'Hope was pretty good at it.'
'Hope was good at everything. Do you understand that? The woman was exceptional?
I nodded.
'Actually,' he said, 'she despised the publicity game but knew it was useful.'
'She told you that.'
'Yes, Delaware. She was my wife. She confided in me.'
Popping the top of his soda can, he peered into the opening. 'Oh, Christ, why am I wasting my time with you - can you even imagine what it was like sharing my roof with someone like that? Like living with a borrowed masterpiece - a Renoir or a Degas. One knows one can never own it, or even fully understand it, but one is grateful.'
'Borrowed from whom?' I said.
'God, the Fates, choose your superstition.'
He drank soda and put down the can. 'So now he thinks: Was he jealous? The answer is no, I was in awe, but a loving awe. Next question in his psychoanalytic mind: What did she see in him? And the answer is sometimes I wondered myself. And now, she's gone... and your boob police friend thinks I'm the culprit - have you studied much history, Dr Delaware?'
'Not formally since college but I try to learn from the past.'
'How admirable... Have you ever thought about what history really is? An accounting of failure, iniquity, errors of judgment, character flaws, bloody cruelties, obscene missteps. Human beings are such low things. What greater support of atheism is there than the repulsive nature of those scraps of flesh and weakness allegedly created in God's image? Or perhaps there is a master deity and he's an incompetent boob like everyone else. Wouldn't that be a hoot - now please leave me alone!'
It was good to get back out in the sunlight. Pretending the warmth could melt the bitterness I'd absorbed up in his office.
Real pain and anger or an act to prevent me from probing?
Confronted with a question about his and Hope's relationship, he'd never said it had been good, only that they'd both been hard to live with and their endurance proved something.
Then he'd admitted he was jealous but turned it into worship.
living with a masterpiece... that could wear thin.
I thought of the sudden way he'd flushed. Short fuse.
People with severe temper-control problems often betray themselves physiologically.
Root around to your heart's content.
Secure in his innocence or a psychopath's catch-me-if-you-can challenge?
The meeting at Kenneth Storm Sr's office in Pasadena was at one. Julia Steinberger would be finished teaching in twenty minutes.
I used a library phone and gave Casey Locking's home another try. Same tape.
Late evening in England, but still a civil hour to call Hope's other student, Mary Ann Gonsalvez.
Once again, the phone just kept ringing.
Back to the world of real science.
Julia Steinberger was heading for her office, flanked by two male graduate students. When she saw me, she frowned and told them, 'Could you give me just a minute, guys? I'll come by the lab.'
They left and she unlocked the office. She was wearing a knee-length black dress and black onyx necklace and looked troubled. When the door closed behind us, she remained standing.
'I don't know if I'm doing the right thing,' she said, 'but the first time you were here there was something I left out. It's probably not relevant - I find the whole thing distasteful.'
'Something about Hope?' I said.
'Yes. Something - remember how I told you I'd had an intuition about her possibly having been abused?'
'The fierce look.'
'That was true,' she said. 'She had that look. But... I - there was something else. It was last year - at the Faculty Club. Not the welcoming tea, something else - some guest lectureship, who remembers.'
Walking to her desk, she braced her palms on the top. Looked at the doll she'd fondled the first time, but made no move toward it.
'We chatted a bit, then Hope moved on to circulate and Gerry and I found someone else to talk to. Then, maybe an hour later, at the end of the evening, I went to the ladies' room and she was in there, standing at the mirror. There's an entry room before you get into the main bathroom, also mirrored, and the way it's set up, you can get a look into the bathroom as you pass. It's carpeted, I guess she didn't hear me.'
She lowered her eyes.
'She was in there, examining herself. Her arms. Her dress was cut low on the shoulders but with elbow-length sleeves. I'd noticed it, very elegant, figured it had cost a fortune. She'd pulled one of the shoulders down and was looking at her upper arm. There was a strange look in her eyes - almost hypnotized - and her expression was blank. And on the arm was a bruise. A large one. Black-and-blue. Right here.'
She touched her own bicep. 'Several marks, actually. Dots. Finger marks. As if she'd been squeezed very hard. Her skin was extremely white - beautiful skin - so the contrast was dramatic, almost like tattoos. And the bruises looked fresh - hadn't yet turned that greenish-purple color.'
She hurried back to the door, fighting tears. 'That's it'
'How'd she react when you walked in?' I said.
'She yanked up the sleeve, her eyes came back into focus, and she said, "Hi, Julia," as if nothing had happened. Then she made happy talk and put on her makeup. Chatting on and on about how different things would be if men were expected to always be in perfect face. I agreed with her and we both pretended
nothing had happened. What was I supposed to say? Who did that to you?'
She opened the door. 'Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just had delicate skin, bruised easily... but when she asked me to be on the committee, I just felt as if I owed it to her.'
Dark bruises on white skin. Seacrest's sudden anger. I got back in the Seville and onto the 405 north.
Pasadena eats more than its share of smog but today the air was clean and the office buildings on Cordova Street shone as beautifully as a Richard Estes painting.
Storm Realty and Investment was a one-story neo-Spanish surrounded by brilliant flower beds and jacaranda trees still in purple bloom. The accompanying parking lot was pristine. I pulled in next to Milo's unmarked just as he got out. He was carrying his briefcase and a tape recorder and was wearing a gray suit, white button-down shirt, red-and-blue rep tie.
"Very GOP,' I said, looking down at his desert boots and trying not to smile.
'When in businessland, do as the businessmen. Speaking of commerce, I found a couple of Sunset Strip bars Mandy Wright just might have frequented.'
'Might?'
'No ID yet but a couple of promising maybes. We're talking big hair, perfect bodies, so an ugly girl would have stood out better. As is, I was lucky to find two bartenders who'd been working there a year ago. Neither would swear it was her, just that she looked familiar.'
'Was she working or hanging out?'
'Her line of work, is there a difference? And if she was working, they wouldn't admit it and jeopardize the liquor license. The thing that makes me think it could be a valid lead is the places were only a block apart, so maybe she was cruising. Club None and the Pit. Trouble is, neither barkeep can remember seeing her with anyone.'
'But it does put her in L.A.'
He crossed his fingers. 'The other thing is, I spoke to Gunderson, the Temple City detective who handled Tessa's complaint against her old man. He's an assistant chief now, barely remembered the case, but he pulled the file and said his notes indicate they never took the complaint seriously. Considered Tessa a head case. He started to remember the father vaguely. As a nice guy - admitted to a juvenile record when he didn't have to, very up-front about everything. So Muscadine is looking increasingly righteous and let's finish with the damned committee - ready for Master Storm?'
'Before we begin, I've got some evidence of Hope being abused.' I told him Steinberger's story, then my few minutes with Seacrest.
'Bruises and a bad temper,' he said, frowning. 'What, specifically, got him so pissed?'
'He was pissed at the outset, got
red in the face when I told him I wanted to talk about the relationship.'
'Good. Maybe we're getting under his skin. Maybe I should work him a little more... Wouldn't that be something, he roughs her up for years and she writes the book telling women how to defend themselves.'
'Wouldn't be the first time,' I said.
'For what?'
'Style over substance. Little boxes. But if she and Seacrest were having problems, the book, all the attention it got her, could have crystallized her dissatisfaction, made her decide to finally break away. Maybe in that sense, fame was her death sentence. But as to what that has to do with Mandy Wright, I still can't come up with anything. And here's another complication: Last night I took another drive by Cruvic's office. He wasn't in but Nurse Anna was. Along with Casey Locking.'
I told him about the Mullholland house and he copied down the address.
'Shit,' he said. 'Just when you thought it was safe to go back into hypothesisland - okay, I'll find out who owns it. Meanwhile, let's go persecute a mouthy kid.'
We crossed a long, quiet reception area to get to Kenneth Storm Sr's office, past a pair of secretaries who looked up from their keyboards resentfully, talk radio in the background.
The Storms were a testament to genetics, both bull-necked and wide-shouldered with sandy crew cuts and small, suspicious eyes that locked in place for long stretches.
Senior was fiftyish with the dissolute, puffy look of a fullback gone sedentary. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons and a masonic pin in the lapel. Junior's jacket was dark green, his buttons as bright as his father's.
They were both positioned behind Senior's canoe-shaped blond oak desk, which had been cleared of everything but a cowboy bronze and a green onyx pen-and-pencil set. The office was too big for the
furniture, walled in oak veneer and carpeted in beige shag. Real-estate and life-insurance achievement awards were Senior's idea of self-validation. A cigar smell filled the room but no ashtrays were in sight.
Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone's idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm's attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.
'Furthermore,' said Bateman, 'with regard to the substance of this proced-'
'Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?' said Milo.
'I'm Mr Storm's attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.'
'So you regard this as a business affair?'
Bateman bared his teeth. 'May I continue, Detective?'
'Has Mr Storm Jr engaged you formally?'
'That's hardly relevant.'
'It might be if you're going to stand around making up rules.'
Bateman massaged a sapphire cuff link and looked at the boy. 'Would you care to designate me as your attorney, Kenny?'
Junior rolled his eyes. His father tapped his sleeve with an index finger.
'Yeah, sure.'
'All right, then,' said Bateman, 'with regard to this procedure, Detective, you will refrain from...'
Milo placed his tape recorder on the desk.
'I have a problem with that,' said Bateman.
'With what?'
'Taping. This is neither court testimony nor a formal deposition and my client's not under any formal suspicion-'
'So why are you acting like he is?'
'Detective,' said Bateman. 'I insist that you stop interrupting-'
Milo shut him up with a loud exhalation. Picking up the recorder, he examined a switch. 'Mr Bateman, we drove out here as a courtesy, rescheduled several times as a courtesy, allowed your client's father to he present as a courtesy, even though he's reached the age of majority. We are not talking juvey traffic court here. Our interest in the lad is the fact that he had a highly hostile exchange with a woman who was subsequently stabbed to death.'
Junior mumbled and Senior shot him a look.
'Detective,' said Bateman. 'Surely-'
'Counselor,' said Milo, taking a few steps closer. 'He's not a formal suspect yet, but all this shuffling and dodging is definitely firming up the picture of an individual with something to hide. You wanna sit here, play F. Lee Bombast, that's your business. But if we do conduct an interview today it's gonna be taped and I'm gonna ask what I want. Otherwise, we'll reschedule at the West L.A. substation and you all deal with the freeway and the press.'
Junior mumbled again.
'Ken,' warned Senior.
Junior rolled his eyes again and fingered a pimple on the side of his neck. His hands were big, hairless, powerful.
Milo said, 'Sorry to be taking up your time, son. Though you've got a bit of time on your hands, don't you. Being out of school and all that.'
Junior's neck stretched as he jutted his lower jaw. His father tapped his cuff again.
'Detective,' said Bateman, 'that was a wonderful speech. Now, if you'll allow me to continue my stipulations.'
Milo picked up the recorder and headed for the door. 'Sayonara, gentlemen.'
We were halfway across the reception area when Bateman called out, 'Detective?'
We kept walking and the lawyer hurried to catch up. The reception area had gone quiet, the two secretaries staring. The talk jock was pontificating about athletes' salaries. The place smelled of mouthwash.
'That was intemperate, Detective,' Bateman stage-whispered. 'This is a kid.'
'He's eighteen and more than big enough to do damage, Mr Bateman. Expect a call.'
He pushed the door open and Bateman followed us out to the parking lot.
'Mr Storm's well-regarded in his community, Detective, and Kenny's a solid boy.'
'Good for them.'
'With all the gangs and the serious crime, one would think the police have better things to do-'
"Than harass law-abiding citizens?' said Milo. 'What can I say, we're stupid.' We reached the unmarked.
'Just wait one minute.' Bateman's voice had tightened, but with anxiety, not indignation.
Milo took out his keys.
'Look, Detective, I'm here so they'll feel protected. Kenny really is a good kid, I've known him for years.'
'Protected against what?'
'Things have been rough, lately. They're both under considerable stress.'
Milo opened the car door and put his gear in.
Bateman edged closer and spoke in a lower voice. 'I don't expect you to care, but Ken - Ken Sr's having some financial difficulties. Serious ones. The real-estate market.'
Milo straightened but didn't answer.
'It's a hard time for both of them,' said Bateman. 'First Ken's wife died, very sudden, an aneurysm. And now this. Ken built his business from nothing. Built this building twenty years ago and now it's on the verge of foreclosure. And losing it won't solve all his problems, there are plenty of other creditors. So you can see why he'd be nervous about the legal process. I'm his friend as well as his lawyer. I feel obligated to protect him as much as I can.'
'We're not talking real estate, here, Mr Bateman.'
The attorney nodded. 'Truth is, I don't know shit from shinola about criminal law and told Ken so. But he and I go back to grade school. He insisted on having me present.'
'So he thinks the boy needs legal help.'
'No, no, only in general terms - not getting shafted by the system. To be frank, Kenny's no genius and he has a bad temper. So does Ken. So did his dad, for that matter. The whole damn bunch of them have short fuses, for all I know that's how they got the family name.'
He smiled but Milo didn't return it.
'Is Kenny an only child?'
'No, there's a daughter up at Stanford Med.'
'The bright on
e.'
'Cheryl's a whiz.'
'How do she and Kenny get along?'
'Fine, but Kenny's never been at her level and everyone knows it. My point is, Detective, take those tempers and add all the stress, and without some sort of structure, there's a good chance both of them would eventually get hot under the collar and pop off. Give the wrong impression.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 11 - The Clinic Page 20
