Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  “Mr. Whitman!” Cory T. cried. “All right? Shit. Goddamn.”

  “Mr. Whitman up in the Hills?” Mark said.

  “Yeah, man. Some doctor, or some lawyer, or some shit.”

  Mark let go of him, straightened his jogger’s jacket out for him. “Okay. That was very sweet of you. Thanks, kids.” He motioned to Nia with his eyes. It was time to go. They both backed away toward the back door of the house. Once there, they left through the living room, back out into the front.

  Complex aesthetic treatments. Reconstructive and microvascular surgery. Diplomate of the ABP and Fellow of the American College of Surgeons. Whitman was a leading beauty surgeon in one of the highest-profile plastic surgery markets in the world. Plus, he was the Medical Director for Invo-Technologies, an aesthetic medical supply manufacturer for the beauty industry. He was also an avid RC miniature airplane controller who competed up in Canyon Park as part of the Latuna Flyers Squad. They were meeting today. That’s where he’d be.

  The park was a swath of acreage designated at the top of a mountain on the north side of Verdugo. A winding road brought the Camaro up to the crest where several other vehicles were parked. It looked like an exotic luxury car convention. Several teams were spotted along the long flight runway fidgeting with their toys—an array of different model planes ranging from four feet long to eight, all perfectly built to scale, some of them already taking flight buzzing through the white, midday sky.

  Mark and Nia gave each other a look. “Big boy toys,” he said.

  “Rich man’s hobby,” she murmured, slipping on a sleek pair of Umbro sunglasses.

  They located Whitman standing a few hundred feet down the dirt-shaved runway. As they approached, Mark kept his eye on him watching like a hawk, studying him. He was a tall, well-built guy, late forties, who presented himself well in a light windbreaker, relaxed slacks that had a beachy, beige look and aviator sunglasses. At first, he was squatted down by his RC plane, a quad propeller, WW II bomber, easily eight feet long with an equally long wingspan. He got to his full height standing on the other side of a long pole fence tinkering with the two-handed controller set on a tripod.

  Mark and Nia stopped within conversation distance before Mark said, “Doctor Whitman?”

  The man didn’t bother turning around, just kept fidgeting with the control panel. He said, “You cops?”

  “Detectives Neiman and Helms, L.A.P.D. Central Division.” Mark flashed his badge but it was useless. Whitman acknowledged them only by turning a cheek to them and offering them a giggle. He was a cool customer. “Something funny?” Mark said.

  “Usually, you’d be lawyers.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Good,” he said, and turned to face them. “What can I do for you?”

  Mark pointed at the airplane. “An interesting hobby.”

  “Isn’t it?” Whitman said, turning back to his panel and flipping a toggle switch. The thing came to life popping and choking as the props began to whir. It was fuel-driven, but radio controlled. Mark had to admit, the thing was impressive.

  “Looks expensive,” Nia said.

  The smile on Whitman’s face broadened. “I like expensive things, Detective.” He thumbed a control stick forward and the plane revved up, started tooling down the runway.

  As the thing pulled further away Mark said, “Does that include women?”

  “I knew that’s why you were here.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Just a sec,” Whitman said, pulling back on the control sticks. The plane bobbed skyward lifting up. It caught a cushion of air, nosed up and lifted higher and higher into the sky. “A woman,” Whitman said. “I know lots of women.”

  “Your profession,” Mark assumed.

  “Primary clientele,” he said, peeling his plane, now at a hundred foot altitude, into a slow, graceful turn. “The women I know are very …” he paused, then said, “high maintenance. Thus, the lawyers.”

  “Gotcha. Was Angela Newman high maintenance?”

  For the first time, his eyes pulled away from his plane and he looked back at them. “Very. But a few are worth it.” He looked back at the sky following the plane, steadied it in its flight, and refocused on Mark. “Why do you say, was?”

  Mark and Nia both drew a breath and looked at each other. There was no hiding the truth. The girl was dead.

  Whitman pulled the aviators off his face and said, “Jesus Christ.” True shock, borderline anguish, struck him. It was clear, he was deeply affected.

  “We’re sorry, Doctor,” Mark said.

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I have to ask, what was your relationship with her?”

  The man blinked realigning his senses and slid the sunglasses back on. “She was a patient.”

  “She was more, though, wasn’t she?”

  Whitman pulled a large breath and exhaled slowly as he turned back to his control panel relocating his plane up in the sky. He said amicably, “I’m a very private man, Detectives. My profession requires a certain discretion. I wouldn’t be prepared to answer any questions at this point without my lawyer present.”

  “I thought you didn’t like lawyers.”

  He looked over his shoulder, said, “I like mine.”

  “Okay,” Mark said. “Just make sure he’s at your home tonight, around eight o’clock. Is that fair?”

  Whitman didn’t answer. Mark nodded to Nia and they turned to leave, but the doctor stopped them. “It’s the way they operate, the way they move.” They turned around to see Whitman looking up, guiding his plane into a large, sweeping bank. “They just kind of glide, you know, especially the expensive ones. Seamless, yet beyond your control. We men, we stand down here on the earth and look up at them, watch them in painful fascination.”

  Mark smiled at him. He was talking about women, flying his expensive toy.

  Whitman pulled the bomber distantly into a descent, easy and patient, coming in for a landing. He continued, “They have a grace all their own. It’s hard to find one so responsive.” It touched down on the dirt with a peculiar buoyancy and came rattling toward them. “It’s a thing of beauty,” he said, as it tooled to a stop not twenty feet from them, and he killed the engine. He faced the detectives and said, “I relish inside the world’s beauty.”

  “You know your instrument,” Mark said.

  “I’m well studied.”

  Nia chimed in, “Yet, one wrong move, no matter how tiny, and all that beauty turns real ugly.”

  Whitman removed his glasses slowly, folded them away into a jacket pocket and stepped toward them. “How’d she die?”

  “She was murdered,” Mark said.

  “How?”

  Mark cleared his throat, said, “Someone tortured her to death, Doctor Whitman. Left her body by the river.”

  Whitman made a horrible face registering the information. “Tortured.”

  “You loved her,” Nia guessed.

  He swallowed, shook his head, said, “I gave her what she wanted. She gave me the same. That was the extent of our relationship.”

  “So, if I may,” Mark said, “You set her up in the city—top-shelf condo down on Wilshire …”

  Nia said, “Meets and greets with high society.”

  Mark said, “All the benefits of a sponsor.”

  “And in return you enjoyed the fruits of your labor.”

  Whitman gave them a sad smile. “We all have our favorites.”

  “Another expensive toy,” Nia said.

  “It wasn’t one-sided. She enjoyed the lifestyle.”

  Mark asked, “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “It was strange. I hadn’t heard from her in two weeks. I wondered why. Thought maybe she was … occupied.” His meaning was clear. Another man.

  “That wouldn’t have bothered you?”

  “Of course, but like I said—I value my privacy.”

  “Wife a
nd all?” Nia said.

  For the first time, he showed the slightest insult, but it faded back under his balanced features. “I am a married man, yes.”

  “Was Angela Newman becoming a threat?” Nia asked.

  “I’ve been very clear on that point. I have not seen her in weeks.”

  Mark and Nia both nodded their heads absorbing. A moment of silence passed. Whitman smiled at them patiently and asked, “Am I a suspect?”

  Mark returned his grin. “We’re not there yet, Mr. Whitman, but tell me—how did she come to be your patient?”

  “She was a referral, two years ago.”

  “Different network?”

  “Yeah. He was out of Beverley Hills, if I recall. She wanted beautification; he knew my reputation. I get referrals all the time.”

  “Hmm,” Mark said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Appreciate your time.”

  “Let me know what happens.”

  Mark grinned. The guy wasn’t off the hook yet. He said, “Do me a favor and stay local for the time being.”

  Whitman grinned bitterly. “Right.”

  11

  Narrowing In

  Some blonde-haired bubblehead talked incessantly at Mark from across the dining table. They sat at a booth. It was a crowded restaurant, chic but sporty. She was young, tall, beautiful—a service industry pro (which meant waitress) and an actress wannabe. Ripe for the next new HBO series, or prime time soap opera. In L.A. her type was a dime a dozen. Very material. Very willing. This girl—Tiffany or Shannon or whatever her name was—fit his profile to a tee. Even now in his late thirties, these little bunny rabbits seemed all he wanted. And he’d had his share. It never lasted long, but for a self-proclaimed playboy copping it up in Los Angeles, Mark wouldn’t have had it any other way. And this one was ripe for some little Neimans.

  So, it confounded him as to why he wasn’t the least bit interested in her. His mind wandered away from their one-sided conversation as he sipped on his IPA looking around idly, offering the occasional nod and grin while she blah blah blah’ed from across the table. Then …

  His phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and answered.

  “Mark. Nia here.”

  Thank God. It was Nia. Nia Helms. All was suddenly right … and wrong.

  She continued quickly, “I was thinking about something.”

  Mark gave his date a hold on finger, stood and moved, a little too eager to escape. “Nia, what you got?”

  “Angela Newman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Her mother was single. Father was out of the picture. She had no formal income. But she had the goods. So she turned socialite.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Two years ago, she was referred to a plastic surgeon.”

  “Doctor Whitman, yeah.”

  “But that was before they met.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So, how was she going to pay for the surgery?”

  Silence followed. He absorbed her words, thinking. Angela Newman had had a sugar daddy even before Whitman. She’d probably had a string of them. And two years ago, one of them was willing to pay for Whitman’s services. He said, “Who was footing the bill, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s really good. What’re you thinking?”

  “We have to find her last doctor.”

  He grinned to himself. She was right. Thank God for Nia Helms, this hood rat from Oakland. She was the only woman in town who excited him, who made him feel connected to something real.

  12

  Residence

  “A Hugh Graves. M.D.,” Nia said. “Got the address. Our flyer friend was right. Beverley Hills.”

  Mark made an impressed face. “This girl was high society, all the way.”

  They took his Camaro west on the 110 hitting midday traffic. It went slow then fast, then slow then fast, like his car was having intercourse with the one in front of it. There were constant brake lights. Very L.A. He said, “So, Hugh Graves—what else we got on him?”

  “I’ve been looking at this, Mark. It’s strange. The DMV, civil database, P.D.—we’ve got full records of him up, until two years ago. High school, college, premed, residency, everything. Then—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing. Financial accounts all withdrew, then—it’s like he just dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  “No death record?”

  “Nope. Nothing.”

  “What about missing persons?”

  “Let me check,” she said, and typed up something on the onboard. She looked, pursed her lips and said, “No Hugh Graves.”

  “Rich L.A. doctors don’t just disappear.”

  Nia looked over at him and said, “This one did.”

  Dr. Hugh Graves’s house (or last known residence) was as typical as it could be for a two-million dollar plantation style home in Beverley Hills. It was an impressive red brick home with a wide, pillar and awning style entryway, and high roofline. They parked on the street and got out, both of them noticing immediately how immaculate the yard was—green, nicely cut grass. It was almost opulent, especially for late October. They met eyes, both of them looking doubtful. The yard bill was paid up.

  Stepping onto the porch the first thing Mark’s detective impulses recognized were the eyes watching him. There was a Vue brand video monitor doorbell, a two-way system that alerted the homeowner of potential guests. Through the Vue’s video eye, the homeowner could voice communicate with neighbors, package delivery guys, even curious investigators from anywhere in the world. But also, Mark was being captured on digital video, his presence being stored away on some mega-server somewhere.

  Too late. He waved into the eye before ringing the doorbell, then stepped back expecting to hear someone’s voice filter over the system through cellular technology. But nothing happened, so he rang again.

  Nia joined him on the porch. “No one home?” she said.

  “Just as suspected.” Mark put his hands up on the glass door and peeked in. Everything was immaculate inside. But no lights were on. “Hmm.”

  They moved out into the yard’s stone walkway eyeing the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the house belonging to a disappeared M.D. Mark looked over, saw the neighbor stepping out onto the driveway. “Excuse me,” Mark called.

  The guy looked over at him through a plump, moneyed face. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. Detective Neiman. This is Helms. L.A.P.D. We’re looking for Hugh Graves. You know him?”

  The guy leaned over the top of his car, a BMW, frowning. “Yeah, Hugh—haven’t seen him in, gosh, months I guess.”

  “Months?” Mark said. “Could it have been two years?”

  “Two years? Has it been that long?” He thought a second, shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “You ever see anyone else at the house—yard hands or a cleaning service, maybe?”

  “Sure, all the time. Figured he was just busy.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not very. Been here seven years. We’ve spoken, just not recently.”

  Mark nodded. “Okay. If you see him, don’t tell him we were here.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Would you do that for me?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks.” Mark and Nia moved back to the Camaro, got in shutting their doors simultaneously and left.

  Hugh Graves watched the screen on his computer monitor. A video window showed a live, real time feed of his front door through the Vue, even from miles away.

  The sound of his own breathing disgusted him. It was forced, labored, whistling in haggard huffs through his nostrils. His condition caused it, wracking his insides with agonized wheezing all the time, endlessly. His own snarling woke him at night, frustrated him during the day. It had become the rhythm of his body, a broken, monstrous swaddle for the searing hot spirit underneath.
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  His breathing halted, he held his breath when the video monitor showed a man step onto his porch. The man was well-dressed, good-looking, curious. His eyes met the Vue surveillance camera and for a tiny instant, it was as if the man was staring directly into Hugh Graves’s own soul. The man on the monitor even waved at him. Graves waved back.

  On the video window, a woman came up behind the man, a black woman, light-skinned, very capable looking. They exchanged a few words. She turned around as if surveying the yard, the street. The man rang the doorbell, twice. Hugh Graves’s heart spiked. He forced it to calm down. The man on his porch would receive no answer. Eventually, the pair left the porch, moving beyond Graves’s sight. But he knew who they were. Or at least what they were. They were cops.

  On the screen, the Camaro was hardly visible parked out by the street, but he could see it clearly enough. It was newer and top of the line. A Super Sport package. He watched it rumble away from the curb, and there!

  License Plates.

  Dr. Graves took a mental snapshot. His body was breaking down, practically crumbling day by day. But not his mind. His mind was as clear as a bell, capable of capturing such mental snapshots as license plate numbers, and storing them indefinitely.

  Nevertheless, he snatched a pencil and scribed out the numbers—MRK 911.

  Now, grumbling in the throes of his disease, he looked back to the computer. The breathing started again, even heavier this time. He moused over to the rewind button and clicked. On the video window, the good-looking man returned to frame moving backward. He rang the doorbell. He rang again, then disappeared, all in rewind. Graves stopped the rewind on the video and let it play again, watching the video monitor betray the moment in which Mark Neiman had visited his old house, over and over and over ….

  13

  Floppy

  Not much was said as they cruised back to the station. Finally, Nia mentioned out of the blue, “Floppy.” Mark twitched his head, attention caught. “What was that all about, the other day?”