“Is my paranoia kicking in “cause I don't like doctors' offices or did she not like your question about where he operates?”
“It did seem to throw her,” I said. “Sorry to put a stress on her face-lift.”
“Yeah, she is glossy. I thought she might have been recuperating from a sunburn, but with that chest you're probably right. . . . Did you want coffee? Far be it for me to speak for the entire class.”
“No, this room is stimulating enough.”
He laughed. “Warm and cozy, huh— could you do therapy, here?”
“I can do therapy anywhere but I'd prefer something a little less stark.”
“Maybe this was Hope's therapy room.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it's separate from the west wing. No upsetting the patients. Assuming she worked here. Which isn't that big of a stretch: He paid her almost forty grand, we haven't found patient files anywhere else.”
The door opened and a very broad-shouldered man about five-nine gusted in wearing a very wide frown.
He was around forty with thick gray hair styled in a long, spiky crew cut, the sideburns clipped high above small, close-set ears. Dark, extremely alert eyes studied us. Slanted— five degrees short of an Asian tilt.
His face was round with pronounced, rosy cheekbones, a straight nose with flared nostrils, and a strong chin already shadowed with morning growth.
He wore a tailored white double-breasted jacket over a spread-collar blue shirt and a black silk crepe tie hand-painted with crimson and gold swirls. Black slacks broke perfectly over two-tone black-leather-and-gray-suede wing tips. He stuck out his hand and revealed a French cuff held together by a gold-barrel link. His wrist was thick and coated with straight black hair.
“Mike Cruvic.” Nodding, as if we'd just come to a consensus. Even when he stood still he seemed to bounce.
“Doctor,” said Milo. They shook, then I got Cruvic's hand. Muscular grip but soft palm. Buffed nails.
“Thanks for taking the time, sir.”
“Happy to, though I really don't know how I can help you find Hope's killer.” He shook his head. “Let's sit, okay? Got myself a heel spur from running in old shoes. You'd think I'd know better.” He knuckled his forehead three times and sank into the love seat.
“You know what they say,” said Milo. “The doctor's kids go barefoot.”
Cruvic smiled and stretched his arms. “In this case the doctor gets sore feet. I never thought I'd be talking to the police about murder, let alone Hope's.”
Tucking his finger into a wing tip, he rubbed the side of his foot and winced.
“Creak, creak,” he said, rolling his shoulders. Their bulk wasn't due to padding. His posture was perfect, his belly board-flat. I pictured him in his home gym at daybreak, bouncing and pedaling and pumping. One of those early risers just waiting to take on the day and knock it out in two rounds.
“So,” he said, finally sitting still. “What would you like to know?”
“We have on record that you paid Dr. Devane thirty-six thousand dollars last year,” said Milo. “Did she work for you?”
Cruvic floated a palm over the spikes of his crew cut. “I never tallied it up but that sounds right. She consulted to the practice.”
“In what capacity, Doctor?”
Cruvic touched a finger to a broad, pale lip. “Let's see, how can I be forthcoming without compromising my patients . . . are you aware of what we do here?”
“Obstetrics-gynecology and fertility.”
Cruvic produced a business card from an inner pocket of the white jacket. Milo read it, then handed it to me.
MILAN A. CRUVIC, M.D., FACOGPRACTICE LIMITED TO PROBLEMS OF FERTILITY
“I used to do OB-GYN but for the last few years I've been doing just fertility.”
“The hours?” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“Delivering babies. The hours can be rough.”
Cruvic laughed. “No, that never bothered me, I don't need much sleep. I just like doing fertility. People come in, sometimes there's absolutely no medical reason they can't conceive. It tears them apart. You analyze it, come up with a solution.” He grinned. “I guess I fancy myself a detective of sorts.” He looked at his watch.
“What was Professor Devane's role in all of that, sir?”
“I called Hope in when I had doubts.”
“About what?”
“Patients' psychological preparedness.” Cruvic's brow creased and the gray spikes tilted down. “Fertility enhancement's an exhausting process. Physically and psychologically. And sometimes nothing we do works. I warn patients beforehand but not everyone can handle it. When they can't, it's best not to start. Sometimes I can judge who's likely to have problems. If I can't, I call in experts.”
“Do you use other psychologists besides Professor Devane?”
“I have in the past. And some patients have their own therapists. But after I met Hope she became my preferred choice.”
He put both hands on his knees. “She was terrific. Very insightful. A great judge of people. And excellent with the patients. Because unlike other psychologists and psychiatrists she had no stake in sucking people into long-term treatment.”
“Why's that?”
“She was busy enough.”
“With her book?”
“Her book, teaching.” He clapped his hands. “Quick, to the point, the least amount of treatment necessary. I guess that appealed to the surgeon in me.”
His ruddy cheeks were almost scarlet and his eyes had turned distant. Rubbing his foot some more, he leaned forward. “I— the practice misses her. Some of these shrinks are weirder than the patients. Hope talked plain English. She was fantastic.”
“How many cases did you refer to her?”
“I never counted.”
“Were there any patients who weren't happy with her?”
“Not a one— oh, come on, you can't be serious. No, no, Detective, not a chance. I deal with civilized people, not nutcases.”
Milo shrugged and smiled. “Gotta ask. . . . Is it my imagination, Doctor, or is there more infertility, nowadays?”
“It's not your imagination at all. Some of it's probably due to people waiting longer to start. The ideal conception age for a woman is early to mid-twenties. Tack on ten, fifteen years and you've got an aging uterus and diminished probability.”
He put a hand on each knee and his slacks stretched over thick, muscular thighs. “I'd never say this to a patient because they've got enough guilt, but some of it's also due to all the messing around people did in the seventies. Promiscuity, repetitive subclinical infections, endometriosis— that's internal scarring. That's also part of what I used Hope for. The guilt.”
“Why'd you pay her directly instead of having her do her own billing?”
Cruvic's head moved back. The hands came off the knees and pressed down hard on the love-seat cushion.
“Insurance,” said Cruvic. “We tried it the other way and found out it was easier to recover payment for a gynecologic-behavioral consult than for psychotherapy.”
Another stroke of the crew cut. “My CPA assures me it's all on the up-and-up. Now, if that's all—”
“Did she work well with the husbands, too?” I said.
“Why wouldn't she?”
“Her opinions about men were controversial.”
“In what sense?”
“Her book.”
“Oh, that. Well, she was never controversial here. Everyone was very satisfied with her work. . . . Not that it's my place to tell you how to do your job, but it seems to me you're barking up a completely wrong tree. Hope's murder had nothing to do with her work for me.”
“I'm sure you're right,” said Milo. “Where'd you meet her?”
“At another health facility.”
“Where?”
“A charity clinic in Santa Monica.”
“Name?”
“The Women's Health Center. I've been ac
tive there for a while. Once a year they throw a fund-raiser. Hope and I sat next to each other on the dais and we began talking.”
He stood. His tie had ridden up and he pulled it down. “If you'll excuse me, I've got some ladies out there who want to be mommies.”
“Sure. Thanks, Doctor.” Milo stood, too. Blocking the door. “One more thing. Did Professor Devane keep her patient files here?”
“She had no files of her own. Made notes in mine. That way we could communicate easily. My files are kept strictly confidential, so it wasn't a problem.”
“But she did see patients here.”
“Yes.”
“In this room, by any chance?”
“You know,” said Cruvic, “I believe she may have. I don't assign rooms, the staff does.”
“But she stayed in this wing,” said Milo. “The privacy issue.”
“Exactly.”
“Nice setup for privacy. Location-wise, I mean. Off the beaten path.”
Cruvic's bulky shoulders rose, then fell. “We like it.”
He tried to sight around Milo.
Milo seemed to move aside, then his notepad came out. “This Women's Center, you do fertility work there?”
Cruvic inhaled, forced a smile. “Fertility is rarely an issue for the poor. At the center I donate my time to general women's health care.”
“Does that include abortions?”
“With all due respect, I don't see that that's relevant.”
Milo smiled. “It probably isn't.”
“I'm sure you know I'm not free to discuss any of my cases. Even poor women have a right to confid—”
“Sorry, Doc. I wasn't asking about specific cases, just a general question about what you do there.”
“Why raise the abortion issue at all? What's the point, Detective?”
“Abortion's legal but it's still controversial. And some people express their opposition to it violently. So if you do perform abortions and Professor Devane was involved in that, as well, it might give us another angle.”
“Oh, for God's sake,” said Cruvic. “I support a woman's right to choose and so did Hope, but if anyone would be targeted it would be the person actually performing the procedure.” He tapped his chest. “And I'm obviously here.”
“Obviously,” said Milo. “Once again, I have to ask, Doc.”
“I understand,” said Cruvic, but he didn't look mollified. “I'm sure my opinion doesn't mean much but I think Hope was murdered by some psychotic who hates women and chose her because she'd achieved fame. A nut. Not a patient here or at the Women's Center.”
“On the contrary, Doctor. Your opinion does matter. That's exactly what we need. Opinions of people who knew her.”
Cruvic colored and he touched his tie. “I only knew her professionally. But I think her death represents so much that's wrong with our society.”
“How so, sir?”
“Success and the malignant jealousy it evokes. We adulate talented people, put them on a pedestal, then enjoy knocking them off. Why? Because their success threatens us.”
The cheeks bright red now.
He walked around Milo. Stopped at the door and looked back at us.
“The losers punish the winners, gentlemen. If it keeps going that way, we all lose. Good luck.”
Milo said, “If you think of anything, Doc,” and gave him a business card. The straight version, not the one the detectives pass among themselves that reads ROBBERY-HOMICIDE: OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOURS ENDS.
Cruvic pocketed it. Charging into the hallway, he unlocked the door to the west wing and was gone.
“Any hypotheses?” said Milo.
“Well,” I said, “he blushed when he said he only knew her professionally, so maybe it was more. And he got a little antsy talking about his billing, so there could have been something funny about that— taking a cut of her fee, kickbacks for referrals, billing for gynecology instead of psychology to up the reimbursement, whatever. The abortion question got his dander up a bit, meaning he probably does them at the center. Maybe here, too, for the high-priced crowd. If so, he wouldn't want it publicized, apart from the controversy. Because a pro-choice fertility patient might find it difficult to submit to the care of someone who also destroys fetuses. But he made a good point about his being the target. And I stick with what I said about a political murderer going public.”
When we got to the exit door, he said, “If he was sleeping with her the consultant thing could have been a way of shunting money to a girlfriend.”
“She didn't need his forty. She made six hundred grand last year.”
“He knew her before the book. Maybe it's been going on for years. And Seacrest found out. I know I'm reaching but we keep talking about that heart-genitals-back thing. Revenge. Some kind of betrayal. Cruvic did get a little passionate talking about her, wouldn't you say?”
“He did. Maybe he's just a passionate guy.”
“Dr. Heelspur. Saying the same thing Seacrest did: “It had nothing to do with me.' ”
“No one wants to be close to murder,” I said.
He frowned and pushed the door to the courtyard. Tight-faced Nurse Anna was at the courtyard table, smoking and reading the paper. She looked up and gave a small wave.
Milo gave her a card, too. She shook her head.
“I only saw Dr. Devane when she came to work.”
“How often was that?”
“It wasn't regular. Every so often.”
“Did she have her own key?”
“Yes.”
“And she always worked out of that room we were just in?”
Nod.
“Nice lady?” said Milo.
Split-second pause. “Yes.”
“Anything you want to tell us about her?”
“No,” she said. “What could there be?”
Milo shrugged.
Returning the gesture, she stubbed out the cigarette, collected her paper, and stood up.
“Break's over, better be getting back. Have a nice day.”
She headed back to the building as we crossed the flagstone. As we opened the big door to the street, she was still watching us.
8
Milo put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it.
“What?” I said.
“Something about Cruvic . . .” He started the car. “Maybe I've been on the job too long. Know what came into the station this morning? Newborn baby mauled to death by some dogs. Seventeen-year-old unwed momma weeping, tragic accident, right? Then the detectives find out the dogs were in the next-door neighbor's yard, separated by an eight-foot fence. Turns out Momma killed the kid, tossed it over to destroy the evidence.”
“Jesus.”
“No doubt she'll be claiming she was the victim, going on TV, writing a book.” He gave a terrible smile. “So am I excused for negative thinking?”
Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a portable cellular phone and punched numbers. “Sturgis. Anything? Yeah, I'll wait.”
“Mr. Information Highway,” I said, struggling to erase the image of the savaged infant. “Since when does the department issue cell phones?”
“Oh, sure. Department's idea of the information highway is two extra-large tin cans and heavy twine. This here is a hand-me-down from Rick, he's got a new one, does all sorts of paging tricks. I don't like going through the department radio without a tactical band, and pay phones are a hassle. But so is applying for reimbursement, so I write off the calls to Blue.”
Blue Investigations was his evening moonlight: after-hours surveillance jobs, mostly nailing insurance scammers. Mostly he hated it. Lately he'd been turning down referrals.
“If it's reimbursement you're after, maybe you should bill it as gynecology,” I said.
He cracked up. “Uh-huh,” he said, into the phone. “Yeah, yeah— where? Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Backing out onto Civic Center, he drove west. “Cindy Vespucci— the girl Kenny Storm threw out of the car— just returned my
message. She'll be lunching at the Ready Burger in Westwood in a quarter hour. Willing to talk if we show up before her next class.”
The restaurant was on Broxton, on the west edge of the Village, where the streets knot up and walking can be faster than driving. Plastic yellow sign, sweating glass window, two rickety tables on the sidewalk, one occupied by two girls drinking Cokes with straws. Neither acknowledged us and we went inside. Three more tables, yellow tile walls also sweating. Lettuce shreds and straw wrappers flecked the red-brick floor; the smell of frying meat was everywhere. A quartet of Asian countermen with Ferrari hands chopped, flipped, wrapped, and played cash-register arpeggios. A numb-looking queue, mostly students, curved from the door to the counter.
The Clinic Page 8
