“That would also be reason to make off with her computer.”
“Precisimoso. Big bucks at stake. College profs don't exactly fit the bill.”
“Some college profs are independently wealthy. Actually, Gene Dalby is.”
“You keep mentioning him. Something about him bug you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Old classmate, tried to be helpful.”
“Okay, then— onward.”
“So we just let the intimacy project lie? This might be a current number.”
He took the book back, produced his cell phone, muttered, “Probably gonna get ear cancer,” and punched in the number. Nothing in his eyes told me he'd connected, but as he listened he groped in his pocket for his pad, wrote something down, hung up.
“‘Motivational Associates of Newport Beach,'” he said. “Friendly female voice: ‘Our hours are ten A.M. to blah blah blah.’ Sounds like one of those marketing outfits.”
“Intimacy and marketing,” I said.
“Why not? Intimacy sells product. Lauren sure would've known that. So this was a moonlight for her. She liked money, took another part-time gig. Make sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
“Look,” he said, “feel free to follow up on it. Call the other professor too— de whatever-his-name-is. Something bugs you, let me know. Right now what bugs me is no computer. I need a ride back to the station to pick up my car, see if any messages came in, then I'm packing it in. You up for chauffeur duty, or should I lean on one of the boys in blue?”
“I'll drive you,” I said.
“What a guy,” he said airily as he strode out of the room.
As we left the apartment he said, “I'm really sorry the way this turned out.”
* * *
Nine o'clock the next morning, I phoned Dr. Simon de Maartens at home, and he picked up, sounding distracted. When I introduced myself his voice chilled.
“I already returned your call.”
“Thanks for that, but there are still a few questions—”
“Questions?” he said. “I told you I don't remember the girl.”
“So you have no memory of her talking to you about doing some research.”
“Research? Of course not. She was an undergrad, only grad students are permitted into my lab. Now—”
“The perception course Lauren took from you,” I said. “Did the class subdivide into smaller discussion groups?”
“Yes, yes— that's typical.”
“Would it be possible to get a list of the students in Lauren's section?”
“No,” he said. “It would not be possible— You claim to be faculty and you are asking for something like that? That is appalling— What is your involvement in all this?”
“I knew Lauren. Her mother's going through hell, and she asked me to be involved.”
“Well . . . I'm sorry about that, but it's a confidentiality issue.”
“Being enrolled in a study section is confidential?” I said. “Not the last time I checked the APA ethics code.”
“Everything about academic freedom is confidential, Dr. Delaware.”
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks for your time. The police will probably be getting in touch with you.”
“Then I will tell them exactly the same thing.”
Click.
Something bugs you, let me know.
I called Milo. No answers at home, in the car, or at his desk. I told his voice mail: “De Maartens was not helpful. He bears attention.”
A live woman answered at Motivational Associates of Newport Beach, informing me in a bored-to-death singsong that the office was closed.
“Is this the answering service?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When does the office open?”
“They're in and out.”
“Is there another office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“L.A.”
“Do you have the number?”
“One moment, I have to take another call.”
She put me on hold long enough for me to wonder if the line had gone dead. Finally, she came back on with a 310 phone number. I called it and got her partner in ennui.
“The office is closed.”
“When will it be open?”
“I don't know, sir— this is the service.”
“What's the office's address, please?”
“One moment, I have to take another call.”
I hung up and looked it up in the phone book.
* * *
The twelve thousand block of Wilshire Boulevard put Motivational Associates’ L.A. branch in Brentwood, just east of Santa Monica. A couple of miles from the U and even closer to the Sepulveda alley where Lauren's body had been found.
But no sense dropping by and confronting a bolted door. I booted up the computer and plugged in “Motivational Associates.”
Three hits, the first a four-year-old article from the Chicago Tribune about a South Side shelter for battered women and the services it offered. Residential care, medical consultation, individual counseling, group therapy “provided by Motivational Associates, a private consulting group that offers pro bono services, particularly in the area of human relations.” The gist of the article was human-interest coverage of several abused women who'd gained emotional strength, and the firm's participation earned no further mention.
The second reference was a shortened version of the Trib piece, picked up by the wire services and distributed nationally. Number three was an Eastern Psychological Association abstract of a paper presented two years ago at a regional convention in Cambridge.
“Buffington, Sandra, Lindquist, Monique, and Dugger, B. J. The Multidimensional Assessment of Intimacy: Factor Analysis of the Personal Space Grid Index (PSGI) and Self-Report Measures of Locus of Control, Trait Anxiety, Personal Attractiveness, Self-Concept and Extroversion.”
So much for racy research.
The authors’ affiliations were University of Chicago for Buffington and Lindquist and Motivational Associates, Inc., for B. J. Dugger.
Dr. D.
I pulled out my American Psychological Association directory and looked up Dugger, betting on a woman. Barbara Jean, Barbara Jo—
Benjamin John. Not the day for me to play the ponies.
Dugger's birth date made him thirty-seven. He'd earned a B.A. in psychology from Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, at the age of twenty-one and a Ph.D. in social psychology from the U of Chicago ten years later. Postdoctoral fellowship at UC, San Diego, then a two-year lapse until his first— and only— job: Director, Motivational Associates of Newport Beach, California. Areas of specialty: quantitative measurement of social distance and applied motivational research. The address he'd listed was on Balboa Boulevard, in Newport, and the number was the 714 I'd just called.
Not a clinician, so no need for a state license. That made checking with the Board of Psychology for disciplinary actions a waste of time. I called anyway. Zero.
I tried a pocketful of area codes for residential listings for Dr. Benjamin J. Dugger. Nothing. Scanning his name on the Internet pulled up only the same abstract of the Cambridge paper, which I reread.
Jargon and numbers and high-powered statistics, the arcane nutrients of tenure. Nothing remotely sexy.
Still, it had been Dugger's number listed in Lauren's book, and as much as I disliked de Maartens, that made Dugger the prime candidate for “Dr. D.” And he'd been running his ad during the time Shawna Yeager disappeared. Milo was probably right about there being no link between the cases, but still . . .
I thought about it some more. Dugger's bio was about as provocative as the owner's manual for a plow.
Weaker than weak.
I reread the bio and something shot out at me.
Two time lapses: ten years between his bachelor's degree and his doctorate, another two between finishing school and taking his first job.
Nice first job. Most new Ph.D.'
s enter the job market burdened by debt and are forced to accept temporary lectureships and entry-level slots. Benjamin J. Dugger had disappeared for two years, only to return in an executive position.
Offices in Newport Beach and Brentwood. A company sufficiently capitalized to offer free services. And what did personal-space research have to do with battered women?
It added up to money.
Some college profs are independently wealthy.
Simon de Maartens's hostility made me wonder about his financial situation. Time to learn more about both Dr. D's.
* * *
The Ovid files at the U's research library spit out forty-five publications for de Maartens, all on the psychophysics of vision in primates. He was thirty-three, and there were no lapses in his professional life: B.A. at twenty from Leiden University in the Netherlands, Oxford doctorate in experimental psychology at twenty-five, two-year postdoc at Harvard, where he served a three-year lectureship, then assistant professorship at the U and fast-track promotion two years later to associate. The usual society memberships and more than a handful of academic honors, including a grant and a service award from the Braille Institute— perhaps his chimp research offered human possibilities.
Benjamin J. Dugger had been less prolific: five articles, none more recent than two years ago, all in the same dry vein. The last three had been coauthored with Barbara Buffington and Monique Lindquist, the first two had been solos— summaries of Dugger's first-year graduate research study and dissertation: measuring personal space in hooded rats subjected to varying degrees of social deprivation. The dates allowed me to fix his graduate studies as beginning four years prior to receiving his Ph.D. That still left a six-year question mark between Clark University and Chicago.
Having nowhere else to go, I phoned both institutions and verified his degrees with the alumni associations. So far, nothing suspicious. Why should there be? I was groping.
Thinking about Lauren's body tumbling out of the Dumpster, I called Chicago again and asked for Professor Buffington or Lindquist. The former was on sabbatical in Hawaii, but a woman answered Lindquist's extension with a high, bright “This is Monique.”
“Professor, this is Mr. Lew Holmes from Western News Service. We've come across an article about some work you and your colleagues did on personal space and were wondering if one of you could talk to us about a piece we're putting together on dating in the nineties.”
“I don't think so,” she said, laughing. “That research was pretty esoteric— lots of math, nothing about dating. Where'd you come across it?”
“It came up on our database,” I said. “So you don't think you can help?”
“I think if you wrote about our research your readers would fall asleep.”
“Oh. Too bad. Sorry for bothering you, and I guess I won't follow up on Professor Dugger.”
“Professor— Oh, Ben. No, I doubt he could help you either.”
“Double too-bad,” I said. “We're a California-based news service, and our clients are always looking for local sources to quote. With Professor Dugger being out here, it would've worked out great.”
“I don't want to speak for Ben, but I doubt he could illuminate you either.”
“Well, let me ask you this, Professor, are you doing any other research that might be of interest to our clients?”
“No, sorry. But I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone wanting the attention. Especially out in California. Bye—”
“What about Professor Dugger? Would he be doing anything else that might be interesting?”
“As in sex? Is that what you're getting at?”
“Well,” I said, “you know how it is.”
“I sure do. In terms of Ben Dugger's recent work, I have no idea what he's been up to. It's been a while since we worked together.”
Matter-of-fact, no rancor.
“Maybe I'll give him a shot,” I said. “I've got him in Newport Beach and Brentwood.” I read off the addresses. “This firm he's got— Motivational Associates. What are they into, advertising?”
“Market research.” She laughed again.
“Something funny, Professor?”
“You're out for the sex angle— like every other reporter. If that's what you want from Ben Dugger, don't count on it.”
“Why's that, Professor?”
“That's . . . all I have to say. Bye, now.”
* * *
“Some kind of hang-up?” said Milo. “Sounds more like he's a prude.”
“There's something there,” I said.
“She didn't imply anything nasty.”
“No,” I admitted. “She was lighthearted. Like it was some kind of in-joke.”
“So maybe the guy's a Catholic priest or something.”
“That wasn't in his bio.”
He grunted over the phone. It was nearly noon. He'd taken two hours to return my call. Andrew Salander had verified that Lauren had owned a Toshiba laptop. After that Milo'd been tied up at the morgue, watching Lauren's autopsy. The coroner had found no evidence of sexual assault— of any recent intercourse. No illness, surgery, scarring, or drug use. The preliminary finding was that the first bullet fired into Lauren's brain stem— a 9 mm— had shut off her life functions nearly instantly. Until that second, a healthy girl.
“So she probably didn't suffer,” he said. “I called her mom and told her she definitely didn't. Woman sounds as if she's been hollowed out and left to dry. . . . So de Maartens is an uppity putz and Dugger doesn't like to talk about sex.”
“Dugger may also have money.” I gave him the logic on that.
“If I had to choose, I'd say press the Dutch guy 'cause he got hostile. If you're up to that, fine.”
“If I show up at his door, he'll slam it. I told him the police would probably be stopping by.”
“Promises, promises. I'll try to get to it eventually. So far, no record of any cab or limo making a pickup in the vicinity of Lauren's apartment. Her broker in Seattle knows her only as a voice over the phone. She cold-called him a few years ago, said she had money to invest. Which is a switch, usually it's the salesmen who call, so needless to say he didn't argue. He said Lauren did her homework about the market, knew what she wanted but was willing to listen to advice. Overall impression: smart. He was surprised to learn she was only twenty-five, figured her for a good ten years older.”
“What did he say she wanted?”
“Blue-chip funds, and she was patient enough to hold. He figured her for a high-income lawyer or some other executive type. I put two uniforms on the door-to-door, a couple of people think they remember her vaguely from the neighborhood— jogging, driving around in her convertible— but no one saw her getting picked up. Not the day she disappeared or any other time. I got hold of six months’ worth of phone records. She actually used the horn very little. Talked to her mom every couple of weeks— the last call was two days before she disappeared. Nothing to Lyle— no surprise. The only things that did look interesting were five calls over the last two months to the same number in Malibu. Turns out to be a pay phone in Point Dume.”
“Lauren told Salander she went to Malibu for rest and recreation. Is the phone near a motel?”
“No. Shopping center at Kanan-Dume Road.”
“Have you found any cell phone account for her, or an answering service?”
“Not so far.”
“Don't you find that surprising, if she was making dates?”
Pause. “A bit.”
“Unless,” I said, “she didn't need a service because she wasn't casting her net. Had one client who paid all the bills. Maybe someone who lives in Malibu, doesn't want wifey-poo to hear Lauren's call, so he uses the pay phone.”
“Fifty grand plus from one john? One helluva habit.”
“Lots of passion,” I said. “When those kinds of things go bad, they go very bad.”
Flesh and Blood Page 14
