Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Very few cars were parked on the street, and the unmarked, fifty yards up, was as inconspicuous as a roach on a fridge. I sped by, vaguely aware of two heads in front, not bothering to notice if Korn or Demetri made me. Assuming they had. Now I was a notation in the murder book.

  I cruised, looked for the address Safer had given me, wondered which neighboring structure housed the Manitows' dreams and nightmares.

  Richard's monument to success turned out to be a two-story Monterey colonial, pale and ambitious above a hillock of ryegrass spacious enough to host several clusters of trees. Coconut palms, Canary Island pines, lemon eucalyptus, pittosporum, all prettified by clean white lighting that created herbal sculpture. Meticulous flower beds kissed the front of the house. Lights from within turned curtained windows amber. The lack of wall and gate implied openness, welcome. So much for architectural cues.

  Stacy's Mustang sat in the driveway, in front of a silver Cadillac Fleetwood of a size no longer manufactured. No sign of Richard's black BMW. Perhaps the auto warrant had gone through and the vehicle was being raked and combed and vacuumed and luminoled in some forensic garage.

  I pulled in behind the Caddy. Its plates read SHYSTER.

  A Bouquet Canyon rock pathway snaked to a heavy door banded with hand-forged iron. Before I got to the entrance, the door opened and a rabbi gazed out at me. A tall, rangy, black-suited, yarmulked, gray-bearded rabbi in his sixties. The beard was clipped square and blocked the knot of his silver-gray tie. The suit was double-breasted and tailored. He stood with his hands behind his back and rocked. His presence threw me. The Dosses were Greek-Sicilian, not Jewish.

  The rabbi said, "Doctor? Joe Safer."

  One hand appeared. We shook, and Safer motioned me into a chandeliered entry hall guarded by a pair of blue-and-white vases as high as my shoulder. An iron-railed staircase swept upward to the second story. Safer and I walked under it and continued to another vestibule bottomed by a crimson Persian runner that fed into a wide, bright hallway. To the left was a dining room papered in blue and set up with plum-colored rosewood furniture that looked old. Across the foyer was a high-ceilinged living room. Ivory ceiling, cream silk sofas, cherrywood floors. If the neutral tones had been designed to show off what was on the walls, they worked.

  Case after case of brass-framed, mirror-backed, glassed-in étagères, custom-fit to the crown molding. Glass shelves so clear they were rendered nearly invisible. What rested upon them appeared suspended in midair, just as Milo had described.

  Hundreds of bowls, chargers, ewers, jars, shapes I couldn't identify, each piece spotlit and gleaming. One side wall of more blue and white, the other filled with simple-looking gray-green pieces, the widest expanse populated by a porcelain bestiary: horses and camels and dogs and fantastic, bat-eared creatures that resembled the spawn of a dragon with a monkey, all dappled in beautifully dripping mixtures of blue, green and chartreuse. Human figurines rode some of the horses. On a seven-foot coffee table sat what looked like a miniature temple glazed with the same multicolored splotch.

  "Something, eh?" said Safer. "Richard informs me that those animals are all Tang dynasty. Over a thousand years old. They pull them up out of graves in China, beautifully preserved. Quite remarkable, wouldn't you say?"

  "Quite brave keeping them here," I said, "given the seismic risks."

  Safer stroked his beard and pushed his yarmulke back on his head. His hair was an iron gray crew cut specked with red. I still couldn't get rid of the rabbinical image. Remembered his comment about the death of his gay son. His diagnosis sped my learning curve. His eyes were gray-green, borderline warm. Like many tall men, he stooped.

  "Richard's a courageous man," he said. "The children are courageous. Let's go see them."

  We continued through the center hallway. Black carpeting muffled our steps as we passed more brass cases. Monochrome bowls of every color, the mirror backs reflecting Chinese inscriptions on white bases, tiny mud-colored figurines, shelves of potters' creations in white and cream and gray, more of that pale, clean green that I decided I liked best. A row of closed doors, two more at the rear. Safer beckoned me through the one that was open.

  Cathedral ceiling, black leather sofas and chairs, black grand piano filling a corner. Through a wall of french doors, an aqua pool and green-lit foliage. Beyond the chlorinated water, palm fringes and the hint of ocean. The seating faced rosewood bookshelves filled with hardcovers, a Bang & Olufsen stereo system, a seventy-inch TV, laser-disc machine, other amusements. On an upper shelf, four family photos. Three of Richard and the kids, a single portrait of Joanne as a smiling young woman.

  Richard sat upright on the largest of the sofas, unshaven, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kinky hair ragged— pulled-at, as if birds had attacked, seeking nesting material. He wore the usual all-black and blended so thoroughly with the couch that his body contours were obscured. It made him seem very small— like a growth that had sprouted from the upholstery.

  "You're here," he said, sounding half asleep. "Thanks."

  I took an armchair and Richard gazed up at Joe Safer.

  Safer said, "I'll go see how the kids are doing," and left. Richard picked something out of the corner of his mouth. Sweat beads ringed his hairline.

  When Safer's footsteps had faded completely, he said, "They say he's the best." Staring past me. "This is our family room."

  "Beautiful house," I said.

  "So I've been told."

  "What happened?" I said. Any way he took that would be fine.

  He didn't answer, kept his gaze above me— focused on the blank TV. As if waiting for the set to come on by itself and feed him some form of enlightenment.

  "So," he said, finally. "Here we are."

  "What can I do for you, Richard?"

  "Safer says anything I tell you is confidential, unless you think I'm a direct threat to someone else."

  "That's true."

  "I'm no threat to anyone."

  "Good."

  He jammed his fingers in his hair, tugged at the wiry strands. "Still, let's keep it hypothetical. For the sake of all concerned."

  "Keep what hypothetical?" I said.

  "The situation. Say a person— a man, by no means a stupid man but not infallible— say he falls prey to an impulse and does something stupid."

  "What impulse?"

  "The drive to attain closure. Not a smart move, in fact it's the single stupidest, most insane thing he's ever done in his life, but he's not in his right mind because events have . . . changed him. In the past, he's lived a life full of expectations. That's not to say he's wedded to optimism. Of all people, he knows things don't always work out according to plan. He's earned a living understanding that. But still, after all these years of building, establishing, he's done very well, gotten sucked in by the trap of rising expectations. Feels he has a right to some degree of comfort. Then he learns differently." He shrugged. "What's done is done."

  "His acting on impulse," I said.

  He sucked in breath, gave a sick smile. "He's not in his right mind, let's leave it at that."

  Crossing his legs, he sat back, as if giving me time to digest. I had a pretty good idea what he was up to. Working on a diminished-capacity defense. Safer's advice or his own idea?

  "Temporary insanity," I said.

  "If it comes to that. The only problem is, because he's so screwed up, in the process he may have upset his kids. His own peccadilloes, he can deal with. But his kids, he needs help with that."

  Murder-for-hire as a peccadillo.

  I said, "Do the kids know what he's done?"

  "He hasn't told them, but they're smart kids, they may have figured it out."

  "May have."

  He nodded.

  I said, "Does he intend to tell them?"

  "He doesn't see the point of that."

  "So he wants someone else to tell them."

  "No," he said, suddenly raising his voice. A splash of rose seeped from under his shirt collar and clim
bed to his earlobes, vivid as a port-wine stain. "He definitely does not want that, that is not the issue. Helping them through the process is. I— he needs someone to tide them over until things settle down."

  "He expects things to settle down," I said.

  He smiled. "Circumstances dictate optimism. So, do we have an understanding of the issues at hand?"

  "No knowledge provided to the kids, holding their hands until their father is out of trouble. Sounds like high-priced baby-sitting."

  The flush darkened his entire face, his chest heaved and his eyes began to bulge. The surge of color made me draw back defensively. It's the kind of thing you see in people who have a serious problem with anger. I thought of Eric's outburst in the victims' room at the station.

  New side of Richard. Before this, he'd been unfailingly contentious, sometimes irritable, but always cool.

  He worked at cooling off now, placing one hand on the arm of the sofa, cupping a knee with the other, as if hastening self-restraint. Ticking off the seconds with his index finger. Ten ticks later, he said, "All right," in the tone you'd use with a slow learner. "We'll call it baby-sitting. Well-trained, well-paid baby-sitting. The main thing is the kids get what they need."

  "Until things settle down."

  "Don't worry," he said. "They will. The funny thing is, despite his poor judgment, he didn't actually do anything."

  "Soliciting murder's not nothing— hypothetically speaking."

  His eyelids drooped. He got up, stepped closer to my chair. I smelled mint on his breath, cologne, putrid sweat. "Nothing happened."

  "Okay," I said.

  "Nothing. This person learned from his mistake."

  "And didn't try again."

  He aimed a finger gun down at me. "Bingo." Easy tone, but the flush had lingered. He stood there, finally returned to the sofa. "Okay then, we have a meeting of the minds."

  "What exactly do you want me to tell your kids, Richard?"

  "That everything's going to be fine." Making no attempt to steer it back to third-person theoretical. "That I may be . . . indisposed for a while. But only temporarily. They need to know that. I'm the only parent they have left. They need me, and I need you to facilitate."

  "All right," I said. "But we should also be looking for other sources of support. Are there any family members who could—"

  "No," he said. "No one. My mother's dead, and my father's ninety-two and living in a home in New Jersey."

  "What about Joanne's side—"

  "Nothing," he said. "Both of her parents are gone and she was an only child. Besides, I don't need meddling laymen, I need a professional. Not a bad deal for you. I'll start paying you the way I pay Safer— driving time, thinking time, every billable second."

  I didn't answer.

  He said, "Why do we have this thing, you and I, everything turns into a push-and-pull?"

  Lots of answers to that one, none good. I said, "Richard, we have a meeting of the minds on one point: my role is helping Stacy and Eric. But I need to be honest with you: I have no magic to offer them. Information's my armament. I need to be equipped."

  "Oh for God's sake," he said, "what do you want from me, confession? Expiation?"

  "Expiation," I said. "Eric used that word, too."

  His mouth opened. Shut. The flush drained from his face. Now he'd paled. "Eric has a good vocabulary."

  "It's not a topic you and he have discussed?"

  "Why the hell would it be?"

  "I was just wondering if Eric had some reason to feel guilty."

  "What the hell about?"

  "That's what I'm asking," I said, feeling more like a lawyer cross-examining than a therapist easing pain. He was right, this was our script, and I was as much a player as he.

  "No," he said, "Eric's fine. Eric's a great kid." He slumped, rubbed his eyes, half disappeared into the couch, and I began to feel sorry for him. Then I thought of him passing cash to Quentin Goad. In the name of closure.

  "So there's nothing particular on Eric's mind."

  "His mother destroyed herself, his father got hauled in by the gestapo. Now, what could be on his mind?"

  He resumed staring at the TV screen. "What's the problem here? Do you resent us because we've made it? Did you grow up poor? Do you resent rich kids? Does having to deal with them day in and day out because they're the ones who pay your bills piss you off? Is that the reason you won't help us?"

  My sigh was involuntary.

  He said, "Okay, okay, sorry, that was out of line, it's been a . . . rough time. All I'm asking for is some help with Eric and Stacy. If I wasn't so close to the situation, I could deal with it myself. At least I have the insight to know my limitations, right? How many parents can you say that of?"

  Footsteps sounded from above. Someone walking. Pacing. Stopping. The kids on the second floor . . .

  I said, "No stonewall, Richard. I'm here for Eric and Stacy. Are you in any state to answer a few questions about Joanne?"

  "What about Joanne?"

  "Basic history. At what hospital did she take her medical tests?"

  "St. Michael's. Why?"

  "I may want to look at her medical records."

  "Same question."

  "I'm still trying to understand what was wrong with her."

  "Her medical records won't tell you a damn thing," he said. "That's the point, the doctors didn't know. And what does Joanne's illness have to do with the current situation?"

  "It may have something to do with Eric and Stacy," I said. "As I said, I run on information. May I have a release from you to look at her records?"

  "Sure, sure, Safer can give it to you, I signed over power of attorney to him while I was indisposed. Now, how about going up to talk to my kids?"

  "Please bear with me," I said. "After Joanne died, you called Mate, but he never called you back—"

  "Did I tell you that?"

  "No, Judy did when she made the referral."

  "Judy." He swiped at his brow with the back of his hand. "Well, Judy's correct. I did try. Not once, several times. The bastard never gave me the courtesy."

  "He didn't throw a press conference regarding Joanne, either."

  His eyes slitted. "So?"

  "Publicity seemed to be a motive for him—"

  "You've got that right," he said. "He was a scum-sucking publicity hound. But don't ask me to explain what he did and didn't do. To me he was a name in the papers."

  Easy to erase?

  I said, "One other discrepancy: by the time Joanne contacted Mate, he'd already shifted from motels to vans. Yet Joanne died in a motel. Would there have been some reason for her to insist upon that? Some reason for her to travel to Lancaster—"

  "She was never there," he said.

  "Never at the motel?"

  "Never in Lancaster." He laughed. Sudden, bitter, incongruous laughter. "Not till that night. It was a thing between us. I was out there all the time, did several projects there, building shopping centers, turning shit into gold. Used to copter from the Municipal Bank Building to Palmdale, drive the rest of the way. Spent so many goddamn hours there I used to feel I was made of sand. Joanne never saw any of it. I used to ask her— beg her— to drive out, just once in a while. Join me for lunch, see what we were accomplishing. I told her the desert could be beautiful when you looked at it a certain way, we could find some good, cheap eats, go casual— goddamn Pizza Hut or something, like when we were broke and dating. No way. She always turned me down, said it was too far to drive. Too much traffic, too dry, too hot, too busy, there was always a reason."

  He laughed again. "But she ended up there." Turning to stare at me. For once, not a combative glare. Sad, pitiful, seeking an answer.

  "Oh Jesus," he said. An abrupt, suppressed sob made him choke. He bounced once in the sofa, as if levitated by pain and slammed back down by fate.

  "Goddamn her," he whispered. Then he lost the fight and the tears gushed. He punched air, punched his knees, attacked his own chest, his shoulde
r, knuckled his eyes. Hid his face from me.

  "Fuckin' Lancaster! For that she goes out there! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ!"

  He lowered his head between his legs, as if about to vomit, found no comfort in that position and sprang up, running to the wall of french doors, where he turned his back on me and cried silently while facing his swimming pool and his land and the faraway ocean.