Chapter
9
I managed to catch up to him, flashed my brights and honked. He ignored me, was all over the road, weaving, speeding. Then more gear-grinding as he tried to shift. The truck got stuck in neutral, slowed to a coast, the engine racing as he fed gas without disengaging the clutch. He hit the brakes suddenly, came to a full stop. I stayed back, could see him through the truck’s rear window, struggling, tugging.
The truck stalled. Started, stalled again. He began coasting, picking up some speed on the downhill, then braking, sliding, reducing it to a crawl.
At the fenced marshland he let go of the wheel and threw his hands up. The truck skidded, veered, headed straight for the chain-link fence.
He hit it, but not hard—didn’t even dent his fender. I pulled over behind him. The tires spun for a while; then the engine went dead.
Before I had a chance to get out of the car, he was out of the truck, lurching, arms hanging gorillalike, a bottle in one hand. I locked the car. He was right next to me, kicking the Seville’s tires, pressing both hands on my door. The bottle was empty. Gatorade. He raised it as if to smash my window, lost his grip and let it spin out of his hand. He followed its descent, gave up, looked at me. His eyes were watery, swollen, rimmed scarlet.
“Gonna … kill your … ass, man.” Slurred speech. Theatrical grimaces.
“The fuck … following me?”
He closed his eyes, staggered, fell forward, knocked his forehead on the roof of the car.
The brain-damaged stance of a lifelong boozehound. But his life hadn’t been that long—what was he, twenty-two or -three?
He kicked the car, grabbed the door handle, missed, and stumbled. Little more than a kid. Baby bulldog face. Short—five four or five—but strong-looking, with sloping shoulders and thick, sunburned arms. Red hair, shoulder-length, coarse, uncombed. Wispy mustache and beard the color of lint. Pimples on his brow and cheeks. He wore a sweat-stained T-shirt, cutoff shorts, tennis shoes without socks.
“Fuck, man,” he said, and scratched an armpit. His hands were blunt-edged, scarred and scabbed, caked with grime.
He rocked on his heels, finally lost balance completely and landed on his rear.
He stayed that way for a while. I slid across the seat and exited the Seville on the passenger side. He watched me, not moving, let his eyes drop shut again, as if lacking the strength to keep them open.
I walked to his truck. Thirty-year-old Ford, poorly maintained. Wobbly white letters spelled out D.J. RASMUSSEN, CARPENTRY AND FRAMING on the door. Under that, a post office box in Newhall. In the truck bed were two ladders, a toolbox, a couple of blankets weighed down by metal parts.
The interior was littered with empty bottles—more Gatorade, Southern Comfort, several brands of wine cooler.
I pocketed the key, removed the distributor cap, and returned to where he still sat.
“You D.J.?”
Glazed look. Up close he smelled of ferment and vomit.
“What were you doing up there?”
No answer.
“Were you paying last respects? To Dr. Ransom?”
The glaze melted fast. Right track.
“Me too,” I said.
“Fu-uck you.” Followed by a putrid belch that made me step back. He mumbled, tried to move an arm, couldn’t. Closed his eyes, seemed in pain.
I said, “I was a friend of hers.”
Belch and a gurgle. He looked ready to throw up. I took another couple of steps back, waited.
An unproductive dry retch. His eyes opened, stared at nothing.
“I was her friend,” I repeated. “How about you?”
He moaned. Dry-retched.
“D.J.?”
“Oh, man … you’re …” He trailed off.
“What?”
“Fucking … with … my head.”
“I’m not trying to,” I said. “Just trying to understand why she’s dead.”
More moaning.
He ran his tongue over his lips, tried to spit and ended up drooling.
“If she was more than just a friend, it could be harder on you,” I said. “Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent.”
“Fuck you.”
“Was she your doctor, D.J.?”
“Fuck you!” After several efforts he managed to get to his feet, came at me, fell upon me.
Limp as a bundle of rags, his arms bulky but booze-dead, carrying no punch. I stopped him easily with a hand to the chest. Took hold of his arm and sat him back down.
I showed him the cap and the keys.
“Hey, man … what the …”
“You’re in no shape to drive. I’m holding on to these until you show me you’ve got it together.”
“Fuck you.” Less conviction.
“Talk to me, D.J. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“What … about?”
“About being Dr. Ransom’s patient?”
Exaggerated shake of head. “Uh-uh … not … crazy.”
“What’s your connection to her?”
“Bad back.”
“Lot of pain?”
“Hurt … fucking job.” Remembering, he bit his lip.
“Dr. Ransom was helping you with the pain?”
Nod. “And … after—” He made a feeble try for the keys. “Gimme my shit!”
“After what?”
“Gimme my shit, man!”
“After she helped you with the pain, then what?”
“Fuck you!” he screamed. The cords on his neck swelled; he punched out wildly, missed, tried to get up, couldn’t lift his butt from the ground.
I’d pushed a button. It set me thinking.
“Fuck nothing after! Fuck nothing!” He flapped his arms, swore, tried to get up and buckled.
“Who referred you to Dr. Ransom, D.J.?”
Silence.
I repeated the question.
“Fu-uck you-u.”
“There may be other patients who are feeling as bad as you do, D.J.”
He gave a sick smile, then a feeble head shake. “Uh-uh.”
“If we can find out who referred them, we can track them down. Help them.”
“No … fuck … ingway.”
“Someone should get in touch with them, D.J.”
“I’m … You’re some … fucking Robin Hood?”
“A friend,” I said. “A psychologist, like her.”
He looked around, seemed to be noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Where am I?”
“Side of the road. Just down from Dr. Ransom’s house.”
“Who’re you, some fucking … Robin Hood?”
“A friend. Who referred you to her, D.J.?”
“Doctor.”
“Which doctor?”
“Carmen.”
“Dr. Carmen?”
He giggled. “Carmen … doctor.”
“Carmen’s doctor?”
Nod.
“Who’s Carmen?”
“Fuck you.”
“What’s the name of Carmen’s doctor?”
A few more go-rounds before he said, “Bev … Hills Jew … Wein …”
I wasn’t sure if he was giving me a name or asking for a drink. “Wine?”
“Dr. Weinfu-uck.”
“Wein something? Weinstein? Weinberg?”
“Garden, grow grow grow.”
“Weingarden? Dr. Weingarden?”
“Big … mouthed Jew.”
He slumped and fell over, lay on his side.
I nudged him. Dead to the world. After copying down the post-office box number on the truck door, I searched among the bottles in the cab, found one that was half full, and emptied it. Then I let the air out of two of the tires, removed one of the blankets from the truck bed, hid the keys under the remaining two, stashed the distributor cap in the bottom compartment of his tool box. Figuring if he could work all that out, he’d be sober enough to drive. Then I spread the blanket over him and left him to sleep it of
f.
I drove away telling myself I’d use the post office box to reach him in a few days. Encourage him to get a new therapist.
God knew he needed the help. Through the booze haze there’d been heavy potential for violence—one of those tightly wound, pressure-cooked young bulls who let things build to an excruciating level, then blow it off without warning with fists, brass knuckles, blades, chains, and guns.
Not exactly your typical private-practice patient. Where had Sharon gotten him? How many others like him had she treated? And how many fragile personalities were on the verge of shattering because she’d no longer be there to hold them together?
I recalled Rasmussen’s sudden rage when I asked what had happened after the pain treatment was over.
An ugly hunch that I couldn’t justify, but one that refused to fade away, was that his relationship with Sharon had gone beyond treatment. Something strong enough to draw him back to her house. Searching? For what?
Following in Trapp’s footsteps …
Could she have been sleeping with both of them? I realized I’d wondered the same thing about the old sheik at the party. About Kruse, years ago.
Maybe I was getting carried away—projecting. Assuming sexual links that didn’t exist, because my own entanglement with her had been carnal.
As Milo would say: Limited thinking, pal.
But limited or not, I couldn’t shake it.
I got home at one-thirty, found messages from Maura Bannon, the student reporter, and Detective Delano Hardy. Del was on another line when I called, so I pulled out the phone book and looked for a Dr. Weingarden in Beverly Hills.
There were two by that name, an Isaac on Bedford Drive and a Leslie, on Roxbury.
Isaac Weingarden answered his own phone. He sounded like an old man, with a soft, kindly voice and a Viennese accent. When I found out he was a psychiatrist, I was certain he was my man, but he denied knowing Sharon or Rasmsussen.
“You sound upset, young man. Is there anything I can do?”
“No thanks.”
I phoned Leslie Weingarden’s office. The receptionist said, “Doctor’s with a patient now.”
“Could you please tell him it’s about Dr. Sharon Ransom.”
“Him is a her. Hold on.”
I listened to Mantovani for several minutes. Then: “Doctor can’t be disturbed. She said to take your number and she’ll get back to you.”
“Could you just tell me if Dr. Weingarden refers to Dr. Ransom?”
Hesitation. “I have no idea, sir. I’m only passing along what the doctor told me.”
At two-fifteen Del Hardy called.
“Hi, Del. How’s it going?”
“Busy. With this heat coming on, it’s going to get busier. What can I do for you?”
I told him about Sharon, about seeing Cyril Trapp. About the quick sale of the house.
“Trapp, huh? Interesting.” But he didn’t sound interested. Though he was one of the few detectives cordial with Milo, that friendliness didn’t stretch into friendship. Trapp was a burden he wasn’t willing to share.
“Nichols Canyon is Hollywood Division,” he said. “So I wouldn’t even know who’s on it. With the workload we’ve got, all the divisions are trying to clear the routine ones quickly, do lots of stuff over the phone.”
“This quickly?”
“Not usually,” he said, “but you never can tell.”
I didn’t say anything.
He said, “You say she was a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I could ask a few questions.”
“I’d really appreciate that, Del. The paper said no family members had been located. But I know she has a sister—a twin. I met her six years ago.”
I was their only little girl. Another surprise.
“Name?”
“Shirlee, with two e’s. She was disabled, lived in a board-and-care out in Glendale. South Brand, about a mile past the Galleria.”
“Name of the place?”
“I was only there once, never noticed.”
“I’ll check it out.” He lowered his voice. “Listen, about the Trapp thing. Captain wouldn’t be working some no-glory suicide. So his being up there was probably something personal—maybe a real estate thing. Some guys move in on properties, try to get ’em cheap. Not in good taste, but you know how it is.”
“Donald Trump of the crime scene,” I said.
He laughed. “You got it. One other possibility—was the victim rich?”
“She came from money.”
“Then that could be it,” he said, sounding relieved. “Someone pushed a few buttons; the word came down from on high to keep it quiet, clear it quickly. Trapp used to be with Hollywood Division—maybe someone remembered that, called in a favor.”
“Personalized service?”
“Happens all the time. Main thing about being rich is having stuff no one else can have, right? Nowadays, anyone can buy a Mercedes on payments. Dope, clothes, same thing. But privacy—that’s the ultimate luxury in this town.”
“Okay,” I said. But I was wondering who’d pushed the buttons. Thought, immediately, of the old sheik at the party. There was no way to pursue that with Del, so I thanked him again.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Hear from Milo recently?”
“No. Have you? I think he’s due back Monday.”
“Not a word. The duty roster says he’s supposed to be back in the office Monday. Knowing Milo, that means he’ll be in town Saturday or Sunday, pacing around, cussing. And none too soon, far as I’m concerned. The vermin are out in force.”
After he hung up, I looked in the Yellow Pages for a rest home on South Brand, found nothing. A few minutes later Mal Worthy called to remind me of tomorrow’s deposition. He seemed worried about my state of mind, kept asking me if I was okay.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Perry Mason couldn’t get the better of me.”
“Mason was a wimp. Watch out for these insurance guys. By the way, Denise says definitely no more sessions for Darren. She wants to handle things by herself. But that’s off the record. As far as the other side’s concerned, the kid will be in treatment for the rest of his life. And beyond.”
“How’s Darren doing?”
“About the same.”
“Persuade her to continue treatment, Mal. If she wants someone else, I’ll get her a referral.”
“She’s pretty resolute, Alex, but I’ll keep trying. Meanwhile, I’m more concerned with helping her put food on the table. Ciao.”
I spent the next couple of hours preparing for the deposition, was interrupted by the phone.
“Dr. Delaware? Maura Bannon? L.A. Times?”
She sounded around thirteen, had a high voice with a slight lisp and a New England accent and turned her statements into questions.
“Hello, Ms. Bannon.”
“Ned Biondi gave me your number? I’m so glad I caught you—I wonder if we could meet?”
“For what purpose?”
“You knew Dr. Ransom, right? I thought maybe you could give me some background on her?”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Oh?” She sounded crestfallen.
“I haven’t seen Dr. Ransom in years.”
“Oh. I just thought … Well, you know, I’m trying to give a well-rounded picture, establish some context? For the profile? It’s such a strange thing, a psychologist killing herself like that—man bites dog, you know? People would be interested in finding out why.”
“Have you learned anything more than what you put in your first article?”
“No, I haven’t, Dr. Delaware. Is there anything more to find out? Because if there is, I’d surely appreciate knowing about it. I think the police have been holding back on me. I’ve put several calls in to them, but no one’s returned them.” Pause. “I don’t think they’re taking me seriously.”
Privacy, the ultimate luxury.
“I’d like to help yo
u,” I said, “but I really have nothing to add.”
“Mr. Biondi said—”
“If I led Mr. Biondi to believe any different, I’m sorry, Ms. Bannon.”
“Okay,” she said. “But if you find out anything, please let me know?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, Dr. Delaware.”
I sat back, stared out the window, and felt the loneliness coming on.
Misery loves company—the bigger the other guy’s misery, the better the company. I called Newhall information and asked for a number on D.J. Rasmussen. No listing. Thinking of my only other connection to the young drunk, I phoned Dr. Leslie Weingarden’s office.
“I was just about to call you,” said the receptionist. “Doctor can see you after her last patient, around six.”
“I really don’t need an appointment. Just wanted to talk to her over the phone.”
“I’m telling you what she told me, Mr. Delaware.”
“Six will be fine.”
Chapter
10
Leslie Weingarden’s building was a three-story, red brick Federal structure with limestone cornice and forest-green awnings, situated in the heart of Beverly Hills’ medical district. The interior was golden-oak raised paneling, green-and-rose carpeting. The directory listed several dozen tenants: M.D.’s, dentists, a handful of Ph.D.’s.
One of the Ph.D.’s caught my eye: KRUSE, P.P. SUITE 300. Made sense—this was couch row. But years before he’d had another address.
Leslie Weingarden’s office was on the ground floor, toward the rear of the building. Her nameplate listed her specialties as Internal Medicine and Women’s Health Issues. Her waiting room was small and decorated in budget good-cheer—white-and-gray miniprint paper, overstuffed white cotton chairs and Danish-modern tables, a scattering of art prints, a potted schefflera in a straw basket. No patients, but the remnants of the day’s traffic were apparent: gum wrappers, an empty aspirin bottle and a used emery board on the coffee table, magazines splayed open on the chairs.
I knocked on the glass partition, waited several seconds before it slid open. A Hispanic woman in her fifties looked out. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Delaware. I have an appointment with Dr. Weingarden.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here.”
I waited for half an hour, leafing through magazines, wondering if any of them had carried Paul Kruse’s column. At six-thirty, the door to the inner office opened and a good-looking woman around thirty came out.
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