Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

She edged closer to me. "Everyone talks about getting closure, moving on. But where do I go to, Dr. Delaware?"

  "That's what we need to find out. That's why I'm here."

  "Yes. You are." She surged forward, threw her arms around me. Her hands dug into my coat. Curly, shampooed hair— too-sweet shampoo, heavy with apricots— tickled my nose.

  Someone watching from a distance would have thought, Romance on the beach.

  The professional thing would be to pull away. I compromised, avoiding a full embrace by keeping one arm at my side. Patting her back lightly with the other.

  What used to be called therapeutic touch, before the lawyers got involved.

  I held her for the shortest possible period, then gently drew away.

  She smiled. We resumed walking. Walked in step. I kept enough distance between us to avoid the accidental graze of hand against hand.

  "College," she said, laughing. "That's what we were supposed to be talking about this morning."

  "College isn't all of your future, but it's part of it," I said. "Part of where to go."

  "A small part. So no big deal, I'll make Dad happy, apply to Stanford. If I get in, I'll go. Why not? One place is the same as another. I'm not some spoiled brat. I know I'm lucky my dad can afford a place like that. But there are other things we need to talk about, right? If you trust me not to flake out, I can come in tomorrow— if you've got time."

  "I've got time. How about after school— five P.M."

  "Yes," she said. "Thank you so, so much. . . . I'd better get back home, see if Dad called, maybe he found Eric— he'll probably just blow into the dorm and scream at my father for flying up."

  We turned around.

  Back at the Mustang, she said, "And I meant what I said— please don't stop working with the cops. Take care of yourself."

  Nice kid.

  I watched her drive away, eased onto PCH feeling pretty good.

  16

  WHEN I GOT home, Robin was in the kitchen stirring a pot— one of those big blue things flecked with white. Spike was off in a corner, making rapturous overtures to a delicious-looking bone.

  "You look tired," she said.

  "Bad traffic." I kissed her cheek and looked inside the pot. Chunks of lamb, carrots, prunes, onions. My nose filled with cumin and cinnamon and heat, and my eyes watered.

  "Something new," she said. "A tajine. Got the recipe from the guy who sells me maple."

  I dipped the spoon, blew, tasted. "Fantastic, thank you, thank you, thank you."

  "Hungry?"

  "Starving."

  "No sleep, no food." She sighed. "Bad traffic, where?"

  I told her about having to meet a patient at the beach.

  "Emergency?"

  "Potentially, but it resolved." I placed my arms under her rear, lifted her, deposited her on the counter.

  "What is this?" she said. "Passion amid the pots and pans, one of those male-fantasy things?"

  "Maybe later. If you behave yourself." I went to the fridge, found some leftover white wine, sniffed the bottle, poured two glasses. "First we celebrate."

  "What's the occasion?"

  "No occasion," I said. "That's the point."

  • • •

  The rest of the evening passed quietly. No calls from Milo or anyone else. I tried to imagine what life would be like without a phone. We ate too much lamb, drank enough wine to get silly. The idea of making love seemed remote, more of a scripted segment than passion; both of us seemed content just to be.

  So we just sat on the couch, holding hands, not moving, not talking. Would it be like this when we grew old? That prospect seemed suddenly glorious.

  Eventually, something changed in the air, and we began touching each other, stroking, kissing, risking exploration. Eventually, we were naked, intertwined, moving from the couch to the floor, enduring chafed knees and elbows, strained muscles, ridiculous postures.

  We ended up in bed. Afterward, Robin showered off, then announced she was going to do a bit of carving, did I mind?

  After she left for the studio, I slouched in my big leather chair reading journals, Hawaiian slack-key guitar music droning in the background. For a while I did a pretty good job of forgetting. Then I was thinking about Stacy again. Eric. Richard. The deterioration of Joanne Doss.

  I considered calling Judy Manitow, tomorrow, to find out if she'd come up with any new insights since the original referral. Bad idea. Stacy might find that intrusive. And Stacy had told me enough for me to see that the Dosses and the Manitows had been entangled beyond mere neighborliness. Joanne tutoring Becky, Eric dumping Allison, Becky and Stacy drifting apart.

  Bob regarding Richard and Joanne's displays of affection with distaste.

  Judy and Bob, dealing with Becky's problems. Yet they'd cared enough about Stacy to pressure Richard to contact me.

  Me, not Becky's therapist, because they'd been guarding their privacy— keeping Stacy's issues at arm's length from Becky's? Or had it been Becky's choice— Stacy had just told me Becky had distanced herself, barely spoke to her. Whatever the details, it was best to avoid further complications.

  I got up and poured a finger of Chivas. Added to the wine, that put me way past my usual alcohol consumption. Some Hawaiian virtuoso let forth a glissando in C-wahine tuning and I thought about palm trees.

  I finished the scotch and had another.

  • • •

  On Wednesday morning, I woke up with a well-deserved headache, an agreeably moldy tongue, sandpaper eyes. Robin was already out in back. I couldn't smell the coffee she'd put on.

  I took a one-minute shower and got dressed without falling over, looked for the morning paper. Robin had been so eager to work that she hadn't taken it in. I went outside and retrieved it.

  The front page screamed at me.

  The Mysterious Portrait of Dr. Death

  Sudden Appearance of Painting Raises New Questions About Eldon Mate's Murder

  SANTA MONICA. When Grant Kugler, owner of the Primal Images art gallery on Colorado Avenue, showed up last night to unpack an installation, he found a surprise donation propped against the rear door. A package, wrapped in brown paper, containing an original, unsigned oil painting described as a copy of Rembrandt's "The Anatomy Lesson." Only this version deviated from the original in that it depicted murdered "death doctor" Eldon Mate in a double role, as dissector and cadaver.

  "Not the work of a master," opined Kugler. "I'd rate it competent. Why it ended up at my door, I can't say. I'm not one for representational art, though I can be amused by social commentary."

  The article went on to quote "police sources who spoke on condition of not being named," and attested to "intriguing similarities between the painting and details of the Eldon Mate crime scene, raising questions about the identity of the artist and the motivations for abandoning the portrait. The picture has been taken into custody."

  That conjured images of burly men trying to figure out a way of handcuffing the frame. I wondered how long it would take Milo to get in touch. I'd finished half a cup of coffee when the phone screeched.

  "I assume you read," he said.

  "Sounds like Zero Tollrance is in town."

  "Tried to do some follow-up on that Colorado article you gave me. No one knows Tollrance, there was no lease on the building he used for his show because he was squatting in it, one of those big industrial shells full of lowlifes. I don't know if Tollrance was even living there. Denver PD never heard of him, and the critic who wrote up the show doesn't remember much other than Tollrance looked like a bum and didn't answer his questions— didn't talk at all, just pointed to his canvases and stomped away. He figured him for a nut. That's why he called it 'outsider art.' "

  "A bum."

  "Long hair and a beard. Mr. Critic said he had some 'primitive talent.' Said the same thing the gallery owner did— representation's not his thing. Which I guess means in the art world, if you know how to draw, you suck."

  "So why'd he go to Tollrance's
show?"

  "Cuuuuurious. Intriiiiigued. Couldn't even get out of him how he found out about the show. Maybe Tollrance faxed him an announcement, maybe not. He said there hadn't been much of a crowd, no one buying. He never heard from Tollrance again, has no idea what happened to the paintings."

  "Well, we know where one is," I said. "A bearded bum could be the same guy Mrs. Krohnfeld chased away. Could be Donny Salcido Mate."

  "It crossed my mind," he said.

  "Any idea where Donny was at the time of the show?"

  "No, but it wasn't prison. He didn't get busted till four months later."

  "His mother said by then he was living on the street," I said. "He could've drifted east, ended up in Colorado, found himself a vacant building to pursue his art. Funny, his mother never mentioned any talent. Then again, she didn't want to talk about him at all."

  "I called her at the motel. She checked out yesterday. You're thinking Donny painted Daddy getting sliced up, then maybe decided to act it out?"

  "The paintings could've been yet another attempt to establish a bond with Daddy. Selling himself. Maybe he tried to show off to Mate and got rebuffed again."

  "Why deliver the painting to the gallery?"

  "He's an artist. He wants recognition. And look at the painting he delivered. All the others were straight portraits of Mate. The Anatomy Lesson put Mate on the dissecting table."

  "Look what I did to Daddy. Showing off."

  "Just like the note. And the broken stethoscope."

  "On the other hand," he said, "Tollrance could just be another starving artist, and this is a pure publicity stunt— taking advantage of Mate's murder to breathe some life into a dead career. If so, it worked— here he is on the front page, making my life difficult. If he shows up tomorrow on TV with an agent and a publicist, scratch the whole psychological scenario."

  "Maybe," I said. "This is L.A. But if he doesn't surface, that says something, too."

  Three beats of silence. "Meanwhile, the painting's resting comfortably in our evidence room. Care to see it?"

  "Sure," I said. "Representation is my thing."

  17

  "NOT HALF BAD, but no Rembrandt," I said.

  Milo ran his finger along the top of the canvas. We were in the Robbery-Homicide room, second story at West L.A. Half a dozen detectives hunched at their desks, a few sidelong stares as Milo propped the painting on his chair.

  Zero Tollrance's masterpiece was all browns and blacks and muted light, just the merest wash of pink where the left arm of the man on the dissecting table had been reduced to tendons and ligaments.

  Cadaver with the fussy, soft face of Eldon Mate. Even Tollrance's middling talent made that clear. Seven men, extravagantly robed and ruffed and goateed, surrounded the dissecting table, gazing down at the corpse with academic detachment. The dissector— another Mate— was clad in a black robe, white lace collar, tall black hat, probing the shredded arm with a scalpel, wearing a look of boredom.

  In the original, the artist's genius had distracted from the cruelty of the scene. Tollrance's cartoon drove it home. Angry swirling brushstrokes, pigments laid on thickly to the point of impasto, sharp peaks of paint stabbing up from the surface of the canvas.

  A smallish canvas— twenty-four by eighteen inches. I'd expected something far more grand.

  Reducing Mate to size?

  Milo lifted a stack of message slips, let them fall to the desk in disarray. "Kugler, the art dealer, has been bugging me all day. All of a sudden, he likes realism."

  "Probably got an offer," I said. "Same guy who'll pay big bucks for a stained blue dress."

  Phones rang, keys clicked, someone laughed. The room smelled of scorched coffee and gym sweat. "Got sleazeball talk shows wanting to interview me, too. And a six A.M. memo from the brass reminding me to keep my mouth shut."

  "Tollrance has bought himself some celebrity, too," I said. "I wonder how long that'll satisfy him."

  "Meaning he'll want true realism?"

  I shrugged.

  "Well," he said, "so far, he hasn't made any slipups." He tapped the upper edge of the painting. "Not a single print. Maybe you're right, a careful head case." He angled the painting toward me. "Does seeing this give you any other ideas?"

  "Not really," I said. "Rage toward Mate. Ambivalence about Mate. You don't need me to tell you that."

  His phone rang. "Sturgis— Oh yeah, hi." His expression brightened, as if an internal filament had ignited. "Really? Thanks. When? . . . Sure, that would be better than convenient. I've got Dr. D. with me— Yeah, sure, great.

  "Talk about karma," he said, hanging up. "That was Petra. Seems she came up with some stuff on Donny. She's on her way to a trial at the Santa Monica courthouse, will stop by in ten minutes. We'll meet her out in front."

  • • •

  We waited by the curb. Milo paced and smoked a Tiparillo and I thought about the Doss family. A few moments later, Petra Connor drove up in a black Accord, parked in the red zone, and got out with her usual economy of movement. I'd never seen her when she wasn't wearing a black pantsuit. This time it was a slim-cut thing with indigo overtones, some kind of slinky wool that flattered her long, lean frame and looked beyond a D-II's budget. On her feet were medium-heeled black lace-ups. Her black hair was cropped in the usual no-nonsense wedge cut, and slung across her shoulder was a black leather bag the texture of a wind-whipped motorcycle jacket. No gun visible beneath the tailored jacket, so she was probably toting it in the bag.

  The bad September light was somehow kind to her ivory skin, setting off her tight jaw, pointed chin, ski-slope nose. Pretty, in a taut way, but something about her always warned, Keep Your Distance. The dedication with which she'd followed Billy Straight's recovery told me there was warmth tucked behind the searching brown eyes. But that was inference on my part; she was all business, never talked about herself. I figured she'd jumped high hurdles to get where she was.

  "Hi," she said, flashing a cool smile, and I knew what I was supposed to ask.

  "How's our guy?"

  "Doing great from what I can tell. Straight A's, and he tested out a full grade ahead— amazing, considering most of what he knows is self-taught. A true intellectual, just like you said at the beginning."

  "What about his ulcer?" I said.

  "Clearing up slowly. He fusses about taking his medicine, but for the most part he's compliant. He's also making some friends. Finally. Other 'creative' types, quoth the principal. Mrs. Adamson's big worry is he doesn't want to do much other than study and read and play with his computer."

  "What would she prefer him to do?"

  "I'm not sure there's anything specific— she just seems to be nervous. About doing everything right. I think she feels she needs to report to me. She calls me once a week."

  "Hey, you're the long arm of the law," I said.

  Small smile. "I know she really cares about him. I tell her not to worry, he'll be fine."

  She blinked, wanting confirmation.

  "Good advice," I said.

  Rosy coins appeared on her cheeks. "All in all he's getting plenty of attention. Maybe too much, considering that he's basically a loner? Sam shows up like clockwork on Friday, takes him to Venice on weekends. San Marino all week, then the freak scene. How's that for contrast?"

  "Multicultural experience. I'm sure he can handle it."

  "Yes— good. If any problems come up, I assume it's okay to call you."

  "Anytime."

  "Thanks." She turned to Milo. "Sorry, I know you're waiting for this." Out of the leather bag came a folder. "Here's the info on your Mr. Salcido. Turns out he's a known quantity to us. Because of the Hollywood redevelopment thing, Councilwoman Goldstein's office ordered us to keep tabs on transients— the Bum Squad, we called it, lasted a month. Salcido's name came up in one Bum Squad file. No arrest, all they did was canvass squats, find out what the squatters were up to. If they saw drugs or any other crime, they could make an arrest, but basically it was to appease
Councilwoman Goldstein."

  Milo flipped the chart open. Petra said, "Salcido was living in an abandoned building near Western and Hollywood— the one with the big frieze in front, I think Louis B. Mayer or some other film type built it. Later, the Bummers found out he had a felony record and noted it accordingly."

  "Our tax dollars at work." Milo thumbed the pages of the file. "Was he living alone?"

  "Unless a known associate is noted, he probably was."

  "Says they found him in 'a room full of garbage.' "