened in a session recently. Disillusioned. It's a reasonable bet it had something to do with de Bosch. Something that shook him up enough to meet the killer out of the office. He could have believed he was going to the killer's home—the killer could have given him a good rationale for meeting there. Like a disability that kept him homebound— maybe even bedridden. The window Rosenblatt went out of was in a bedroom.”

  “Phony cripple,” he said, nodding. “Then Rosenblatt goes to the window and the bad guy jumps up, shoves him out . . . very cold. And the wife had no idea what disillusioned him enough to make a house call?”

  “She tried to find out. Broke her own rules and listened to his therapy tapes. But there was nothing out of the ordinary in them.”

  “This disillusioning thing definitely happened during a session?”

  “That's what he told her.”

  “So maybe the session where he died wasn't the first with the killer. So why wasn't the first session on tape?”

  “Maybe Rosenblatt didn't take his recorder with him. Or the patient requested no taping. Rosenblatt would have complied. Or maybe the session was recorded and the tape got destroyed.”

  “A stranger's bedroom—that has almost a sexual flavor to it, don't you think?”

  I nodded. “The ritual.”

  “Who owned the place?”

  “A couple named Rulerad. They said they'd never heard of Harvey Rosenblatt. Shirley said they were pretty hostile to her. Refused access to the private detective and threatened to sue her.”

  “Can't really blame them, can you? Come home and find out someone broke into your place and used it for a swan dive. Was Rosenblatt the type to be a soft touch for a sob story?”

  “Definitely. He probably got the same kind of call Bert Harrison did and responded to it. And died because of it.”

  Milo said, “So why did the killer keep his appointment with Rosenblatt but not with Harrison? Why, now that I'm thinking about it, was Harrison let off the hook completely? He worked for de Bosch, he spoke at that goddamn conference, too. So how come everyone else in that boat is sunk or sinking and he's on shore drinking piÑa coladas?”

  “I don't know.”

  “I mean, that's funny, don't you think, Alex? That break in the pattern—maybe I should learn a little more about Harrison.”

  “Maybe,” I said, feeling sick. “Wouldn't that be something. There I was, sitting across the table from him—trying to protect him . . . he treated Mitch Lerner. He knew where Katarina lived . . . hard to believe. He seemed like such a sweet guy.”

  “Any idea where he's gone?”

  I shook my head. “But he's not exactly unobtrusive with those purple clothes.”

  “Purple clothes?” said Robin.

  “He says it's the only color he can see.”

  “Another weird one,” said Milo. “What is it about your profession?”

  “Ask the killer,” I said. “He's got strong opinions on the subject.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  We spent the night at Milo's. After he left for work, I stayed and listened to the tape another dozen times.

  The chanting man sounded like an accountant tallying up a sum.

  That maddening hint of familiarity, but nothing jelled.

  We returned to Benedict Canyon, where Robin took the dog to the garage and I called in for messages. One from Jean Jeffers—No record of Mr. G—and a request to phone Judge Stephen Huff.

  I reached him in his chambers.

  “Hi, Alex. I assume you heard.”

  “Is there anything I should know other than what's been on the news?”

  “They're pretty positive who did it, but can't prove it yet. Two Mexican gang members—they're figuring some kind of drug war.”

  “That's probably it,” I said.

  “Well, that's one way to settle a case. Any word from the grandmother?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Better off—the kids, I mean. Away from all of this—don't you think?”

  “Depends on what environment they've been placed into.”

  “Oh, sure. Absolutely. Well, thanks for your help. Onward toward justice.”

  Several more tries at the tape, then I left for the Beverly Hills library.

  I scoured four- and five-year-old editions of New York dailies all morning, reading very slowly and carefully, but finding no record of any “East Side Burglar.”

  No great surprise: the 19th Precinct serviced a high-priced zip code, and its inhabitants probably despised getting their names anywhere in the paper other than the society pages. The people who owned the papers and broadcast the news probably lived in the 19th. The rest of the city would know exactly what they wanted it to.

  Lack of coverage still didn't mean Rosenblatt's killer had committed the earlier break-ins. Local residents might be aware of the burglaries, and a local could know who was on vacation and for how long. But the idea of a 19th Precinct resident owning burglary tools and robbing from his neighbors seemed less than likely. So Mr. Silk probably had burgled before. Ritualistically.

  The same attempt to use what was at hand, to master and dominate the victim.

  Bad love.

  Myra Evans Paprock.

  Rodney Shipler.

  Katarina.

  Only at those three scenes had the words been left behind.

  Three bloody, undisguised murders. No attempt made to present them as anything else.

  Stoumen, Lerner, and Rosenblatt, on the other hand, had been dispatched as phony accidents.

  Two classes of victims . . . two kinds of re
venge?

  Butchery for the laypeople, falls for the therapists.

  But Katarina had been a therapist . . .

  Then I realized that at the time of Mr. Silk's trauma—sometime before seventy-nine, probably closer to seventy-three, the year Delmar Parker had gone off the mountain—she hadn't yet graduated. In her early twenties, still a grad student.

  Two patterns . . . part of some elaborate rage-lust fantasy that a sane mind could never hope to understand?

  And where did Becky Basille fit in?

  Two killers . . .

  I remembered the clean, bustling street where Harvey Rosenblatt had landed: French restaurants, flower boxes, and limos.

  How long had it taken the poor man to realize what the swift, sharp shove at the small of his back meant?

  I hoped he hadn't. Hoped, against logic, that he'd felt nothing but the Icarus-pleasure of pure flight.

  A fall, always a fall.

  Delmar Parker. Had to be.

  Avenging an abused child?

  Surely if de Bosch had been abusive, someone would remember.

  Why hadn't anyone spoken out after all these years?

  But no big puzzle there: without proof, who would believe them? And why rake up the dirt around a dead man's grave if it meant stirring up one's own childhood demons?

  Still, someone had to know what happened to the boy in the stolen truck, and why it had set off a killer.

  I sat there for a long time, staring at tiny, microfilmed words.

  Corrective School alumni . . . how to get hold of them. Then I thought of one. Someone I'd never met, a name I'd never even learned.

  A problem child whose treatment had given Katarina the leash to put around my neck.

  I returned the microfilm spools and rushed to the pay phones in the library's lobby, trying to figure out who to call.

  Western Pediatric, the late seventies . . .

  The hospital had undergone a massive financial and professional overhaul during the past year. So many people gone.

  But one notable one had returned.

  Reuben Eagle had been chief resident when I'd started as a staff psychologist. He'd taken a professorship at the U's med school, a gifted teacher, specializing in medical education. The new Western Peds board had just wooed him back as general pediatrics division head. I'd just seen his picture in the hospital newsletter: the same tortoiseshell spectacles, the light brown hair thinner, grayer, the lean, ruddy outdoorsman's face adorned by a trimmed, graying beard.

  His secretary said he was out on the wards and I asked her to page him. He answered a few moments later, saying, “Rube Eagle,” in a soft, pleasant voice.

  “Rube, it's Alex Delaware.”

  “Alex—wow, this is a surprise.”

  “How're things going?”

  “Not bad, how about you?”

  “Hanging in. Listen, Rube, I need a small favor. I'm trying to locate one of Henry Bork's daughters and I was wondering if you had any idea how to reach her.”

  “Which daughter? Henry and Mo had a bunch—three or four, I think.”

  “The youngest. She had learning problems, was sent to a remedial school in Santa Barbara around seventy-six or seventy-seven. She'd be around twenty-eight or twenty-nine now.”

  “That would have to be Meredith,” he said. “Her I remember because one year Henry had the interns' party at his house and she was there—very good-looking, a real flirt. I thought she was older and ended up talking to her. Then someone warned me and I split fast.”

  “Warned you about her age?”

  “That and her problems. Supposedly a wild kid. I remember hearing something about institutionalization. Apparently she really put Henry and Mo through it—did you know he died?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Ben Wardley, too. And Milt Chenier . . . how come you're looking for Meredith?”

  “Long story, Rube. It has to do with the school she was sent to.”

  “What about it?”

  “Things may have happened there.”

  “Happened? Another mess?” He sounded more sad than surprised.

  “It's possible.”

  “Anything I should know about?”

  “Not unless you had something to do with the school—the Corrective School, founded by a psychologist named Andres de Bosch.”

  “Nope,” he said. “Well, I hope you clear it up. And as far as Meredith's concerned, I think she still lives in L.A. Something to do with the film business.”

  “Is her name still Bork?”

  “Hmm, don't know—if you'd like I can call Mo and find out. She's still pretty involved with the hospital—I can tell her I'm putting a mailing list together or something.”

  “I'd really appreciate that, Rube.”

  “Stay on the line, I'll see if I can get her.”

  I waited for fifteen minutes with the speaker to my mouth. Pretending to look busy each time someone came by to use the phone. Finally, Rube came back on the line.

  “Alex?”

  “Still here.”

  “Yes, Meredith's in L.A. She has her own public relations firm. I don't know if she ever married, but she still goes by Bork.”

  He gave me the address and phone number and I thanked him again.

  “Sure bet . . . another mess. Too bad. How'd you get involved, Alex? Through a patient?”

  “No,” I said. “Someone sent me a message.”

  Bork and Hoffman Public Relations, 8845 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 304.

  The eastern edge of Beverly Hills. A five-minute ride from the library.

  The receptionist said, “Ms. Bork is on another line.”

  “I'll hold.”

  “And what was the name again?”

  “Dr. Alex Delaware. I worked with her father at Western Pediatric Medical Center.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  A few minutes later: “Sir? Ms. Bork will be right with you.”

  Then, a smoky female voice: “Meredith Bork.”

  I introduced myself.

  She said, “I specialize in the entertainment industries, doctor—movies, theater. We do a few doctors when they write books. Have you written a book?”

  “No—”

  “Just want to beef up your practice, a little press exposure? Good idea in today's economy, but it's not our thing. Sorry. I'll be happy to give you the name of someone who does medical publicity, though—”

  “Thanks, but I'm not looking for a publicist.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ms. Bork, I'm sorry to bother you, but what I'm after is some information about Andres de Bosch and the Corrective School, in Santa Barbara.”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Bork?”

  “This is for real?”

  “Some suspicions have come up about mistreatment at the school. Things that happened during the early seventies. An accident involving a boy named Delmar Parker.”

  No answer.

  “May, nineteen seventy-three,” I said. “Delmar Parker went off a mountain road and died. Do you remember hearing anything about him? Or anything about mistreatment?”

  “This is too much,” she said. “Why the fuck is this any of your business?”

  “I work as a consultant to the police.”

  “The police are investigating the school?”

  “They're doing a preliminary investigation.”

  Harsh laughter. “You're putting me on.”

  “No.” I gave her Milo as a reference.

  She said, “Okay, so? What makes you think I even went to this school?”

  “I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center when your father was chief of staff and—”

  “Word got around. Oh, I'll just bet it did. Jesus.”

  “Ms. Bork, I'm really sorry—”

  “I'll just bet it did . . . the Corrective School.” Another angry laugh. “Finally.”

  Silence.

  “After all these years. What a trip . . . the Corrective School. For bad
little children in need of correction. Yeah, I was corrected, all right. I was corrected up the ying-yang.”

  “Were you mistreated?”

  “Mistreated?” Peals of laughter so loud I backed away from the receiver. “How delicately put, doctor. Are you a delicate man? One of those sensitive guys really tuned in to people's feelings?”

  “I try.”

  “Well, goody for you—I'm sorry, this is serious, isn't it. My problem—always was. Not taking things seriously. Not being mature. Being mature's a drag, isn't it, doc? I fucking refuse. That's why I work in entertainment. Nobody in entertainment's grown up. Why do you do what you do?”

  “Fame and fortune,” I said.

  She laughed, harder and louder. “Psychologists, psychiatrists, I've known a shitload of them . . . how do I know you're for real—hey, this isn't some gag, is it? Did Ron put you up to this?”

  “Who's Ron?”

  “Another sensitive guy.”

  “Don't know him.”

  “I'll bet.”

  “I'd be happy to show you credentials.”

  “Sure, slip them through the phone.”

  “Want me to fax them?”

  “Nah . . . what's the diff? So what do you really want?”

  “Just to talk to you a bit about the school.”

  “Good old school. School days, cruel days . . . hold on . . .” Click. Silence. Click. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Not far from your office.”

  “What, the pay phone downstairs, like in the movies?”

  “Mile away. I can be there in five minutes.”

  “How convenient. No, I don't want to bring my personal shit into the office. Meet me at Cafe Mocha in an hour, or forget it. Know where it is?”

  “No.”

  “Wilshire near Crescent Heights. Tacky little strip mall on the . . . southeast corner. Great coffee, people pretending to be artistes. I'll be in a booth near the back. If you're late, I won't wait around.”

  The restaurant was a narrow storefront blocked by blue gingham curtains. Pine tables and booths, half of them empty. Sacks of coffee stood on the floor near the entrance, listing like melting snowmen. A few desperate-looking types sat far from one another, poring over screenplays.