I introduced myself.
“Delaware— I know the name. You were involved with the Jones case, right?”
“Right,” I said, surprised. Rich defendant and a plea bargain; it had all been kept out of the papers.
“The defense called me,” he said, “when they were figuring out which place to send the bastard. Wanted me to testify on his behalf, get him a cushy bed. I said wrong number, counselor, my wife's an assistant D.A. and my sympathies tend to run in the other direction. Did they put him away for long?”
“Hopefully,” I said.
“Yeah, you never know when there's money involved. So, what can I do for you?”
“I'm working with the police on another case. A psychology professor who was murdered a few months ago.”
“I remember it,” he said. “Near the U. You like criminal cases?”
“I like closure.”
“Know what you mean. So what's my connection?”
“Tessa Bowlby. She knew the victim. Accused another student of date rape and brought him up before a sexual-conduct committee chaired by Professor Devane. We're talking to all the students involved with the committee but Tessa doesn't want to talk and her problems make me reluctant to push it.”
“Sexual-conduct committee,” he said. His tone told me Tessa had never mentioned it. Walter Bowlby had said Tessa's involvement with Emerson was sketchy.
“I haven't seen Tessa in a while. Which is more than I should tell you in the first place.”
“I've got a signed release from her father.”
“Tessa's over eighteen so that doesn't mean much. So what's the theory, one of the guys called up before this committee got mad and acted out?”
“With no evidence, theories abound,” I said. “The police are looking into every possible avenue.”
“A conduct committee,” he repeated. “And Tessa actually brought charges?”
“Yes.”
“Wow . . . it wasn't in the papers, was it?”
“No.”
“Did the process get hostile?”
“It wasn't pleasant,” I said. “But the committee didn't last long 'cause the U killed it.”
“And then someone killed Professor Devane. Weird. Sorry I can't help you, but let's just say I don't have much to offer.”
“About Tessa or her father?”
“Both,” he said. “I wouldn't . . . spend much time on that aspect. Now, I've got a patient ringing in the waiting room so let's cut this short while our ethics remain intact.”
So much for the conduct committee.
Back to Dr. Cruvic of the curious educational history.
That institute where he'd spent a year after he'd left Washington— Brooke-Hastings. Corte Madera— just outside San Francisco. Returning to his Northern California turf.
I called Corte Madera Information for a number. Nothing. Nothing in San Francisco or Berkeley or Oakland or Palo Alto or anywhere within a hundred-mile radius.
Next question mark: the hospital where Cruvic had resumed his training, this time as an OB-GYN.
Fidelity Medical Center in Carson.
No listing there, either.
Could the guy be a total impostor?
But UC Berkeley told me he was a member in good standing of the alumni association. Same with UC San Francisco Medical School.
So the funny stuff began after he'd received his M.D.
As I was thinking about that, Milo called. “No other murders that match, so far. Vegas is trying to get hold of Ted Barnaby, Mandy's boyfriend, to see if he can shed light on her medical history or anything else. So far it's no-go, they got him traced as far as Tahoe, then nada.”
“The casino circuit,” I said.
“Yeah. Interestingly, they know Cruvic in Vegas. Comes a few times a year, somewhat of a high roller.”
“Just the kind of guy Mandy would gravitate toward.”
“No one remembers them together, but I sent Mandy's picture to L.A. Vice to see if she had any kind of history here, and I'm planning to visit a few clubs tonight, places on the Strip where the high-priced girls are known to party.”
“Casinos, clubs. Some lifestyle.”
“Rust never sleeps, why should I? I also received a FedEx this morning, humongous packet of alibi material on Patrick Huang from his father's law firm. Photos, menus, notarized affidavits from the maitre d', waiters, busboys, family members.”
“Nothing like a lawyer father,” I said. “Well, that's good, 'cause Deborah Brittain still seems nervous about him.”
“Why?”
“The experience unnerved her. Though she did admit he hasn't bothered her since. She adored Hope, said Hope really made a big difference in her life. I also located Tessa Bowlby and learned something interesting.”
I recounted the conversations with Walter Bowlby and Dr. Emerson.
“Major psychological problems,” he said. “Think the father's being truthful about her accusing him falsely?”
“How can you ever know? Dr. Emerson implied to me there was little value looking into it. He sounded sharp, but Tessa doesn't see him regularly, hadn't told him about her connection to Hope or the committee. Mr. Bowlby did seem forthcoming. Gave me the name of the Temple City detective who investigated the accusation. Gunderson.”
“I'll call,” he said. “False claims . . . so Muscadine could be telling the truth.”
“Even if he isn't, I can't see any link to Mandy Wright.”
“Leaving only Monsieur Kenny Storm, Junior, whom I'm meeting tomorrow afternoon at his dad's office. Want to come along, check out his psyche?”
“Sure. I also learned a few more things about Dr. Cruvic.”
I started with the cars in the clinic lot late at night, the armed guard. Multiple after-hours abortions at nine hundred dollars a throw.
“Something's got to pay for the Bentley,” he said.
“Wait, there's more. Cruvic's card says “practice limited to fertility' but he lacks formal training in fertility, and there are other irregularities in his bio. He left surgical residency at the University of Washington after only one year, took a leave of absence at a place called the Brooke-Hastings Institute, and switched to OB-GYN at a hospital in Carson— Fidelity Medical Center. I can't find either place.”
“A phony?”
“His B.A. and his M.D. are real and there are no claims filed against him. And it's possible both Brooke-Hastings and Fidelity closed down. But going from a high-prestige teaching hospital to an obscure private place isn't exactly a horizontal transfer. So it's possible he didn't leave because of a change in interest. Maybe he was kicked out for some sort of misconduct, cooled his heels, then applied for an inferior internship in a new area. And maybe his conduct hasn't gotten any better, since. Holding himself out as a fertility expert is certainly iffy.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Yes, it does begin to take on a certain smell. And Hope was his consultant— money games gone bad?”
“Maybe that's what Seacrest is being evasive about. Not infidelity— something financial. That would explain his making such a point about having kept his nose out of Hope's professional activities.”
“Distancing himself . . . could be.”
“Want me to have another go at him?”
“Prof to prof? Sure, be my guest. . . . Dr. Heelspur . . . he's the only one we've caught in a lie.”
“Like him better as a suspect?”
“Let's just say I'm developing an incipient, borderline, minor-league crush on him. If I can tie him in with Mandy in any way, I'll fall head-over-fucking-heels in love with him.”
It was 7:10 and Robin was still out. Emergency repairs could get complicated. I phoned the country singer's recording studio and she said, “Sorry, hon, earthquake stuff. This is going to take some time— at least another couple of hours.”
“Eat yet?”
“No, I just want to finish up. But don't go to any trouble, I'll probably just want something simple.”
“Foie gras?”
She laughed. “Sure, go catch a goose.”
I sat there for a while, drinking coffee and thinking.
Pizza was simple.
And there was a great little place in Beverly Hills that still believed ducks belonged in the water, not on thin crust.
On the way I'd make another stop at Civic Center Drive.
This time I checked the alley first. Once again, the three parking slots behind the pink building were empty. Once again, no lights.
In front, the street was still and dark except for widely spaced streetlamps and the occasional wash of headlight. Everyone was closed up for the night. I pulled into a spot fifty yards from the pink building's entrance, kept myself alert by imagining the things an unethical doctor could do to a patient.
Cruvic's wing tips covered with blood . . .
Hyperactive imagination. When I was a kid it had vexed my teachers.
Headlights, up close. Beverly Hills patrol car cruised by from the police station on the other side of the tracks.
Beverly Hills cops were edgy about people sitting in cars without a good excuse. But the car drove on.
Suddenly, I felt foolish. Even if Cruvic showed, what would I say?
Hi, just a bit of follow-up: What exactly is the Brooke-Hastings Institute and what did you do there— and by the way, what's with the fertility BS?
I started the Seville and was just about to switch the lights on when a grinding sound behind me drew my attention.
The corrugated door of the building next to Cruvic's was sliding upward. A car with its lights already on.
Not a Bentley. A small, dark sedan. It edged out, then turned right. Two people inside. The driver, Nurse Anna, of the tight face and lipsticked cigarettes. Next to her, a male passenger.
So the neighboring building was part of Cruvic's setup, too.
Anna drove to Foothill Drive, made an incomplete stop, and turned right again.
I backed out and followed.
She made two more rights, at Burton Way and Rexford Drive— a long U-turn that took her into the flats of north Beverly Hills with its seven-figure teardowns, up to Sunset, then across to the Coldwater Canyon intersection.
Headed toward the Valley. Maybe nothing more ominous than a working woman returning home with a spouse or boyfriend.
Two cars got between us. The commuter rush out of the city was over but traffic into the Valley was still heavy enough to slow us to twenty miles an hour. I managed to keep my sights on the small sedan and when it caught a red light at Cherokee Drive I shifted to the right to get a closer look. The car was a Toyota, newish. Two heads inside, neither of them moving.
Then Anna leaned to the right and an orange ember appeared inside the car, like a circling firefly. It flew to the left, kept going as she dangled her left hand out the window and let the cigarette droop. Sparks flicked onto the road. The man in the passenger seat still hadn't budged. Either he was sitting low or he wasn't tall.
Cruvic was no giant. Catching a lift home from his nurse? Or was their relationship more than business?
Affairs on the brain, Delaware. And I didn't even watch soap operas.
The light turned green and the Toyota shot forward, adding more speed as it took on the Santa Monica Mountains. There were no more stops til Mulholland Drive, where most of the traffic continued the southward descent to Studio City. But the Toyota hooked east on Mulholland and I found myself behind it.
I slowed down. Anna picked up speed, taking turns with the confidence of someone who knew the route. Years ago Mulholland had been undeveloped from Woodland Hills to Hollywood, miles of black ribbon affording a heart-stopping view of the glitter below. Now roadside houses and landscaping blocked most of it out.
No one behind me. I turned off my headlights. Mulholland got darker and narrower and quieter and the Toyota whipped through the curves for another couple of miles before coming to a sudden stop.
I was a ways back but still had to stop short, managing to avoid tire-squeal and skidding only slightly. The Toyota remained on the road, brake lights on. I pulled over to the right shoulder, kept the Seville in drive, and watched.
A car was coming from the opposite direction.
When it passed, the Toyota crossed Mulholland diagonally, rolling up a driveway and coming to rest on a wide concrete pad in front of a high iron gate.
Two faint lights— fixtures on brick posts. Everything else was foliage and darkness.
The Toyota's passenger door opened and the man got out, briefly revealed by the dome light, but his back was to me.
He walked up to one of the gateposts and touched it. Pushing a button.
As the gate started to slide open, I edged back onto the road and drove forward a bit.
Then the Toyota backed out and straightened and I waited til it drove off.
The gate was open and the man was walking through. With my lights still off, I zoomed past— just another bad driver. The sound made the man turn, as I'd hoped he would.
During the split second, I studied him, helped by the gatepost lights.
A face I'd seen before.
Lean, intelligent. Full lips. Long hair slicked back. Hollow cheeks, arched eyebrows.
James Dean with an attitude.
A short man, but not Cruvic.
Casey Locking, Hope's prize student.
He scratched his ear.
If I hadn't known about the skull ring, I wouldn't have seen it, glinting from his delicate white hand.
I sped back toward the Mulholland intersection.
Hope and Cruvic.
Hope's student with Cruvic's nurse.
Did Locking live behind the gates?
Nice digs for a grad student. Well-to-do parents? Or was it Cruvic's place, and time for a conference?
Stopping, I did a three-point turn and headed back toward the house, pausing far enough from the gateposts to make sure no one was outside, then rolling forward slowly. The address was marked by small white numbers on the left-hand post and I memorized them.
What would a psych grad student have to do with fertility or abortions?
Carrying on Hope's “consultation”?
Something corrupt in a big way? A wide enough net to snare Hope and Mandy Wright?
Or something benign— a shared academic project on unwanted pregnancies, the psychological effects of infertility, whatever.
But Locking had never mentioned anything like that and Hope hadn't published on those topics.
And scholarship didn't explain Locking getting a lift from Cruvic's nurse.
None of it made sense.
When I pulled up in front of the house Robin and Spike were climbing the steps. I'd forgotten about the pizza.
She waved and he whirled around and stacked himself, head out, feet planted, as if competing at a dog show. Glaring til he heard my “Hi!” Then he began straining at the leash and Robin let him run down to greet me.
As I rubbed his head, he bayed like a hound and butted. Finally he shook himself off and led me up to Robin.
I pulled her up against me and kissed her deeply.
“Boy,” she said. “What perfume did I put on this morning?”
“Forget perfume,” I said. “Eternal love.” I kissed her again, then she unlocked the door and let us in.
“How'd the emergency repair go?” I said.
She laughed and bent her head forward, flexing her neck and shaking out her curls. “Guitar 911, I salvaged most of the instruments. Poor Montana. Top of that I've got more work to do, tonight. Promised to fix Eno Burke's double-neck for a recording session tomorrow.”
“You're kidding.”
“Wish I was. At least they're paying me triple.”
I rubbed her shoulders. “All-nighter?”
“Hopefully not. I need a nap, first.”
“Want me to make you some coffee?”
“No, thanks, I've been coffeeing all day— sorry, Alex, were you planning on some quality ti
me?”
“I'm always open-minded.”
She pressed her back against my chest. “How about a nap, together? You can tell me bedtime stories.”
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