I looked back at the dog.
Still as a rock.
“Did you hear something?”
Head cock.
“Probably a cat or a possum, pal. Or maybe a coyote, which might be a little too much for you, no offense.”
Head cock. Pant. He pawed the ground.
“Listen, I appreciate your watchfulness, but can we go back up now?”
He stared at me. Yawned. Gave a low growl.
“I’m bushed, too,” I said, and headed for the stairs. He did nothing until I’d gotten all the way up, then raced up with a swiftness that belied his bulk.
“No more interruptions, okay?”
He wagged his stub cheerfully, jumped on the bed, and sprawled across Robin’s side.
Too exhausted to argue, I left him there.
He was snoring long before I was.
Wednesday morning I assessed my life: crank letters and calls, but I could handle that if it didn’t accelerate. And my true love returning from the wilds of Oakland. A balance I could live with. The dog licking my face belonged in the plus column, too, I supposed. When I let him out, he disappeared again and stayed out.
This time he’d gotten closer to the gate, stopping only a couple of feet from the latch. I pushed it open and he took another step.
Then he stopped, stout body angling forward.
His little frog face was tilted upward at me. Something had caused it to screw up, the eyes narrowing to slits.
I anthropomorphized it as conflict—struggling to get over his water phobia. Canine self-help hampered by the life-saving training some devoted owner had given him.
He growled and jutted his head toward the gate.
Looking angry.
Wrong guess? Something near the pond bothering him?
The growls grew louder. I looked over the fence and saw it.
One of my koi—a red and white kohaku, the largest and prettiest of the surviving babies—was lying on the moss near the water’s edge.
A jumper. Damn.
Sometimes it happened. Or maybe a cat or coyote had gotten in. And that’s what he’d heard …
But the body didn’t look torn up.
I opened the gate and went in. The bulldog stepped up to the gatepost and waited as I kneeled to inspect the fish.
It had been torn. But no four-legged predator had done it.
Something was sticking out of its mouth—a twig, thin, stiff, a single shriveled red leaf still attached.
A branch from the dwarf maple I’d planted last winter.
I glanced over at the tree, saw where the bough had been cut off, the wound oxidized almost black.
Clean cut. Hours old. A knife.
I forced my eyes back to the carp.
The branch had been jammed down its gullet and forced down through its body, like a spit. It exited near the anus, through a ragged hole, ripping through beautiful skin and letting loose a rush of entrails and blood that stained the moss cream-gray and rusty brown.
I filled with anger and disgust. Other details began to leap out at me, painful as spattering grease.
A spray of scales littering the moss.
Indentations that might have been footprints.
I took a closer look at them. To my untrained eye, they remained characterless gouges.
Leaves beneath the maple, where the branch had been sheared.
The fish’s dead eyes stared up at me.
The dog was growling.
I joined in and we did a duet.
CHAPTER
7
I dug a grave for the fish. The sky was Alpine clear, and the beauty of the morning was a mockery of my task.
I thought of another beautiful sky—Katarina de Bosch’s slide show. Azure heavens draping her father’s wheelchaired form.
Good love/bad love.
Definitely more than just a sick joke now.
Flies were divebombing the koi’s torn corpse. I nudged the body into the hole and shoveled dirt over it as the bulldog watched.
“Should have taken you more seriously last night.”
He cocked his head and blinked, brown eyes gentle.
The dirt over the grave was a small umber disc that I tamped with my foot. After taking one last look, I dragged myself up to the house. Feeling like a dependent child, I called Milo. He wasn’t in and I sat at my desk, baffled and angry.
Someone had trespassed on my property. Someone had watched me.
The blue brochure was on my desk, my name and photo—the perfect logic of trumped-up evidence.
Reading this, someone could believe you were esteemed colleagues.
I phoned my service. Still no callback from Shirley Rosenblatt, Ph.D. Maybe she wasn’t Harvey’s wife.… I tried her number again, got the same recorded message, and slammed down the phone in disgust.
My hand started to close around the brochure, crumpling it, then my eyes dropped to the bottom of the page and I stopped and smoothed the stiff paper.
Other names.
The three other speakers.
Wilbert Harrison, M.D., FACP
Practicing Psychoanalyst
Beverly Hills, California
Grant P. Stoumen, M.D., FACP
Practicing Psychoanalyst
Beverly Hills, California
Mitchell A. Lerner, M.S.W., ACSW
Psychoanalytic Therapist
North Hollywood, California
Harrison, chubby, around fifty, fair, and jolly looking, with dark-rimmed glasses. Stoumen older, bald and prune faced, with a waxed, white mustache. Lerner, the youngest of the three, Afroed and turtlenecked, full bearded, like Rosenblatt and myself.
I had no memory beyond that. The topics of their papers meant nothing to me. I’d sat up on the dais, mind wandering, angry about being there.
Three locals.
I opened the phone book. Neither Harrison nor Lerner was in there, but Grant P. Stoumen, M.D., still had an office on North Bedford Drive—Beverly Hills couch row. A service operator answered, “Beverly Hills Psychiatric, this is Joan.”
Same service I used. Same voice I’d just spoken to.
“It’s Dr. Delaware, Joan.”
“Hi, Dr. Delaware! Fancy talking to you so soon.”
“Small world,” I said.
“Yeah—no, actually, it happens all the time, we handle lots of psych docs. Who in the group are you trying to reach?”
“Dr. Stoumen.”
“Dr. Stoumen?” Her voice lowered. “But he’s gone.”
“From the group?”
“From—uh … from life, Dr. Delaware. He died six months ago. Didn’t you hear?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know him.”
“Oh … well, it was really pretty sad. So unexpected, even though he was pretty old.”
“What did he die of?”
“A car accident. Last May, I think it was. Out of town, I forget exactly where. He was at some kind of convention and got run over by a car. Isn’t that terrible?”
“A convention?”
“You know, one of those medical meetings. He was a nice man, too—never lost patience the way some of the—” Nervous laugh. “Scratch that comment, Dr. D. Anyway, if you’re calling about a patient, Dr. Stoumen’s were divided up among the rest of the doctors in the group, and I can’t be sure which one took the one you’re calling about.”
“How many doctors are in the group?”
“Carney, Langenbaum, and Wolf. Langenbaum’s on vacation, but the other two are in town—take your pick.”
“Any recommendations?”
“Well …” Another nervous laugh. “They’re both—all right. Wolf tends to be a little better about returning calls.”
“Wolf’ll be fine. Is that a him or a her?”
“A him. Stanley Wolf, M.D. He’s in session right now. I’ll put a message on his board to call you.”
“Thanks a lot, Joan.”
“Sure bet, Dr. D. Have a nice day.”
I
installed the dog door, making slow progress because I kept pausing between saw swings and hammer blows, convinced I’d heard footsteps in the house or unwarranted noise out on the terrace.
A couple of times I actually went down to the garden and looked around, hands clenched.
The grave was a dark ellipse of dirt. Dried fish scales and a slick gray-brown stain marked the pond bank.
I went back up, did some touch-up painting around the door frame, cleaned up, and had a beer. The dog tried his new passageway, ingressing and egressing several times and enjoying himself.
Finally, tired and panting, he fell asleep at my feet. I thought about who’d want to scare me or hurt me. The dead fish stayed in my head, a cognitive stench, and I remained wide-awake. At eleven, he awoke and raced for the front door. A moment later, the mail chute filled.
Standard-sized envelopes that I sorted through. One had a Folsom POB return address and an eleven-digit serial number hand-printed above it in red ink. Inside was a single sheet of ruled notebook paper, printed in the same red.
Doctor A. Delaware, Ph.D.
Dear Dr. Delaware, Ph.D.:
I am writing to you to express my feelings about seeing my daughters, namely Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace, as their natural father and legal guardian.
Whatever was done to our family including done by myself and no matter how bad is in my opinion, water under the bridge. And such as it is, I should not be denied permission and my paternity rights to see my lawful, legal daughters, Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace.
I have never done anything to hurt them and have always worked hard to support them even when this was hard. I don’t have any other children and need to see them for us to have a family.
Children need their fathers as I’m sure I don’t have to tell a trained doctor like yourself. One day I will be out of incarceration. I am their father and will be taking care of them. Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace need me. Please pay attention to these facts.
Yours sincerely,
Donald Dell Wallace
I filed the letter in the thick folder, next to the coroner’s report on Ruthanne. Milo called at noon and I told him about the fish. “Makes it more than a prank, doesn’t it?”
Pause. “More than I expected.”
“Donald Dell knows my address. I just got a letter from him.”
“Saying what?”
“One day he’ll be out and wanting to be a full-time dad, so I shouldn’t deny him his rights now.”
“Subtle threat?”
“Could you prove it?”
“No, he could have gotten your address through his lawyer—you’re reviewing his claim, so he’d be entitled to it legally. Incidentally, according to my sources he doesn’t have an audio recorder in his cell. TV and VCR, yes.”
“Cruel and unusual. So what do I do?”
“Let me come over and check out your pond. Notice any footprints or obvious evidence?”
“There were some prints,” I said, “though they didn’t look like much to my amateur eyes. Maybe there’s some other evidence that I wasn’t sophisticated enough to spot. I was careful not to disturb anything—oh, hell, I buried the fish. Was that a screw-up?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like we’re gonna do an autopsy.” He sounded uneasy.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Nothing. I’ll come by and have a look as soon as I can. Probably the afternoon.”
He spoke the last words tentatively, almost turning the statement into a question.
I said, “What is it, Milo?”
“What it is, is that I can’t do any full-court press for you on this. Killing a fish just isn’t a major felony—at the most, we’ve got trespassing and malicious mischief.”
“I understand.”
“I can probably take some footprint molds myself,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”
“Look,” I said, “I still don’t consider it a federal case. This is cowardly bullshit. Whoever’s behind it probably doesn’t want a confrontation.”
“Probably not,” he said. But he still sounded troubled, and that started to rattle me.
“Something else,” I said. “Though it’s also probably no big deal. I was looking at the conference brochure again and tried to contact the three local therapists who gave speeches. Two weren’t listed, but the one who was had been killed this past spring. Hit by a car while attending a psychiatric symposium. I found out because his answering service just happens to be the same one I use and the operator told me.”
“Killed here in L.A.?”
“Out of town, she didn’t remember where. I’ve got a call in to one of his associates.”
“Symposium,” he said. “Curse of the conference?”
“Like I said, it’s probably nothing—the only thing that is starting to bug me is I can’t reach anyone associated with the de Bosch meeting. Then again, it’s been a long time, people move.”
“Yeah.”
“Milo, you’re bugged about something. What is it?”
Pause. “I think, given everything that’s been happening—putting it all together—you’d be justified getting a little … watchful. No paranoia, just be extra careful.”
“Fine,” I said. “Robin’s coming home early—tonight. I’m picking her up at the airport. What do I tell her?”
“Tell her the truth—she’s a tough kid.”
“Some welcome home.”
“What time are you picking her up?”
“Nine.”
“I’ll get over well before then and we’ll put our heads together. You want, I can stay at the house while you’re gone. Just feed me and water me and tell Rover not to make demands.”
“Rover’s a hero as far as I’m concerned—he’s the one who heard the intruder.”
“Yeah, but there was no follow-through, Alex. Instead of eating the sucker, he just stood around and watched. What you’ve got is a four-legged bureaucrat.”
“That’s cold,” I said. “Didn’t you ever watch Lassie?”
“Screw that, my thing was Godzilla. There’s a useful pet.”
By three, no one had returned my calls and I felt like a cartoon man on a desert island. I did paperwork and looked out the window a lot. At three-thirty, the dog and I hazarded a walk around the Glen, and when I arrived back home, there were no signs of intrusion.
Shortly after four, Milo arrived, looking hurried and bothered. When the dog came up to him, he paid no mind.
He held an audiocassette in one hand, his vinyl attaché case in the other. Instead of making his usual beeline to the kitchen, he went into the living room and loosened his tie. Putting the case on the coffee table, he handed me the tape.
“The original’s in my file. This is your copy.”
Seeing it brought back the screams and the chants. That child.… I put it in my desk and we went down to the pond, where I showed him the footprints.
He kneeled and inspected for a long time. Stood, frowning. “You’re right, these are useless. Looks to me like someone took the time to mess them up.”
He checked around the pond area some more, taking his time, getting his pants dirty. “Nope, nothing here worth a damn. Sorry.”
That same troubled tone in his voice that I’d heard over the phone. He was holding back something, but I knew it was useless to probe.
Back in the living room, I said, “Something to drink?”
“Later.” He opened the vinyl case and took out a brown plastic box. Removing a videocassette from it, he bounced it against one thigh.
The tape was unmarked, but the box was printed with the call letters of a local TV station. Rubber-stamped diagonally across the label was the legend PROPERTY LAPD: EVIDENCE RM. and a serial number.
“Dorsey Hewitt’s last stand,” he said. “Definitely not for prime time, but there’s something I want you to check out—if your stomach can take it.”
“I’ll cope.”
We went into t
he library. Before inserting the cartridge into the VCR, he peered into the machine’s load slot.
“When’s the last time you lubricated this?”
“Never,” I said. “I hardly use it except to record sessions when the court wants visuals.”
He sighed, slid the cartridge in, picked up the remote control, pressed PLAY, and stood back, watching the monitor with his hands folded across his waist. The dog jumped up on a big leather chair, settled, and regarded him. The screen went from black to bright blue and a hiss filtered through the speakers.
A half minute more of blue, then the TV station logo flashed over a digital date, two months old.
Another few moments of video stutter were followed by a long shot of an attractive, one-story brick building, with a central arch leading to a courtyard and wood-grilled windows. Tile roof, brown door to the right of the arch.
Close up on a sign: LOS ANGELES COUNTY MENTAL HEALTH CENTER, WESTSIDE.
Swing back to a long shot: two small, dark-garbed figures crouched on opposite sides of the arch—toylike: G.I. Joe figurines holding rifles.
A side shot revealed police barriers fencing the street.
No sound other than static, but the dog’s ears had perked and pitched forward.
Milo raised the volume, and a soup of incomprehensible background speech could be heard above the white noise.
Nothing for a few seconds, then one of the dark figures moved, still squatting, and repositioned itself to the left of the door. Another figure came from around a corner and lowered itself to a deep crouch, both hands on its weapon.
A close-up inflated the new arrival, turning dark cloth into navy blue, revealing the bulk of protective vesting, white letters spelling out LAPD across a broad back. Combat boots. Blue ski mask revealing only eyes; I thought of Munich terrorists and knew something bad was going to happen.
But nothing did for the next few moments. The dog’s ears were still stiff and his breathing had quickened.
Milo rubbed one shoe with another and ran his hand over his face. Then the brown door on the screen swung open on two people.
A man, bearded, long-haired, scrawny. The beard, a matted frenzy of blond and gray corkscrews. Above a blemished, knotted forehead, his hair haloed in spiky clumps, recalling a child’s clumsily drawn sun.
Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle Page 99
