“How were they connected?”
She made a naughty-naughty gesture. “Come on, Dr. Delaware, you know what I'm talking about. Ransom was one of Kruse's students. More than that—a prize student. He was her doctoral committee chairman.”
“How do you know that?”
“Sources. C'mon, Dr. Delaware, stop being coy. You're a graduate of the same program. You knew her, so chances are you knew him, too, right?”
“Very thorough.”
“Just doing the job. Now could you please talk to me? I'm not giving up on this story.”
I wondered how much she actually knew and what to do with her.
“Want some coffee?” I said.
“Do you have tea?”
Once inside the house, she said, “Camomile, if you've got it,” and immediately began inspecting the decor. “Nice. Very L.A.”
“Thanks.”
Her gaze shifted to the pile of papers and unopened mail on the table and she sniffed. I realized the place had taken on a stale, unlived-in smell.
“Live alone?” she asked.
“For the moment.” I went into the kitchen and stashed my research materials in a cupboard, fixed her a cup of tea and myself a cup of instant coffee, put all of it on a tray with cream and sugar, and brought it into the living room. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. I sat down facing her.
“Actually,” I said, “I was off campus by the time Dr. Kruse came to the University. I graduated the year before.”
“Two months before,” she said. “June of '74. I found your dissertation too.” She flushed, realized she'd given away her “sources,” and tried to recover by looking stern. “I'm still willing to bet you knew him.”
“Have you read the Ransom dissertation?”
“Skimmed it.”
“What was it about?”
She bobbed her tea bag, watched the water in her cup darken. “Why don't you answer some of my questions before I answer yours?”
I thought of the way the Kruses had looked in death. Lourdes Escobar. D.J. Rasmussen. Bodies piling up. Big-money connections. Grease the skids.
“Ms. Bannon, it's not in your best interests to pursue this case.”
She put the cup down. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Asking the wrong questions could be dangerous.”
“Oh, wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don't believe this. Sexist protectionism?”
“Sexism has nothing to do with it. How old are you?”
“That's not relevant!”
“But it is, in terms of experience.”
“Dr. Delaware,” she said, standing, “if all you're going to do is patronize me, I'm out of here.”
I waited.
She sat. “For your information, I've worked as a reporter for four years.”
“On your college paper?”
She flushed, deeper this time. Bye-bye, freckles. “I'll have you know the college beat had plenty of tough stories. Because of one of my investigations, two bookstore clerks were fired for embezzling.”
“Congratulations. But we're talking about a whole other level now. It wouldn't do to have you sent home to Boston in a box.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, but there was fear in her eyes. She masked it with indignation. “I guess I was wrong about you.”
“Guess so.”
She walked to the door. Stopped and said, “This is rotten, but no matter.”
Primed for action. All I'd done was whet her appetite.
I said, “You may be right—about there being a connection between the deaths. But at this point all I've got is guesses—nothing worth discussing.”
“Guesses? You've been snooping yourself! Why?”
“That's personal.”
“Were you in love with her?”
I drank coffee. “No.”
“Then what's so personal?”
“You're a very nosy young lady.”
“Goes with the territory, Dr. Delaware. And if it's so dangerous, how come it's okay for you to snoop?”
“I've got police connections.”
“Police connections? That's a laugh. The cops are the ones covering up. I found out—through my connection—that they've done a total Watergate on Ransom. All the forensic records have disappeared—it's as if she never existed.”
“My connection's different. Outside the mainstream. Honest.”
“That gay guy from the molester case?”
That caught me by surprise.
She looked pleased with herself. A minnow swimming happily among the barracudas.
I said, “Maybe we can cooperate.”
She gave me something-intended to be a hard, knowing smile. “Ah, back-scratching time. But why would I want to deal?”
“Because without dealing, you'll get nowhere—that's a promise. I've uncovered some information you'll never be able to get hold of, stuff that's useless to you in its present form. I'm going to follow it up. You'll have exclusive rights to whatever I come up with—if going public's not hazardous to our health.”
She looked outraged. “Oh, that's just great! It's okay for big strong brave to go hunting but squaw must stay in teepee?”
“Take it or leave it, Maura.” I began clearing the cups.
“This stinks,” she said.
I waved goodbye. “Then go do your own thing. See what you come up with.”
“You're boxing me in and pulling a power trip.”
“You want to be a crime writer? I'm offering you a chance—not a guarantee—to get a crime story. And live long enough to see it come to print. Your alternative is to barrel ahead like Nancy Drew, in which case you'll either end up being fired and sent home on a supersaver flight, or shipped back in the baggage hold in the same physical state as the Kruses and their maid.”
“The maid,” she said. “No one talks about her.”
“That's 'cause she's expendable, Maura. No money, no connections—human garbage, straight to the compost heap.”
“That's crude.”
“This is no teenage sleuth fantasy.”
She tapped her foot, chewed a thumbnail.
“Put it in writing?” she said.
“Put what in writing?”
“That we have a deal? A contract? I have first dibs on your info?”
“I thought you were a journalist, not an attorney.”
“Rule one: cover your ass.”
“Wrong, Maura. Rule one is never leave tracks.”
I carried the tray into the kitchen. The phone rang. Before I could get to it, she'd picked up the living room extension. When I came back she was holding the phone and smiling. “She hung up.”
“Who's ‘she'?”
“A woman. I told her to hold on, I'd get you. She said forget it, sounded angry.” Cute smile. “Jealous.” Shrug. “Sorry.”
“Very classy, Maura. Is total lack of manners part of your job training?”
“Sorry,” she said, looking, this time, as if she meant it.
A woman. I pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Ms. Bannon.”
“Listen, that really was rude. I am sorry.”
I went to the door and held it open.
“I said I was sorry.” Pause. “Okay. Forget about the contract. I mean if I can't trust you, a piece of paper would be worthless, wouldn't it? So I'll trust you.”
“I'm touched.” I turned the doorknob.
“I'm saying I'll go along.”
I said, “Back-scratching time?”
“Okay, okay, what do you want in return?”
“Three things. First, a promise to back off.”
“For how long?”
“Until I tell you it's safe.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Have a nice day, Maura.”
“Shit! What do you want!”
“Before we go on, let's be clear,” I said. “No drop-ins, no eavesdropping, no cute stuff.”
“I got it the first time.”
“W
ho's your contact at the coroner's? The person who told you about the missing file.”
She was shocked. “What makes you think he—or she—is at the coroner's?”
“You mentioned forensic data.”
“Don't assume too much from that,” she said, struggling to look enigmatic. “Anyway, no way will I divulge my sources.”
“Just make sure he—or she—cools it. For personal safety.”
“Fine.”
“Promise?”
“Yes! Was that Two?”
“One-B. Two is tell me everything you've learned about the connection between Ransom and Kruse.”
“Just what I've told you. The dissertation. He was her supervisor. They had an office together in Beverly Hills.”
“That's it?”
“That's it.”
I studied her long enough to decide I believed her.
She asked, “What's Three?”
“What was the dissertation about?”
“I told you I've only skimmed it.”
“From what you've skimmed.”
“It was something on twins—twins and multiple personalities and, I think it was, ego integrity. She used a lot of jargon.”
“Three is make me a photocopy.”
“No way. I'm not your secretary.”
“Fair enough. Return it where you found it—probably the ed-psych library at the University—and I'll make my own copy.”
She threw up a hand. “Oh, what the hell, I'll drop off a Xerox tomorrow.”
“No drop-ins,” I reminded her. “Mail it—express it.”
I wrote down my Fed-Ex number and gave it to her. She stuck it between the pages of the Wambaugh book.
“Shit,” she said. “Are you this authoritarian with your patients?”
I said, “That's it. We're in business.”
“At least you are. I haven't gotten a damned thing but promises.”
She scrunched up her face. “You'd better come through for me, Dr. Delaware. Because one way or the other, I'm going to get a story.”
“When I learn something reportable, you'll be the first person I call.”
“And one more thing,” she said, half out the door. “I'm no damned teenager. I'm twenty-one. As of yesterday.”
“Happy birthday,” I said. “And many more.”
After she drove off I called San Luis Obispo. Robin answered.
“Hi, it's me,” I said. “Was that you a few minutes ago?”
“How'd you ever guess?”
“The person who picked up said there was an angry woman on the other line.”
“The person?”
“Some kid reporter who's bugging me about an interview.”
“Kid as in twelve?”
“Kid as in twenty-one. Buckteeth, freckles, a lisp.”
“Why do I believe you?”
“Because I'm saintly. It's great to hear from you. I wanted to call—each time I hang up I regret the way the conversation turned out. Think of all the right things to say, but it's too late.”
“That's the way I feel, too, Alex. Talking to you has been like walking a mine field. As if we're lethal ingredients—can't mix without exploding.”
“I know,” I said. “But I've got to believe it doesn't have to be that way. It wasn't always that way.”
She said nothing.
“Come on, Robin, it used to be good.”
“Of course it did—a lot was wonderful. But there were always problems. Maybe they were all mine—I kept it all inside. I'm sorry.”
“Blame is useless. I want to make it better, Robin. I'm willing to work at it.”
Silence.
Then she said, “I went into Daddy's shop yesterday. Mom has it preserved just the way it was at the time he died. Not a tool out of place, like a museum. The Joseph Castagna Memorial. She's that way—never lets go, never deals with anything. I locked myself in, just sat there for hours, smelling the varnish and the sawdust, thinking of him. Then of you. How similar the two of you are: well-meaning, warm, but dominant—so strong you take over. Alex, he would have liked you. There would have been conflict—two bulls scratching and snorting—but eventually the two of you would have been able to laugh together.”
She laughed herself, then cried.
“Sitting there, I realized that part of what attracted me to you was that similarity—how much you were like Daddy. Even physically: the curly hair, the blue eyes. When he was younger he was handsome, the same type of good looks as yours. Pretty profound insight, huh?”
“Sometimes it's hard to see that kind of thing. God knows I've missed plenty of obvious things.”
“Guess so. But I can't help feeling stupid. I mean, here I've been going on and on about independence and establishing my identity, resentful of you for being strong and dominating, and all along I've wanted to be taken care of, wanted to be daddied. . . . God, I miss him so much, Alex, and I miss you, too, and it's all meshing into one big hurt.”
“Come back home,” I said. “We can work it out.”
“I want to but I don't. I'm afraid everything will go back to being just like it was before.”
“We'll make it different.”
She didn't answer.
A week ago I would have pushed. Now, with ghosts tugging at my heels, I said, “I want you back right now, but you've got to do what's right for yourself. Take your time.”
“I really appreciate your saying that, Alex. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I heard a creak, turned and saw Milo. He saluted and retreated hastily from the kitchen.
“Alex?” she said. “Are you still there?”
“Someone just walked in.”
“Little Miss Buckteeth?”
“Big Mr. Sturgis.”
“Give him my love. And tell him to keep you out of trouble.”
“Will do. Be well.”
“You too, Alex. I mean it. I'll call soon. 'Bye.”
“'Bye.”
He was in the library, thumbing through my psych books, pretending to be interested.
“Hello, Sergeant.”
“Major league oops,” he said. “Sorry, but the goddamned door was open. How-many-times-have-I-told-you-about-that.”
He resembled an old sheepdog that had wet the rug. Suddenly all I wanted to do was alleviate his embarrassment.
“No secret,” I said. “Temporary separation. She's up in San Luis Obispo. We'll work it out. Anyway, you probably figured it out, right?”
“I had my suspicions. You've been looking stepped-on. And you haven't been talking about her the way you usually do.”
“Thus spake the detective.” I walked over to my desk, began straightening papers without purpose.
He said, “Hope you guys work it out. The two of you were good.”
“Try to avoid the past tense,” I said sharply.
“Oops again. Mea culpa. Mia Farrow.” He beat his breast but looked genuinely abashed.
I went up to him and patted his back. “Forget it, big guy. Let's talk about something more pleasant. Like murder. I went digging today, came up with some interesting stuff.”
“Dr. Snoop?” he said, adopting the same protective tone I'd used on Maura.
“The library, Milo. Not exactly combat duty.”
“With you, anything's possible. Anyway, you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine. But not on a dry mouth.”
We went back into the kitchen, popped a couple of beers, and opened a package of sesame breadsticks. I told him about Sharon's fantasy childhood—the East Coast society background that resembled Kruse's, the orphanhood that echoed Leland Belding's.
“It's as if she's collecting fragments of other people's histories in order to build one of her own, Milo.”
“Okay,” he said. “Other than her being a stone liar, what does that mean?”
“Probably a serious identity problem. Wish fulfillment—maybe her own childhood was filled with abuse or abandonment. Being a twin played a part i
n it too. And the Belding connection is more than coincidence.”
I told him about the War Board parties. “Secluded Hollywood Hills houses, Milo. The one on Jalmia fits that bill. Her mother works the party pad circuit. Thirty-five years later, Sharon's living in a pad.”
“So what are you saying? Old Basket Case was her daddy?”
“It would sure explain the high-level cover-up, but who knows? The way she twisted the truth has me doubting everything.”
“Cop-thinking,” he said.
“I checked out a couple of books on Belding—including The Basket-Case Billionaire. Maybe something in there will be useful.”
“The book was a scam, Alex.”
“Sometimes scams are laced with a bit of truth.”
He chewed a breadstick, said, “Maybe. How'd you find it, anyway? I thought the damn thing was recalled.”
“I asked the librarian about that. Apparently, large libraries get advance copies; the recall order only applied to bookstores and commercial distributors. Anyway, it's been buried there since '73, very few checkouts.”
“Rare show of good taste on the part of the reading public,” he said. “Anything else?”
I recounted my meeting with Maura Bannon.
“I think I convinced her to back off, but she's got a source at the coroner's.”
“I know who it is.”
“You're kidding.”
“Nope. Your telling me clears something up. Few days ago there was this third-year med student from S.C. rotating through the coroner's office. Asking too many questions about recent suicides, seemed to be snooping around the files. My source told me about it. He was worried it was someone from the city, spying around.”
“Is he still snooping?”
“Nah, rotation's over, kid's outta there. Probably just a boyfriend angling for some white-knight sex from Lois Lane Junior. Anyway, you did right to cool her off. This whole thing keeps getting weirder and weirder and the fix is in heavy. Yesterday, at the Kruse place, Trapp shows up before the crime scene crew arrives, all evil smiles, wanting to know how I caught the call when I'm still officially on vacation. I told him I'd come in early to the squad room, was working at my desk clearing some paperwork when an anonymous call came through reporting foul play at the Kruse address. Total crap, wouldn't have fooled a rookie. But Trapp didn't pursue it, just thanked me for my initiative and said he'd take over from here.”
Silent Partner Page 23
