Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  KIMBERLY WAS UP EARLY. She called Geller first, knowing he would be in the office; he always arrived shortly after sunup. She told him she and Michael would not be to work until the following day, and he didn’t even question why. Next, she called Mark Caruso and left word on his voice mailbox that Michael had to postpone their meeting. When she called the hospital, she was told Michael was taking a shower. Kimberly didn’t leave a message for him, but packed some of his clothes and his travel kit into a small suitcase and drove directly to Sunrise Hospital. Even though it was before visiting hours, “Mrs. Kaplan” was allowed to go to his room.

  Kimberly told Michael about Myra’s father. Michael immediately tried to call Myra, but there was no answer at the Brotsky residence. Kimberly realized she should have asked Myra which hospital her father was in, but she wasn’t thinking very clearly when Myra had phoned. Then, Kimberly dutifully gave Michael Myra’s message about loving him and wanting him to move back in the condo, completely without editorializing.

  “Perhaps I should fly down to L.A. and be with her,” Michael stated.

  “I wouldn’t advise you to do that. Myra—her parents, too—would see your hickeys,” Kimberly reminded him. “By the time she gets back to Las Vegas they’ll have faded.”

  “I have to make the offer anyway. Under the present circumstances, I don’t think she’ll want me there.”

  “I hope not. I want you to stay here with me,” Kimberly ordered. “I really missed you last night.” She did not remind Michael of his promise to spend the day in bed with her, once he was discharged from the hospital, but it was foremost on her mind.

  A nurse brought Michael’s breakfast and even provided an extra tray for Kimberly. Michael had not been put on a special diet, so the food was reasonably palatable, as hospital meals go. Regardless, Michael considered the items on the tray to be a parody of a real meal. Scrambled egg substitute, toast with margarine, instant oatmeal, canned fruit cocktail, and what passed for decaffeinated coffee.

  Shortly after Michael and Kimberly finished eating, Dr. Schwartz bounded into the room. “Good. I’m glad you’re both here, so I can answer all your questions at once,” he announced. “At least, as best I can. Quite frankly, I’ve never encountered anything like your situation.”

  Schwartz pulled a chair to the bed, sat down, and turned toward Michael. “Have you taken any medications in the last few days—antibiotics, aspirin or Tylenol, tranquilizers, anything at all?”

  “No,” Michael replied. “Absolutely nothing. I shy away from pills as much as possible. I did have some margaritas the night before last. Too many, I’m afraid.” His eyes met Kimberly’s and she smiled knowingly.

  Dr. Schwartz nodded from the waist up, his repeated motion reminding Michael of an Orthodox Jew davening. “The lab tests revealed traces of cannabis—but that came as no surprise. You told me you’d smoked marijuana yesterday. You also had quite a bit of diazepam—that’s valium—in your system, which is why I asked if you had taken any tranquilizers.

  “Your blood samples also contained thiopental sodium, otherwise known as sodium pentothal or truth serum. It’s an anesthetic and hypnotic, usually given by injection. We also found a heavy concentration of a powerful tranquilizer called acepromazine. It’s a staple of veterinary medicine. One of its uses is to immobilize large animals. And there’s a trace of a substance we haven’t yet identified.”

  “Would you explain that in layman’s terms, Dr. Schwartz?” Kimberly asked.

  “By itself, any one of the narcotics—and I use the term loosely—would tend to provide a relaxing, though not necessarily soporific condition—depending, of course, on how much was administered, and whether orally or intravenously. In combination, I really don’t know all the effects, although based on what you told me about how you felt and acted, I can make an intelligent guess. I would say you were placed in a very receptive frame of mind, Michael, open to any and all suggestions made or orders given to you. In other words, you would be in a state of euphoria, and behave very much like a person under conventional hypnosis.

  “There is a not-so-subtle difference, however. Under hypnosis, a subject will never do anything against his personal moral convictions. But it appears that the combination of substances Soozie administered to you temporarily quelled your inhibitions. You could not differentiate between right and wrong.

  “You were entirely at Soozie’s mercy. You’re fortunate she chose to make use of her power over you by demanding sexual favors. She could have just as easily commanded you to rob a bank or even commit murder. There’s no doubt in my mind you’d have willingly obeyed her without a second thought, and without considering the possible consequences.”

  “How long will it be before Michael returns to normal, Dr. Schwartz?” Kimberly asked. What she really wanted to know was if she was going to be able to get him into bed with her before the drugs wore off and his willpower returned.

  “The liver is quite efficient at metabolizing and detoxifying many poisonous substances, which are then separated from the blood by the kidneys and excreted in urine through the bladder. Others, such as metallic compounds—gray arsenic, for example, or lead—can remain in the body for decades. Chlorinated hydrocarbons, often the principal ingredient in pesticides, can accumulate in the body over time. Even trace amounts can eventually build up to a lethal level. A person who has taken lysergic acid—LSD—can have recurrences of hallucinations many years later. In Michael’s case, though, I think his system will be completely purged of the chemicals in twenty-four to forty-eight hours from the time he ingested them.”

  Schwartz turned toward Michael. “That’s not what’s bothering me, however. While I don’t believe you’ll suffer any permanent physical damage, and you probably won’t have any withdrawal pangs, you’re undoubtedly going to go through a period of post-traumatic stress.

  “I’m going to recommend that you see Dr. Mordechai Weitzman. He’s a very capable psychiatrist and an expert on hypnosis. Weitzman’s deeply involved in deprogramming people whose minds have been manipulated—sometimes almost destroyed—by religious cults. I’ve taken the liberty of setting up an appointment for you to see him this afternoon, as soon as you’re discharged from the hospital. His office is in the medical building across the street. Does that plan meet with your approval?”

  “Yes, of course,” Michael agreed. “I want to get this terrible experience behind me as quickly as possible.”

  SOOZIE WAS UP AND ABOUT at first light, long before the sun made its appearance over Sunrise Mountain. She changed the sheets and made the bed, dusted and vacuumed, readied a standing rib roast to go in the oven, and, as soon as the florist shop opened, ordered a roomful of fresh flowers to be delivered. She wanted everything to be absolutely perfect when Michael arrived to move in with her.

  She looked wistfully at the oil painting of Phideaux, and wished Michael had known her. Soozie never asked Michael, but knew he would love to have a dog. Tomorrow she would go to a pet store and bring one home to him as a surprise love gift. A small dog, but not a poodle. No other poodle could ever replace Phideaux. Perhaps a miniature dachshund. Yes, that was it. Michael looked like the dachshund type.

  She didn’t want to leave the house, not even for a minute, because she wanted to run to the door and welcome Michael with a big hug and kiss when he got there. Perhaps they would go into the bedroom and make love before he even unpacked his bags. But she remembered he liked coffee, and all she had in the house was the coffee she’d doctored with the drugs. She hid the container in the back of a cupboard, behind the pasta and beans. It would be there if she ever needed to use it again, but she was certain she would not. Michael could not get enough of her yesterday, and she knew it would be like that from now on.

  Soozie pinned a note on the door for Michael, left the door unlocked in case he came before she returned, and drove quickly to Clancy’s for a pound of Bob’s special blend. She was back at her apartment in less than fifteen minutes. The note was s
till on her door; Michael had not yet arrived.

  Soozie had already changed clothes three times that morning. First, into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt to do the housework; then into a blouse and skirt, but that didn’t look quite right; and then into a sexy halter and shorts. No, they wouldn’t do, either. Not today, this very special day. Soozie put on her finest evening gown, a designer original completely covered with black sequins. The gown was ankle-length, but had long slits up the sides that showed off her legs. It fit perfectly, especially in the buttocks, and revealed most of her bosom. On occasions when she’d worn the dress it always drew envious glares from women and lustful stares from men. She would make Michael proud to be seen with her, glad he left the cruel blonde bitch who could never satisfy him the way she would.

  Soozie didn’t start to worry until eleven, but she was painfully aware Michael should have been there hours ago. She called the Times and was told Michael was not expected in all day. That made sense. He had probably taken the day off work so he could spend the entire day with her. There was no reason for Soozie to think the operator was lying; the woman hadn’t asked “Who’s calling?” or anything like that, as if she were screening Michael’s calls.

  Soozie dialed Michael’s cell phone, but his voice mailbox picked up. She left a message saying she was at home waiting for him, and to please call her right away.

  Maybe he had gotten into a big fight with his wife when he prepared to leave and was still at home. She called his condo and thought at first that Michael answered the phone, but it was only his recorded voice. She left another message for him, hoping he would listen to it before Myra did. Myra would most certainly erase the message and never tell Michael she had called.

  By one p.m. Soozie was in a state of panic. Michael wouldn’t have, couldn’t have stood her up, not after yesterday. She’d made it very clear to him that he was to be at her house with his belongings the first thing in the morning, and he had agreed to do as she’d commanded. When Soozie instructed Michael to tell his wife he wanted a divorce, he complied with her demand on schedule the following day, and she had much more control over him now than she had then.

  Something must have happened to him. Perhaps he was in an accident last night and lying in a hospital somewhere. Still, if he were in a hospital, he could have called her, and she would have rushed to his side.

  Or, maybe he was stopped by the cops for a traffic ticket, and they suspected he was on drugs and took him to jail. Sending Michael out in the street before the drugs had completely worn off was a big mistake. She should have insisted he stay with her the rest of the night.

  No, it had to be something worse than that. Maybe his wife killed him when he tried to pack his clothes. She should not have told him to pack last night, she should have told him to wait until his wife left the house this morning, then pack his things and bring them to her apartment immediately. That was another mistake.

  At one-thirty Soozie was a nervous wreck, even though she’d taken a big swig of liquid valium. She jumped when the phone rang, then ran to answer it.

  Thirty-Seven

  MICHAEL WAS DISCHARGED from the hospital at eleven-thirty in the morning. “There’s just enough time for a quick lunch,” he told Kimberly. “My appointment with Dr. Weitzman isn’t until one. Where would you like to go?”

  “How about the Ponce de Leon?” Kimberly suggested.

  “Fine,” Michael agreed. “You’ll have to drive, though,” he stipulated. “My car’s still at your house.”

  Kimberly handed a parking attendant the keys to her red Porsche, then she and Michael went inside the Gold Crest and walked briskly past the slot machines and blackjack tables to the Ponce de Leon room. They were again seated in the same booth in the rear of the restaurant, the one where Michael had met Soozie for lunch and Kimberly had lunched with Myra. Kimberly was beginning to think of it as their booth. She joked with the maitre d’, telling him the next time they came she expected to see a Reserved sign sitting on the table, engraved with their names.

  While waiting for their meal to be served, Michael called Myra on his cell phone Kimberly was pleased Michael had not felt the need to wait until he could speak with Myra privately. On the other hand, Kimberly remembered she had told Michael he could not call Myra unless she was present. Perhaps he was obediently following her orders.

  “I’m glad I caught you in,” Michael said, when Myra picked up the telephone. “I called the house as soon as Kimberly gave me the news about your father, but no one answered. I guess you must have been at the hospital. How’s he doing?”

  “Dad’s going to make it. It was a mild attack. I don’t think he’ll be in the hospital for more than a few days. His doctor said sometimes a mild heart attack can be a blessing in disguise; a warning that a person has to change his lifestyle. Dad’s going to have to stop smoking those stinking cigars that irritate mother so much. He’ll also have to start exercising and go on a strict low-cholesterol diet. For a man who used to be a butcher, it’s going to be hard for him to give up meat, but he’s agreed to follow the doctor’s orders to the letter.”

  “That’s good. Do you want me to go down there?” Michael offered.

  “No. That won’t be necessary. If something comes up I’ll call you right away. I think I’ll be home soon—maybe by the weekend. Do you miss me, Michael?”

  “Of course.”

  “Kimberly told me she’s in love with you, Michael.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you love her, Michael?”

  “Of course. And so do you. You’ve told me that many times.”

  “I guess what I meant to ask is if you’re in love with her. There’s a big difference. You don’t have to answer that question now. Was Kim telling me the truth when she said you’ve never had sex with her?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you still in love with me, Michael?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll always love you, Michael. I want us to be together again. Will you move back to the condo when I get home?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not very talkative today. Is there something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “Kimberly said you were probably going to be out very late. Why don’t you take the afternoon off and get some rest?”

  “I have an appointment right after lunch, but afterwards I’m planning on going directly to bed.”

  Kimberly had been listening intently to Michael’s side of the conversation. Although she hadn’t learned very much, that she understood. She thought to herself, and I’ll be right there in bed with him.

  “I don’t want to cut you short, Myra, but the waiter just brought lunch. I’m going to have to get off the phone and wolf it down so I won’t be late for my appointment. Give your mother a big hug and kiss and tell your dad I wish him the best.”

  “I will. Bye, Michael.”

  “Bye, Myra.”

  “I take it that Myra’s father is going to be all right?” Kimberly asked.

  “Yes. He just had a mild attack. He should be out of the hospital in a few days.”

  “And then Myra will be coming back to Las Vegas?”

  “That’s right,” he answered noncommittally.

  “Do you want to move back with Myra?” Kimberly asked, knowing the answer in advance.

  “Yes, I do.” Kimberly’s questions were making Michael uncomfortable.

  She reached beneath the table and took Michael’s hand in hers. Her voice lowered so the people at adjoining tables could not hear her entreaty. “Then let’s make the most of the time we still have to be together. I want you to make love to me, every night and every morning. Promise me you will.”

  Michael still could not say no, but he was very uncomfortable with his response. “If that’s what you want, Kimberly, that’s what I’ll do.”

  MORDECHAI WEITZMAN appeared to be i
n his late thirties, a few years older than Michael. Neither handsome nor ugly, he had large ears and sad eyes like a Basset hound, and on that particular day wore dark brown slacks, a brown-and-ivory striped tie, white shirt, and a tan tweed jacket with suede elbow patches.

  He greeted Michael and Kimberly warmly, then turned to Kimberly. “Mrs. Kaplan, I hope you don’t mind, but I will need to see your husband privately. After our session the three of us can discuss his problem together, if you wish.”

  Kimberly was becoming more and more accustomed to being referred to as Mrs. Kaplan. Michael made no attempt to correct the doctor’s false assumption. “That’s quite all right, Dr. Weitzman,” she said. “I understand completely.”

  Michael and the psychiatrist retreated to the doctor’s inner sanctum. Kimberly sat on a leather couch in the waiting room and picked up a copy of Sunset magazine. Almost immediately, Michael’s phone in her purse began to ring. She decided to answer it, thinking perhaps Myra might be calling back with an update about her father.