Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "No success finding Haiselden?"

  "Rub it in," he said. "Some therapist you are. Locked office, the landlord's some Chinese guy, barely speaks English, Haiselden's rent isn't due for another two weeks, so what does he care? I guess I should go back to his house, try to find out who does his gardening. . . . Normally, I'd send Korn and Demetri to do it, but all their bitching means I have to be careful."

  "You're on the defensive? Thought LAPD was paramilitary."

  "More like day care, nowadays. Did you know you can get into the Academy now with prior drug arrests as long as they're not too serious. Cokehead cops. Reassuring, huh? Anyway, what's up?"

  I told him about Fusco's call.

  "Yeah, the grand voice of the federal government. He's got a PhD, I figured he might call you."

  "I didn't want to talk to him without clearing it with you. Not that I have anything to tell him."

  "Oh," he said. "Yeah, of course. Sorry I didn't tell you it was okay. He's originally from Virginia, big-time pooh-bah from their Behavioral Science Unit. Looks like my call to VICAP triggered something."

  "What's he offering?"

  "A powwow. I figure what he really wants is to pick my brain— little does he know what a waste that'll be. If the case is hopeless, he bugs out. If I'm onto something, he jumps aboard, sees if he can claim some credit. . . . He faxed a charming note: Anything I can do, blah blah blah . . . Lem. Assistant Deputy Director, Behavioral Science, hoo-ha."

  "He said you'd be meeting with him soon."

  "He wanted tomorrow, I put him off, said I'd be in touch. Gonna keep putting him off, unless the bosses order me to waste time. Or do you think I should be open-minded?"

  "Not so open your brain falls out."

  "That's already happened. . . . If we do meet, it's gonna be at his expense. Two-pound steaks, hyperthyroid potatoes at the Dining Car or The Palm— I'm making myself hungry. I work three months out of the year to pay the IRS. Let the Bureau pick up the tab for my cholesterol. Anything else?"

  "Still planning on seeing Mr. Doss tomorrow?"

  "Eleven A.M., his office. Why?"

  "How 'bout that," I said. "Eleven's when I'm due to see Stacy."

  "There you go," he said. "Synchronicity— something you want to tell me about Daddy?"

  "Nope."

  "Okay, then, happy therapy, I'm heading home. If I fall asleep at the wheel, you can have my pencil box."

  "Take care of yourself," I said.

  "Sure, I always do. Sweet dreams, Professor."

  "Same to you."

  "I don't dream, Alex. Against department regulations."

  14

  ELEVEN A.M. TUESDAY. Sun and heat and clarity, an unseasonably beautiful morning. The weather didn't matter much. I'd been waiting in my office for half an hour, no sign of Stacy.

  I cleared some paperwork, phoned Pali Prep. The secretary knew my name because I'd treated other students. Yes, Stacy had been excused from class. Two hours ago. I tried the Doss home, no answer. No cancellation message left at my service. I wanted to call Richard's office, but with teenagers you had to be careful not to breach trust, especially when dealing with a parent like Richard.

  Also, Milo was with Richard, and that complicated matters.

  Ten more minutes and now the session time was gone. Your basic no-show. Happened all the time. It had never happened with Stacy. But I hadn't seen Stacy in half a year, and six months was a long stretch of adolescence. Maybe seeing me had been her father's idea and she'd finally stood up to him.

  Or perhaps Mate's death had something to do with it, churning up memories that reminded her what could happen to a woman who allowed herself not to be.

  I filed the chart, expecting a phone call from one Doss or the other by day's end.

  But it was Milo who cleared things up.

  He showed up at my house just after one P.M.

  "Had a quiet morning, huh?" He walked past me and entered the kitchen. My fridge is an old friend of his, and he greeted it with a small smile, removing a half-gallon of milk and a ripe peach. Looking inside the carton, he muttered, "Not much left, why bother with a glass."

  He brought the milk to the table, upended the carton, gulped, wiped his mouth, assaulted the peach as if exacting revenge on all fruit.

  "No session with little Ms. Doss," he said. "Swami Milo knows because Ms. Doss came over to Daddy's office right around the time she was supposed to be with you. Right when I'd started talking to Daddy. Something about her brother. Looks like he's run away."

  "From Stanford?"

  "From Stanford. Doss moved my eleven up to ten and I'd just gotten into his sanctum sanctorum— ever been there?"

  I shook my head.

  "Penthouse suite with an ocean view, executive trappings plus your basic private museum. Antiques, paintings, but mostly walls of Oriental breakables— hundreds of bowls, vases, statues, little incense burners, whatever. These glass shelves that make it look as if everything's floating. Had me worried about breathing too hard, but maybe that's the point. Maybe throwing me off balance is why he changed the time. He left the message at midnight, it was only by luck that I got it. I figure the plan was I wouldn't, would show up at eleven, and he'd tell me aw shucks. Anyway, I made it, waited, finally got ushered in, Doss is sitting behind this ultrawide desk, so big that I've got to reach over and kill my back to shake his hand— the guy thinks everything out, doesn't he, Alex?"

  I remembered my stretch for the photos. "So what happened?"

  "My butt's just hitting the chair and his intercom burps. 'Stacy's here.' That throws Doss. Before he puts down the phone, the kid runs in, like she's about to blurt something to Daddy. Then she sees me, gives Daddy one of those we-have-to-talk-in-private looks, Doss asks me to please leave for a second. I head back for the waiting room, but the secretary's on the phone, has her back to me, so I keep the door open a crack, I know it's naughty, but . . ."

  Detective's grin, ripe with suspicion and worst- case glee.

  "Mostly what I heard was a helluva lot of anxiety. A few 'Stanford's, bunch of 'Eric's, so I knew it had something to do with her brother. Then Doss starts asking her questions—'When?' 'How?' 'You're sure?' Like what's going on is her fault. At that point, the secretary gets off the phone, turns around, shoots me a murderous look and closes the door. I wait out there another ten minutes."

  He chomped the peach, ripping golden flesh away from the pit. Went for the milk, holding the spout inches from his mouth. White liquid arced down his gullet. His throat muscles pulsed. Lowering the empty carton, he crushed it, said, "Ahhh, does a body good."

  "What else?" I said.

  "A few minutes later, Stacy comes out looking very uptight and leaves. Then Doss emerges, tells me he can't talk, family emergency. I do the old protect-and-serve: Any way I can be of service, sir? Doss looks at me like, Who are you kidding, moron. Then he tells me to make another appointment with the secretary, goes back inside the Porcelain Palace. The secretary looks at her book, says, Nothing tomorrow, how about Thursday? I say fine. When I'm back down in the parking garage, I ask the attendant to show me Doss's car. Black-on-black BMW 850i, chrome wheels, illegally tinted windows, custom spoiler. Shiniest damn thing I've ever seen, like he dipped it in glass. There's only one exit from the garage, so I wait down the block. But Doss never comes out, so whatever the problem is, he's handling it by phone. One thing I did think of, though: a dark BMW. What Paul Ulrich saw parked on the road the morning of Mate's murder."

  "Lots of those on the Westside."

  "True." Jumping up, he made it back to the fridge with two giant steps, grabbed a new quart of orange juice, popped the seal, began gulping. "But I'm still curious, so I call Stanford, locate Eric's dorm, talk to his roommate, some kid named Chad Soo. What I manage to get out of him is that Eric was looking real depressed for a few days, then he didn't come back to his room for a couple of days after that."

  "When?"

  "Yesterday, but Chad didn't call till th
is morning. Didn't want to get Eric in trouble, but Eric had a big test he didn't show up for and that wasn't like Eric, so after the second day he thought maybe he should tell someone. He called the house, talked to Stacy."

  "He told you all this?"

  "He was under the misconception that I was Palo Alto PD. So how come the kid gets depressed now, Alex? Nine months since his mother dies, but a week after Mate gets killed?"

  "Mate's death could've brought up memories," I said.

  "Yeah, well . . . that's how I knew your morning was gonna be quiet. So Stacy never called?"

  "I'm sure she will when things settle down."

  He drank more juice. I said, "Regarding the BMW, Ulrich said he saw a smaller model, like his."

  "Yes, he did."

  I got up. "I'm going to try to reach Stacy. From my office."

  "Meaning I'm kicked out."

  "Meaning feel free to stay in the kitchen."

  "Fine," he said. "I'll wait."

  "Why?"

  "Something about this family bugs me."

  "What?"

  "Too secretive, too evasive. Doss has no reason to play games with me unless he's got something to hide."

  I headed for the office. He called out, "Make sure you close the door all the way."

  • • •

  Richard's secretary used her boss's very busy schedule as a weapon: the chance of talking to him today was less probable than the sudden achievement of world peace.

  "I'm calling about Stacy," I said. "Any idea where she might be?"

  "Is there a problem, sir?"

  "She didn't show up for her appointment at eleven," I said.

  "Oh?" But she didn't sound surprised. "Well, I'm sure there's an explanation. . . . May I assume you'll be billing us anyway, Doctor?"

  "That's not the issue. I want to make sure everything's okay."

  "Oh . . . I see. Well, as I said, Mr. D.'s not here now. But I did see Stacy a while back and she's fine. She didn't mention the appointment."

  "Richard made it. Perhaps he forgot to tell her. Please have him call me."

  "I'll give him the message, sir, but he's traveling on business."

  "Business as usual?" I said.

  Pause. "We will honor your bill, Dr. Delaware. Bye now."

  Returning to the kitchen, I found myself hoping something— a sudden lead, anything— had spirited Milo away and I wouldn't have to wear my calm mask. But he was still sitting at the table, finishing the juice, looking too damn smug for someone working a whodunit with no clues.

  "Bellyful of double-talk?" he said.

  I shrugged. "So what's next?"

  "More of the same, I guess. . . . Doss is an interesting one. Little man behind a gigantic desk, his chair's elevated on some kind of pedestal. I'll bet he's one of those guys who believes intimidation is the ultimate orgasm. The power of positive domination. Yeah, I've definitely got to take a closer look at him."

  "What about Roy Haiselden and Donny Mate?"

  "Still looking for them, too. I lucked out and found Haiselden's gardener mowing the lawn. Haiselden didn't tell him to stop showing up."

  "Keeping up appearances," I said.

  "The utilities are also still on. Only the mail's been cut off. Waiting in the Westwood branch, general delivery. And Alice Z. was telling the truth about Haiselden being into laundromats. He's the registered owner of six, mostly on the Eastside— El Monte, Artesia, Pasadena."

  "Collecting coins can be a dangerous business. Did he do it himself?"

  "Don't know yet. All I've got is his business registration. Roy Haiselden d.b.a. Kleen-U-Up, Inc. As far as Donny Mate goes, there was no parole, he served his full sentence, was let straight out. Petra's asking about him. Thanks for brunch."

  His hand landed on my shoulder. Lightly, very lightly, then he began to leave.

  "Happy hunting," I said.

  "I'm always happy when hunting."

  15

  STACY'S CALL CAME at four P.M. The connection was grainy and I wondered where she was. Had Richard given her her own little silver phone?

  "Sorry for the inconvenience," she said, not sounding apologetic at all. Cool. The detachment was back.

  "What happened, Stacy?"

  "Don't you already know?" From cool to cold.

  "Eric," I said.

  "So my father was right."

  "About what?"

  "The cop who was here to talk to him. My father said he's your friend. He informs you, you inform him. Didn't you think that would be a problem, Dr. Delaware?"

  "Stacy, I spoke to your father about that and he—"

  "You didn't speak to me about it."

  "We haven't spoken at all. I was planning to bring it up when you arrived."

  "And if I told you I didn't like it?"

  "Then I'd drop off the Mate investigation. That's exactly what I planned to do until your father asked me not to. He wanted me to continue."

  "Why would he want that?"

  "You'd have to ask him, Stacy."

  "He told you to continue?"

  "In no uncertain terms. Stacy, if it's a matter of trust—"

  "I don't get it," she said. "When he told me about the cop, he seemed angry."

  "At something Detective Sturgis did?"

  "At being questioned like a criminal. And he's right. After all we went through with my mother, to be harassed by the police. And now I find out you're working with them. It just seems . . . wrong."

  "Then I'm off the investigation."

  "No," she said. "Don't bother."

  "You're my patient, you come first."

  Pause. "That's the other thing. I'm not sure I want to be your patient— nothing to do with you. I just don't see why I need therapy again."

  "So the appointment was all your father's idea?"

  "Same as all the other appointments— no, I don't mean that. Before, once I got into it, it was good. Great. You helped me. I'm coming across so rude, I'm sorry. I just don't see that I need any more help."

  "Maybe not," I said. "But can we at least sit down once to discuss it? I've got time right now if you can make it over."

  "I— I don't know. Things are pretty intense— what exactly did your cop friend tell you about Eric?"

  "That Eric hadn't returned to his dorm for a couple of days. That he'd missed a test."

  "More like a day and a half," she said. "It's probably no big deal, he was always going off on his own."

  "Back when he was living at home?"

  "Back to ninth or tenth grade. He'd cut school without explanation, take his bike somewhere, disappear all day. Later, he told me he used to check out used-book stores, play pool on the pier, or go over to the Santa Monica courts and listen to trials. The school used to phone, but Eric always got away with it because his grades were so much higher than anyone else's. Once he got his driver's license, he'd go away overnight, not come home till morning. That got to my father. Waking up in the morning and finding Eric's bed still made and Eric gone. Then Eric would drive up at breakfast time, start toasting Pop-Tarts, and the two of them would get into hassles, my father demanding to know where Eric had been, Eric refusing to say."

  "Did your mother get involved?"

  "When she was still healthy, she'd take my father's side. But Dad's always been the main one."

  "Was Eric ever punished?"

  "Dad made threats— kept warning he'd take away Eric's car keys, but Eric shined him on. Everyone knew he wouldn't follow through."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Eric's his golden boy. Any time Dad complains about him, all Eric has to say is, 'What? Aren't straight A's good enough? Want me to get higher than sixteen hundred on the SAT?' Same for Pali Prep. He was their big advertisement. Perfect GPA, Bank of America Award winner, National Merit Scholar, Prudential Life Scholar, Science Achievement winner, hockey team, fencing team, baseball team. When he interviewed for Stanford, the interviewer called our headmaster and told him he'd just encountered one of the gr
eat minds of the century. So why would they want to tick him off?"

  "So you're not worried about him," I said.

  "Not really . . . The only thing that does bother me is his missing an exam. Eric always took care of business, academically speaking. . . . Maybe he just decided to hike."