The meet, the kill, then weeks later Eric sneaks into Mate's apartment and hides the stethoscope.
Out of business, Doc.
High intelligence, savage anger. The boy had plenty of both.
And sneaking out in the middle of the night was Eric's habit, he'd done it for years.
Helen, the dog . . .
A look at the boy's phone records and credit-card log would be instructive. Had he booked a flight from Palo Alto to L.A. on or around the day of Mate's murder? Made a second trip to pull off the break-in?
Taking all those risks simply to taunt Mate's ghosts.
Or was it the cops he was out to humiliate? Because, after shedding blood, he learned that he liked it?
The juxtaposition of blood and pleasure. That's the way it had started for Michael Burke. That's the way it always started.
Someone that young and smart warping so severely. Terrifying.
I wanted to bounce it all off Milo. Intriguing, he'd say, but all theory.
And theory was where it would freeze because I couldn't— didn't want to— probe further.
A horn honked. Someone screeched to a stop. Someone cursed. The air outside looked heavy and milky and poisonous. I sat in my steel box, one among thousands, pretending to navigate.
31
FOUR P.M. CORNED-BEEF sandwiches and beer in the fridge, a note from Robin pinned to a carton of coleslaw. She and Spike had gone to A&M Studios to sit in on a recording session. The bassist was debuting an eight-string she'd created. Rhythm-and-blues tracks; Spike loved that kind of thing.
The studio was on La Brea near Sunset; I'd been only a few blocks away. Ships passing . . .
Mail was piled up on the dining room table; from the looks of it, mostly bills, and hucksters promising immortality. I phoned Safer. He was in court, unavailable, so I tried the Dosses.
Richard answered. "Doctor. So you got the packet."
"What packet?"
Pause. "Doesn't matter . . . What can I do for you?"
"I was calling to see how you're doing."
"Stacy's fine. Went to school. She's staying away for the weekend." His voice dropped. "I suppose that's best."
"And Eric?"
"On his way back to Stanford. I got him a plane out of Van Nuys."
"You think he's ready for that?"
"Why not?"
"Last night—"
"Last night was an aberration, Doctor. With all he's gone through, he should've blown a long time ago. Tell the truth, I'm glad he finally did. It's just pottery, I'm fully insured. We'll tell the carrier it was an accident— the bolts on the cases came loose."
"Is he going to get some help at Stanford?"
"We discussed that," he said. "He's considering it."
"I think you should be more directive—"
"Look, Doctor, I appreciate all you've done, but frankly Eric doesn't . . . he doesn't feel comfortable with you. Not your fault, everyone relates differently, you're fine for Stacy, not Eric. Probably all for the best, avoiding sibling rivalry. So why don't you concentrate on Stacy and I'll handle Eric."
"I think he needs help, Richard."
"Your opinion has been duly noted."
"What about you, Richard? How are you doing?"
"I'm alone. Guess I'd better get used to that."
"Anything I can do?"
"No, I'm fine— no thanks to your buddy the detective. He keeps trying to search every square inch I own. And hounding Safer, asking for an 'interview.' Talk about euphemism. But that's okay, everyone has to do their job. Safer tells me I'll be free of all this crap soon enough. Gotta go, Doctor, call coming in on the other line. If Stacy needs you, I'll be in touch."
"She doesn't want an appointment?"
"I'll ask her. Thanks. Bye."
• • •
I found "the packet" in the middle of the mail stack. Courier-delivered envelope, the return address, RTD Properties. Folded into a sheet of RTD stationery was a check written on RTD business account IV. Fifteen thousand dollars. A typed note:
Mr. D. thanks you for your time. He trusts this will cover everything to date.
Terri, Accounting
I'll be in touch.
Not likely. I knew severance pay when I saw it.
• • •
I couldn't talk to Milo, so I called Petra to let her know my impressions of Donny Salcido Mate. She was at her desk, courteous enough, but she sounded busy and I asked her if it was a bad time.
"It's fine," she said. "I just have to run over to Hollywood Pres in a few minutes, start some paper on a new one. Boy meets girl, boy beds girl, boy kills girl, then tries to kill himself. Guy's hooked up to life support, some people can't do anything right. What's up?"
I summarized my bedside chat with Donny.
She said, "Is this guy dangerous?"
"If he doesn't get medicated, maybe. I can't promise you he didn't kill his father, but I wouldn't bet on it."
I explained my reasoning.
She said, "Makes sense. I'll pass it on, see if Milo wants me to hold him on anything. . . . Listen, I know I'm a pest about Billy, but kid care isn't my thing, I'm the youngest in my family. Tomorrow when I see him, I was thinking of bringing him some books. Anything in particular you'd suggest?"
"He's always liked history."
"I've already gotten him plenty of history books. I thought fiction might be a nice switch— maybe the classics? Do you see him as able to handle Les Misérables? Or The Count of Monte Cristo, something like that?"
"Sure," I said. "Either."
"Good, I wasn't sure. Because of the themes— abandonment, poverty. You don't think it's too close to home?"
"No, he'll be fine with it, Petra. I can see books like that appealing to his moral core."
"He's sure got one of those, doesn't he?" she said. "I'm still trying to figure out where it came from."
"If you knew, you could sell it."
"And do something else for a living."
"Such as?" I said.
She laughed. "Such as nothing. I love my job."
• • •
Saturday morning I awoke thinking about Eric as a murderer. It stayed on my mind during the breakfast that Robin and I shared out near the pond. Then I looked around, saw how beautiful the world was and wondered if I was just letting my imagination run wild because I couldn't stand nice. After all, not a shred of evidence pointed to the boy— or his mother— even talking to Mate.
Mate's records might shed some light on that. And I was certain that records existed, because Mate had regarded his work as historically significant, would have wanted every detail recorded for posterity.
Milo had guessed Roy Haiselden had them, and he might be right. Now that he had Richard as a suspect, and Haiselden's motive for disappearing had become clear, he was unlikely to pursue the attorney.
No criminal charges had been lodged against Haiselden yet, but domestic violence and child-abuse allegations meant that other detectives would be looking for him, meaning someone might get a warrant. But the Breckenham civil suit had been filed in Baldwin Park, sheriffs jurisdiction. My only sheriffs contact was Ron Banks, a downtown homicide investigator and Petra Connor's boyfriend. I'd met him once, not exactly foundation for a favor.
After we cleaned up, Robin and I went shopping for groceries, then walked in the hills with the pooch. Then she retired for a nap and I went into my office, ignited the computer and gave the Internet another try. Nothing new on Mate except for a couple of cybergossips in a right-to-die chat room exercising their constitutional right to be paranoid.
Am I being too imaginative, wondered whiteknight, to suggest that following the death of Dr. Mate further attempts are being made to silence those with the courage to face off against The Powers That Be?
Not at all, responded funnigirl. I've heard the police from various cities have gotten together to create a taskforce on euthanasia. The plan is to kill people then make it look as if the right-to-die folks a
re behind it. Shades of Grassy Knoll.
Screenplays were everywhere. I logged off.
Mate's records . . . Time to give the ever-amiable Alice Zoghbie another try? For all I knew, Haiselden had never had the files, they'd been stored at the pretty little vanilla house on Glenmont.
No reason for her to be any more forthcoming.
Unless I pointed out the discrepancies between Joanne's assisted suicide and Mate's other travelers. Suggested Mate hadn't helped Joanne, that Richard had killed Zoghbie's mentor for nothing— had turned Mate into the sacrificial lamb she'd claimed.
If she knew that already, hearing about Richard's arrest would have sent her reeling, she might even be contemplating coming forth. If so, maybe I could tip the scales— turn her grief to my advantage.
Manipulative, but she was someone who believed the infirm should be encouraged not to exist.
At worst, she'd slam the door in my face. Nothing lost; as things stood, I was pretty useless.
• • •
I made the drive to Glendale in thirty-five minutes. In the morning light, Alice Zoghbie's house was even cuter, flower beds crayon bright, the copper rooster weather vane vibrating in a breeze I couldn't feel. The same white Audi sat in the cobblestone driveway. Dust on the windshield.
A bit more humanity on the street this time. An old man sweeping his front porch, a young couple pulling out of their carport.
I tapped the goat's-head knocker lightly. No answer. My second attempt, more energetic, was also met with silence.
Making my way back to the driveway, I walked past the Audi to a green wooden gate. Bees buzzed, butterflies fluttered. I called out, "Hello?" then Alice Zoghbie's name, got no reply. Flowers kissed the side of the house. Lights on in the kitchen.
The gate was latched but not locked. I reached around, popped it open, continued along a cobblestone path shaded by the arthritic boughs of an old, scarred sycamore. A small stoop led up to the kitchen door. Four panes of glass gave me something to look through. Lights on, but unoccupied. Dishes in the sink. A carton of milk and half an orange on the counter. The fruit, slightly withered. I knocked. Nothing. Climbing down the stoop, I moved along the side of the house, peeking in windows, listening. Just the bee buzz.
The backyard was small, charmingly landscaped, with hedges of Italian cypress on two sides that blocked the neighbors' views, and a tall wooden fence at the back. Victorian lawn furniture, more flower beds. The kind of flowers that bloom in shade. A dark yard, shrouded by a second sycamore, even larger, stout branches supporting a macramé hammock.
Trunk as thick as two people.
Two people propped against the trunk.
The buzzing, louder— not bees, flies, a storm of flies.
Both of the bodies were tied to the tree with thick rope, fastened tight at chest level and around the waist. The hemp was crusted maroon and brown and black.
Barefoot corpses, insects reconnoitering between fingers and toes. The woman slumped to the right. She had on a blue floral housedress with an elastic neckband. The elastic had allowed the garment to be yanked down without ripping, exposing what had once been her breasts. The killer had hiked it above her waist, too, raised her knees, spread her legs. Wounds everywhere, that same red-black splotching her skin and her clothing, running down her thighs, filthying the grass. Her flesh was green-tinged where the blood hadn't settled.
Triangles sliced into her abdomen, three of them. Her head drooped to her chest, so that I couldn't see her face. A black gaping necklace was visible along her jawline. A helmet of white hair, sparkling where it wasn't fly-crowded, said she'd once been Alice Zoghbie.
The man's khaki shorts had been removed and folded next to his left thigh. His blue polo shirt remained on but had been rolled up to his nipples. Big man, heavy, flabby. Stiff, reddish toupee— a hairpiece I'd seen on TV.
Triangles danced along the swell of Roy Haiselden's abdomen, too, distorted by his paunch. His head lolled to the right. Toward Alice Zoghbie, as if straining to listen to some secret she was imparting.
Not much remained of his face. His genitals had been removed and placed on the grass between his legs. They'd shriveled and shrunk and bugs congregated there with special enthusiasm.
The fingers of his left hand were entwined with Alice Zoghbie's.
The two of them, holding hands.
I'd broken into frosty sweat, wasn't breathing, but my brain was racing. My eyes shifted from the bodies to something else, off to the left, a few feet away. A wicker picnic basket. Propped against it, a tall green bottle, foil-topped. Champagne. Atop the basket, a pair of tiny, gold-lidded jars.
Too far for me to read the labels and I knew better than to disturb the crime scene.
Red jar, black jar. Caviar?
Champagne and caviar, an upscale picnic. Bare feet and her housedress said Alice and the man had no intention of going anywhere.
Posed.
The irony.
A bluebottle fly alighted on Alice Zoghbie's left breast, scuttled, paused, explored some more before taking off in flight— heading toward me.
I backed away. Retreated through the gate, knowing my prints were on the handle, it wouldn't be long before someone would want to talk to me. Leaving it open, I retraced my steps down the driveway, past the Audi, to the curb.
The old man had gone inside. The street had reverted to torpor. So many perfect lawns. Sparrows skittered. How long before the vultures arrived?
Inside the Seville, I breathed.
Last guy in L.A. without a damn cell phone.
• • •
I got out of there, drove to a gas station on Verdugo Road, sweat-drenched, collar tight. I parked near the pay phone, composed myself, got out. Other people pumped gas as I tried to look any way other than how I felt.
The killings were in Glendale PD jurisdiction, but to hell with that, I called Milo.
32
"ANY IDEA WHEN he'll be back?"
"I think he went downtown to do some paperwork," said the clerk, a woman, one I didn't know. "I can transfer you to Detective Korn. He works with Detective Sturgis. Your name, sir?"
"No thanks," I said.
"You're sure?"
She sounded nice so I gave her the ugly details and hung up before she could respond.
• • •
I drove back to L.A., hoping for an empty house. Wanting time to breathe, to sort things out.
Repulsed, still shaken. Sweat came gushing out of my pores as the image of the bodies kept smacking me across the brain.
Milo and I had visited Alice Zoghbie five days ago.
No skin sloughing, no maggots, the beginnings of the green tinge . . . I was no forensic pathologist, but I'd seen enough corpses to guess that not more than a couple of days had passed since the murder. Alice's mail and phone records could clear that up. . . .
Propped, holding hands, a picnic.
Someone canny enough to overpower a big man like Haiselden and a woman who hiked the Himalayas.
Someone they knew. A confederate. Had to be.
The feelings of disgust didn't subside, but a new sensation joined them— strange, juvenile glee.
Not Eric, not Richard. No motive and both their whereabouts were well accounted for during the past two or three days. Same for Donny Salcido.
Propped against a tree. Geometry. Michael Burke's trademarks. Time to give Leimert Fusco's big black book another review.
Time to call Fusco— but Milo deserved to know first.
I was on the 134, driving much too fast, hoping for an empty house, thinking about Haiselden hiding from the civil suit only to encounter something much worse.
He'd probably been hiding out with Alice all along— I recalled the phone call she'd taken when Milo and I had visited. Afterward, she couldn't wait to get rid of us. Probably from her pal, wanting to know if the coast was clear.
The two of them waylaid right there in Alice's house. Someone they knew . . . someone respectable, trusted
. A bright young doctor who'd apprenticed to Mate.
No doubt Glendale police had already been dispatched to the scene. Soon my prints on the gate would be lifted and within days they'd be matched to the Medical Board files in Sacramento.
Milo needed to know soon.
If I couldn't reach him, should I go straight to Fusco? The FBI man had said he was flying up to Seattle. Wanting to check on the unsolveds— something specific about the Seattle unsolveds?
Dr. Death Page 32
