"Makes sense. Where's the therapist's office?"
"Brentwood. San Vicente near Barrington." I gave her the address and the time of the appointment.
"Perfect. I live in Santa Monica. I'll be leaving the office around six-thirty. I'll take her there myself. Until then, we'll babysit her." A moment's hesitation. "This person you're referring to is good?"
"The best. I've seen her myself."
That bit of self-disclosure had reassured Carmen but it irritated her doctor.
"California honesty," she said. Then: "Jesus, I'm sorry. You've really been nice, coming here on no notice—it's just that I've become a total cynic. I know it's not healthy. I've got to get myself to where I can trust people again."
"It's tough," I said, thinking of my own crumbling sense of trust.
She fiddled with an earring. "Listen, I really do want to thank you for coming down here. Tell me what your fee is and I'll write a check right now."
"Forget it," I said.
"No, I insist. I like to pay as I go."
"No way, Leslie. I never expected to get paid."
"You're sure? I just want you to know I'm not into exploitation."
"I never suspected you were."
She looked uncomfortable. Removed her stethoscope and passed it from hand to hand.
"I know the first time you were here I sounded pretty mercenary, just out for myself. All I can say is, that's really not me. I did want to call those patients, kept batting it back and forth in my mind. I don't blame myself for Rasmussen's death—he was a time bomb. It was only a matter of when. But it has made me realize I have to take responsibility, start acting like a physician. When I left you with Carmen, I went to the phone and started calling. I got through to a couple of the women. They sounded okay, said their men are okay, too, which I hope is true. Actually, it went better than I thought—they were less hostile than the first time. Maybe I got through, I don't know. But at least I made contact. I'll try until I reach all of them, let the darned chips fall where they may."
"For what it's worth, you're doing the right thing."
"It's worth plenty," she said, with sudden intensity. Then she looked embarrassed and glanced at the door of one of the examining rooms. "Well, I've got to be going, trv to hang on to the patients I have. Thanks again."
Hesitation.
She stood on tiptoes, kissed me on the cheek. Caught by surprise, I moved my head and our lips brushed.
"That was stupid," she said.
Before I could tell her it hadn't been, she went in to see her next patient.
IT WAS close to five by the time I reached the University. The psych building was emptying and only one secretary remained in the department office. I headed straight for the faculty roster and thumbed through it without her commenting. Maybe it was the corduroy jacket. Kruse was already listed in the directory as chairman; his office number was 4302. I took a note of his home address— same place in Pacific Palisades.
I ran up the four flights, aware, suddenly, that my energy had returned; for the first time in a long while I felt imbued with purpose, righteous with anger.
Nothing like an enemy to cleanse one's soul.
His office was at the end of a long white hall. Carved mahogany double doors had replaced the usual departmental plywood. The floor in front of the doorway was tarped with sawdust-coated canvas. From inside came the sound of sawing and banging.
The doors were unlocked. I walked into an outer office and found workmen laying parquet tile and hammering
in mahogany molding, others on ladders painting the walls a rich, glossy burgundy. Brass wall sconces instead of overhead fluorescence, a leather armchair still wrapped in plastic. The air smelled of scorched wood and glue and paint. A transistor radio on the floor blared out country music.
One of the workmen saw me, turned off his skill-saw, and climbed down from his footstool. He was in his late twenties, medium-sized but burly, with enormous shoulders. A bandanna flowed out of the rear pocket of his filthy jeans and he wore a bent-visored baseball cap over black curly hair. His black beard was whitened by dust, as were his hairy Popeye arms. His utility belt was crammed with tools and rode low on narrow hips, clanking, as he swaggered over.
"Professor Kruse?" he said in a high, boyish voice.
"No, I'm looking for him."
"Damn, aren't we all. You know where he can be reached, tell him to get over here, pronto. Some fixtures came in that don't match the specs. I don't know if they changed their mind again or what, but we can't go much further till someone clears it up, and the boss is out of the office, scoping another job."
I said, "When's the last time you saw him?"
He pulled out the bandanna and wiped his face.
"Last week, when we were laying out the plans, doing the rough work and the bathroom. We didn't come back till yesterday, 'cause the materials weren't in. Everyone was getting bent out of shape 'cause this was supposed to be a rush job. Now there're other problems. They keep changing their minds about what they want."
"Who's they?"
"Kruse and his wife. She was supposed to meet us an hour ago and go over everything, but she never showed. They're not answering their phone, either. The boss comes back from Palm Springs he's gonna be steamed, but I don't know what the hell we're supposed to do without the client showing up."
"You don't work for the University?"
"Us? Hell, no. Chalmers Interiors, Pasadena. This is a custom job—retile the bathroom, coffered ceiling in the big office, lots of wood, antique furniture, Persian rugs, fake fireplace with a marble mantle." He rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. "Big money."
"Who's paying?"
"They are—the Kruses. Cost plus, by the hour. You'd think they'd show up."
"You'd think."
He stuffed the bandanna back in his pocket. "Easy come, easy go, huh? Didn't know professors did so good. You one, too?"
"Yes, but not here. Crosstown."
"Better football team crosstown," he said. He removed his hat and scratched his head, gave a broad smile. "You here spying for the other side?"
I smiled back. "Just looking for Dr. Kruse."
"Well, if you see him, tell him to get in touch, or tomorrow we'll be somewhere else. Only got a half-day's work for a two-man crew. Boss won't want to commit."
"I'll do that, Mr...."
"Rodriguez. Gil Rodriguez." He picked up a piece of scrap wood from the floor and used a stubby pencil to scratch his name and number on it. "I freelance, too—dry wall, painting, plastering. Can fix anything that don't have a computer in it. And if you get any football tickets you want to sell, I'll be happy to take them off your hands."
Traffic on Sunset was thick. The Stone Canyon entry to Bel Air was barricaded by roadwork, making things even worse, and the sun was sinking over the Palisades when I got to Kruse's house. Same time of day as the first time I'd been there, but no teal sky; this one was baby-blue innocence melting to sea clouds.
After what Rodriguez had told me, I'd expected an empty driveway. But three cars were parked in front of the house: the customized white Mercedes with the PPK PHD plates I'd seen at the party, a restored blue Jaguar E-type with SSK plates, and an old Toyota the colour of split-pea soup. I walked past them, knocked on the front door,
waited, knocked again, louder, then used the bell.
I could hear the chimes; anyone inside had to hear them too. But no one answered. Then I looked down and noticed the pile of mail on the front steps, wet and warped. Saw the wrought-iron mail slot stuffed with magazines and correspondence.
I rang again, looked around. To one side was the semi-enclosed courtyard, planted with perennials and climbing bougainvillea. It ended in a round-topped gate of weathered wooden planks.
I went to the gate, pushed it. It opened. I stepped through and walked toward the back of the property, along the south side of the house, passed under a wooden arbor, and found myself in a large backyard—gentle roll of lawn, bord
ers of tall trees, freeform flower beds, rock pool with spa, backed by a waterfall that fell in a glassy sheet.
I heard a click. The yard was bathed in soft, colorful light and the pool glowed sapphire. Timers.
No light shone from inside the house, but a rose-colored bulb wire to a birch tree highlighted a patio with a shade-cloth awning and a floor of Mexican tile. Several groupings of stylish teak furniture. Suntan lotion on a table, crumpled bath towels on some of the chairs, looking as if they'd been there for a while. I sniffed mildew. Then something stronger. A swim interrupted...
One of the French doors was open. Wide enough for the stench to stream out. Wide enough to enter.
I put my handkerchief over my nose and mouth, stuck my head in far enough to see a rose-colored nightmare. Using the handkerchief, I fumbled for a light switch, found one.
Two bodies, sprawled across a desert of Berber carpet, barely recognizable as human but for the clothing that covered what remained of their torsos.
I gagged, looked away, saw high, beamed ceilings, overstuffed furniture. Tasteful. Good decorator.
Then back down again to the horror...
I stared at the carpet. Tried to lose myself in the damn
thing. Good weave. Immaculate. Except for the blackening stains...
One of the bodies wore a pink-flowered maillot bathing suit. The other, a once-white pair of Speedo shorts and a peacock-blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with red orchids.
The bright cloth stood out against glutinous, brownish green flesh. Faces replaced by lumps of oily, cratered meat. Meat thatched with hair—blond hair. On both. The hair on the bikinied corpse lighter, much longer. Tipped with brown crust.
I gagged again, pressed the handkerchief over my mouth and nose, held my breath, felt myself strangling, and backed away from the corpses.
Outside again, back onto the patio.
But even as I backed away my eye was drawn through the French doors, to the end of the room, up a flight of tiled stairs.
Real staircase. Curving iron banister.
On the top stair another decaying heap.
Pink housedress. What looked like dark hair. More putrefaction, more black stain, oozing down the steps like some malignant Slinky toy.
I turned and ran, past the pool, across springy grass to a bed of night-lit flowers, all unearthly blues and mauves. Bent low and smelled their perfume.
Sweet. Too sweet. My gut churned. I tried to vomit but couldn't.
I ran along the side of the house, back to the courtyard, across the front lawn.
Empty road, silent road. All that horror, but no one to share it with.
I got back in the Seville, sat in the car smelling death. Tasting it.
Finally, though the stink remained with me, I felt able to drive and headed south down Mandeville, then east on Sunset. Wanting a time machine, anything that could turn back the clock.
Turn it way back...
But willing to settle for a strong cigar, a telephone, and a friendly voice.
I FOUND a pharmacy and a phone booth in Brentwood. Milo picked up on the first ring, listened to what I had to say, and said, "I knew there was a reason I came home
early."
Twenty minutes later he came driving up to Mandeville and Sunset and followed me back to the murder house.
"Stay right there," he said, and I waited in the Seville, drawing on a cheap panatella, while he went around to the back. A while later he reappeared, wiping his forehead. He got into the passenger seat, took a cigar out of my shirt pocket, and lit up.
He blew a few smoke rings, then began taking my statement, coolly professional. After leading me through my discovery of the bodies, he put down his pad and asked, "Why'd you come up here, Alex?"
I told him about the porn loops, D.J. Rasmussen's fatal accident, the resurfacing of Leland Belding's name.
"Kruse's hand runs through most of it."
"Not much hand left," he said. "Bodies been there for a while." He put the note pad away. "Any working guesses about whodunit?"
"Rasmussen was an explosive type," I said. "Killed his father. For the last few days he'd been talking about being a sinner, doing something terrible. This could have been it."
"Why would he snuff Kruse?"
"I don't know. Maybe he blamed Kruse for Sharon's death—he was pathologically attached to her, sexually involved."
Milo thought for a while. "What'd you touch in there?"
"The light switch—but I used a handkerchief."
"What else?"
"The gate... I think that's it."
"Think harder."
"That's all 1 can think of."
"Let's retrace your steps."
When we were through, he said, "Go home, Alex."
"That's it?"
Glance at his Timex. "Crime scene boys should be here any minute. Go on. Disappear before the party begins."
"Milo—"
"Go on, Alex. Let me do the damned job."
I drove away, still tasting decay through the bite of tobacco.
Everything Sharon had touched was turning to death.
Even the mind-prober, I found myself wondering what had made her that way. What kind of early trauma. Then something hit me: the way she'd acted that terrible night I'd found her with the twin photo. Thrashing, screaming, collapsing, and ending up in a fetal curl. So similar to Darren Burkhalter's behavior in my office. The reactions to the horror in his life that I'd captured on videotape, then played for a roomful of attorneys without noticing the connections.
Early childhood trauma.
Long ago, she'd explained it to me. Followed it up with
a display of tender, loving kindness. Looking back, a well-staged display. Another act?
It was the summer of '81, a hotel in Newport Beach, swarming with psychologist conventioneers. A cocktail lounge overlooking the harbor—tinted picture windows, red-flocked walls, chairs on rollers. Dark and empty and smelling of last night's party.
I'd sat at the bar gazing out at the water, watching dagger-sharp yachts etch the surface of a blown-glass marina. Nursing a beer and eating a dry club sandwich while lending half an ear to the bartender's gripes.
He was a short, potbellied Hispanic with quick hands and a coppery Indian face. I watched him clean glasses like a machine.
"Worse I've ever seen, without a doubt, yessir. Now, your salesmen—insurance, computers, whatever—your salesmen are serious drinkers. Your pilots too."
"Comforting thought," I said.
"Yeah, your salesmen and your pilots. But you psycho guys? Forget it. Even the teachers we had last winter were better and they weren't any great shakes. Look at this place. Dead."
Twisting open a bottle of baby onions, he drained the juice and poured the pearly balls into a tray. "How many of you guys at this shebang, anyway?"
"Few thousand."
"Few thousand." He shook his head. "Look at this place. What is it, you all too busy analyzing other people, not allowed to have fun?"
"Maybe," I said, reflecting on how dull the convention had been. But conventions always were. The only reason I'd attended this one was because I'd been asked to deliver a paper on childhood stress.
The paper having now been read, the inevitable picayune questions fielded, I was grabbing a bit of solitude before heading back to L.A. and a night shift on the adolescent ward.
"Maybe you guys should study yourselves, pal. Analyze why you don't like to have fun."
"Good idea." I put some money down on the bar and said, "Have one on me."
He stared at the bills. "Sure, thanks." Lighting a cigarette, he poured himself a beer and leaned forward.
"Anyway, I'm for live and let live. Someone don't want to have fun, okay. But at least come in and order something, know what I mean? Hell, don't drink it—analyze it. But order and leave a tip. Leave something for the working man."
"To the working man," I said and raised my glass. I put it down empty.
"Refil
l, Doc? On the house."
"I'll take a Coke."
"Figures. One rum and Coke coming up, hold the rum, hold the fun."
He put the drink on the bar and was about to say something else when the door to the lounge opened and let in lobby noise. His eyes shifted to the back of the room and he said, "My, my."
I looked over my shoulder and saw a woman in white. Long-legged, shapely, a cloud of black hair. Standing near the cigarette machine, head moving from side to side, as if scouting foreign territory.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 04 - Silent Partner Page 21