by Amore, Dani
There were a few other minor skirmishes over billing and one instance of a supposed breach of patient confidentiality.
But that was it.
Mary double-checked the date of the original complaint. It had been nearly two years ago.
She glanced at the clock. There was still time to give Robin Dipple a call if she could track down the number. A quick search yielded an R. Dipple in Beverly Hills, and another in Long Beach.
Mary gambled and called the number in Beverly Hills.
A woman answered.
Mary explained she wanted to talk to the Robin Dipple who filed a complaint against Dr. Frank Fallon. She explained she was a private investigator.
The woman hesitated only briefly then surprised Mary by volunteering her address. She told Mary to stop by around lunch time and she would happily tell her all about Dr. Frank Fallon.
Mary loved it when cases picked up steam, and this one was starting to give off smoke.
Twenty-Five
Mary was getting ready to leave her office for her appointment with Robin Dipple when a woman appeared in her lobby.
Mary immediately recognized her. She was the woman Mary had seen in the hallway outside of Dr. Frank Fallon’s office when she had gone there to question him.
“Hello?” Mary said, leaving her office to enter the waiting area.
“Hi, are you Mary Cooper?” the woman said.
“I am.”
“Hi, I’m Ann Budchuk. Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?”
Mary’s curiosity was piqued.
“Sure, come in,” she said. “Do you want anything? Water? Coffee?”
“No thank you,” Budchuk said.
They went into Mary’s office and the woman sat in a chair across from Mary’s desk. Mary slid her office chair out so the desk wasn’t between them.
“What brought you into a private investigator’s office?” Mary asked.
“I heard you at the doctor’s office…that you were looking into Craig Locher’s death.”
Mary hid her surprise.
“Did you know Mr. Locher?” Mary said, neither confirming nor denying if she was working the case.
“I did. We worked together years ago at a marketing firm and kept in touch. He was the one who actually recommended Dr. Fallon to me. I was shocked to hear he was murdered.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm him?”
The woman shook her head. “No, everyone loved Craig, that was the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, women were attracted to him, men loved to go drinking with him because he was fun and always made the party better with his presence. So he was constantly getting pulled by various people in tons of different directions. And he had a big problem saying no. So he almost always said yes. And that caused problems for him.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I believe he struggled with various addictions. Alcohol, drugs, or sex. Or, maybe even all three. I’m not sure. But he definitely needed help.”
Mary paused and thought about what Ann Budchuk was telling her.
“I get the feeling,” Mary said. “That you know something and that’s why you stopped by today. You wanted to check me out, see if I was legitimate, and maybe you would share with me what you know. And maybe you won’t. Are you at that point?”
Budchuk leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Just a good guess,” Mary said.
The woman nodded. “Yes, I do have something to share.”
She leaned forward and spread her hands on her knees.
“I think Craig was murdered by another one of Dr. Fallon’s patients.”
Twenty-Six
“His name is Derek Pitts.”
Mary started taking notes.
“He was…is…a total psycho,” Budchuk said with a small smile. “I know that’s not politically correct. I’m sure the medical term is bipolar or sociopathic or something. But the man is nuts.”
“How do you know all of this about him?”
“Well, his appointment was usually before mine, and I saw him in the waiting room. But then something went horribly wrong with his treatment and he supposedly broke into Fallon’s office, got all of our patient information, and made threats that he was going to kill every one of Fallon’s patients,” Budchuk said. Her hands shook as she talked. “Fallon’s office had to contact us and let us know about the situation once the police couldn’t find him.”
“When you say us, who do you mean?”
“All of us patients. A few of us ladies were friends and that’s how I found all this out. One of the other women knew Dr. Frank better than the rest of us, and apparently he told her some of this.”
“What did they say when they contacted you?” Mary asked.
“Just to take extra precautions for our safety.”
“And when did all of this happen?”
“About a month ago.”
Mary smiled to herself. Funny how Dr. Fallon had completely failed to mention that a former patient had made threats against his other patients. Apparently business came first for Dr. Fallon.
“What do you know about Pitts?” Mary asked.
“Virtually nothing other than what I just told you.”
“Did they tell you it was Pitts who had threatened your safety?”
“No, I just put two and two together. Plus, they gave a description and it fit him perfectly. I knew it was him. I could tell he was deeply troubled, in a bad way.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s short. Dark-skinned. Dark hair. Swarthy. Tons of tattoos. Looked like a weight lifter.”
Mary jotted something down.
“What do you mean he was troubled in a bad way?”
“Some people, you can just tell they wouldn’t mind hurting people. Like, if I imagined violence with this man, he wouldn’t be troubled by it.”
Mary looked at the woman.
“Do you mind if I ask what you’re seeing Dr. Fallon for?”
The woman seemed caught off-guard.
“Why does that matter?”
“It might not, but when someone provides what could be some very important information, I like to know as much as possible about the source.”
“So you’re trying to figure out if I’m a nutso, is that it?”
“I can tell you’re not a ‘nutso’ as you put it. Look, you don’t have to answer the question. But I felt I had to at least ask.”
“Fine. I’m seeing him for depression. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life.”
Mary nodded.
“Are you going to try to find Pitts?” Budchuk asked.
“Yes.”
“Good luck. And be careful.”
Twenty-Seven
Mary put in a call to Jake regarding Derek Pitts, then hustled to her car and drove to Robin Dipple’s house. Traffic was light for the first time in the history of Los Angeles, and she made the drive in less than twenty minutes.
The Dipple house was a French colonial with a custom tile inserted under every window. While the brick exterior was tan, the tiles were a powder blue and seemed to shout from the otherwise bland setting.
The woman who answered the door had a pretty but severe face, with skin stretched very tightly and eyebrows that slanted back with razor precision.
She showed Mary in to a formal living room where a sitting area anchored by two French wingback chairs faced a fireplace.
“Thank you for so readily agreeing to see me,” Mary said.
“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine,” the woman said. She smiled and Mary thought she could actually hear the woman’s face creak under the exertion.
“So as I understand it, you filed a complaint against Dr. Fallon,” Mary said.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“No.”
Mary looked at her. “What do you mean? You inv
ited me over to talk.”
“What I mean is I signed a non-disclosure agreement after we settled out of court. So I can’t talk about specifics of my case, but I can give you opinions. I read the contract very carefully before I settled.”
“That’s good.”
“So I can tell you, in general terms, that Dr. Frank Fallon is a piece of dogshit. A steaming pile of poo.”
“I’m surprised those phrases weren’t included in the legal document,” Mary said.
“Nope, they sure weren’t. In fact, I can give my opinion on all kinds of things, as long as I don’t talk about the specifics of my case.”
“And why do you associate Fallon so strongly with dog feces?”
“Because he will pursue a woman for sex long past the point of reason. Again, in my opinion, he will resort to whatever means necessary to get his way. Do you understand what I mean?”
Mary thought about it. By any means necessary could mean all kinds of things.
She considered asking for clarification, but knew the woman was bound by legalities.
“How long ago was your incident?”
“I can’t say. What I can say is that my favorite number is 2.”
Two years.
“I see.”
“And did you want to talk to me because you feel that some people never change their ways? That they continue to repeat behavior they shouldn’t?”
The woman nodded her head vigorously.
Mary was at a brief loss in terms of the best way to continue. She opted for the big picture.
“Do you have any general opinions you’d like to share with me?”
“Why yes,” the woman said. “Yes I do.”
She folded her hands across her lap.
“Again, this is my opinion, but when a celebrity of any sort, say a lawyer or a doctor or an actor becomes too big for their sexual britches they begin to feel above the law.”
Sexual britches? Mary would have to remember that one.
“In that case, a celebrity doctor might need money to cover up their discretions. Lots and lots of money. And in order to get their hands on the kind of cash they would need to cover up their problems, they would do all kinds of things.”
“What kind of things would they do, in your opinion?” Mary said.
“I actually don’t have a firm opinion on that one. But I have an opinion based on something I overheard.”
Mary was getting tired of the innuendo. But she knew it was all she was going to get.
“And that would be?” Mary prompted.
“That a celebrity type would venture into illegal practices within their industry. The kind that would generate lots of money.”
“And that would possibly hurt people?”
“Yes. That would be my opinion.”
Twenty-Eight
Mary went back to her office to begin looking into the whereabouts of one Derek Pitts.
When she got there, though, she found an envelope that had been slid beneath the door.
Mary took it back to her desk, popped a Point beer, and slid a finger underneath the flap.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a medical file that had a header noting it came from the office of Dr. Frank Fallon.
There was a yellow Post-It Note on the front. It read:
Ms. Cooper,
I finally got access to Craig’s file from Dr. Fallon. I didn’t read it because I don’t really want to know what he talked about with his shrink. I did make a copy just in case, which you now have. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.
Sincerely,
Jenni Mulderink.
Mary drank from her beer and read the report.
One phrase was used repeatedly.
Sex addiction.
Twenty-Nine
Mary had no trouble tracking down Derek Pitts, thanks to her handy access to the Los Angeles County jail’s database. She logged in, searched under his name, and found that he had done plenty of time, several three-year stints, with an arrest record two pages long.
There was also a recent entry with the name and telephone number of his parole officer.
Mary loved parole officers, had done a lot of work with them during her career, and knew exactly how to impersonate an employer calling to verify a job applicant’s address.
It took her less than five minutes to get in touch with the PO, give her spiel, and get a current address for one Derek Pitts.
She jotted down the address and looked it up on Google maps.
It was a rough area in Los Angeles proper.
Mary went to the gun safe in her office, located inside a supply closet, put an extra clip for her .45 in her pocket, and strapped on an ankle holster which held her 5-shot .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson.
A girl could never be too careful these days, Mary figured.
She locked up the office, got into the Accord, and headed out for the last known address of Derek Pitts. On the way, she called Alice.
“I’m headed into the ghetto,” Mary said. “If I don’t make it out, sell my condo and buy yourself a Porsche.”
“The hell with that,” Alice said. “I’ll buy myself a Bentley. Porsches are passé these days.”
Mary laughed. “Just don’t let Sanji get his hands on the money.”
“Oh, his hands are full, believe me,” Alice said, then giggled.
Mary disconnected, and ten minutes later she was driving down a street that bore the name of Derek Pitts’ last address.
She found the house and saw that it was collapsing on its foundation. The window was broken, an empty bottle of malt liquor sat on the porch.
She parked the car, locked it, and walked to the front door.
In the distance, she heard a dog barking, and a rank, sour smell assailed her nose.
Knocking on the door seemed silly, so she walked down the length of the porch and peered inside the broken smashed window.
It showed a living room in serious disarray.
And an object in the middle of the floor.
It was a body.
She stepped through the window, careful not to snag her clothes on the shards of glass. Mary went to the body and looked at the face.
No doubt about it.
The man was dead.
He was naked, except for a baby’s milk bottle jammed into his mouth.
And he was Derek Pitts.
Thirty
“I’ve got a cold one for you,” Mary said into her cell phone. Jake was on the other end of the line.
“Perfect, I’m dying for a beer.”
“No beer, Jake. I’ve got a body.”
“Don’t tease me like that.”
“I’ll tell you where the body is if you can run down a name for me.”
She heard him sigh on the other end of the line.
“Why do I want to know where this body is?”
“Because it has to do with your case, I’m fairly certain.”
“Which case is that?”
“Craig Locher and Valerie Barnes.”
“Craig Locher and Valerie Barnes are most certainly not my cases,” Jake pointed out.
“Well they should be if you want to close them and take credit for all of my brilliant detective work,” Mary said.
There was a pause.
“Give me the address,” Jake said.
She read off the address and ended the call.
It was amusing how easily she could manipulate him.
Her phone rang and she wondered if Jake was going to refuse to come out to the crime scene. But the number on her screen wasn’t Jake’s.
It was Ann Budchuk’s.
“Ms. Cooper, it’s Ann Budchuk, I’m having an emergency, I need to see you as soon as possible.”
“Do you need to call 911?” Mary asked.
“No, it’s not that kind of emergency,” the woman said. “Look, it’s just really urgent that I talk to you at my house as soon as you can swing by.”
Mary told her she’d be
there in less than thirty minutes, depending on traffic, and hung up.
She texted Jake that she had to leave, and then got in her car and drove to Budchuk’s place in the Pacific Palisades, just across San Vincente Boulevard.
Budchuk’s home was a cozy Cape Cod, painted an unusual dark blue, with white shutters and a one-car garage detached from the main house at the end of a gravel driveway.
Mary found a parking spot halfway down the block, then walked back to the house. She went to the front door.
It was partially open.
Mary slid her .45 from its shoulder holster.
She slipped in through the door and found herself in a tiny foyer with a coat closet to the left and an old radiator heater on the right. A door with thick glass squares faced her and it, too, was ajar.
Mary listened, heard nothing, then moved forward, nudging the door open with her shoulder.
To her right was a living room with a simple sitting area facing a flat screen television. To her left was a dining room with a pass through window. Kitchen cabinets were visible through the opening, as well as a kettle that still had steam rising from its spout.
Mary walked down the hallway between the two rooms and stepped into the kitchen.
Anna Budchuk was on the floor, on her back, with her eyes wide open staring at the ceiling fixture. Green vomit ran from her mouth down the side of her neck and pooled on the floor.
The rest of her body was covered with baby powder. The smell of the powder and the vomit combined to make Mary feel ill.
She then noticed a collection of pill bottles on the kitchen counter next to the sink.
Mary stepped over the dead woman, turned the stove off, then studied the bottles before slipping one into her pocket.
She took out her cell phone and dialed Jake.
He wouldn’t be happy about another body.
Thirty-One
The pharmacy was a Rite-Aid on Lincoln. Mary went to the counter and stood in line behind a guy with a walker. She assumed it was going to take awhile.
Fifteen minutes later, a woman peeked around a different window and called Mary over.