Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 11 - The Clinic

by The Clinic(Lit)

  Black bed linens. I thought of Tessa and Muscadine grappling.

  The only pieces of conventional furniture were a cheap wooden nightstand and dresser. A wheeled aluminum rack was hung with color-coordinated shirts, slacks, jeans, and sportcoats. Not too much of each, but the quality looked good. On the floor beneath the clothes were two pairs of sneakers, brown loafers, black oxfords, gray cowboy boots.

  Nothing on the cracked tile kitchen counter but a blender and a hot plate. I'd seen bigger refrigerators in Winnebagos. A sign taped to the front said THINK POSTIVE - but lurn how to spel. Two steel-and-plastic stools were up against the counter. Muscadine pulled one out and said, 'Sorry, I don't entertain much.'

  We both sat down.

  'Thanks for not elaborating about the committee in front of Maidie. She gives me a break on the rent and right now I need it.'

  I looked over the exercise equipment. 'Nice setup.'

  'I used to work at a health club that went under. Got it cheap.'

  'Were you a personal trainer?'

  'More like impersonal. One of those budget places, basically a scam. I know it looks weird having all this stuff in a place this size but it ended up being cheaper than paying my own gym fees, and right now my body's my commodity.'

  The room was hot but his skin was dry despite the heavy sweatshirt. Tossing his hair, he laughed. 'That didn't come out exactly right. What I'm saying

  is no matter how intellectual you get about acting, the industry runs on first impressions and when you hit a certain age, you've got to work harder.'

  'What age is that?'

  'Depends on the person. I'm thirty-one. So far, so good.'

  'First impressions,' I said. 'The casting couch?'

  'There's some of that still going around but what I mean is the way impulse rules. I can practice Stanislavsky - acting methods - from now till tomorrow, but if the bod goes so does my marketability.' He hooked his thumb downward.

  'How long have you been working at it?'

  'Couple of years. Got a degree in business, worked for an accounting firm for nine years. Finally I couldn't stand the sight of numbers and went back for a masters in fine arts. Can I get you something to drink?'

  'No thanks.'

  'Well, I'm going to.' Opening the fridge, he pulled a bottle of mineral water from a grouping of two dozen. The only other thing inside was a grapefruit.

  Twisting the top with two fingers, he took a long swallow.

  'Why'd you drop out?' I said.

  'Boy, word gets around fast. Who told you?'

  'Professor Dirknoff.'

  'Good old Professor Dirknoff. The old queen on his throne. He's quite miffed with me, thinks I should spend two more years developing my underlying resources'

  Flexing one arm, he rotated the hand. 'Maybe I should have brought Dirknoff up before the conduct committee. That would have blown Devane's mind.'

  'Why's that?'

  'No woman victim. Because that's really what the committee was all about: men against women. From the minute I got in there she was on the attack.'

  Shrugging, he poured the rest of the water down his throat. 'So you're talking to everyone involved with the committee?'

  'Yes.'

  'They said all records would be kept confidential but after the murder I wondered. But why a psychologist -what's your name, by the way?'

  I showed him my ID. He read it and looked up at me. 'I still don't understand what your role is.'

  'The police have asked me to talk to people who knew Professor Devane, to do some victim analysis.'

  'Analyzing her? That's interesting. I always figured it was some nut, maybe someone who read her book. I heard it was pretty hostile toward men.'

  'And she was hostile in person,' I said.

  'Oh, yeah. It really freaked me out being accused of rape. Being summoned. Maybe in the end it worked out for the best because the experience brought my ambivalence about school to a head and led me to try other alternatives - have you met the girl who accused me yet?'

  'Yesterday,' I said. 'She seems terrified.'

  The gray eyes enlarged. 'Of what?'

  'I was going to ask you that.'

  'You're thinking - oh, no. Lord, no, I've kept my distance. She's bad news, I wish we lived on separate planets.'

  'Bad news?'

  'Serious problems - she needs you. One night with her was enough.'

  'What kind of problems?'

  'She's disturbed. Unpredictable.'

  He got another bottle. 'The crazy thing is, I keep thinking maybe that was what attracted me to her, in the first place. The unpredictability. Because she's not the type I usually go for.'

  'What type is that?'

  'Normal. And to be frank, a lot better looking. Generally, I like girls who take care of themselves - athletes.'

  'Tess doesn't?'

  'You met her. Tessa is sad.'

  'So you think her unpredictability attracted you?'

  'That and - I don't know, a certain... excitability, like she might be interesting.' He shrugged. 'The truth is, hell if I know. I'm still trying to understand it - did she tell you how we met?'

  'Why don't you give me your version?'

  'Your basic casual campus pickup. So normal, at first. We were in the student union, studying, eating, our eyes met and - boom. She was intense. Hot eyes, very soulful. And on some level she is attractive. Whatever it was, something clicked. For both of us.'

  He shook his head and black hair streamed then fell back in place. 'Maybe it was purely biochemical. I've read about certain chemicals that influence sexual attraction. Pheromones. So maybe the two of us were in chemical harmony that day, who knows? Whatever it was, it was one thousand percent mutual. Every time I looked at her she was staring at me. Finally, I went over and sat down next to her and she moved herself right up against me, hip-to-hip. Two minutes later, I'm asking her out and she's saying yes, as if what took so long, guy. I picked her up at her dorm that night. Movie, dinner, more small talk, but it was clear we were both just going through the motions, to make it seem... polite, before getting into the inevitable. And she was the one who suggested we come back here. I wasn't too keen on it, this place isn't exactly the Playboy Mansion, but she said there was no privacy in the dorms. I brought her back, fixed her a drink, went to the bathroom, and when I came out she was right there.'

  He pointed to the mattress in the corner.

  'Wearing one of those little black slips and her pantyhose were off, balled up, on the floor. When she saw me, she smiled and spread her legs. Before I knew it...' He clapped his big hands together. 'Like a collision. And both of us came. In fact, she finished first. Then all of a sudden she rolls out from under me and starts to cry. I try to hold her, she shoves me away. Then the crying gets intense and takes on a sound that spooks me - over-the-edge - hysterical. And loud. All I need is for Mrs G to hear and come up, maybe with Sammy - Sammy doesn't like strangers. So I put my hand over her mouth - not hard, just to calm her down, and she tries to bite me. At that point, I stand up and back off. It was disorienting. One minute you're making love, the next she's out to kill you. I'm thinking, you idiot, Muscadine, going for the casual pickup. And she's not letting up. Finally, she makes this snarling sound, gets on all fours, scrambles for her pantyhose, manages to put them on, then runs out of the apartment and down the stairs. I follow her, trying to find out what's wrong, but she won't talk, keeps heading for the street. And now Sam is barking and Mrs G's light goes on.'

  'Did Mrs Green come out?'

  'No, we were moving pretty fast. Once she was out on Fourth, she headed north. I said c'mon, it's late, let me take you home, she said fuck you, I'll walk. Which is crazy, campus is five, six miles away. But every time I try to talk to her she threatens to scream, so finally I let her.'

  He blew out air. 'Unreal. For days after I kept trying to figure out what happened and the best I could come up with was maybe she'd been raped or molested before and had a flashback. Then
a month later I get the notice to show up for the committee. It was like being hit right here.'

  He pressed his solar plexus. 'Later I found out I was never obligated to show up. But the letter sure made it sound that way.'

  'How'd you feel about getting tested for HIV?'

  'You know about that, too?'

  'There are transcripts of the Committee sessions.'

  'Transcripts? Oh, shit. Are they going to be made public?'

  'Not unless they turn out to be relevant to the murder.'

  He rubbed his forehead. 'Jesus... there's a school of thought in the industry says there's no such thing as bad publicity, just get your name out there. But that only applies to people who've already made it. I'm a peasant. The last thing I need is for people to think I'm a rapist or infected.'

  'So you're HIV-negative.'

  'Of course I am! Do I look sick?'

  'How's your back?'

  'My back?'

  'Mrs Green said you'd been laid up.'

  'Oh, that. Ruptured disc. My own fault. Felt feisty one morning and decided to go for three-twenty on the bench press. Spasmed, like a knife going right through me. Couldn't get up off the floor for an hour. The pain laid me up for a month, Mrs G brought me groceries. That's why I buy her stuff when I can. Even now I still, get a twinge, but other than that I feel great. And I'm totally, one hundred percent negative.'

  I repeated the question about being tested.

  'How did I feel? Intruded upon. Wouldn't you? It was outrageous. I think I said something at the hearing about it being Kafkaesque. Did they make everyone at the hearings go through it?'

  'I'm not at liberty to say.'

  He stared. 'Fair enough - anyway, that's my sum total contact with Professor Devane. Do you think any of this is going to hit the papers?'

  'I guess that depends on who the killer turns out to be.'

  He turned contemplative. 'You really think there's a chance the committee had something to do with her death?'

  'Would that surprise you?'

  'Absolutely. The process was nasty but in the end it didn't amount to much. I can't see murdering anyone over that. Then again, I can't see murdering anyone

  over anything.' He grinned. 'Except maybe a juicy part. Just kidding.'

  He yawned. "Scuse me. If there's nothing else, I'd like to catch a nap, have to be at work by six.'

  'Where's work?'

  'Delvecchio's in Tarzana.' He bowed and flourished. "And how would you like your steak done, sir? Rare? But what's my motivation?"

  'Professor Dirknoff said you'd gotten an acting job.'

  The handsome face darkened. 'Ouch.'

  'What hurts?'

  'Failure. Yes, that was true - Hollywood-true - when I told him I was dropping out. But I would have left, anyway. The classes were too theoretical. Waste of tuition.'

  'What's Hollywood-true?'

  'An air sandwich on imaginary bread.'

  'The job fell through?'

  'It never got far enough to fall through. I allowed myself to be naively optimistic because my audition went great and my agent told me I was a shoo-in.'

  'What happened?'

  'Someone else got the job and I didn't.'

  'Why?'

  'Hell if I know. They never tell you.'

  'What show was it?'

  'Some soap opera, independent deal for cable.'

  'Did it go into production.'

  'Everything was really preliminary. They didn't even have a name for it, something about spies and diplomats, foreign embassies. The casting director told me I

  was up for the James Bond part. Wear a patch on one eye and sweep ladies off their feet. Then she pinched my ass and said, "Yum, grade-A, prime." Where are those conduct committees when you need them?'

  Milo came to the house from the airport, arriving at seven and looking disheveled.

  'Where are the white shoes?' I said.

  He flexed a scuffed desert boot. 'Decided to go formal.' He sat down at the kitchen table and took an eight- by twelve-inch photo out of his briefcase.

  Torso-length color promo shot of a stunning young woman with long, silky, dark hair, feather-blushed cheekbones, bite-me lips slightly parted, amazed oblong eyes the color of espresso.

  She wore a white-sequined, shoulderless, strapless dress and leaned forward, offering full, surging breasts split by deep cleavage. A wide diamond choker circled her neck. Diamond clips on each ear. Too many carats to be real. Some sort of wind machine had been used to gently blow the hair back from her face. Her smile was inviting yet mocking.

  At the bottom:

  Amanda Wright

  Actress and Dancer

  Represented by Onyx Associates.

  'Her agents?' I said.

  Vegas PD says they're a defunct slick-sleaze outfit, used to do casino booking for topless acts. Mandy had no criminal record, which isn't unusual for the high-class honeys who show up when the chips start piling and do the old thigh-rub. Other vital statistics: She was single, liked to party, did grass, pills, coke. Her last boyfriend was a blackjack dealer named Ted Barnaby, also a cokehead, moved to Reno soon after the murder. Vegas interviewed him the day after, he was cooperative and had an alibi: working all that night, verified by the pit boss. Also, he seemed genuinely torn up about her death.'

  'But he moved.'

  'It didn't set off any alarms because casino people are transient. A detective took me over to the crime scene last night. Middle-class condos, quiet. Not a lot of trees like Hope's street, but there was a huge eucalyptus growing right in front of Mandy's building and that's where he got her. Vegas and I have both been calling all over the country and no other matches have turned up yet, but there's plenty to do.'

  'Any record of Mandy living in L.A.?'

  'Not so far. She'd been leasing the same apartment for almost three years, grew up in Hawaii, no police record there, either. Wouldn't surprise me if she came down to L.A. at one time or another, but her credit-card receipts don't show it and they do show other travel.'

  'Where?'

  Reaching into the briefcase again, he produced a thick black binder that he nipped open and placed next to the photo. Wetting his thumb, he turned to a page that showed two years of Visa and MasterCard summaries reduced to tiny print, three statements per page.

  Mandy Wright's monthly bills ranged from five hundred dollars to four thousand. Plenty of overdue notices and interest charges. A couple of defaults. Both times she'd been cut off and switched companies.

  I ran my finger down the itemized expenditures. Mostly clothes, cosmetics, jewelry, and restaurants. The travel information had been circled. A dozen flights: two each to Aspen and Park City, Utah; six to Honolulu; one to New York; one to New Orleans.

  'Well-traveled lady,' I said. 'Business trips?'

  'Hawaii might have been personal, she's got a brother there, but yeah, the rest could be work: the ski places for the winter - working the lodges as a snow bunny. New Orleans was during Mardi Gras and that's a big-time hooker scene. New York could be anything any time of the year.'

  'But no L.A.,' I said. 'Isn't Vegas to L.A. a big hooker run? Don't you find it odd that she new everywhere but here?'

  'Maybe she doesn't like smog,' he said. 'Maybe she drove down. But you're right, lots of girls do make the desert run regularly. Last year we had some married women from the Westside picking up change by giving head in motels, back home in time to serve dinner. So maybe Mandy had a regular client in L.A. who didn't

  want records kept.' He tapped the photo. 'A girl who looked like that, you could see some rich guy paying her to come down regularly, keep it from the wife.'

  He got a beer and I examined the rest of the folder, starting with the summary of Ted Barnaby's interview. A single paragraph written by a Detective A. Holzer, who'd spoken to the boyfriend before he left for Reno. Barnaby had shown 'tears and other evidence of grief. Subject professes no knowledge of any motive for the homicide. Says he knew victim did "some
call-girl" work, "that's why we didn't live together. She needed her own place." Subject also says he didn't like the fact that victim engaged in prostitution and that he and victim had argued about this in the past but he'd come to accept it. "You've got to accept people on their terms." His alibi checks out, verified by Franklin A. Varese, casino pit supervisor, and fellow dealers Sandra Boething and Luis Maldonado.'