“Yes.”
“Was Professor Linney murdered?”
“Unfortunately, I can't discuss the results at this time,” the detective said, pleasant but official.
I'd expected a stock answer. “But you think his death and his daughter's disappearance are connected?”
“Again, I can't comment at this time.”
“His death is obviously suspicious, or the fire department would be handling the case, not you.” I turned my head and nodded at the blue books, hoping Hernandez would instinctively look their way and confirm my guess.
He tugged on a snow-white monogrammed cuff peeking out of the sleeve of his navy blazer.
The Rosetta Stone was probably easier to read. Maybe I would have done better with Porter. “According to one of Professor Linney's close friends, Margaret phoned her father last Thursday.” I repeated what Fennel had told me. “I advised Mr. Fennel to contact you,” I continued, hoping to earn points and information. “Did he?”
Hernandez nodded, a noncommittal go-on expression in those chocolate brown eyes.
“I found the tape this morning in Professor Linney's bedroom in his son-in-law's new house. Mr. Reston asked me to help find out what happened to his wife,” I added when I saw Hernandez's raised brow. “I urged him to give you the tape, along with his wife's daily planner, which I found in her bedroom last night. Mr. Reston told me it had been missing from the time his wife disappeared.”
Hernandez studied me for what was probably less than a minute but felt longer. “You seem to have a knack for finding things,” he finally said.
His tone and gaze made me shift on my seat even though he had no way of knowing I'd been trespassing when I'd come across the planner. It was the kind of penetrating look my dad does well, the kind that probably had suspects spilling all for Hernandez.
My cheeks tingled. “My point is, Detective, I'm trying to help your investigation, not hinder it. I'm hoping you'll share information with me, and I promise not to print anything until you give me the green light.”
Hernandez treated me to another amused smile that on Porter would have looked snide. “Thank you, Molly, but I have a partner. I'm not looking for a replacement.”
“You can check with Detective Connors. He'll vouch for me.” After my Times article, I hoped that was still true.
“Where was Margaret Reston's planner?”
“In her nightstand.” I told him about the movement I'd noticed at the window, about the perfumed and dusted room. “Whoever was there could have replaced the planner.”
“Perhaps it was Margaret Reston,” Hernandez said.
“Margaret Reston?” I repeated stupidly. I hadn't considered that, though of course, I should have.
“If she made that phone call, she may still be alive. From what you tell me, her father and Mr. Fennel recognized her voice. So did her husband.”
“I guess they'd know.”
Hernandez cocked his head. “But you're not convinced. I take it you've talked to Margaret Reston?”
“No. I've never even met her.”
“Then why the skepticism?”
“What about the autopsy results?” I countered.
Hernandez wagged his finger at me. “We're not bartering here, Miss Blume.” Along with the return to formality, a flinty note had deepened his musical voice.
Nothing ventured . . . “Her voice was stiff. You'll hear it when you listen to the tape.”
“Tension or anxiety can do that,” Hernandez said, but he looked thoughtful.
“And her message was abrupt. ‘This is Margaret. I'm afraid. Meet me at the house. Don't tell anyone.' It's strange, don't you think, considering she'd disappeared and hadn't talked to her father in five months?”
“Maybe she was afraid someone would overhear, or trace her call.”
“Maybe.” I had to admit that was a possibility.
“Mr. Reston didn't comment about the message?”
“He wants desperately to believe his wife is alive. I think he noticed something was off but didn't want to admit it. Why else would he listen to the tape five times?”
Rico Hernandez drummed his fingers on his desk while he contemplated what I'd told him.
“If Margaret Reston is alive,” I said when the drumming stopped, “why hasn't she come forward? Doesn't she care that her father burned to death? And why didn't she let the poor man know all those months he was grieving for her? Why didn't she leave a note?”
“Fear,” Hernandez said with quiet certainty. “The same fear that drove her away in the first place.”
“What about the blood on the desk and in her car? And the missing jewelry?” I frowned. “Unless she staged the kidnapping and skipped with the jewelry so she could sell it and live off it,” I said, answering my own question. And if that were the case, why? “Was it her blood?”
“It was, yes. And before you ask, we didn't find anyone else's.”
Finally, an answer. “What about the jewelry? Has any of it turned up?”
“Not yet.” Hernandez's face showed a flicker of disappointment. “For all we know, the stones could be in several different countries by now. If Margaret Linney died, I imagine her kidnapper would be extremely nervous about being found through her jewels.”
I felt a beat of excitement. “So you do think she's dead?”
“On the other hand, if she staged her kidnapping, she'd be nervous about being traced through her jewelry.”
I mulled that over, then thought again about the tape. I shook my head. “I can't believe she'd phone her father and set him up like that.”
“Maybe she planned to meet him but was prevented from doing so. Maybe she was killed.”
Hernandez's seesawing was driving me crazy. “Is that what you believe?”
“I'm reserving judgment until I hear the tape. About the planner, Molly. We'll need your fingerprints since you handled it. I take it you've examined it?” He spoke with the resignation of a parent who's been asked to meet with his child's principal, again.
“Only the last few entries.” I didn't volunteer that the photocopied pages were in the Coach bag at my feet. “I did find something interesting,” I said, in my best dangling-carrot voice.
“Bartering again?” Hernandez asked when I didn't continue.
“Trying to.” This time he didn't sound annoyed. That and the fact that he was using my first name renewed my hope. “Mr. Reston told me his wife had quarreled with Karl Linz, the tile setter, but Linz's sister alibied him.”
Hernandez nodded. “The quarrel took place weeks before the disappearance.”
“But there's a notation in the planner on the day before Margaret disappeared about the tiler. With two exclamation points. Why would she be upset about Linz two weeks after the quarrel, unless they had another one?”
“As a writer, you're clearly attuned to the significance of punctuation,” Hernandez said dryly. “But you're right. It's an excellent question, Molly, and a fine observation.” He jotted something on the small notepad in front of him.
I have to admit his approval pleased me. “And then there's Professor Linney's bruises. The day we met, his legs were black and blue.”
“Did he mention how he obtained the bruises?”
I shook my head. “Not to me. Apparently Professor Linney accused several people of hitting him. The caregiver, the housekeeper, his son-in-law.”
Hernandez wrote that down, too, but didn't look impressed. “Linney suffered from Alzheimer's, so he may have imagined the abuse. The fact that he accused several people makes that more likely, don't you think? But thank you for telling me. Anything else?”
Time to play my ace. “Linney told me he didn't want to climb stairs because he was terrified of falling and breaking his hip.” I paused. “So what was he doing in an upstairs bedroom in the Fuller house?”
“You didn't mention this yesterday.”
I had the detective's interest now. I could hear it in the F-sharpness of his melodious v
oice. I could see it in the stiffening of his posture. And in his scowl. It wasn't the response I'd hoped for.
“I remembered after you left.” I spoke with sincerity born of truth, but I had that squirmy feeling again. “Anyway, I thought you should know. That's why I'm here.”
“And because you want information.”
“That, too,” I agreed. “I'd be grateful for details about Margaret Linney's disappearance. Whom you suspect. I don't suppose you'd let me take a look at her file?” I probably had a better chance at winning the lottery.
“I wish I could help you, Miss Blume.” We'd gone from formal to friendly and back to formal. “I appreciate the information you've shared.”
“Was Professor Linney murdered? Just tell me that.”
“I believe this is where you came in.” Hernandez braced his hands on his desk and stood. “If there's something I can tell you that won't compromise our investigation, I will.”
“Like the Lakers' score?” I picked up my purse and slung the strap over my shoulder.
Hernandez smiled. “I'll give your regards to Detective Porter. He'll be sorry he missed you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BACK IN MY PARKED CAR I MADE SEVERAL CALLS ON MY cell phone, then spent the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon collecting Crime Sheet data at police divisions in the other areas the paper covers: Northwest, Pacific, West L.A., Culver City, West Hollywood. I left Hollywood for last, hoping I'd catch Connors, but he wasn't in.
I did have plenty of material for my column. There were the usual suspects—car thieves and street muggers—and, apparently, a rash of males flashing their privates, no doubt inspired by last week's warm weather. There is something to be said for arctic temperatures, although Manhattan's Naked Cowboy apparently struts his stuff even in the snow. Well, not all his stuff. He does wear briefs.
I'd noted only one new home vandalism, and that was in West L.A. in a non-HARP neighborhood. My guess was that the HARP vandal had been frightened into inactivity by the torching of the Fuller house and Linney's death. Unless, of course, the person who had vandalized the other residences was responsible for the Fuller arson. I didn't believe that for one minute. I didn't think Rico Hernandez did, either.
The small waiting room of Dr. Bernard Elbogen, practitioner of internal medicine, was overheated and furnished with a crackled brown Naugahyde sofa and four ugly turquoise vinyl chairs permanently indented from too many rumps. I fit mine onto a chair across from an elderly man whose shoulders and torso seemed to have shrunk inside his plaid sports jacket. Next to him was a middle-aged man with almost identical features—probably a son—who, in between entering data into his laptop, kept checking his watch and clearing his throat loudly for the benefit of the platinum blond receptionist at whom he darted annoyed looks. When that didn't get her attention, he walked over to her.
“We've been waiting a half hour,” he told her in a voice straining for politeness.
“We'll call your father as soon as there's a room.”
Judging from her bored tone, she'd said the same thing to a thousand-plus patients or family members thereof. I was pretty sure she was the woman I'd talked to this morning on my cell phone, though she'd sounded friendlier then, telling me how lucky I was someone had canceled. After my disappointing meeting with Hernandez, I wasn't feeling all that lucky, but I took her word for it.
I thumbed through an issue of Newsweek, smiled at some of the cartoons and quotes, read about another Democrat throwing his hat into the presidential ring, then about the latest attack in Israel. Sixteen killed and forty-three injured, some critically, on a bus blown up by two Palestinian Al Fatah terrorists who drove a car packed with explosives into the bus, turning it into an inferno of crumpled metal and charred bodies. I closed my eyes and sighed deeply.
“My lips are dry,” the old man announced in an Eastern European accent that reminded me of my Zeidie Irving's. Grabbing the cane at his side, he pushed himself up and walked to the receptionist's window.
“Can I have a little bit water, please?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, stood, and disappeared from view. A moment later she returned and handed the old man a small white cup.
“Thank you.” He took a sip, wet his lips with his tongue, and shuffled back to his seat.
Fifteen minutes passed. I finished the magazine and picked up a copy of Health. I was reading about the danger of fad diets when the old man stood and made his way back to the receptionist.
“My lips are dry,” he told her again, his voice soft with apology. “It's the medicine. Could I maybe have a little more water, please?”
He handed her the cup and thanked her a moment later when she returned it, filled.
“If you have a problem, you should bring a water bottle with you next time, Mr. Abramson,” she said sternly. “I can't keep giving you water every few minutes.”
His lined face turned red, as though she'd slapped him. “I'm sorry. It's the medicine.”
You should be sorry, I thought, glaring at her. For keeping an old man waiting so long, for begrudging him a little water, a little kindness. She was oblivious to my stare, and she probably wouldn't have understood if she'd seen it. Wait till you're old, I wanted to tell her.
I watched the son. He'd looked up from his laptop at the receptionist's rebuke, and I saw anger pinch his lips. He made a motion as though he was about to stand, and I tensed in anticipation. Tell her off, I cheered silently. But indecision crept into his eyes, and then a sort of embarrassment because he saw me looking at him. He sat back, his face flushed, his eyes avoiding mine, and returned his attention and fingers to the laptop.
I supposed he didn't want to create a scene. I supposed that in those few seconds he'd decided that the repercussions of an outburst would outweigh any momentary satisfaction. Maybe the office would give his father a hard time scheduling appointments or filling out insurance forms. Worse, maybe they'd ask him to find another doctor. I understood. But, damn, I'd wanted him to put the woman in her place. I wondered what I would have done if it were Bubbie G who'd been yelled at. To be honest, I didn't know.
And then it occurred to me that maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe the son was upset not with the receptionist, but with his father, who had annoyed her and was a source of embarrassment, like a whiny child. I thought about Oscar Linney and the people he might have annoyed. I thought about his bruises.
Twenty minutes passed before I was ushered into Dr. Elbogen's wood-paneled office. He was a portly man with Pillsbury Doughboy cheeks, dark hair, and a handlebar mustache that would have made Hercule Poirot jealous.
“I understand you're here for a consultation,” he said when we were both seated. “How can I help you, Miss Blume?”
“I'm a reporter,” I said, watching a frown eclipse his smile. I seem to have that effect on people. I handed him a business card. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Professor Linney.”
The doctor dropped the card onto his desk as if it were contaminated. “I can't discuss a patient with you.”
“Of course not. I'm not here to ask about Professor Linney's physical condition. I wanted to know if he said anything about his daughter's disappearance.”
Elbogen sighed and relaxed against the black leather of his armchair. “He talked about it all the time. He was devastated. She was everything to him, his whole world.”
“Did he tell you what he thought had happened to her?”
The doctor shook his head. “All he knew was what the police told him, that Margaret was apparently kidnapped. He didn't want to believe she was dead.”
“Did he express any fears about his own safety?”
“No.” Elbogen looked at me appraisingly. “I thought you were interested in Margaret.”
“I'm doing a story about the father and daughter. When I talked with Professor Linney a few days before he died, he said people were hitting him. Do you think he could have been imagining that?”
“A detective phoned earlier and asked the same question.” Elbogen shrugged, uncomfortable again. “I'll tell you what I told him: I'm not a psychologist.”
I was pleased that, for all his professed lack of interest, Hernandez had followed up on my information. “I understand. Let me ask you another question, Doctor. Can Alzheimer's make a person paranoid?” This time I was careful to keep the question general.
“A third of Alzheimer's patients present with paranoia. So the answer is yes. But it depends on the individual, and on the stage of the illness. Some Alzheimer's patients can also become physically violent if they're agitated, because they think they're protecting themselves.”
I thought for a moment. “Are there medications that can make a person paranoid?”
Elbogen gave me a look that was part approval, part reluctance: I was playing Go Fish, I'd made a match, and he had to relinquish a card.
He nodded. “Parkinson's patients lack sufficient dopamine, a neurotransmitter in the brain, so we prescribe medications that increase the dopamine.”
“For example?”
“Levodopa and Carbidopa are some of the classic medications. There are newer ones, like Mirapex. Most of the medications that increase dopamine can potentially cause psychosis, and one of the symptoms of psychosis is paranoia. By the way, if a schizophrenic receives too much of an antipsychotic, he may present with Parkinsonian features, including tremors.”
Linney had suffered from Parkinson's. And possibly from MS, according to Margaret's planner. I wondered if that had been confirmed, but knew better than to ask Elbogen. “So if someone has Alzheimer's and is taking medication for Parkinson's, would that make him more susceptible to paranoia?”
Elbogen nodded. “Quite possibly.”
“Was Professor Linney taking medication for Parkinson's?”
Elbogen smiled in answer. “A for effort, Miss Blume.”
I'd noticed only a mild form of the tremors typical of Parkinson's in Linney, but no facial rigidity, which is another symptom. So I assumed he'd been taking something. I wished I'd checked his medicine cabinet when I was at the house. I'd have to come up with a reason to go back.
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