“De Bosch was his teacher, wasn’t he? If Harvey learned something terrible about him, that could have disillusioned him.”
Slow, sad nod.
I said, “How close was their relationship?”
“Teacher and student close. Harvey admired Andres, though he thought he was a little … authoritarian.”
“Authoritarian in what way?”
“Dogmatic—when he was convinced he was right. Harvey thought it ironic, since Andres had fought so hard against the Nazis … wrote so passionately for democracy … yet his personal style could be so …”
“Dictatorial?”
“At times. But Harvey still admired him. For who he was, what he’d done. Saving those French children from the Vichy government, his work on child development. And he was a good teacher. Once in a while I sat in on seminars. Andres holding court—like a don. He could talk for hours and keep you interested … lots of jokes. Tying everything in with punchlines. Sometimes he brought children in from the wards. He had a gift—they opened up to him.”
“What about Katarina?” I said. “Harvey told me she sat in, too.”
“She did … just a child, herself—a teenager, but she spoke up as if she was a peer. And now she’s … and those other people—how can this be!”
“Sometimes authoritarianism can go too far,” I said.
Her cheeks shook. Then her mouth turned up in a tiny, disturbing smile. “Yes, I suppose nothing’s what it seems, is it? Patients have been telling me that for thirty years and I’ve been nodding and saying, yes, I know … I really didn’t know …”
“Did you ever go back into Harvey’s files? To try to figure which patient had upset him?”
Long stare. Guilty nod.
“He kept tapes,” she said. “He didn’t like writing—arthritis—so he taped. I wouldn’t let the police listen to them … protecting the patients. But later, I began playing them for myself … I gave myself an excuse. For their own good—I was responsible for them, until they found another permanent therapist. Had to call them, to notify them … so I needed to know them.” Downcast eyes. “Flimsy … I listened anyway. Months of sessions, Harvey’s voice … sometimes I couldn’t stand it. But there was nothing that would have disillusioned him. All his patients were like old friends. He hadn’t taken on any new ones for two years.”
“None at all?”
She shook her head. “Harvey was an old-fashioned analyst. The couch, free association, long-term, intensive work. The same fifteen people, three to five times a week.”
“Even an old patient might have told him something disillusioning.”
“No,” she said, “there was nothing like that in any of the sessions. And none of his old patients brought him to harm. They all loved him.”
“What did you do with the tapes?”
Rather than answer, she said, “He was gentle, accepting. He helped those people. They were all crushed.”
“Did you pick any of them up as patients?”
“No … I was in no shape to work. Not for a long time. Even my own patients …” She attempted another shrug. “Things fell apart for a while … so many people let down. That’s why I didn’t pursue his death. For my kids and for his patients—his extended family. For me. I couldn’t have us dragged through the slime. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” I asked her again what she’d done with the tapes.
“I destroyed them,” she said, as if hearing the question for the first time. “Smashed the cassettes with a hammer … one by one … what a mess … threw it all away.” She smiled. “Catharsis?”
I said, “Did Harvey attend any conventions just before his death? Any psychiatric meetings or seminars on child welfare?”
“No. Why?”
“Because professional meetings may set the killer off. Two of the other therapists were murdered at conventions. And the de Bosch symposium where I met Harvey may have triggered the killings in the first place.”
“No,” she said. “No, he didn’t attend anything. He’d sworn off conventions. Sworn off academia. Gave up his appointment at NYU so he could concentrate on his patients and his family and getting in shape—his father had died young of a heart attack. Harvey had reached that age, confronted his own mortality. He was starting to work out. Trimming the fat from his diet and his life—that’s a quote.… He said he wanted to be around for me and the kids for a long, long time.”
Grimacing, she lifted her hand, with effort, and let it drop upon mine. Her palm was soft and cold. Her eyes aimed at the fish tank and stayed there.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I said. “Anything at all?”
She thought for a long time. “No … I’m sorry, I wish there was.”
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said. Her hand weighed a ton.
“Please let me know,” she said, keeping it there. “Whatever you find.”
“I will.”
“How long will you be in New York?”
“I think I’ll try to head back this evening.”
“If you need a place to stay, you’re welcome here … if you don’t mind a pull-out couch.”
“That’s very kind,” I said, “but I need to be getting back.”
“Your nice woman?”
“And my home.” Whatever that meant.
Grimacing, she exerted barely tangible pressure upon my hand. Giving me comfort.
We heard the door close, then footsteps. Josh came in, holding Leo, the cat. He looked at our hands and his eyebrows dipped.
“You okay?” he said to his mother.
“Yes, honey. Dr. Delaware’s been helpful. It’s good you brought him.”
“Helpful how?”
“He validated us … about Dad.”
“Great,” said Josh, putting the cat down. “Meanwhile, you’re not getting enough rest.”
Her lower lip dropped.
“Enough exertion, Mom,” he said. “Please. You have to rest.”
“I’m okay, honey. Really.”
I felt a small tug atop my hand, not much more than a muscle twitch. Lifting her hand and placing it on the bedcovers, I stood.
Josh walked around the other side of the bed and began straightening the covers. “You really need to rest, Mom. The doctor said rest is the most important thing.”
“I know … I’m sorry … I will, Josh.”
“Good.”
She made a gulping sound. Tears clouded the gentle blue eyes.
“Oh, Mom,” he cried out, sounding ten years old.
“It’s okay, honey.”
“No, no, I’m being an asshole, I’m sorry, it’s been a really tough day.”
“Tell me about it, baby.”
“Believe me, you don’t want to hear it.”
“Yes, I do. Tell me.”
He sat down next to her. I slipped out the door and saw myself out of the apartment.
CHAPTER
28
I reserved a seat on the next flight back to L.A., threw clothes in my bag, and told Milo and Rick’s message machine my arrival time. Checking out of the Middleton, I flagged a taxi to Kennedy.
A fire on Queens Boulevard slowed things down and it took an hour and three quarters to reach the airport. When I got to the check-in counter, I learned my flight had been delayed for thirty-five minutes. Pay TVs were attached to some of the seats, and travelers stared at their screens as if some kind of truth was being broadcast.
I found a terminal lounge that looked half decent and downed a leathery corned beef sandwich and a club soda while eavesdropping on a group of salesmen. Their truths were simple: the economy sucked and women didn’t know what the hell they wanted.
I returned to the departure area, found a free TV, and fed it quarters. A local station was broadcasting the news and that seemed about as good as it was going to get.
Potholes in the Bronx. Condom handouts in the public schools. The mayor fighting with the city council as the city accrued crushing debt. That made me feel r
ight at home.
A few more local stories, and then the anchorwoman said, “Nationally, government statistics show a decline in consumer spending, and a Senate subcommittee is investigating charges of influence peddling by another of the President’s sons. And in California, officials at Folsom Prison report that a lockdown has apparently been successful in averting riots in the wake of what is believed to have been a racially motivated double murder at that maximum-security facility. Early this morning, two inmates, both believed to have been associates of a white supremacist gang, were stabbed to death by unknown inmates suspected of belonging to the Nuestra Raza, a Mexican gang. The dead men, identified as Rennard Russell Haupt and Donald Dell Wallace, were both serving sentences for murder. A prison investigation into the killings continues …”
Nuestra Raza. NR forever. The tattoos on Roddy Rodriguez’s hands.…
I thought of Rodriguez’s masonry yard, shut down, cleaned out, and padlocked. The flight from the house on McVine prepared well in advance.
Evelyn had entertained me in her backyard, as her husband’s homeboys honed their shanks.
Making an appointment for Wednesday, then going into the house with her husband and changing it to Thursday.
Twenty-four more hours for getaway.
Hurley Keffler’s debacle at my house made sense now, as did Sherman Bucklear’s nagging. Prison rumblings had probably told the Iron Priests what was brewing. Locating Rodriguez might have forestalled the hit or, if the deed had already been done, given the Priests instant payback.
Payback.
The same old stupid cycle of violence.
Burglary tools and a quick shove out a eight-story window.
A corpse on a garage floor, a little boy baby never to be.
Two little girls on the run.
Were Chondra and Tiffani in some Mexican border town, being tutored in Fugitive 1A with more care than they’d ever been taught to read or write?
Or maybe Evelyn had taken them somewhere they could blend in. On the surface. But, suckled on violence, they’d always be different. Unable to understand why, years later, they gravitated toward cruel, violent men.
Static dripped out of the speakers—a barely comprehensible voice announcing something about boarding. I got up and took my place in line. Six thousand miles in less than twenty-four hours. My mind and my legs ached. I wondered if Shirley Rosenblatt would ever be able to walk again.
Soon, I’d be three time zones away from her problems and a lot closer to my own.
The flight got in just before midnight. The terminal was deserted and Robin was waiting outside the automatic doors.
“You look exhausted,” she said, as we walked to her truck.
“I’ve felt perkier.”
“Well, I’ve got some news that might perk you up. Milo called just before I left to pick you up. Something about the tape. I was just out the door and he was running, too, but he says he learned something important.”
“The sheriff who was working on it must have picked up something. Where’s Milo now?”
“Out on some assignment. He said he’d be home when we got there.”
“Which home?”
The question threw her. “Oh—Milo’s house. He and Rick took really good care of us. And home is where the heart is, right?”
I slept in the car. We pulled up at Milo’s house at twelve-forty. He was waiting in the living room, wearing a gray polo shirt and jeans. A cup of coffee was in front of him, next to a portable tape recorder. The dog snored at his feet, but woke up when we came in, gave out a few desultory licks, then collapsed again.
“Welcome home, boys and girls.”
I put my bags down. “Did you hear about Donald Dell?”
Milo nodded.
“What?” said Robin.
I told her.
She said, “Oh …”
Milo said, “Nuestra Raza. Could be the father-in-law.”
“That’s what I figured. It’s probably why Evelyn postponed her appointment with me. Rodriguez told her they had to leave Wednesday. And why Hurley Keffler hassled me—where is he?”
“Still in. I found a few traffic warrants and had one of the jailers lose his paperwork—just another few days, but every little bit helps.”
Robin said, “It never ends.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “There’s no reason for the Priests to bother us.”
“True,” said Milo, too quickly. “They and the Raza boys will be concentrating on each other now. That’s their main game: my turn to die, your turn to die.”
“Lovely,” said Robin.
“I had some Foothill guys drop in on them after Keffler’s bust,” he said, “but I’ll see if I can arrange another visit. Don’t worry about them, Rob. Really. They’re the least of our problems.”
“As opposed to?”
He looked at the tape recorder.
We sat down. He punched a button.
The child’s voice came on.
Bad love bad love.
Don’t give me the bad love.
I looked at him. He held up a finger.
Bad love bad love.
Don’t give me the bad love …
Same flat tones, but this time the voice was that of a man.
Ordinary, middle-pitched, male voice. Nothing remarkable about the accent or the timbre.
The child’s voice transformed—some kind of electronic manipulation?
Something familiar about the voice … but I couldn’t place it.
Someone I’d met a long time ago? In 1979?
The room was silent, except for the dog’s breathing.
Milo turned the recorder off and looked at me. “Ring any bells?”
I said, “There’s something about it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“The kid’s voice was phony. What you just heard might be the real bad guy. No bells, huh?”
“Let me hear it again.”
Rewind. Play.
“Again,” I said.
This time, I listened with my eyes closed, squinting so hard the lids felt welded together.
Listening to someone who hated me.
Nothing registered.
Robin and Milo studied my face as if it were some great wonder. My head hurt badly.
“No,” I said. “I still can’t pinpoint it—I can’t even be sure I’ve actually heard it.”
Robin touched my shoulder. Milo’s face was blank, but his eyes showed disappointment.
I glanced at the recorder and nodded.
He rewound again.
This time the voice seemed even more distant—as if my memory was spiraling away from me. As if I’d missed my chance.
“Goddammit,” I said. The dog’s eyes opened. He trotted over to me and nuzzled my hand. I rubbed his head, looked at Milo. “One more time.”
Robin said, “You’re tired. Why don’t we try again in the morning?”
“Just once more,” I said.
Rewind. Play.
The voice.
Completely foreign now. Mocking me.
I buried my face in my hands. Robin’s hands on my neck were an abstract comfort—I appreciated the sentiment but couldn’t relax.
“What did you mean might be the bad guy?” I asked Milo.
“Sheriff’s scientific guess. He tuned it down from the kid’s voice using a preset frequency.”
“How can he be sure the kid’s voice was altered in the first place?”
“Because his machines told him so. He came across it by accident—working on the screams—which, incidentally, he’s ninety-nine percent positive are Hewitt’s. Then he got to the kid chanting and something bothered him about it—the evenness of the voice.”
“The robot quality,” I said.
“Yeah. But he didn’t assume brainwashing or anything else psychological. He’s a techno-dude, so he analyzed the sound waves and saw something fishy with the cycle-to-cycle amplitude—the changes in pitch within each sound wave. Real h
uman voices shimmer and jitter. This didn’t, so he knew the tape had been messed with electronically, probably using a pitch shifter. It’s a gizmo that samples a sound and changes the frequency. Tune up, you’ve got Alvin and the Chipmunks; tune down, you’re James Earl Jones.”
“Hi-tech bad guy,” I said.
“Not really. The basic machines are pretty cheap. People attach them to phones—women living alone wanting to sound like Joe Testosterone. They’re also used for recording music—creating automatic harmonies. A singer lays down a vocal track, then creates a harmony and overdubs it, instant Everly Brothers.”
“Sure,” said Robin. “Shifters are used all the time. I’ve seen them interfaced with amps so guitarists can do multiple tracks.”
“Lyle Gritz,” I said. “The next Elvis.… How’d the sheriff know which frequency to tune down to?”
“He assumed we were dealing with a male bad guy using a relatively cheap shifter because nowadays the better machines can be programmed to include jitter. The cheap ones usually come with two, maybe three standard settings: tune up to kid, tune down to adult, sometimes there’s an intermediate setting for adult female. By computing the pitch difference, he worked backwards and tuned down. But if our guy’s some sort of acoustics nut with fancy equipment, there may be other things he’s done to alter his voice and what you heard may be nowhere near his real voice.”
“It may not even be his voice that he altered. He could have shifted someone else’s.”
“That, too. But you think you might have heard him before.”
“That was my first impression. But I don’t know. I don’t trust my judgment anymore.”
“Well,” he said, “at least we know there’s no actual kid involved.”
“Thank God for that. Okay, leave the tape with me. I’ll work with it tomorrow, see if anything clicks.”
“The screams being Hewitt, what does ‘ninety-nine percent’ mean?”
“It means the sheriff’ll get up on the stand and testify it’s highly probable to the best of his professional knowledge. Only trouble is, we need to get someone on trial first.”
“So I was right, this isn’t some homeless guy. He’d need a place to keep his equipment.”
He shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a secret den somewhere and that’s where he’s hiding out right now. I had talks about Gritz with detectives at other substations. If the scrote’s still lurking around, we’ll hook him.”
Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle Page 123
