“What about Troy’s mother?”
“No,” said Wascomb. “Cherish said she had tried to reach the woman but was unable. I remember the day. Late spring, nice weather, the air was clean. Small coffin, it barely made a sound as they lowered it into the ground.” He placed money on the table.
I said, “On me.”
“No, I won’t hear of it.”
“Split check, then.”
“All right.” He smiled at me.
“Sorry if this was upsetting, Dr. Wascomb.”
“No, no, you’re doing important work.” He turned to leave, stopped. Touched my shoulder. “The boy did a terrible thing, Dr. Delaware, but you’d never know it to look at that coffin.”
CHAPTER 30
Heather came by and eyed Wascomb’s uneaten food. “Do you want a doggy bag?”
“No, thanks.”
She followed Wascomb’s slow walk out the door. “He barely touched his food. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Is he your dad?”
“No,” I said. I handed her the total plus ten bucks. “Keep the change.” Big smile.
“Were you working yesterday?”
“Here?” she said. “I think so. Yeah, yesterday I was here.”
“Working two jobs?”
“Three. Here, KFC after five, and then Thursday and Friday nights I babysit for an emergency room doctor at Glendale Memorial.”
“Tough schedule.”
“That’s what my dad says. He keeps bugging me to quit something and have some fun.” She stuck her tongue out. “I’m saving up for fashion school.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Yesterday morning, around nine, did you notice a couple who came in for breakfast? She had long blond hair; he was tall and wore a leather cowboy hat.”
“Them,” she said. “Sure. I served them. I remember him because he reminded me of this actor my dad used to like. Peter . . . Peter something.”
“Fonda?”
“That’s it. There’s this real old movie my dad watches over and over. It’s got Jack Nicholson in it but he’s a lot younger and skinnier.”
“Easy Rider.”
“Uh huh. Jack and some other guy and the other guy— Peter— they’re like biker hippies.” She giggled. “Peter’s kind of a cutie if you go for that retro hippie thing. That’s what that guy— the guy with the hat— reminded me of.”
“Retro.”
“Lost in the sixties. His hair was like down his back and his shirt had snaps on it. Which gave me an idea for a dress. Cowboy Punk thing.”
“Original.”
“Thanks. How come you’re asking about them?”
“I work with the police.”
Her eyes got huge. “You’re a cop?”
“Consultant.”
“Wow,” she said. “They did something nasty?”
“They’re just people we’re interested in.”
“Like witnesses?”
“Something like that. Is there anything you remember about them?”
“Not really. They didn’t talk much.”
“To each other?”
“To each other or me. I’m a real motormouth, like you can’t tell. I’m always talking to the customers, it makes them feel you’re interested in them and it pays off in the tips department. Didn’t work with those two, they just sat there, like they were having a fight.”
“They eat?”
“They ordered but only he ate. Bacon and eggs. She asked for a sweet roll and milk but she didn’t touch it— like that old guy you were with. I figured there wouldn’t be much payoff and I was right. Ten percent tip, which is old. She paid.”
“Overhear any conversation?”
“There wasn’t any that I saw.”
“Have they been here before?”
“Once before,” she said. “Last week. Lauren served them. It was dinnertime and I was going off shift.”
“When last week?”
“Let’s see.” She pressed a finger to her lower lip. “Lauren works Tuesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and it wasn’t Friday because I’m off Friday and it wasn’t Tuesday because she called in sick Tuesday because her boyfriend got tickets to the Jason Mraz concert.” She stopped for breath. “Had to be Thursday.”
“Around what time?”
“Five-ish. Wow, so this is like an investigation?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You can’t tell me what they did?”
“Sorry, Heather.”
“Cool, I understand.”
“So they’ve only been here twice.”
“That’s all I saw.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Three years, off and on.”
“How’d they act on Thursday?”
“The same. That’s how I remember. Lauren said they didn’t talk, just sat. He ate, she didn’t.”
“Ten percent tip.”
“Eight percent, actually.” She grinned. “I guess it’s my charm.”
I thanked her and gave her another ten.
“Oh, wow, you don’t have to,” she said, but she made no effort to return the money. “If you want I can keep an eye out and if they come in again I’ll call you.”
“I was just going to ask.” I handed her my card.
“Psychologist,” she said. “Like crazy criminals, Hannibal Lecter stuff?”
“It’s not always that exciting.”
“My sister went to a psychologist. She was pretty screwed up, had some real bad friends.”
“Did it help her?”
“Not really. But at least she moved out and I don’t have to listen to a bunch of yelling.”
“Guess you’d call that partial success,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said absently. As she drifted back to the register, I saw her re-count her money.
* * *
I got back on the 134 West, checked for messages when traffic slowed.
One from Olivia Brickerman. I exited the freeway on Laurel Canyon, drove to Ventura Boulevard, found a spot across the street from an adult motel, and called her office.
“Your Mr. and Mrs. Daney are pretty good at the paper game,” she said. “They total about seven grand a month fostering. They’ve been taking in kids for just over seven years, haven’t made any attempt to hide the fact that they’re exceeding the limit by two wards. That tells me they’re vets who know the system’s broke. Mrs. Daney has also applied for certification as an educational therapist, which would entitle her to additional treatment money. Generally, that requires some sort of teaching credential but there’s been some loosening of the regs due to shortages of providers. This help?”
“Very much. How badly is the system broken?”
“The geniuses in the state legislature just turned down a request for more caseworkers and the counties are already severely shorthanded. Meaning no one checks anything. A couple more things about the Daneys: They always foster teenagers with learning disabilities. What I found really interesting is that all their wards have been females. Which is unusual, there’s no shortage of boys in the system.”
“Can foster parents pick and choose age and sex?” I said.
“There’s supposed to be mutual consent between the agency and the caregiver. In the best interests of the child.”
“So you can ask for a girl.”
“Alex,” she said, “right now, if you’re white and middle class and don’t have a criminal record, you can ask for just about anything and get it.”
I thanked her and asked for a list of the Daneys’ wards.
She said, “All I’ve been able to find is the last few years. I’ll fax it to you soon as I get off. Regards to Allison. I hope I wasn’t too cheeky with the Snow White stuff.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Brilliance has its privileges.”
“You flatter me, darling.”
* * *
The only Martin Boestling I found listed in the phone book was a “confection
ery dealer” on Fairfax Avenue. Unlikely, but it was an easy drive over Laurel Canyon.
The Nut House turned out to be a double storefront a block north of the Farmer’s Market/Grove complex. The Parking in Rear sign kept its promise and I found a space next to a green van with the store’s name, address, and website under a giant cashew that resembled an eyeless grub. A locked screen door covered an open delivery arch. I rang the bell and a heavy, kerchiefed woman in her sixties peered out, turned the bolt, and trod back wordlessly toward the front of the store.
The space was one big room lined with bins of candy, coffee, tea, rainbow-hued desiccated things, equally garish jellied morsels, and nuts. At least a dozen varieties of almonds. A sign said No Peanuts Here, Allergic People Don’t Worry.
The shoppers, all female, strolled the aisles and scooped goodies into green bags rolled from overhead spools. The green-aproned man at the register was mid-fifties, round-shouldered, and stocky with dark wavy hair. His face looked as if it had argued with a wall and lost. His hands were outsized and blocky and he bantered easily with two women checking out. In the Internet photo I’d found, he’d been tuxedoed, arm in arm with Sydney Weider. She’d changed a lot. Martin Boestling hadn’t.
I scooped smoked almonds into a bag, waited until the shop was quiet, and approached.
Boestling rang up the sale. “You’ll like these, an Indian family in Oregon does the smoking themselves.”
“Great,” I said, paying. “Mr. Boestling?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’m looking for a Martin Boestling who used to produce films.”
He transferred the almonds to a paper bag, slid it across the counter, started to turn away.
I showed him my police I.D.
He said, “Police shrink? What’s this all about?”
“I consult to— ”
“And now you’re at The Nut House. How apropos.” His eyes aimed at the woman behind me in line. “Next.”
I stepped aside, waited until she checked out.
Martin Boestling said, “Anything else I can do for you, purchase-wise?”
“It’s about Sydney Weider,” I said. “And Drew Daney.”
His big hands became flesh cudgels. “What is it exactly that you want?”
“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Boestling.”
“Why?”
“Daney’s the subject of an investigation.”
Silence.
“It could be serious,” I said.
“You want dirt.”
“If you’ve got any.”
He waved the kerchiefed woman over. “Magda, take over. An old friend just dropped in.”
* * *
We walked up Fairfax, found an unoccupied bus bench, sat down. Martin Boestling had forgotten to remove his apron. Or maybe he hadn’t.
He said, “Sydney was a bitch from hell, he was a fucking bastard, end of story.”
“I know about the gonorrhea.”
“Know how big my dick is, too?”
“If it’s relevant I can probably find out.”
He grinned. “You’d think it would be relevant, size mattering and all that. I married Sydney because she was smart and rich and good-looking and loved to screw. Turned out, she was making a fool out of me from the day we tied the knot.”
“Promiscuous.”
“If she had showed restraint, you could’ve called her promiscuous. Day of the wedding, she screwed one of my so-called friends.” He began ticking his finger. “The pool boy, the tennis pro, the fish tank guy, bunch of lawyers she worked with. It was only later, after the divorce, that people started to come up and tell me, phony sympathy in their eyes. Sorry, Marty, we didn’t want to make waves. I could never prove it but I’m convinced she screwed some of her clients, too. You know the kind of clients she worked with?”
“Indigent.”
“Murderers, robbers, scumbags. Think about that: She’s keeping long office hours in order to spread her legs for lowlife while I’m hustling to support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed. I hated the industry, stayed with it because I was desperate to impress her. Know where we met?”
“Where?”
“Your investigation didn’t carry you that far back? We met at the Palisades Vista Country Club where her family belonged and I was working my way through the U. as a towel jockey. Spritzing rich people with bottled water while they turned like chickens on a spit. Should’ve known how it was going to be when Sydney left her rich boyfriend in the dining room so she could do me in a cabana. We dated off and on for a while, until I graduated and got a job in the mailroom at CAA and convinced her to marry me.”
I said, “Was it her idea for you to go into the industry?”
“I had a B.A. in English, which is about as useful as a second appendix. It sounded interesting and I was good at it. Mostly, I did it for Sydney. I was crazy about her.”
He plucked at his apron. “Her old man got me the mailroom gig but I earned the right to stay. Worked like a galley slave and took abuse from the worst people you’ll ever meet. I produced more than all the Ivy League dilettantes who were doing it for fun, climbed fast, was making serious money while Sydney finished at the U. School-wise she was always smart, graduated summa, took a break to have the kids, then we all moved to Berkeley so she could attend Boalt Law School. I stayed down in L.A., flew up on weekends to be with her and the boys. I had it down to a science, the four p.m. Friday into Oakland to avoid the fog, return late Sunday. The boys turned out good, considering. They both hate her. It didn’t take long for the marriage to go sour— we were bored with each other. But no one else’s marriage seemed any better so I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Until the lab report,” I said.
“The lab report came later. What blew everything up was I caught her doing Daney. In my house, my bed, my robe and slippers on the chair.” He laughed. “Total cliché. I had a meeting over at Fox TV on a script. The moron in charge cut it short because she heard my demographic wasn’t right. Meaning my projects were aimed at I.Q.s higher than that of a rutabaga. I was expecting a longer meeting, brought along the writer, poor schmuck. So I’m out of there in ten minutes, in a not-so-good mood, decided to go home, take a swim and a shvitz in the brand-new sauna I put in. When I get home, I hear moaning and groaning from upstairs and go into the master suite— which I just paid a fortune to remodel, let me tell you, our place in Brentwood was state of the art. The door’s wide open and Sydney and that pissant are doing the two-headed goat.”
His voice had risen loud enough for passersby to notice. Smoothing his apron, he cracked his knuckles. “I yell, Sydney opens her eyes. Then she closes them and keeps going. I rush over and I’m hitting Daney on the back and neck and he wants to get off her but she’s got a leg-lock on him. I’m pounding him on the back, his head, anywhere I can land a punch and he’s struggling to get free but Sydney still won’t let him. Finally she finishes and shoves him off and the bastard grabs his clothes and runs out of there like his nuts are on fire.”
He laughed until his eyes got wet. “I can laugh at it now. Even feel sorry for the idiot.”
I smiled.
“Mr. Subdued Reaction,” he said. “Remind me not to put you in the audience. Anyway, that’s the story.”
“Any idea how long they’d been carrying on?”
“No, because we never talked about it. Sydney locked herself in the bathroom, took a shower, when she came out I was ready to fight. She breezes past, gets in her car and leaves. She stayed out all night, luckily the boys were away at school. I sat there like a lox, waiting for her, finally got myself a room at the Hotel Bel-Air. A few days later, pus started coming out of my dick. But I got her good. Guess how?”
“Something financial.”
“The pre-nup. Which her old man put in for her sake. The deal was she got to keep all the assets she came into the marriage with. Only problem for Sydney was the old man made some real bad investments and emp
tied her trust fund. Her sole assets were zippo leaving only our joint assets. Which wasn’t as much as either of us thought because we were living way beyond our means. For me it was no big deal, my dad worked for a living— the nut business. I used to put it down for not being glamorous, till I learned about the industry.”
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