“So you’re saying forget the whole thing.”
“Not so fast, Lone Ranger. I didn’t say I was going to forget it. I’ll pursue it. But for selfish reasons—the chance of getting something on Trapp. And there’s one thing about the film story that does snag my interest—Harvey Pinckley, the guy who caught the call. He was one of Trapp’s boys when Trapp was at Hollywood. First-class ass-kisser.”
“Del made it sound as if he was okay.”
“Del didn’t know him. I did. Besides, Del’s a good guy, but our relationship’s been a bit frosty of late.”
“Departmental politics?”
“Marital problems—his wife’s giving him grief. He’s sure she’s stepping out. It’s turned him asocial.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. He was the only one in the division who ever treated me human. And don’t get me wrong—we’re not ripping each other’s throats out. But he’s not going to extend himself—for anyone. Anyway, the timing’s right for a little extracurricular info-gathering. I don’t have to report till Monday, and Rick will either be working or sleeping it off all weekend.”
He got up, walked around. “Idle hands make the devil’s work, lad. Far be it from me to tempt Satan. Just don’t expect anything dramatic, okay?”
I nodded, took the dishes to the sink and started washing.
He came over and placed a big, padded hand on my shoulder.
“You look down. ’Fess up, Doctor. This friend was more than just a friend.”
“A long time ago, Milo.”
“But from the way you look when you talk about her, it’s not that ancient a history. Or is there something else on that scary thing you call your mind?”
“Nothing, Milo.”
He removed his hand. “Do consider one thing, Alex. Are you ready to hear more dirt about her? ’Cause, from what we already know, once we start digging, it ain’t gonna be buried treasure time.”
“No problem,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Uh-huh,” he said. And went to get another beer.
Chapter
14
When he was gone my nonchalance faded. How much more dirt did I really want to encounter, when I’d never made sense of what I knew already?
Free follow-up visits.
I’d been followed up too.
The scene with the twin photo left me addled, in pain, unable to concentrate on work. Three days later I started calling her, got no answer. Four days later I gathered my resolve and went back to the house on Jalmia. No one home. I inquired at the psych department, was informed she was on temporary leave. None of her professors was worried about her absence. She’d had to take leave before—“family business”—had always made up the work, was a top-notch student. They suggested I talk to her adviser, Dr. Kruse.
When Kruse didn’t return a week’s worth of phone calls, I looked up his office address and drove there. The building was five stories of anodized steel and bronzed glass on Sunset near Doheny, granite-lobbied and maroon-carpeted, with a noisy French restaurant that opened to a sidewalk café on the ground floor. The directory listed an odd mix of tenants: about a third psychologists and psychiatrists, the rest various film-related concerns—production companies, agents, publicists, personal managers.
Kruse’s suite was on the top floor. His door was locked. I kneeled, opened the mail slot, and peeked in. Darkness. I got up and looked around. One other suite took up the rest of the floor—an outfit called Creative Image Associates. Its double doors were locked too.
I taped a note under Kruse’s nameplate, leaving my name and number, and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible re: S.R. Then I drove up to the house on Jalmia again.
The oil stain in the carport was dry, the foliage wilting. The mailbox was crammed with at least a week’s worth of correspondence. I skimmed the return addresses on the envelopes. All junk. Nothing indicating where she’d gone.
The following morning, before heading for the hospital, I went back to the psych department and got Kruse’s home address out of the faculty files. Pacific Palisades. I drove there that evening and sat waiting for him.
The tail end of November, just before Thanksgiving. L.A.’s best time of year. The sky had just deepened from El Greco blue to a glowing pewter, swelling with rain clouds and sweet with electricity.
Kruse’s house was big, pink, and Spanish, on a private road off Mandeville Canyon, just a short drive down to the coast highway and the high, battering tides of autumn. The street was narrow and quiet, the nearby properties estate-sized, but Kruse’s layout was open, no high walls or gates.
Psychology had been good to him. The house was graceful, with two hundred feet of landscaped garden on each side, adorned with verandas, Monterey roofs, hand-turned wooden grillwork, leaded windows. Shading the south side of the lawn was a beautifully warped black pine—giant bonsai. A pair of Brazilian orchid trees had sprinkled the freshly sown rye grass with violet blossoms. A semicircular driveway inlaid with Moorish tile cut an inverted U through the grass.
At twilight, colored outdoor lights came on and high-lighted the landscaping. No cars, not a sound. More canyon seclusion. Sitting there, I was reminded of the house on Jalmia—the master’s influence?—thought about Sharon’s inheritance story and wondered again if Kruse had set her up.
I wondered, too, about what had happened to the other little girl in the photo.
He showed up shortly after eight, driving a black, gold pin-striped Mercedes two-seater with the top down. He gunned up the driveway. Instead of opening the door, he swung his legs over it. His long yellow hair was perfectly windblown; a pair of mirrored sunglasses dangled from a gold chain around his neck. He carried no briefcase, just a small, purselike calfskin shoulder bag that matched his boots. He wore a gray cashmere sport coat, white silk turtleneck, and black slacks. A black silk handkerchief trimmed with scarlet spilled out of his breast pocket.
As he headed toward his front door I got out of the Rambler. The sound of my door slamming made him turn. He stared. I jogged toward him and stepped into the artificial light.
“Dr. Kruse, I’m Alex Delaware.”
Despite all the messages, my name evoked no sign of recognition.
“I’m a friend of Sharon Ransom.”
“Hello, Alex. I’m Paul.” Half-smile. His voice was low, from the chest, modulated like that of a disc jockey.
“I’m trying to locate her,” I said.
He nodded but didn’t answer. The silence lengthened. I felt obligated to speak.
“She hasn’t been home for over two weeks, Dr. Kruse. I was wondering if you knew where she is.”
“You care about her,” he said, as if answering a question I hadn’t asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Alex Delaware,” he said.
“I’ve called you several times. Left messages at your office.”
Big smile. He gave his head a toss. The yellow hair whipped back, then settled across his forehead. He took his keys out of his purse.
“I’d love to help you, Alex, but I can’t.” He began walking to the door.
“Please, Dr. Kruse …”
He stopped, turned, looked over his shoulder, flicked his eyes at me, and smiled again. But it came out as a sour twist of his lips, as if the sight of me made him ill.
Paul likes you…. He likes what I’ve told him about you.
“Where is she, Dr. Kruse?”
“The fact that she didn’t tell you implies something, doesn’t it?”
“Just tell me if she’s okay. Is she coming back to L.A. or gone for good.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t talk to you about anything. Therapeutic confidentiality.”
“You’re her therapist?”
“I’m her supervisor. Inherent in the supervisory relationship is more than a little psychotherapy.”
“Telling me if she’s all right won’t violate confidentiality.”
He shook
his head. Then something odd happened to his face.
The upper half remained all hard scrutiny—heavy blond brows and pale-brown eyes flecked with green that bored into mine with Svengali-like intensity. But from the nose down he’d gone slack, the mouth curling into a foolish, almost clownish leer.
Two personalities sharing one face. Freaky as a carny show and twice as unsettling because there was hostility behind it, the desire to ridicule. To dominate.
“Tell her I care about her,” I said. “Tell her whatever she does, that I still care.”
“Have a good evening,” he said. Then he went into his house.
An hour later, back in my apartment, I was furious, determined to flush her and her bullshit out of my life. A month later I’d settled down to solitude and a crushing workload, was managing to fake contentment well enough to believe it myself, when she called. Eleven P.M. I’d just gotten home, dog-tired and hungry. When I heard her voice, my resolve melted like old slush under a new sun.
“I’m back. I’m sorry—I’ll explain everything,” she told me. “Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
I showered, put on fresh clothes, drove to Nichols Canyon prepared to ask hard questions. She was waiting for me at the door in a flame-red low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her. In her hand was a snifter of something pink and redolent of strawberries. It obscured her perfume—no spring flowers.
The house was brightly lit. Before I could speak she pulled me inside and pressed her mouth against mine, worming her tongue between my teeth and keeping us fastened by pressing one hand hard to the back of my head. Her breath was sharp with alcohol. It was the first time I’d seen her drink anything other than 7-Up. When I commented on it, she laughed and hurled the glass at the fireplace. It shattered and left pink snail-tracks on the wall.
“Strawberry daiquiri, darling. I guess I’m in a tropical mood.” Her voice was husky, inebriated. She kissed me again, harder, began undulating against me. I closed my eyes, sank into the boozy sweetness of the kiss. She moved away from me. I opened my eyes, saw her peeling out of the red dress, shimmying and licking her lips. The silk caught on her hips, gave way after a tug, then fell to the floor, just a flimsy orange ribbon. She stepped away from me, gave me a look at her: braless, in black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes.
She ran her hands over her body.
In the abstract it was X-rated comedy, Frederick’s of Hollywood, a lampoon. But she was anything but abstract and I stood there, transfixed.
I let her strip me down in a practiced manner that excited and frightened me.
Too nimble.
Too professional.
How many other times?
How many other men? Who’d taught her—
To hell with that. I didn’t care—I wanted her. She had me out, in her hand, kneading, nibbling.
We embraced again, naked. Her fingers traveled over my body, scratching, raising welts. She put my hand between her legs, rode my fingers, engulfed them.
“Yum,” she said, stepping back once more, pirouetting and exhibiting herself.
I reached for the light switch. She said, “No. Keep it bright. I want to see it, see everything.”
I realized that the drapes were open. We were standing before the wall of glass, top-lit, giving a free show to Hollywood.
I turned the light off.
“Party pooper,” she said and kneeled before me, grinning. I put my fingers in her hair, was engulfed, spun backward into a vortex of pleasure. She pulled away to catch her breath, said, “C’mon, the lights. I want to see it.”
“In the bedroom,” I gasped. Lifting her in my arms, I carried her down the hall as she continued to kiss me and stroke me. The bedroom lights were on, but the high windows afforded privacy.
I set her down on top of the covers. She opened like a book to a favorite page. I got on top.
She rounded her back and drew her legs up in the air. Put me in her and rocked her hips, holding me at arm’s length so she could stare at the piston merger of our flesh.
Once, she’d been married to modesty; there’d been a quickie divorce….
“You’re in me, oh, God.” She pinched her nipples, touched herself, made sure I watched.
She rode me, withdrew me, took me in hand, rubbed me over her face, slid me between her breasts, wrapped me in the soft tangle of her hair. Then got under me, pulled me down hard, and tongued my anus.
A moment later we were locked together standing, her back to the wall. Then she positioned me near the foot of the bed and sat on me, staring over my shoulder into the mirror above the dresser. Not satisfied with that, she pushed me off her and pulled me into the bathroom. I realized why right away—tall, mirrored medicine chests on two walls, mirrors that could be pulled out and angled, for side views, back views. After arranging her stage, she sat on the cold tile counter, shivering and goose-bumped, put me in her again, darted her eyes.
We ended up on the bathroom floor, she squatting over me, touching herself, tracing a vaginal trail up and down my chest, then impaling herself again.
When I closed my eyes she cried out, “No!” and pried them open. Finally she lost herself in the pleasure, opened her mouth wide, and panted and grunted. Sobbed and covered her face.
And came.
I exploded a second later. She extricated herself, licked me hard, and kept moving, slamming herself down on the tile, using me selfishly, climaxing a second time.
We staggered back to the bedroom and fell asleep in each other’s arms, with the lights still on. I slept, woke up feeling drugged.
She wasn’t in bed. I found her in the living room, hair pinned up, dressed in tight jeans and a tank top—another new look. Sitting in a sling chair drinking another strawberry daiquiri and reading a psych journal, unaware of my presence.
I watched her stick a finger in the drink, pull it out coated with pink foam, and lick it off.
“Hi,” I said, smiling and stretching.
She looked up at me. Her expression was odd. Flat. Bored. Then it heated and turned ugly.
Contemptuous.
“Sharon?”
She placed the drink on the carpet and stood up. “Okay,” she said. “You got what you wanted, you scummy prick. Now get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of my life—get out!”
I dressed hurriedly, carelessly, feeling as worthwhile as a scab. Rushed past her, out of the house and into the Rambler. Hands shaking, I started the car and hurtled down Jalmia.
Only when I was back on Hollywood Boulevard did I take the time to breathe.
But breathing hurt, as if I’d been poisoned. I wanted suddenly to destroy her. To leach her toxin from my blood.
I screamed.
Entertaining murderous thoughts, I sped along dark streets, as dangerous as a drunk driver.
I got onto Sunset, passed nightclubs and disco joints, smiling faces that seemed to mock my own misery. But by the time I reached Doheny, my rage had faded to gnawing sadness. Disgust.
This was it—no more mindfucks.
This was it.
Remembering had plunged me into a cold sweat.
Follow-up visits.
She’d followed herself up too. With pills and a gun.
Chapter
15
On Thursday morning I called Paul Kruse’s university office, not really knowing what I was going to say to him. He was out; the department secretary had no idea when he’d be back. I looked up his private office in the phone book. He had two: the one on Sunset and the one he’d leased for Sharon. No answer at either. Same old song—I’d become a virtuoso at playing it. I thought of calling the airlines again, didn’t relish handling more phone abuse. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door—a messenger with a check from Trenton, Worthy and La Rosa and two large, gift-wrapped packages, also from the law firm.
I tipped him and after he left I opened the packages. One held a case of Chivas Regal, the other
a case of Moët & Chandon.
A tip for me. As I wondered why, the phone rang.
“Did it get there?” asked Mal.
“A minute ago.”
“He-ey! Perfect timing or what? Don’t drink it all in one place.”
“Why the gratuity, Mal?”
“Seven-figure settlement is why. All that legal talent got together and decided to divvy up.”
“Moretti too?”
“Moretti especially. Insurance company’s putting in the biggest chunk. He called a couple of hours after your depo, didn’t even bother to play hard to get. After he tumbled, the rest crashed like dominoes. Denise and little Darren have just won the lottery, Doctor.”
“I’m happy for them. Try to see that both of them get some help.”
“Being rich should help, but sure, I’ll push her. By the way, after we settled on a figure, Moretti asked for your number. He was very impressed.”
“Flattered.”
“I gave it to him.”
“He’s wasting his time.”
“That’s what I figured. But it wasn’t my place to tell him to shove it. Do it yourself. I imagine the new you will enjoy it.”
At one o’clock I went out and made another try at grocery shopping. In the produce section my cart collided with one pushed by a tall auburn-haired woman.
“Oops, sorry.” I disengaged, moved aside, and edged over to the tomatoes.
“Sorry myself,” she said cheerfully. “Gets like the freeway in here sometimes, doesn’t it?”
The market was nearly empty but I said, “Sure does.”
She smiled at me with even white teeth and I took a closer look. Late thirties or well-preserved early forties, a thick shag of dark hair surrounding a roundish, pretty face. Snub nose and freckles, eyes the color of a choppy sea. She wore denim short shorts that advertised long, tan, runner’s legs, and a lavender T-shirt that did the same for high, sharp breasts. Around one ankle was a thin gold chain. Her nails were long and silver; the ones on the index fingers had been inlaid with diamond chips.
Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle Page 15
