These women, described as “professional party girls,” were aspiring actresses chosen by the man who ran Belding’s studio, a “former management consultant” named William Houck “Billy” Vidal.
The hearings went on for more than six months; then, gradually, what had promised to be a juicy story began to shrivel. The subcommittee proved unable to produce witnesses to the notorious parties, other than Belding’s business competitors, who testified from hearsay and crumpled in cross-examination. And the billionaire himself refused subpoenas to testify, on the grounds of endangering the national security, and was backed up by the Defense Department.
Billy Vidal did show up—in the company of high-priced legal talent. He denied his major role was to procure women for Leland Belding, described himself as a successful Beverly Hills-based management consultant to the film industry prior to meeting Belding, and produced documents to prove it. His friendship with the young tycoon had begun when the two of them were students at Stanford, and he admired Lee Belding. But he denied involvement in anything illegal or immoral. A legion of character witnesses backed him up. Vidal was dismissed.
When subpoenas for Magna’s accounting records were rejected by the company, once again on the basis of national security, and both Defense and State backed up Belding, the committee reached an impasse and died.
The senators saved face by delivering a mild reprimand to Leland Belding, noting his invaluable contributions to the national defense but suggesting he be more careful in the future with his record keeping. Then they assigned staffers to compile a report of their findings and voted the committee out of existence. Cynics suggested that in view of the charge that members of Congress had been on Belding’s party list, the entire process had been just another example of the foxes guarding the henhouse. But by this time no one really cared; now the country was ripe with optimism, intent on rebuilding, and determined to have a damned good decade. If a few hearty rascals had indulged in a little high living, so be it.
Party pads. A film connection. Stag films. I wanted to know more about Bashful Belding’s conduit to the fast life.
Before I could return to the index section to look for anything on William Houck Vidal, the announcement that the library was closing in fifteen minutes came blaring out of a ceiling speaker. I collected my two books and as many unread periodicals as I could carry, made a beeline for the photocopy machines, and spent the next ten minutes feeding dimes. Then I went downstairs and used my faculty card to check out the books. Armed with my treasures, I headed home.
Chapter
21
A white VW Rabbit was parked in front of my carport, blocking the Seville. A young woman slouched against it, reading a book.
When she saw me she sprang up.
“Hi! Dr. Delaware?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Delaware? I’m Maura Bannon? From the Times? The Dr. Ransom story? I wondered if I could talk to you—just for a minute?”
She was tall and stick-skinny, about twenty, with a long, freckled face that needed finishing. She wore yellow sweats and white running shoes. Her pageboy hairdo was dyed orange with pink overtones, the same color as the lashes around her light-brown eyes. She had a marked overbite with a toothpick-wide gap between the upper incisors.
The book in her hand was Wambaugh’s Echoes in the Darkness and she’d flagged it in several places with yellow tags. Her nails were gnawed stubby.
“How’d you find out where I live, Ms. Bannon?”
“We reporters have our ways.” She smiled. It made her look around twelve.
When she saw I wasn’t smiling back, she said, “There’s a file on you at the paper. From a few years ago? When you were involved in catching those child molesters?”
Privacy, the last luxury. “I see.” At least Ned Biondi hadn’t played fast and loose.
“I could tell from reading the clippings on you that you’re a dedicated person,” she said. “Someone who doesn’t like bullshit? And bullshit is what they’re giving me.”
“Who is?”
“My bosses. Everyone. First they tell me to forget the Ransom story. Now, when I ask to cover the Kruse murders, they give it to that dweeb Dale Conrad—I mean the guy never leaves his desk. He has about as much drive as a sloth on Quaaludes. When I tried to reach Mr. Biondi, his secretary told me he was out of town—off to Argentina, taking some Spanish course. Then she handed me an assignment to follow up a trained horse story—out in Anaheim?”
A mild, warm breeze blew in from somewhere across the glen. It ruffled the tags in her book.
“Interesting reading?” I said, holding my own books in a way that obscured their titles.
“Fascinating. I want to be a crime writer—get into the core of good and evil? So I need to immerse myself in life-and-death issues. I figured I’d go with the best—the man was a cop, has a real solid experiential base. And the people in this one were so weird—outwardly respectable but totally crazed. Like the people in this case?”
“Which case?”
“Cases, actually. Dr. Ransom? Dr. Kruse? Two psychologists dying in the same week—two psychologists who were connected to each other. If they were connected in life, maybe in death too? Which means Ransom may have been murdered, don’t you think?”
“How were they connected?”
She made a naughty-naughty gesture. “Come on, Dr. Delaware, you know what I’m talking about. Ransom was one of Kruse’s students. More than that—a prize student. He was her doctoral committee chairman.”
“How do you know that?”
“Sources. C’mon, Dr. Delaware, stop being coy. You’re a graduate of the same program. You knew her, so chances are you knew him, too, right?”
“Very thorough.”
“Just doing the job. Now could you please talk to me? I’m not giving up on this story.”
I wondered how much she actually knew and what to do with her.
“Want some coffee?” I said.
“Do you have tea?”
Once inside the house, she said, “Camomile, if you’ve got it,” and immediately began inspecting the decor. “Nice. Very L.A.”
“Thanks.”
Her gaze shifted to the pile of papers and unopened mail on the table and she sniffed. I realized the place had taken on a stale, unlived-in smell.
“Live alone?” she asked.
“For the moment.” I went into the kitchen and stashed my research materials in a cupboard, fixed her a cup of tea and myself a cup of instant coffee, put all of it on a tray with cream and sugar, and brought it into the living room. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. I sat down facing her.
“Actually,” I said, “I was off campus by the time Dr. Kruse came to the University. I graduated the year before.”
“Two months before,” she said. “June of ’74. I found your dissertation too.” She flushed, realized she’d given away her “sources,” and tried to recover by looking stern. “I’m still willing to bet you knew him.”
“Have you read the Ransom dissertation?”
“Skimmed it.”
“What was it about?”
She bobbed her tea bag, watched the water in her cup darken. “Why don’t you answer some of my questions before I answer yours?”
I thought of the way the Kruses had looked in death. Lourdes Escobar. D.J. Rasmussen. Bodies piling up. Big-money connections. Grease the skids.
“Ms. Bannon, it’s not in your best interests to pursue this case.”
She put the cup down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Asking the wrong questions could be dangerous.”
“Oh, wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t believe this. Sexist protectionism?”
“Sexism has nothing to do with it. How old are you?”
“That’s not relevant!”
“But it is, in terms of experience.”
“Dr. Delaware,” she said, standing, “if all you’re going to do is patronize me, I’m out
of here.”
I waited.
She sat. “For your information, I’ve worked as a reporter for four years.”
“On your college paper?”
She flushed, deeper this time. Bye-bye, freckles. “I’ll have you know the college beat had plenty of tough stories. Because of one of my investigations, two bookstore clerks were fired for embezzling.”
“Congratulations. But we’re talking about a whole other level now. It wouldn’t do to have you sent home to Boston in a box.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, but there was fear in her eyes. She masked it with indignation. “I guess I was wrong about you.”
“Guess so.”
She walked to the door. Stopped and said, “This is rotten, but no matter.”
Primed for action. All I’d done was whet her appetite.
I said, “You may be right—about there being a connection between the deaths. But at this point all I’ve got is guesses—nothing worth discussing.”
“Guesses? You’ve been snooping yourself! Why?”
“That’s personal.”
“Were you in love with her?”
I drank coffee. “No.”
“Then what’s so personal?”
“You’re a very nosy young lady.”
“Goes with the territory, Dr. Delaware. And if it’s so dangerous, how come it’s okay for you to snoop?”
“I’ve got police connections.”
“Police connections? That’s a laugh. The cops are the ones covering up. I found out—through my connection—that they’ve done a total Watergate on Ransom. All the forensic records have disappeared—it’s as if she never existed.”
“My connection’s different. Outside the mainstream. Honest.”
“That gay guy from the molester case?”
That caught me by surprise.
She looked pleased with herself. A minnow swimming happily among the barracudas.
I said, “Maybe we can cooperate.”
She gave me something-intended to be a hard, knowing smile. “Ah, back-scratching time. But why would I want to deal?”
“Because without dealing, you’ll get nowhere—that’s a promise. I’ve uncovered some information you’ll never be able to get hold of, stuff that’s useless to you in its present form. I’m going to follow it up. You’ll have exclusive rights to whatever I come up with—if going public’s not hazardous to our health.”
She looked outraged. “Oh, that’s just great! It’s okay for big strong brave to go hunting but squaw must stay in teepee?”
“Take it or leave it, Maura.” I began clearing the cups.
“This stinks,” she said.
I waved goodbye. “Then go do your own thing. See what you come up with.”
“You’re boxing me in and pulling a power trip.”
“You want to be a crime writer? I’m offering you a chance—not a guarantee—to get a crime story. And live long enough to see it come to print. Your alternative is to barrel ahead like Nancy Drew, in which case you’ll either end up being fired and sent home on a supersaver flight, or shipped back in the baggage hold in the same physical state as the Kruses and their maid.”
“The maid,” she said. “No one talks about her.”
“That’s ’cause she’s expendable, Maura. No money, no connections—human garbage, straight to the compost heap.”
“That’s crude.”
“This is no teenage sleuth fantasy.”
She tapped her foot, chewed a thumbnail.
“Put it in writing?” she said.
“Put what in writing?”
“That we have a deal? A contract? I have first dibs on your info?”
“I thought you were a journalist, not an attorney.”
“Rule one: cover your ass.”
“Wrong, Maura. Rule one is never leave tracks.”
I carried the tray into the kitchen. The phone rang. Before I could get to it, she’d picked up the living room extension. When I came back she was holding the phone and smiling. “She hung up.”
“Who’s ‘she’?”
“A woman. I told her to hold on, I’d get you. She said forget it, sounded angry.” Cute smile. “Jealous.” Shrug. “Sorry.”
“Very classy, Maura. Is total lack of manners part of your job training?”
“Sorry,” she said, looking, this time, as if she meant it.
A woman. I pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Ms. Bannon.”
“Listen, that really was rude. I am sorry.”
I went to the door and held it open.
“I said I was sorry.” Pause. “Okay. Forget about the contract. I mean if I can’t trust you, a piece of paper would be worthless, wouldn’t it? So I’ll trust you.”
“I’m touched.” I turned the doorknob.
“I’m saying I’ll go along.”
I said, “Back-scratching time?”
“Okay, okay, what do you want in return?”
“Three things. First, a promise to back off.”
“For how long?”
“Until I tell you it’s safe.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Have a nice day, Maura.”
“Shit! What do you want!”
“Before we go on, let’s be clear,” I said. “No drop-ins, no eavesdropping, no cute stuff.”
“I got it the first time.”
“Who’s your contact at the coroner’s? The person who told you about the missing file.”
She was shocked. “What makes you think he—or she—is at the coroner’s?”
“You mentioned forensic data.”
“Don’t assume too much from that,” she said, struggling to look enigmatic. “Anyway, no way will I divulge my sources.”
“Just make sure he—or she—cools it. For personal safety.”
“Fine.”
“Promise?”
“Yes! Was that Two?”
“One-B. Two is tell me everything you’ve learned about the connection between Ransom and Kruse.”
“Just what I’ve told you. The dissertation. He was her supervisor. They had an office together in Beverly Hills.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I studied her long enough to decide I believed her.
She asked, “What’s Three?”
“What was the dissertation about?”
“I told you I’ve only skimmed it.”
“From what you’ve skimmed.”
“It was something on twins—twins and multiple personalities and, I think it was, ego integrity. She used a lot of jargon.”
“Three is make me a photocopy.”
“No way. I’m not your secretary.”
“Fair enough. Return it where you found it—probably the ed-psych library at the University—and I’ll make my own copy.”
She threw up a hand. “Oh, what the hell, I’ll drop off a Xerox tomorrow.”
“No drop-ins,” I reminded her. “Mail it—express it.”
I wrote down my Fed-Ex number and gave it to her. She stuck it between the pages of the Wambaugh book.
“Shit,” she said. “Are you this authoritarian with your patients?”
I said, “That’s it. We’re in business.”
“At least you are. I haven’t gotten a damned thing but promises.”
She scrunched up her face. “You’d better come through for me, Dr. Delaware. Because one way or the other, I’m going to get a story.”
“When I learn something reportable, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“And one more thing,” she said, half out the door. “I’m no damned teenager. I’m twenty-one. As of yesterday.”
“Happy birthday,” I said. “And many more.”
After she drove off I called San Luis Obispo. Robin answered.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said. “Was that you a few minutes ago?”
“How’d you ever guess?”
“The person who picked up said there was an angry woma
n on the other line.”
“The person?”
“Some kid reporter who’s bugging me about an interview.”
“Kid as in twelve?”
“Kid as in twenty-one. Buckteeth, freckles, a lisp.”
“Why do I believe you?”
“Because I’m saintly. It’s great to hear from you. I wanted to call—each time I hang up I regret the way the conversation turned out. Think of all the right things to say, but it’s too late.”
“That’s the way I feel, too, Alex. Talking to you has been like walking a mine field. As if we’re lethal ingredients—can’t mix without exploding.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ve got to believe it doesn’t have to be that way. It wasn’t always that way.”
She said nothing.
“Come on, Robin, it used to be good.”
“Of course it did—a lot was wonderful. But there were always problems. Maybe they were all mine—I kept it all inside. I’m sorry.”
“Blame is useless. I want to make it better, Robin. I’m willing to work at it.”
Silence.
Then she said, “I went into Daddy’s shop yesterday. Mom has it preserved just the way it was at the time he died. Not a tool out of place, like a museum. The Joseph Castagna Memorial. She’s that way—never lets go, never deals with anything. I locked myself in, just sat there for hours, smelling the varnish and the sawdust, thinking of him. Then of you. How similar the two of you are: well-meaning, warm, but dominant—so strong you take over. Alex, he would have liked you. There would have been conflict—two bulls scratching and snorting—but eventually the two of you would have been able to laugh together.”
She laughed herself, then cried.
“Sitting there, I realized that part of what attracted me to you was that similarity—how much you were like Daddy. Even physically: the curly hair, the blue eyes. When he was younger he was handsome, the same type of good looks as yours. Pretty profound insight, huh?”
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