She'd rotated the story of the drowned twin one way for Helen, another for me, lying—to those she ostensibly loved—with the ease of brushing her hair.
Pseudo-twinship. Identity problems. Two little girls eating ice cream. Mirror-image twins.
Pseudo multiple personality.
Elmo Castelmaine was certain “Shirlee” had been born crippled, which meant she couldn't be one of the children I'd seen in the sawtooth-edged photo. But he was relying on information Sharon had provided.
Or lying himself. Not that there was any reason to doubt him, but I'd grown allergic to trust.
And what was to say the crippled woman was really a twin? A relation of any kind? She and Sharon had shared general physical traits—hair color, eye color—that I'd accepted as proof of sisterhood. Accepted what Sharon had told me about Shirlee because at the time there'd been no reason not to.
Shirlee. If that was even her name.
Shirlee, with two e's. Sharon had made a point of the two e's. Named after her adoptive mother.
More symbolism.
Joan.
Another mind-game.
All those years, Helen had said, I felt I understood her. Now I realize I was deluding myself. I barely knew her.
Welcome to the club, Teach.
I knew that the way Sharon had lived and died had been programmed by something that had taken place before Helen had discovered her gorging on mayonnaise.
The early years . . .
I drank coffee, explored blind alleys. My thoughts shifted to Darren Burkhalter, his father's head landing on the backseat, like some bloody beachball. . . .
The early years.
Unfinished business.
Mal had chalked up another victory: he'd get a new Mercedes, and Darren would grow up a rich kid. But all the money in the world couldn't expunge that image from a two-year-old mind.
I thought about all the misborn, afflicted children I'd treated. Tiny bodies hurled into life's storm with all the self-determination of dandelion husks. Something told to me by a patient came to mind, the bitter farewell comment of a once self-confident man, who'd just buried his only child:
If God exists, Doc, he fucking well has a nasty sense of humor.
Had some sick joke dominated Sharon's formative years? If so, who was the comedian?
A small-town girl named Linda Lanier was one half of the biologic equation; who'd supplied the other twenty-three chromosomes?
Some Hollywood hanger-on or one-night-stand mattress jockey? An obstetrician with an after-hours sideline scraping away life? A billionaire?
I sat in that café and thought about it for a long time. And kept coming back to Leland Belding. Sharon had grown up on Magna land, lived in a Magna house. Her mother had made love to Belding—office boys knew that.
Martinis in his sun-room?
But if Belding had sired her, why had he abandoned her? Palmed her off on the Ransoms in exchange for squatting rights and paper money in an unmarked envelope.
Twenty years later, the house, the car.
Reunion?
Had he finally acknowledged her? Created an heir? But he was supposed to have died six years before that.
What of his other heir—the other little ice cream eater?
Double-abandonment? Two dirt patches?
I considered the little I knew about Belding: obsessed with machines, precision. A hermit. Cold.
Cold enough to set up the mother of his children?
Hypothetical. Ugly. I dropped my spoon. The clatter broke through the silence of the truck stop.
“You okay?” said the waitress, standing over me, coffee-pot in hand.
I looked up. “Yeah, sure, I'm fine.”
Her expression said she'd heard that one before. “More?” She hefted the pot.
“No, thanks.” I pushed money at her, stood, and left the truck stop. Had no trouble staying awake all the way to L.A.
Chapter
31
I got home just after midnight, adrenaline-jolted and drunk on riddles. Milo rarely went to bed before one. I called his house. Rick picked up the phone, projecting that odd, groggy vigilance that E.R. docs acquire after years on the front lines.
“Dr. Silverman.”
“Rick, it's Alex.”
“Alex. Oh. What time is it?”
“Twelve-ten. Sorry for waking you.”
“S'okay, no sweat.” Yawn. “Alex? What time is it, anyway?”
“Twelve-ten, Rick.”
Exhalation. “Oh. Yeah. I can see that. Confirmed by the luminescent dial.” Another yawn. “Just got in an hour ago, Alex. Double shift. Couple hours of down time before the next one kicks in. Must have dozed off.”
“Seems a reasonable response to fatigue, Rick. Go back to sleep.”
“No. Gotta shower, get some food down. Milo's not here. Stuck on night watch.”
“Night watch? He hasn't done that for a while.”
“Didn't have to for a while. Seniority. Yesterday, Trapp changed the rules. Pig.”
“That's the pits.”
“Not to worry, Alex, the big guy'll get even. He's been pacing a lot, got that look in his eye—half pit bull, half pit bull.”
“I know the one. Okay, I'll try him at the station. Just in case, please leave him a message to call me.”
“Will do.”
“Goodnight, Rick.”
“Good morning, Alex.”
I phoned West L.A. Detectives. The cop who answered sounded groggier than Rick. He told me Detective Sturgis was out, had no idea when he was returning.
I got into bed and finally dozed off. I awoke at seven wondering what progress Trapp had made with the Kruse killings. When I went out on the terrace to get the papers, Milo was out there, slumped in a chaise longue, reading the sports section.
I said, “How 'bout them Dodgers, big fella.” The voice was someone else's, hoarse and thick.
He lowered the paper, looked at me, then out over the glen. “What army camped in your mouth?”
I shrugged.
He inhaled deeply, still taking in the view. “Ah, the good life. I fed your fish—could swear that big black-and-gold one's growing teeth.”
“I've been training him on shark chum. How's life on the night watch?”
“Peachy.” He stood and stretched. “Who told you?”
“Rick. I called you last night, woke him up. Sounds like Trapp's back on the warpath.”
He grunted. We went into the house. He fixed himself a bowl of Cheerios and milk, stood at the counter and spooned the cereal down nonstop before pausing to catch his breath.
“Hand me a napkin. Yeah, it's a regular funfest working the twilight zone. Paperwork on the cases that the guys from P.M. conveniently neglect to finish processing, lots of DUI's and overdoses. Toward the end of shift, most of the calls are bullshit, everyone talking and moving real slow—bad guys and good guys. Like the whole damned city's on Quaaludes. I caught two DB's, both of which turned out to be accidentals. But at least I get to check out some heterosexual corpses.” He smiled. “We all rot the same.”
He went to the refrigerator, took out a container of orange juice, poured a glass for me and kept the carton for himself.
I said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Show-and-tell time. I was driving back home, listening to the scanner, when something interesting popped up on Beverly Hills' frequency—burglary call on North Crescent Drive.”
He recited the address.
“The Fontaines' house,” I said.
“Green Mansions, itself. I detoured to get a look-see. Guess who the detective turned out to be? Our old buddy Dickie Cash—guess he hasn't sold his screenplay yet. I spun him some yarn about it maybe being related to a hot-prowl homicide out in Brentwood, and got the basic details: Break-in occurred sometime during the early morning hours. Sophisticated job—there was a high-tech security system but the right wires were cut and the alarm company never picked up a tweet. Only reason anyone caught on was
that a neighbor spotted an open door out to the rear alley early this morning—our little friend playing Chames Bond, no doubt. Cash let me inside the house. Real good taste, those two—master bedroom has a mural of big, pink, drooling lips. The inventory of missing items is fairly typical for that neighborhood—some porcelain and silver, couple of wide-screen TVs, stereo equipment. But plenty of really expensive stuff left behind: three more TVs, jewelry, furs, better silver, all easy to fence. Not much of a haul after all that wire-cutting. Dickie was intrigued but not inclined to do much about it in view of absentee victims, the fact that they weren't courteous enough to leave a forwarding with his department.”
“What about the basement museum?”
He ran his hand over his face. “Dickie doesn't know about any museum, and guilty as it made me feel, I didn't educate him. He did show me the elevator but there was no key or the access code to operate it—not listed with the alarm company either. But if they ever do get down there, ten to one the place will look like Pompeii after the big lava party.”
“Tying up loose ends,” I said.
He nodded. “Question is, who?”
“Any idea where the Fontaines are?”
“Bahamas. Bijan's dad was less than helpful. Beverly Hills Cab only had a record of taking them to the airport. But I did manage to trace the car storage company and, through them, the travel agency. First-class passage, L.A. to Miami, ditto to Nassau. They kept moving after that but the agent couldn't or wouldn't say where. There was no way for me to push the issue. My guess is one of the smaller remote islands—bad phone lines, rum drinks named after birds and monkeys, banks that make the Swiss look nosy. Kind of environment where someone with cash could stay cozy for a long time.”
He finished the juice, then the cereal, raised the bowl to his lips and drank the milk.
“Where've you been, anyway?” he said. “And what were you calling me about last night?”
I told him what I'd learned in Willow Glen.
“Weird,” he said, “very weird. But I don't hear any crime—unless she was kidnapped as a kid. Am I missing something?”
I shook my head. “I want to run some ideas by you.”
He filled the bowl again. “Run.”
“Let's say Sharon and her twin were the result of an affair between Leland Belding and Linda Lanier—a party-girl thing that went further than usual. According to Crotty he singled her out; she used to go to his office. Linda kept the pregnancy secret because she was worried Belding would force her to terminate.”
“How could she know that?”
“Maybe she knew he didn't like children, or maybe she was making an educated guess—Belding was a cold man, shunned relationships. The last thing he would have wanted was an heir he hadn't planned. Make sense so far?”
“Go on.”
“Crotty saw Lanier and Donald Neurath together—playing coochy-coo. What if Neurath was her doctor as well as her lover—they met on a professional level and it went further.”
“Theme of the loop.”
“The loop was a cartoon of their relationship, compressed for posterity.”
He sat back, put his spoon down. “She starts as a party girl with Belding, takes it further. Starts as a patient with Neurath, takes it further.”
“She was beautiful. But more than that. An expert seductress—she had to have had something special for Belding to pick her out from all the other party girls. As her gynecologist, Neurath would be among the first to know she was pregnant—maybe the first. If he'd gotten deeply emotionally involved with her, finding out she was carrying another man's child could have made him angry, jealous. What if he offered to abort it and she refused? He then threatened to tell Belding. Linda's back was up against the wall. She told her brother, and his extortionist's mind came up with a plot: seduce Neurath on film. Get leverage. Cable worked at the studio, had access to equipment. It wouldn't have been hard for him to set it up.”
Milo chewed on that for a long time, then said, “And Cable, being a sleazeball, figures out how to make some extra cash on the deal—sells a copy of the loop to some collector.”
I nodded. “Gordon Fontaine or someone else who eventually sells it to him. Years later, Paul Kruse comes across it, sees the resemblance to Sharon and gets curious. But that's jumping the gun. Let's stick with Linda for a moment. When her pregnancy shows, she leaves town, gives birth—to twins—sometime between spring and summer of '53. Now she figures it's safe to tell Belding: Aborting a fetus is one thing; rejecting two adorable girl babies is another. Maybe brother Cable builds up her confidence—visions of dollar signs would be dancing in front of his eyes. Linda pays Belding a visit, shows him the girls, states her demand: Make an honest woman out of me or shell out enough money so the kids, Uncle Cable, and I can live happily ever after.”
Milo gave a sour look. “Sounds just like the kind of stupid scam stone losers always try to pull. The dumb story you piece together after they've ended up on a slab.”
“It was stupid. The Johnsons were penny-ante players. They gravely underestimated the threat they posed to Belding—and his lack of compassion. The twins would be his sole heirs. His entire fortune was at stake—monstrous loss of control for a man used to being master of his own destiny. This is a man who didn't believe in sharing the wealth, never took his business public. He wouldn't have tolerated a single careless afternoon coming back to haunt him. As Linda talked to him, the wheels started turning. But he didn't show it—put on a happy face, played the proud papa. Expressed his good will by putting all of them up in that penthouse on Fountain. Bought them a car, furs, jewels, instant entree to the Good Life. And all he asked in return was that they keep the babies a secret until the moment was right to go public—buying himself a little time. The Johnsons complied, a pair of hicks in hog heaven. Up until the day they died. And the twins remained a secret.”
“Cold,” said Milo.
“But it makes sense, doesn't it? Hummel and DeGranzfeld were Belding's boys. Narcotics detectives, in a perfect position to set up a phony dope bust. Bankrolled by Belding, they could get their hands on plenty of heroin. They kept the uniforms outside, went into that apartment alone to set up the shoot-out, arrange the crime scene. But getting rid of Linda and Cable solved only part of Belding's problem. He was still stuck with two little babies he didn't want. Under the best of circumstances, raising twins is a challenge. For someone like Belding the prospect would have been overwhelming—a lot scarier than designing girdles or buying up companies. So he resorted to habit—bought his way out of it. And his deal with the Ransoms was a lot cheaper than any he would have had to cut with Linda and Cable. The same arrangement with Sharon's twin and some other couple.”
Some other dirt lot. No Helen Leidecker. The other girl ending up crippled, or . . .
“Set up his own kids' mother to be ripped off, then sold them. Ultra-cold.”
“He was a cold man, Milo, a misanthrope who preferred machines to people. He never married, never developed normal attachments, ended up a hermit.”
“According to the hoax book.”
“According to everyone. Seaman Cross just embellished reality. And you know babies get abandoned all the time. With a lot less reason. Casa de los Niños was full of them.”
“Why the Ransoms?” he said “What connection would a billionaire have with people like that?”
“Maybe none. When I say Belding did these things, I don't mean literally. He probably never got his hands dirty, had some intermediary, like Billy Vidal, handle it—that was his specialty: procuring people for Belding's needs. Where the intermediary found them, who knows? But their being retarded would be a plus, not a minus. They'd be passive, obedient, not likely to get greedy or ask questions. They think concretely, are stubborn—good at keeping secrets. Or forgetting. I had an exhibition of that just yesterday. On top of that, they were anonymous—neither of them even knew their birthdays; no government agency had any record of them. Not until 1971, when Sharon
went away to college and Helen Leidecker decided they needed extra protection and took it upon herself to file for Medi-Cal and Social Security. If she hadn't, I'd never have found them.”
Milo said, “If Ransom hadn't named the crippled woman after Shirlee.”
“Yes. And I don't profess to understand that—she was full of weird symbols. But be that as it may, giving a child to Shirlee and Jasper was equivalent to erasing that child's identity. Perhaps Belding never even expected her to survive. But Helen Leidecker discovered her, tutored her, sent her out into the world.”
“Out to Kruse.”
“Kruse went to that Careers Day at L.I.U. under the guise of altruism. But he was a predator—a lecher and a power junkie, always on the prowl for new disciples. Maybe he was attracted by Sharon's looks or maybe he'd seen Linda Lanier's loop and was struck by the resemblance. In either case, he turned on the charisma, got her talking about herself, saw how evasive she was about her background, and grew even more intrigued. The two of them were a perfect match for mind control: she, molded by Helen, no real roots. He, lusting to play Svengali.”
“Jim Jones and the Kool-Aid gang.” Milo's big face had darkened with anger.
“On a one-to-one level,” I said. He got up and brought back a beer.
As he drank I said, “He took her under his wing, Milo. Convinced her she'd make a great psychologist—her grades made that realistic—brought her out to California with him, set her up in grad school, set himself up as her adviser. He supervised her cases, which always involves some therapy. He turned it into intensive therapy. For Kruse that meant bizarre communications, hypnotic manipulation. Like many people with confused identities, she was an excellent hypnotic subject. His power role in their relationship increased her susceptibility. He ageregressed her, exposed early childhood memories that intrigued him further. Some sort of early trauma that she was unaware of on a conscious level—maybe even something about Belding. Kruse started snooping.”
“And making movies.”
I nodded. “An updated version of her mother's loop—part of the ‘therapy.' Kruse probably presented it to her in terms of reattaching her to her roots—to mother love. His game was controlling her—building up one part of her, tearing down another. Using hypnosis, he could suggest amnesia, keep her consciously unaware. End up knowing more about her than she knew herself. He fed her bits of her own subconscious in calculated nibbles, kept her dependent, insecure. Psychological warfare. No matter what you saw in Vietnam, he was an expert. Then, when the time was right, he turned her loose on Belding.”
Silent Partner Page 37
