“Who's the victim?”
“A professor at the University.”
“And he knew her?”
I nodded.
“I lived here forty-four years,” she said, “never knew a victim. Now you can't step outside without getting nervous. A friend of mine's nephew's a policeman in Glendale. He tells her there's nothing the police can do til you're hurt or killed. Told her to buy a gun, carry it around, and if they catch you it's like a traffic ticket. So I did. I've also got Sammy.”
She whistled twice, I heard something slam shut, and a big, thick-set, fawn-colored dog with a sad black face ambled around from the back of the house. Bullish face— cousin to Spike? But this creature weighed at least one hundred pounds and its eyes were all business.
Mrs. Green held out a palm and the dog stopped.
“Mastiff?” I said.
“Bullmastiff. Only breed ever designed specifically to bring down people— they raised 'em in England to catch game poachers. Come here, baby.”
The dog sniffed, lowered its head, and walked over slowly, shoulders rotating, massive limbs moving in fluid concert. Drool dripped down its dewlaps. Its eyes were small, nearly black, and they hadn't left my face.
“Hey, Sammy,” I said.
“Samantha. The females are the really protective ones— c'mere, puddin'.”
The dog made its way over, examined my knees, looked at Mrs. Green.
“Yeah, okay, kiss him,” she said.
A big mouth nuzzled my hand.
“Sweet,” I said.
“If you're right, she is. If you're wrong, well . . .” Her laugh was as dry as her skin. The dog rubbed against her thigh and she petted it.
“Any idea when Reed will be back?”
“No, he's an actor.”
“Irregular hours?”
“Right now it's night hours, he's waiting tables out in the Valley.”
From soap opera to that? I said, “No luck in the acting department?”
“Don't fault him,” she said. “It's a tough business, believe me, I know. I did some work back a ways, mostly bit parts, but I did have a walk-on in Night After Night—that's a Mae West film. Classic. They made her out to be some wild hussy but she was smarter than all of them. I should've bought real estate when she did. Instead I got married.”
She brushed her pants and kneaded the dog's thick neck.
“So some professor got killed. And you're talking to all the students?”
“We're trying to be as thorough as possible.”
“Well, like I said, Reed's an okay kid. Pays the rent pretty much on time and always lets me know if he can't. I give him a break because he's big and strong and handy and fixes things. Real good with Sammy, too, so when I go away to my sister in Palm Springs I've got someone to take care of her. Tell the truth, he reminds me of my husband— Stan was a movie grip, know what that is?”
“They move sets around.”
“They move everything around. Stan was all muscle. Did stunt work til he broke his collarbone working for Keaton. My daughter's in the business, too, reads scripts for CAA. So I have a soft spot for anyone dreamy enough to still want to be part of it. That's why I rented to Reed with just a first month down. Usually I get first and last. And he's been a good tenant. Even when he got laid up, he didn't laze around too long.”
“Laid up how?”
“Few months ago. He slipped a disc, lifting those weights he's got— well, looky here, you can talk to him yourself.”
A battered yellow Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. Rust fringed the wheel wells.
No Porsche, yet.
The man who got out was older than I expected— thirty or so— and huge. Six-five, tanned deeply, with very pale gray eyes and long, thick black hair brushed back and flowing over a yard of shoulder. His features were strong, square, perfect for the camera. The cleft in his chin was Kirk Douglas-caliber. He wore a heavy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to expose side-of-beef biceps, very brief black shorts, and sandals without socks. I tried to picture him with Tessa Bowlby.
He shot me a quick look, the gray eyes curious and intelligent; Tarzan with an IQ. A brown paper bag was in one hand. Handing it to Mrs. Green, he added a milk-fed smile.
“How's it going, Maidie. Hey, Sam.” Stroking the bullmastiff, he looked at me again. The dog's neck bulged and furrowed as she tilted her head back at him. Her eyes had softened. A big pink tongue bathed his fingers.
“Fine as rain,” said Mrs. Green. “This fellow's from the police, Reed, but no cop. A psychologist, isn't that something? He's here to talk to you about some murdered professor. What'd you go and do now, kid?”
Muscadine's thick brows curved and he squinted. “My professor?”
“Hope Devane,” I said.
“Oh. . . . Those are fresh today, Maidie.”
“From where, that health-food place?”
“Where else?”
“Organic.” She snorted. “Did you ever figure maybe the reason I lived so long is all the preservatives I took pickled me like a deli cuke?”
She looked inside the bag. “Peaches out of season? Must have cost a fortune.”
“I only got two,” said Muscadine. “The apples were actually cheap, and look at that color.” He turned to me. “A psychologist?”
“I work with the police.”
“I don't understand.”
“I'm looking into Professor Devane's committee work.”
“Oh. Sure. Want to come up?”
“Devane,” said Mrs. Green, scratching her nose. “Why is that name familiar?”
“She was murdered in Westwood,” said Muscadine. “What was it, three months ago?”
I nodded.
“Oh, yeah, the one who wrote a book,” said Mrs. Green. “She was your professor, Reed?”
“She taught me,” said Muscadine, looking at me.
“A professor.” She shook her head. “In a neighborhood like that. What a world— thanks for the fruit, Reed.”
“My pleasure, Maidie.”
Muscadine and I started up the driveway.
Mrs. Green said, “But don't spend like that, again. Not til you become a star.”
As we reached the stairs, he said, “Guess how old she is?”
“Eighty?”
“Ninety next month, maybe I should take preservatives.” He vaulted the steps three at a time and was unlocking the front door when I reached the top.
The apartment was a single front room with a closet-sized kitchen and a rear bath.
Two walls were mirrored, the others were painted true white. An enormous chrome weight machine took up the center, flanked by a pressing bench, a curl-bar, and, against the wall, a rack of dumbbells arranged by poundage. Iron discs for the bench-bar were stacked like giant black checkers. A double window bordered by ridiculously dainty gingham curtains looked down on blossoming orange trees. Facing the glass were a motorized treadmill, a stair-stepper, a cross-country ski machine, an exercise bike, and wedged in the corner, a double-sized mattress and box spring and two pillows. Black bed linens. I thought of Tessa and Muscadine grappling.
The only pieces of conventional furniture were a cheap wooden nightstand and dresser. A wheeled aluminum rack was hung with color-coordinated shirts, slacks, jeans, and sportcoats. Not too much of each, but the quality looked good. On the floor beneath the clothes were two pairs of sneakers, brown loafers, black oxfords, gray cowboy boots.
Nothing on the cracked tile kitchen counter but a blender and a hot plate. I'd seen bigger refrigerators in Winnebagos. A sign taped to the front said THINK POSTIVE—BUT LURN HOW TO SPEL. Two steel-and-plastic stools were up against the counter. Muscadine pulled one out and said, “Sorry, I don't entertain much.”
We both sat down.
“Thanks for not elaborating about the committee in front of Maidie. She gives me a break on the rent and right now I need it.”
I looked over the exercise equipment. “Nice setup.”
&
nbsp; “I used to work at a health club that went under. Got it cheap.”
“Were you a personal trainer?”
“More like impersonal. One of those budget places, basically a scam. I know it looks weird having all this stuff in a place this size but it ended up being cheaper than paying my own gym fees, and right now my body's my commodity.”
The room was hot but his skin was dry despite the heavy sweatshirt. Tossing his hair, he laughed. “That didn't come out exactly right. What I'm saying is no matter how intellectual you get about acting, the industry runs on first impressions and when you hit a certain age, you've got to work harder.”
“What age is that?”
“Depends on the person. I'm thirty-one. So far, so good.”
“First impressions,” I said. “The casting couch?”
“There's some of that still going around but what I mean is the way impulse rules. I can practice Stanislavsky— acting methods— from now til tomorrow, but if the bod goes so does my marketability.” He hooked his thumb downward.
“How long have you been working at it?”
“Couple of years. Got a degree in business, worked for an accounting firm for nine years. Finally I couldn't stand the sight of numbers and went back for a master's in fine arts. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I'm going to.” Opening the fridge, he pulled a bottle of mineral water from a grouping of two dozen. The only other thing inside was a grapefruit.
Twisting the top with two fingers, he took a long swallow.
“Why'd you drop out?” I said.
“Boy, word gets around fast. Who told you?”
“Professor Dirkhoff.”
“Good old Professor Dirkhoff. The old queen on his throne. He's quite miffed with me, thinks I should spend two more years developing my underlying resources.”
Flexing one arm, he rotated the hand. “Maybe I should have brought Dirkhoff up before the conduct committee. That would have blown Devane's mind.”
“Why's that?”
“No woman victim. Because that's really what the committee was all about: men against women. From the minute I got in there she was on the attack.”
Shrugging, he poured the rest of the water down his throat. “So you're talking to everyone involved with the committee?”
“Yes.”
“They said all records would be kept confidential but after the murder I wondered. But why a psychologist— what's your name, by the way?”
I showed him my ID. He read it and looked up at me. “I still don't understand what your role is.”
“The police have asked me to talk to people who knew Professor Devane, to do some victim analysis.”
“Analyzing her? That's interesting. I always figured it was some nut, maybe someone who read her book. I heard it was pretty hostile toward men.”
“And she was hostile in person,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. It really freaked me out being accused of rape. Being summoned. Maybe in the end it worked out for the best because the experience brought my ambivalence about school to a head and led me to try other alternatives— have you met the girl who accused me yet?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “She seems terrified.”
The gray eyes enlarged. “Of what?”
“I was going to ask you that.”
“You're thinking— oh, no. Lord, no, I've kept my distance. She's bad news, I wish we lived on separate planets.”
“Bad news?”
“Serious problems— she needs you. One night with her was enough.”
“What kind of problems?”
“She's disturbed. Unpredictable.”
He got another bottle. “The crazy thing is, I keep thinking maybe that was what attracted me to her, in the first place. The unpredictability. Because she's not the type I usually go for.”
“What type is that?”
“Normal. And to be frank, a lot better looking. Generally, I like girls who take care of themselves— athletes.”
“Tessa doesn't?”
“You met her. Tessa is sad.”
“So you think her unpredictability attracted you?”
“That and— I don't know, a certain . . . excitability. Like she might be interesting.” He shrugged. “The truth is, hell if I know. I'm still trying to understand it— did she tell you how we met?”
“Why don't you give me your version?”
“Your basic casual campus pickup. So normal, at first. We were in the student union, studying, eating, our eyes met and— boom. She was intense. Hot eyes, very soulful. And on some level she is attractive. Whatever it was, something clicked. For both of us.”
He shook his head and black hair streamed then fell back in place. “Maybe it was purely biochemical. I've read about certain chemicals that influence sexual attraction. Pheromones. So maybe the two of us were in chemical harmony that day, who knows? Whatever it was, it was one thousand percent mutual. Every time I looked at her she was staring at me. Finally, I went over and sat down next to her and she moved herself right up against me, hip-to-hip. Two minutes later, I'm asking her out and she's saying yes, as if what took so long, guy. I picked her up at her dorm that night. Movie, dinner, more small talk, but it was clear we were both just going through the motions, to make it seem . . . polite, before getting into the inevitable. And she was the one who suggested we come back here. I wasn't too keen on it, this place isn't exactly the Playboy Mansion, but she said there was no privacy in the dorms. I brought her back, fixed her a drink, went to the bathroom, and when I came out she was right there.”
He pointed to the mattress in the corner.
“Wearing one of those little black slips and her pantyhose were off, balled up, on the floor. When she saw me, she smiled and spread her legs. Before I knew it . . .” He clapped his big hands together. “Like a collision. And both of us came. In fact, she finished first. Then all of a sudden she rolls out from under me and starts to cry. I try to hold her, she shoves me away. Then the crying gets intense and takes on a sound that spooks me— over-the-edge— hysterical. And loud. All I need is for Mrs. G. to hear and come up, maybe with Sammy— Sammy doesn't like strangers. So I put my hand over her mouth— not hard, just to calm her down, and she tries to bite me. At that point, I stand up and back off. It was disorienting. One minute you're making love, the next she's out to kill you. I'm thinking, you idiot, Muscadine, going for the casual pickup. And she's not letting up. Finally, she makes this snarling sound, gets on all fours, scrambles for her pantyhose, manages to put them on, then runs out of the apartment and down the stairs. I follow her, trying to find out what's wrong, but she won't talk, keeps heading for the street. And now Sam is barking and Mrs. G.'s light goes on.”
“Did Mrs. Green come out?”
“No, we were moving pretty fast. Once she was out on Fourth, she headed north. I said c'mon, it's late, let me take you home, she said fuck you, I'll walk. Which is crazy, campus is five, six miles away. But every time I try to talk to her she threatens to scream, so finally I let her.”
He blew out air. “Unreal. For days after I kept trying to figure out what happened and the best I could come up with was maybe she'd been raped or molested before and had a flashback. Then a month later I get the notice to show up for the committee. It was like being hit right here.”
He pressed his solar plexus. “Later I found out I was never obligated to show up. But the letter sure made it sound that way.”
“How'd you feel about getting tested for HIV?”
“You know about that, too?”
“There are transcripts of the committee sessions.”
“Transcripts? Oh, shit. Are they going to be made public?”
“Not unless they turn out to be relevant to the murder.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Jesus . . . there's a school of thought in the industry says there's no such thing as bad publicity, just get your name out there. But that only applies to people who've
already made it. I'm a peasant. The last thing I need is for people to think I'm a rapist or infected.”
“So you're HIV-negative.”
“Of course I am! Do I look sick?”
“How's your back?”
“My back?”
“Mrs. Green said you'd been laid up.”
“Oh, that. Ruptured disc. My own fault. Felt feisty one morning and decided to go for three-twenty on the bench press. Spasmed, like a knife going right through me. Couldn't get up off the floor for an hour. The pain laid me up for a month, Mrs. G. brought me groceries. That's why I buy her stuff when I can. Even now I still get a twinge, but other than that I feel great. And I'm totally, one hundred percent negative.”
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