Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Then guide them out of this world.

  He enjoyed killing on so many levels. The consummate Dr. Death, and one way or the other the world was going to know it. How Eldon Mate's fame— the legitimacy Mate had obtained while dispatching fifty lives— must have eaten at Burke. All those years in medical school, and Burke still couldn't practice openly the way Mate did, had to serve as Mate's apprentice.

  Had to masquerade as a layman.

  Because since arriving in L.A., he hadn't found a way to bogus his medical credentials, had to represent himself as a financial consultant.

  Mostly real-estate work . . . Century City address. Nice and ambiguous.

  Home base, Encino. Just over the hill. Respectable neighborhood for an upstanding guy.

  In L.A. you could live off a smile and a zip code.

  The business card Ulrich had given Milo was sitting in a drawer at the West L.A. station. I phoned information and asked for Ulrich's Century City business listing, was only half surprised when I got one. But when I tried the number, a recording told me the line had been disconnected. No Encino exchange for either him or Tanya Stratton, nothing anywhere in the Valley or the city.

  Tanya. Not a well girl.

  A relationship on the wane with Ulrich could prove lethal.

  I looked at the clock. Just after six. Light through the office curtains said the sun had risen. If Milo had been up all night at the Glendale crime scene, he'd be home now, getting some well-deserved rest.

  Some things could wait. I phoned him. Rick answered on the first ring. "Up early, Alex."

  "Did I wake you?"

  "Not hardly. I was just about to leave for the E.R. Milo's already gone."

  "Gone where?"

  "He didn't say. Probably back to Glendale, that double murder. He was out there until midnight, came home, slept for four hours, woke in a foul mood, showered without singing and left the house with his hair still wet."

  "The joys of domestic life," I said.

  "Oh yeah," he said. "Give me a nice freeway pileup and I know I'm being useful."

  • • •

  Milo picked up his mobile, barking, "Sturgis."

  "It's me. Where are you?"

  "Up on Mulholland," he said in an odd, detached voice. "Staring at dirt. Trying to figure out if I missed something."

  "Son, I'm going to bring some joy into your wretched life." I told him about Ulrich.

  I expected shock, profanity, but his voice remained remote. "Funny you should mention that."

  "You figured it out?"

  "No, but I was just wondering about Ulrich. Because I positioned my car where the van was, walked myself through the scene. When the sun came up it hit the rear window and gave off glare. Blinding glare, I couldn't see a thing inside. Ulrich claimed he and the girl discovered Mate right after sunrise, said he could see Mate's body through the rear window. Now that was a week ago, and the van's windows were higher than mine, but I don't calculate that much of a difference and I don't imagine the sun's angle has shifted that radically. I was waiting around to see if the visibility changed over the next quarter hour or so. By itself it wasn't any big deal, maybe the guy didn't remember every detail. But now you're telling me . . . Left the bastard's address back at the station, I'll run a DMV on him and the Stratton girl. Time for a drop-in."

  "The Stratton girl may be in danger." I told him why.

  "Sick?" he said. "Yeah, she didn't look too healthy, did she? All the more reason to visit."

  "How're you going to handle Ulrich?"

  "I don't exactly have grounds for an arrest, Alex. At the moment, all I can do is scope him out in his natural habitat— my story will be that I'm dropping in for a follow-up, has he thought of anything else? 'Cause we're stumped— he'd like that, right? The cops being stupid, my coming to him for wisdom."

  "He'd love it," I said. "If he believed it. But this is a smart man. He'd have to wonder why, after Richard's arrest, you're knocking on his door on a Sunday morning."

  Silence. "How about I imply there are complications with the current investigation— stuff I can't talk about. He'll know I mean Zoghbie, but I won't come out and say it. We'll tango around, I can watch his eyes and his feet. Maybe Stratton will give off some kind of vibe. Maybe I'll get her alone, later on in the day."

  "Sounds good. Want me there?"

  Silence. Static. Finally he said, "Yes."

  • • •

  When I walked into the bedroom, Robin was sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  "Morning." I kissed her forehead and began to get dressed.

  "What time is it? How long have you been up?"

  "Early. Just a bit. Have to run and meet Milo up on Mulholland."

  "Oh," she said sleepily. "Something come up?"

  "Maybe," I said.

  That opened her eyes wide.

  "A possible lead," I said. "Nothing dangerous. Brain work."

  She held out her arms. We embraced.

  "Take good care of it," she said. "Your brain. I love your brain."

  33

  MILO WAS PARKED on the road below the murder site, engine running, fingers tapping the steering wheel. I left the Seville a few yards away and got in the unmarked. He was wearing the same gray suit, but it looked ten years older. Driving east on Mulholland, he reached the Glen, headed north into the Valley.

  "Where'd you get the address?" I said.

  "DMV. No listings for Ulrich's BMW or any other vehicle in his name, but the Stratton girl owns a two-year-old Saturn, has an address on Milbank. Sherman Oaks, not Encino. Too far east by two blocks."

  "Why tell the truth when you can lie?"

  "Setting up the scene . . . He just loves this, doesn't he?"

  "Every detail," I said. "Remember what you said about the only footprints being his and Stratton's? He cleaned up after himself, but just in case he missed something, he gave himself a legitimate reason to leave behind trace evidence."

  "All these years . . . orchestrating . . . goddamn conductor." He took one hand off the wheel, raised it toward the roof. "Lord, grant me the opportunity to shove his baton up his ass. . . . Anything else you think I should know before I approach him?"

  "Act friendly but authoritative. Don't go overboard on either. While you're listening to him, let your eyes roam. Let him try to figure out if it's cop curiosity or you're looking for something. Let's see how he reacts to the uncertainty. Ask him lots of questions, but keep it general. Out-of-sequence questions, like you do so well. Dropping in on him without warning is good. You'll be the one orchestrating. If he gets nervous, he may do something impulsive. Like pack up and leave once he thinks you're gone, or try to hide something— a storage locker. He's likely to have one, can't afford to have Tanya come across his souvenirs."

  "You're sure he keeps them?"

  "I'll bet on it. Once you leave, can you get surveillance in place pretty quickly?"

  "One way or the other, he'll be watched, Alex. If I have to do it myself, he'll be watched. . . . Okay, so you're talking a one-man good-cop/bad-cop show. But keep it subtle. Yeah, I can do subtle. Even without the benefit of alcohol. What'll you be concentrating on?"

  "Playing impassive shrink. If I can get Tanya alone, I'll take a closer look at her."

  "Why, you suspect her, too?"

  "No, but she's tiring of him. Maybe she'll say something revealing."

  He bared his teeth in what I assumed was a smile. "Fine, we've got our plan. All that accomplished, then can I shove it up his ass?"

  • • •

  His gas foot was heavy and the ride took fifteen minutes, whipping us past canyon beauty and the barbered anxiety of hillside suburbia, accelerating into a too-fast left turn across Ventura. The Valley was ten degrees warmer. Encino appeared just past Sepulveda and the low-rise shops of Sherman Oaks gave way to mirrored office buildings and car lots. Very little traffic this early on a sleepy Sunday. The 405 freeway ribboned across the intersection, parallel with the western flank of the white c
arcass that had once been the Sherman Oaks Galleria. The shopping center was shuttered now, all the more pathetic in death because of its size. Someone had plans for the space. Someone always had plans.

  Milo drove a block, turned right on Orion, stayed parallel with the freeway, headed west on Camarillo, circling around to the mouth of Milbank, a shady street with no sidewalks. Single-story houses, well-maintained, dimmed by the luxuriance of untrimmed camphor trees. Off to the east, the freeway thundered.

  Tanya Stratton's address matched a white G.I.-bill dream box with blue trim. Carefully tended lawn, but less landscaping than its neighbors. No cars in the driveway, two throwaway papers on the oil spot. Shuttered windows, white-painted iron security grate across the front door, mailbox mounted on the steel mesh. Another white metal door blocked access to the rear yard.

  "Someone likes their privacy," I said.

  Milo frowned. We got out, walked to the security door. A button was mounted on the front wall of the house, near the jamb of the security door. Milo pushed it and I could hear the buzzer sound inside the house. No answer. No barking.

  I remarked on that, said, "Maybe they took Duchess on one of their early-morning walks."

  "On Sunday?" he said.

  "Hey, he's a fit guy."

  He lifted the lid of the mailbox. Inside were four envelopes and two circulars from fast-food restaurants. He inspected the postmarks. "Yesterday's."

  He toed the grate. I watched his lips form a silent curse as he stared at the jewel-bright brass dead bolt. "Who knows what the hell's in there, but Ulrich finding the body ain't exactly grounds for a warrant. Hell, I don't even exercise the warrants I do get."

  "You didn't end up serving Richard?"

  He shook his head. "So much for any future relationship with MacIntyre. Spent all night with my Glendale colleagues. Who, by the way, will not arrest you for trespassing a crime scene."

  "They wouldn't know it was a crime scene unless I trespassed."

  "Technicalities, technicalities." He punched the button again. Rubbed his face, loosened his tie, glanced over at the door barring the yard. "Let's go back to the car, try to figure something out. Meanwhile, I'll run searches on Ulrich's aliases. He repeated the hiker M.O., used Michigan twice, so maybe he's recycled an identity."

  • • •

  He tried DMV again, inquiring about Michael Ferris Burke, Grant Rushton, Huey Mitchell, Hank Spreen, with no success. We'd been sitting for a few minutes, alternating between silence and dead-end suggestions, when a small red car drove up and parked across the street.

  Nissan Sentra, dark-haired woman at the wheel. She turned off her engine, started to get out when she saw us. Then she flashed a nervous stare and up went the driver's window.

  Milo was out in a second, jogging over, flashing the badge. The Nissan's window stayed up. He produced his business card, I saw his lips move, finally the glass lowered. As if in appreciation, Milo backed away, gave the woman space. She exited the red car, looked at me, then at Milo. He had his hands in his pockets, was making himself a bit smaller, the way he does when he's trying to put someone at ease. I joined them.

  The woman was in her thirties, slightly heavy, brown hair highlighted with rust, sooty shadows under her bright-blue eyes and a speck of mascara under one of them. She wore a bulky white cowl-neck T-shirt, black leggings, black flats. The rear of the car was filled with fabric samples in binders.

  "What's wrong?" she said, eyeing the white house.

  "Do you live in the neighborhood, ma'am?"

  "My sister does. Across the street."

  "Ms. Stratton?"

  "Yes." Her voice strained half an octave higher. "What's going on?"

  "We came to ask your sister and Mr. Ulrich some questions, ma'am."

  "About what happened— about their finding Dr. Mate?"

  "Your sister talked to you about that, Ms. . . ."

  "Lamplear. Kris Lamplear. Sure, we talked about it. It wasn't exactly an everyday thing. Not in detail, Tanya was grossed out. She called me to tell me they found it— him. Is there some problem? Tanya's already been through a lot."

  "How so, ma'am?" said Milo.

  "She was sick a year and a half ago. That's why I'm here. She was sick and I'm overprotective. She doesn't like me to be, but I can't help it. I try to give her space, usually we talk only two, three times a week. But I haven't heard from her in a few days, so I called her at work Friday and they said she'd taken some vacation time. I held off yesterday, but today . . ."

  She frowned. "She's entitled to her vacation, but she should've told me where she was going."

  "Does she usually?" I said.

  Sheepish smile. "Honestly? Not always, but I don't let that stop me. What can I say? I decided to stop by this morning early, 'cause my kids have Little League in an hour. Just to make sure everything's okay. So there's no problem, you just want to talk to her?"

  "Right, just following up, ma'am," said Milo. He eyed the fabric samples. "Interior-design work?"

  "Fabric sales. I work for a jobber downtown." Another glance at the house.

  Milo said, "Looks like they've been gone for only a day or so. Do they travel a lot?"

  "From time to time." Kris Lamplear's eyes jumped around. "Paul probably took her somewhere on one of his impulsive romantic things."

  "He's a romantic fellow?"

  "He thinks he is." She rolled her eyes. "Mr. Spontaneous. He'll come in and announce they're going to Arrowhead or Santa Barbara for a couple of days, tells Tanya to pack, call in sick. Tanya's ultraresponsible. She takes her job seriously. But she goes along with him, usually. He works for himself, so taking off like that's no big deal. He likes nature stuff, loves to drive."

  "Nature stuff," said Milo.

  "The great outdoors, he's a member of the Tree People, the Sierra Club, watches birds, actually reads the auto-club magazine. It was his idea to be up there on Mulholland at that hour. He's always pushing Tanya to rise and shine, exercise, all that stuff. As if that's going to do the trick."

  "Do what trick?"

  "Heal her up," she said. "Make sure she stays in remission— she had cancer. Hodgkin's disease. The doctors said it was curable, she's got a good chance of being cured. But the treatment knocked her out. Radiation, chemo, heavy-duty. The whole thing changed her. She is fine, I know she'll be okay, but I'm sorry, I'm still the protective older sister, so sue me. She should at least tell me where she's going, don't you think? Our parents are gone, the two of us are it, she knows I worry."

  She tugged her shirt down, stared at the house. "I know I'm being neurotic. I'll get home and there'll be a message from her— don't tell her you met me here, okay? She'll get p.o.'d."

  "Deal," said Milo. "So you don't keep a house key for her."

  "You mean like some people do? That would be nice, wouldn't it. But no, I'd never ask for one. Tanya wouldn't take well to that."

  "Wanting to be independent."

  Kris Lamplear nodded. "Her having a key to my house would be fine. And I'm married, have kids, I wouldn't mind. But she'd be all sensitive. Even when she was going through her treatments she was that way. Telling everyone she could do things for herself, not to treat her like a cripple."

  "So Paul's a hands-off guy," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "To get along with Tanya he'd have to respect her independence."

  "I guess," she said. "To be honest, I don't know why she stays with him. Maybe 'cause he was there for her when she was down."

  "When she was sick?" I said.

  She nodded. "That's how they met. Tanya was in the hospital for her chemo and he was volunteering there. He ended up spending a lot of time with her. When she couldn't hold food down, he'd be there, feeding her ice chips."

  Describing an altruistic act, but she sounded disapproving. I said, "Nice guy."

  "I guess— I used to wonder why he was doing all that. To be honest, he doesn't seem like the volunteer- ing type— but what's the difference,
she makes her own decisions."

  "You don't like him," I said.

  "If Tanya likes him . . . No, to be honest I think he's a pompous jerk. I think Tanya may be seeing it, too. Finally." Her smile was reluctant, mischievous. "Maybe it's wishful thinking, but she doesn't defend him as much when I tell her he's a pompous jerk."

  I smiled back. "Which hospital did they meet at?"

  "Valley Comprehensive over in Reseda. A dump as far as I'm concerned, but that's where her HMO said she had to go. Why all these questions about Paul?"