L.A. Mental

by Neil Mcmahon

  When I tapped on the half-open door, she was sitting inside, working intently at a computer monitor. She stood to greet me; she couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, and she seemed shy, even fragile. But her eyes showed calm, steady competence, with the framed diplomas on her wall, from Occidental and UCSF medical school, backing that up. And I found out right off that she had her own way of getting things done.

  The first thing she did was close the office door.

  “I took an unofficial look at the drug sample you brought in,” she said. “Technically, that’s a breach of protocol, and I’d be in an awkward spot if it came out. But there’s such a long waiting list, we can’t do an official workup for another couple of weeks, and I thought I could at least give you an idea of what’s involved.”

  “I won’t say a word. Trust me—we’re on the same page there,” I said, relieved, “and I really appreciate your concern. But, you know, why?”

  “Your family paid for my college, Dr. Crandall. My parents came from South Korea. I grew up in the back room of our laundry. But I got a Crandall Foundation scholarship, and I was able to go to college instead of pressing clothes. I’m glad to be able to pay back a little.”

  Well, son of a bitch. I blinked in astonishment, pleased and touched.

  “That’s a real nice thing to hear,” I said.

  “Much more than nice for us. My parents have a house now, and no more laundry.”

  The Crandall Foundation was a trust started in the 1950s; it dispensed several hundred thousand dollars per year in grants and scholarships, and to charities. For all that I disliked about wealth, the foundation brought home the truth that sometimes money could accomplish a lot that good intentions alone couldn’t touch.

  “By the way, please call me Tom,” I said.

  She smiled, looking shy again. “Thank you. Same for me.” Then she sat at her computer, back to business.

  “The drug is just cocaine, cut with lidocaine but reasonably pure,” she said. “None of the additives like meth or PCP that we’d typically associate with a violent loss of control. But there is one odd thing.” After some fast-fingered keyboard magic, she brought up a photograph.

  “This is TEM imaging, from an electron microscope,” she said. “These are the cocaine crystals”—she pointed at crosshatched structures of white and gold lines that looked something like lie detector readouts—“and here’s what’s unusual.”

  Her fingertips moved to clusters of other shapes scattered among the crystals. These were less distinct, but they appeared to be cylindrical and of uniform size, as if a superthin wire had been neatly chopped into bits.

  She swiveled around in her chair to face me. “They look like nanoparticles. Metal would show up better, so I’d guess they’re something like carbon or silicone.”

  “Does that tell you anything?” I said.

  “Not in itself—it’s just that I’ve never seen nanos in a street-drug sample before. But they’re getting very common these days, used in all kinds of products. Most likely they just got into this mix by accident, somewhere along the way.”

  “And Nick inhaled them along with the coke?”

  “He would have, yes. I don’t see how that would affect his behavior—as far as I know they’d be inert, not causing a chemical reaction in the brain like a drug. But I’m no expert in that field, and I wanted to let you know in case something turns up that might seem related.”

  I thanked her and headed for home again, remembering Nick’s chilling words when I’d first found him on the cliff.

  There are worms eating my brain.

  PART THREE

  Nineteen

  When I made it back to my place, I finally poured the drink I’d been promising myself all day, a healthy splash of Bombay Sapphire on ice with a lemon wedge. Then I started looking for possible pathways to information.

  The nano information was intriguing, but I couldn’t see that it shed any light. For now, at least, I decided to go along with Ivy’s guess that the particles had gotten into the dope accidentally and weren’t involved in Nick’s meltdown. God only knows there were plenty of other reasons why he’d feel a meat grinder in his head.

  But one thing that did bear looking into was his recent phone calls. His cell phone itself was lost, but I could check the records online. The account, like his allowance and utilities, was paid by the family through automatic debits, and—as his de facto guardian and occasional bail bondsman—I had access to all that information.

  I savored the sharp bite of the gin while I pulled up his account on my computer, jumped through the user ID and password hoops, and found the current bill. The calls were listed right up to date, with the final one—when we’d been on the cliff early this morning, just before he attacked me—at 4:20 a.m.

  I blinked in surprise when I saw that it had come from an 800 number.

  A toll-free call, made to a cell phone, at four in the morning? What the hell was that all about?

  I started scanning the other numbers on the bill. There were five or six pages of them; Nick had kept that phone working hard.

  And at least two dozen other calls from 800 or 888 exchanges had come during the previous several days. Every one of the numbers was different, so this didn’t seem to be an ongoing transaction with a particular retailer or anything like that; moreover and stranger still, the calls were all incoming and lasted less than a minute, and many were after midnight.

  The smell of scam was getting thicker all the time.

  A little more online maneuvering got me a couple of toll-free directories with reverse searches to identify the caller. But as I typed in the numbers from Nick’s bill, the results came up blank again and again.

  I realized that they must be ghost numbers operating via VoIP, Voice over Internet Protocol—virtually impossible to trace, often used for suspect or outright illegal purposes like information phishing, solicitations from phony organizations, and sleazy robocalls.

  So the callers had been careful to stay anonymous; the calls might all be from a single source after all, since VoIP systems could easily manipulate caller ID; and I could probably assume that the final one he’d gotten on the cliff was part of the same chain. All that added to the disturbing sense, but didn’t tell me anything specifically useful.

  I spent a minute looking up the call Erica said Nick had made to her. Sure enough, there it was—twelve days ago, lasting eight minutes. That left me more convinced than ever that he knew about the video, and that he remembered the call perfectly well.

  I got up and poured another drink.

  Nothing else in the bill stood out except the glaring absence of toll-free calls earlier in the month; they’d started suddenly in the last week. I decided to make one more pass before calling it a day and rustling up some dinner. I printed out the pages and started going through them with a pen, noting numbers that were frequently repeated. As Detective Drabyak had mentioned, I might be able to track down some of them and get an idea of who Nick had been hanging around with.

  Then I noticed that one of them seemed vaguely familiar—an 813 exchange with quite a few calls both incoming and outgoing, and the most recent one yesterday. I was puzzled as to why it rang a bell. I didn’t think it could be a mutual friend—Nick and I hadn’t had any of those for close to fifteen years—and there weren’t any businesses or restaurants we both frequented. The only other information listed besides the number was the place of origin, Los Angeles, which didn’t exactly narrow it down. I sat back in my chair and took a sip of gin, mentally groping for the connection.

  When it came, I almost choked.

  Hap Rasmussen.

  I set my glass down hard on the desk, pulled open the top drawer, and got out my address book to make sure. I was right.

  Hap, our ex-swimming coach, old family friend, and—I had thought—Nick’s venomous enemy.

  It was astonishing enough that the two of them were even in contact. But far beyond that, Hap had been at my mother�
��s house this morning, through all her shock, agonizing, and the struggle to make sense of this—and he’d never said a fucking word about it. No wonder he’d seemed uncomfortable.

  I’d been coping all right with my annoyance so far—at Nick jerking me around, Paul’s callousness, and the antics of my hot-pants sister—but this jacked me up to real anger. For Hap to treat my mother like that was despicable, and personally, being burned by somebody I trusted left me bitter like nothing else I knew.

  On top of that, it was deeply disturbing in itself. Until now, I’d always thought of Hap as the epitome of a stand-up guy, with deep affection and respect for Audrey. Well-grounded people like that rarely veered radically out of character; when they did, they had a serious reason. Whatever Hap’s reason was, it meant hiding his contact with Nick.

  Christ, was Hap tied in with Nick’s current troubles? There was no obvious connection, but it seemed like a hell of a coincidence otherwise.

  I tried calling Hap but got no answer. I wondered if he was screening—avoiding me because he figured the conversation would be about Nick, and he’d have to keep up his lie and maybe get entangled in it.

  But I wanted to talk to him—now.

  There was no guarantee he’d be home, but his condo in Century City wasn’t far away, a straight no-freeways shot along Pico.

  At least I’d be doing something instead of sitting here fuming.

  Twenty

  Hap lived in one of L.A.’s older high-rises, a classy twenty-story tower with full amenities—doormen and maid service, gardens, tennis courts, and an Olympic-size swimming pool, where he still kept up his daily workouts. These were nice digs if you could afford them; he owned a lucrative business, importing high-end Asian merchandise like jewelry and rugs.

  A parking valet came to meet me as I pulled up in front. The old Cruiser sometimes got the fish eye at places like this, with their fleets of gleaming luxury vehicles. But this guy, a middle-aged Latino with a sweet, wise face, looked it over with obvious afición for my rough workhorse jewel. I handed him a ten-dollar bill along with the keys and asked him to hold off on garaging it—I might be right back.

  When I got to the lobby entrance, the doorman stepped forward smartly and ushered me in.

  “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” He was much slicker than the valet, with a sharply pressed uniform and the kind of polished manners that suggested he’d had professional training.

  I’d decided that the best way to handle this was to have the desk phone Hap. My caller ID wouldn’t be in the mix, and if he answered, he’d have a hard time turning me away.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Rasmussen in 14C,” I said. “If you’d just tell him Dr. Crandall’s here.”

  The doorman’s bland politeness turned hesitant. “I’m sorry, sir—Mr. Rasmussen was called away on business. He left earlier this afternoon.”

  “Away? You mean on a trip?”

  “I believe so. He asked me to call him a cab to the airport.”

  What? Not only did the son of a bitch stonewall us about Nick, but he was leaving town without a word? I was starting to think that Hap wasn’t veering out of character at all—that he was accomplished at deceit, and I’d just never picked up on it.

  Another gold star for my acute psychological perception.

  The doorman either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me where Hap had gone or for how long—Hap had probably instructed him not to—and I didn’t think he’d go for a bribe; he had a good job to protect. But another idea came to me as I walked back outside to my car, still at the curb with the valet standing beside it. The parking crew might be hungrier for cash, and this guy seemed friendly anyway. This time as he gave me the keys, I slipped him a twenty.

  “Is no need, sir—you already take care of me,” he said, but he didn’t resist palming the bill.

  “I could use a little help,” I said quietly. “You know Mr. Rasmussen?”

  “Sure. Peach color 280-SL.”

  “I’m an old friend of his. We had a misunderstanding and I need to work it out. The doorman said he went to the airport. Any idea where he was headed?”

  He scratched his furrowed cheek. “All I know is I hear him tell the cabdriver, Singapore Airlines.”

  I exhaled wearily. Singapore was where the other end of Hap’s business was located; he spent a lot of time there and even owned a villa. He could stay for months.

  The valet’s gaze turned sympathetic. “Long way from here, huh?”

  “A long way in all the ways. Did he ever have a visitor who drove a red Jag XK8? Guy about my age, looks something like me?”

  The valet nodded slowly. “When I first see you tonight, I think you are him with a haircut. But he’s bigger around and he don’t take care of his ride.”

  So Nick wasn’t only in phone contact with Hap—they’d been meeting each other.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “Was he here a lot?”

  “He start showing up a few months ago. Once, twice a week.”

  “Any idea what was going on?”

  “Not for sure, but they don’t look like they’re having fun. People say Mr. Rasmussen got money trouble. Maybe something about that.”

  This was the first I’d heard of Hap’s financial troubles—his business had probably taken a hit from the weak economy, like so many others. But if he needed money, Nick was scheming to get money, and the two of them had suddenly started seeing each other, it fit way too close for comfort that Hap might be in on Nick’s scheme. It would also explain his furtiveness this morning and his abrupt departure. He knew that we’d be looking into things, and he was afraid that it would come to light.

  Which would mean that whatever it was, it was serious.

  The valet put a kindly hand on my shoulder. “Lo siento, amigo,” he said. “You don’t like to hear that.”

  “Sabe Dios. But I needed to. Gracias.”

  I groped for my wallet and started to pull out another twenty, but this time he waved it away firmly.

  “Suerta,” he said.

  I got back in my car and I was just about to turn out of the condo parking lot onto the street when my cell phone rang. I hesitated. I was in no mood for chatting, but it might be my mother or the hospital, so I pulled over and looked at the caller ID.

  The screen read DIFURIO LISA.

  I stared at it through another ring, wondering if my brain was playing tricks on me again. But her name stayed right there.

  I clicked the talk button. “Lisa?”

  “Tom, I hope I’m not interrupting you at a bad time.”

  “No, it’s fine—I’m glad to hear from you.”

  In fact, I was much more than glad—I was touched by that same kind of euphoria as when we were leaving the Lodge, a rush that seemed to pulse through my nerves. What was it with this woman I’d met only a few hours ago and spent only a few minutes with?

  “I feel like such an idiot,” she said. “I finally got around to reading today’s Times and saw about your brother’s accident. I had no idea you were coming from something like that. Believe me, I’d never have been such a smart-ass.”

  “Your brand of smart-ass was just right—helped me get it off my mind for a while. He’s doing well, by the way.”

  “Thank God—the poor guy. Poor you. I can’t imagine diving into that freezing water.”

  “Hush. You’ll make me cold all over again.”

  She laughed. “I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but never that.”

  I smiled, too. “I don’t have any trouble believing it.”

  Neither of us spoke for the next few seconds—one of those knotty pauses where the conversation has to take a turn, but it’s not clear who’s going to make it or in what direction.

  Then Lisa said, “Look, I’m not shy. It goes with the actress turf. Are you, like, involved with anybody?”

  “Well, no. Between relationships, as the saying goes.”

  “Me, too. So how about I come to your place and bring
dinner? You’re probably wiped out, and I’m a good Italian girl. Okay, not so good, but still Italian. Steak, pasta, vino?”

  All I could think of to say was, “Really?”

  Talk about a day ending up better than it started.

  Twenty-One

  I had a hibachi on my rooftop and used it fairly often, usually just for burgers. But tonight two thick filet mignons were sizzling on it, while Ms. DiFurio—looking sexy-tough in tight jeans and a black pullover—and I sipped Chianti with a wonderful jaw-puckering edge. She’d also brought the makings for angel-hair pasta in parmesan sauce, an avocado salad with vinaigrette dressing, and a melt-in-your-mouth fresh sourdough baguette.

  Lisa wandered to the roof edge while I sliced into the filets to check them. They were close to done—two, three more minutes.

  “This is nice up here,” she said. “Right in the middle of all the bullshit, but out of it.”

  “It was your idea, remember?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Yeah, it’s sort of a third-world penthouse,” I said. “The roof’s perfect for hanging out and not doing what I should.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  I picked up my wineglass and walked over to join her. The evening was crisp and, by L.A. standards, clear. The sun had set, with the fading daylight giving windows a glow and softening the city’s grimy sprawl. Then again, maybe the glow was only in my eyes. I was still in a state of mild disbelief that she was here.

  “I’m trying to pick out the studios,” she said. “I have a lousy sense of direction, so I use them kind of like landmarks to find my way around. Paramount’s easy, you head toward the sign and then off to the right.” She pointed north toward the huge white HOLLYWOOD sign on what was arguably the world’s most famous hill. “So MGM—whoops, it’s Sony now—should be on the other side of us?” Her hand swung in an arc to point southward.