Blood Test

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I know what you’re thinking. He’s an unethical creep. I doubt I can convince you of this, but he’s not a bad man, just a weak one. He was always loving and gentle. And open. When I confronted him with the stories I was hearing he said sure, he was giving pleasure and receiving it in return. What could be wrong with that, especially with all the pain and suffering and death we had to deal with. He was so convincing I didn’t stop seeing him even then. It took me a long time to get my head straight.

  “I thought I’d gotten over it until a week ago when I saw him with Nona. I was out on a date—a fix-up, a real disaster—at an intimate little Mexican place not far from the hospital. The two of them were across the room, tucked away in a dark little booth. I could barely see them. They were all over each other. Drinking margaritas and laughing. Tongue-dueling, for God’s sake. Like a couple of reptiles.”

  She stopped, caught her breath.

  “It hurt bad, Alex. She was so confident, so beautiful. The jealousy went through me like a knife. I’d never felt that kind of jealousy before—I was bleeding. Their eyes were horribly orange from the candlelight. Two vampires. There I was, stuck with some dull creep, dying for the evening to be over, and they were just about fucking on the table. It was obscene.”

  Her shoulders shook. She shivered and hugged herself.

  “So you can see why I was so torn about telling anyone about it. I’d be seen as the woman scorned, doing it out of spite. That’s a degrading role and I’ve been degraded enough for a lifetime.”

  Her eyes implored me to understand.

  “Everyone takes a bite out of me and I’m fucking disappearing, Alex. I want to forget him, her, everyone. But I can’t. Because of that little boy.”

  This time she accepted my comfort and put her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine.

  “You’ve got to get some distance from it,” I said, “so you can start to see straight again. He may have been gentle and ‘honest’ in some perverse way but he’s no hero. The guy’s got problems and you’re best off without him. He’s a druggie, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. How’d you know that?”

  I decided not to cite Raoul’s suspicions. Mention of his name would set her off. Besides, I had suspicions of my own.

  “I talked to him last night. He was sniffing the whole time. At first it looked like a cold but later I started wondering about coke.”

  “He’s into coke pretty heavily. Grass and downers, on the side. Sometimes speed when he’s on call. He talked about dropping acid in med school but I don’t think he does that anymore. He does booze, too. I started drinking heavily when I was with him and kept it up ever since. I know I have to stop.”

  I gave her a squeeze.

  “You deserve a lot better, hon.”

  “It’s nice to hear that,” she said in a small voice.

  “I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re intelligent, you’re attractive, and you have a good heart. That’s why you’re hurting so badly. Get the hell away from all the death and misery. It’ll destroy you. I know.”

  “Oh, Alex,” she sobbed into my shoulder, “I’m so cold.”

  I gave her my jacket. When the tears stopped I walked her back to her car.

  11

  NEITHER THE Swopes’ disappearance nor Richard Moody’s rat fell under Milo’s jurisdiction. Out of friendship he’d helped me with both and I was reluctant to bother him so soon with the information on Valcroix.

  But what Beverly had told me the night before was disturbing. As Raoul had claimed, the Canadian was unethical and a drunk, and his familiarity with the Touch visitors fleshed out the suspicion of a conspiracy to remove Woody Swope from treatment. I felt some obligation to let him know what was going on, but I didn’t look forward to it because he was sure to flip out. Before the pyrotechnics began I wanted to consult a professional.

  Milo, bless his soul, sounded genuinely glad to hear from me.

  “No sweat. I was gonna call you anyway. Fordebrand went out to the Bedabye to breathe on Moody but when he got there the asshole was gone. Left behind a room full of b.o.—it would have been a battle of the stinkers—and candy wrappers. Foothill will keep an eye out for him and I’ll have the boys here do the same, but be careful. Also, I got a call back from that Carmichael character—the one who messengered with the Swope girl. Normally I might have just talked to him on the phone but this guy sounded very uptight. Like he’s sitting on something. He’s also got a record—busted for prostitution a couple of years ago. So I’m gonna head out and do a face to face. Now what’s on your mind?”

  “I’ll go with you to Carmichael’s and tell you in the car.”

  He absorbed the information on Valcroix while speeding along the Santa Monica Freeway.

  “What is he, some kind of stud?”

  “Far from it. An old, ersatz hippie. Saggy face, flabby body, kind of a slob really.”

  “No accounting for taste. Maybe he’s hung like a horse.”

  “I doubt the appeal’s strictly physical. He’s a scavenger, Milo. Moves in on women when they’re under stress, plays Mr. Sensitive, gives them what passes for love and understanding.”

  He put a finger to his nose and sniffed.

  “And a little blow, too?”

  “Could be.”

  “I’ll tell you what, after we’re finished with Carmichael we’ll head out to the hospital and interview him. I’ve got a little slack because the gang thing resolved nicely—confessions all around. The shooters were fourteen years old. They’ll end up at the Youth Authority. The liquor store cutting’s due to close any day—Del Hardy’s interviewing a snitch who looks promising. The main thing pending is the stomach-shitter. We’re praying to the computer on that.”

  He exited at Fourth Avenue, headed south to Pico, took Pico to Pacific, and continued southward into Venice. We passed Robin’s studio, an unmarked storefront with the windows painted opaque white, but neither of us mentioned it. The neighborhood changed from sleazy to slick as we approached the Marina.

  Doug Carmichael’s house was on a walk-street west of Pacific, half a block from the beach. It resembled a landlocked cabin cruiser, all peaks and portholes, narrow and high, and wedged into a lot no wider than thirty feet. The exterior was teal blue wood siding and white trim. Fish-scale shingles graced the gablelike peak above the door. A planter brimming with nail-polish pink geraniums hung from the sill of the front window. A white picket fence ringed the dwarf lawn. The door was inlaid with a stained-glass window. Everything looked clean and well tended.

  This close to the beach the place had to cost a pretty piece of change.

  “Fulfilling fantasies must be paying well,” I said.

  “Hasn’t it always?”

  Milo rang the doorbell. It opened quickly and a tall muscular man in a red-and-black plaid shirt, faded jeans, and topsiders flashed us a smile saturated with fear, introduced himself (“Hi, I’m Doug”), and asked us in.

  He was about my age. I’d been expecting someone younger and was surprised. He had thick blond hair, layered and blow-dried to look dashingly mussed, a full but neatly trimmed reddish-blond beard, sky blue eyes, artist’s model features, and poreless golden skin. An aging beachboy who’d preserved well.

  The interior walls of the house had been torn down to create a thousand square feet of skylit living space. The furniture was bleached wood, the walls oyster white. The scent of lemon oil was in the air. There were maritime lithographs, a salt-water aquarium, a small but well-stocked kitchen, a partially folded futon bed. Everything in its place, neat as a pin.

  In the center of the room was a sunken area half-filled by a bottle green velvet modular couch. We stepped down and sat. He offered us coffee from a pot that had already been set out on the table.

  He poured three cups and sat across from us, still smiling, still scared.

  “Detective Sturgis—” he looked from me to Milo who identified himself with a nod—“over the phone you said this had to do with Nona Swo
pe.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Carmichael.”

  “I have to tell you at the outset, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. I barely know her—”

  “You messengered with her several times.” Milo pulled out his pencil and pad.

  Carmichael laughed nervously. “Three, maybe four times. She didn’t stick around very long.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Carmichael drank coffee, put the cup down, and cracked his knuckles. He had iron-pumper’s arms, each muscle defined in bas relief and roped with veins.

  “I don’t know where she is,” he said.

  “No one said she was missing, Mr. Carmichael.”

  “Jan Rambo called and told me what it was all about. She said you took my file.”

  “Does that bother you, Mr. Carmichael?”

  “Yes, it does. It’s private and I don’t see what it has to do with anything.” He was trying to assert himself but despite the muscles there was something preternaturally meek and childish about him.

  “Mr. Carmichael, you were pretty keyed up over the phone and you’re just as nervous in person. Want to tell us why?” Milo sat back and crossed his legs.

  It’s always pathetic when someone physically impressive starts to fall apart, like watching a monument crumble. I saw the look on the blond man’s face and wanted to be somewhere else.

  “Tell us about it,” said Milo.

  “It’s my own damned fault. Now I’m going to pay.” He got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with a bottle of pills.

  “B-twelve. I need it when I’m stressed out.” He unscrewed the lid, shook out three capsules, swallowed, and washed them down with coffee. “I shouldn’t be taking in so much caffeine but it calms me down. Paradoxical reaction.”

  “What’s on your mind, Doug?”

  “My working at Adam and Eve has been a—a secret. Until now. I knew all along it was risky, that I might run into someone who knew me. I don’t know, maybe that was part of the thrill.”

  “We’re not interested in your private life. Just in what you know about Nona Swope.”

  “But if it leads somewhere and ends up in court I’m gonna be subpoenaed, right?”

  “Could happen,” admitted Milo, “but we’re a long way from that. Right now we just want to find Nona and her parents so we can save a little boy’s life.”

  The detective went on in great detail about Woody’s lymphoma. He’d retained everything I told him and was throwing it back in Carmichael’s handsome face. The blond man tried hard not to listen but failed. He took all of it in, obviously pained. He seemed a sensitive one and I found myself liking him.

  “Jesus. She told me she had a sick brother but she never said how sick.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “Not much. Really. She didn’t say much about anything. Talked about wanting to be an actress—the usual delusional stuff you hear from most of the girls. But she didn’t seem depressed like you’d expect with a brother that sick.”

  Milo changed the subject.

  “What kind of gigs did you two do?”

  Returning to the topic of his work made Carmichael anxious again. He tangled his fingers together and twisted. Knots rose on the heavy arms.

  “Maybe I should get an attorney before we go any further.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Milo, pointing to the phone.

  Carmichael sighed and shook his head. “No. That would only complicate things even more. Listen, I can give you some insights into Nona’s personality if that’s what you’re after.”

  “It would help.”

  “But that’s all I’ve got. Insights, no facts. How about you forget where you got them from?”

  “Doug,” said Milo, “we know who your father is and we know all about the bust, so stop dancing around, okay?”

  Carmichael looked like a stallion in a burning stable, ready to bolt despite the consequences.

  “Don’t panic,” said Milo. “We couldn’t care less about that stuff.”

  “I’m not some kind of pervert,” Carmichael insisted. “If you traced me that far back you know how it happened.”

  “Sure. You were a dancer at Lancelot’s. After the show one of the ladies in the audience picked you up. Sex for money was discussed and she busted you.”

  “She entrapped me. The cunt!”

  Lancelot’s was a male stripper joint in west L.A. catering to women who thought liberation meant aping the crudest aspects of male behavior. The club had long been the object of neighborhood complaints and a couple of years back the police and the fire inspectors had paid it lots of attention. A harassment suit by the owner had ended that.

  Milo shrugged. “Anyway, daddy got you off, the file was closed, and you promised to behave yourself.”

  “Yeah,” said Carmichael, bitterly. “End of story, right? Only it wasn’t that simple.” The blue eyes burned. “Dad commandeered my trust fund—money left to me by my mom. It was illegal, I’m sure of it, but the lawyer in charge of the trust is one of Dad’s California Club buddies and before I knew it the old man had all of it under his control. And me by the balls. It was like being a kid again, having to ask permission for everything. He forced me to go to school, said I had to make something of myself. Christ, I’m thirty-six and I’m in junior college! If I get good grades there’ll be a place for me at Carmichael Oil. What a crock. Nothing’s gonna change me into someone I’m not. What the hell does he want from me?”

  He looked at us beseechingly, wanting support. My instinct was to give it to him but this wasn’t therapy. Milo let him cool down before he spoke.

  “And if he finds out about your current job, kaput, eh?”

  “Shit.” Carmichael stroked his beard. “I can’t help it. I like doing that kind of thing. God gave me a great body and a great face and I get off on sharing it with other people. It’s like acting but private, so it’s better, more intimate. When I used to dance I could feel the women’s eyes on me. I played to them, treated them good. I wanted them to cream right there. It felt so—loving.”

  “I told this to your boss and I’ll tell it to you,” said Milo, “we don’t give a damn who fucks who in this city. It only becomes a problem when people get cut or shot or strangled in the process.”

  Carmichael didn’t seem to have heard.

  “I mean it’s not like I’m hooking or anything,” he insisted. “I don’t need the money—in a good week I pull in six, maybe seven hundred bucks.” He dismissed that kind of money with a wave of his hand, operating from the distorted value system of one born into wealth.

  “Doug,” said Milo, with authority in his voice, “stop defending yourself and listen: we don’t care about what you do with your dick. Your file will stay sealed. Just tell us about Nona.”

  The message finally got through. The look on Carmichael’s face was that of a child who’d received an unexpected gift. I realized that I kept thinking of him as a big kid because, except for the manly outer husk, everything about him was childlike, immature. A classic case of arrested development.

  “She was a barracuda,” he said. “You had to hold her back or she got too aggressive. The last time we worked together was a stag party for an older guy who was getting married for the second time. A bunch of middle-aged men, salesman types, in this apartment in Canoga Park. They’d been drinking hard and watching fuck films before we got there. We were doing jock and cheerleader that night. I had on a football uniform and she was wearing a jersey top, a little pleated skirt, and sneakers. Pompons, her hair in pigtails, the works.

  “Those guys were harmless old farts. Before we got there they’d probably been talking big, hooting at the movies like guys do when they’re nervous. Then we walked in, they saw her, and I thought a few hearts were gonna give out. She wiggled at ’em, batted her lashes, showed a lot of tongue. We had the skit all planned out but she decided to ad lib. The script says we do a little minor league fondling while trading suggestive lines—you know stuff like I a
sk her how she’d like to be my wide receiver and she says ‘Do it again, we like it, we like it!’ She was a lousy actress, by the way, real flat, no emotion. But the audiences seemed to dig her—her looks made up for it, I guess. Anyway, these old guys were eating it up and she got off on it. That’s probably what gave her the idea of getting really outrageous.

  “All of a sudden she reached into my pants, grabbed my cock, did a bump and grind, started jerking me off, all the time gyrating at them. I wanted to stop her—we’re not supposed to go past the script unless we’re asked to.” He stopped, looked uncomfortable. “And paid to. But I couldn’t do it because it would have ruined the skit and been a downer for all those old guys.