“One of the problems,” I said, “is that there's no family other than Seacrest. No one to talk about her development— her childhood, what she was like outside of her professional role.”
“All I know about her childhood is she grew up in that aggie town— Higginsville. Parents dead, no sibs. And if she's got distant relatives, they must be damned distant, because after the murder, no one ever stepped forward.”
He got in the car.
“Still,” I said, “no family doesn't mean no family history. I could go up to Higginsville, ask around. In a small town, someone might remember her.”
“Sure,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I'll call the local police and let them know you're coming, see if they can get you access to records. When do you want to go?”
“No reason it can't be tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Dress for the heat, we're talking farmland. Don't they grow artichokes up there, or something?”
That night, Robin and I went out to dinner. By eight, she was soaking in a bath and I was stretched out on a sofa in my office rereading the conduct-committee transcripts. Uncharacteristically, Spike had chosen to stay with me. Probably the lingering smell of steak. Now, his big, knobby head rested in my lap and he snored. The rhythm was soporific and the bitter dialogue began to blur.
I learned nothing, felt myself grow drowsy, knew it was time to stop.
Just as I put the transcripts down, the phone rang. Spike snapped upright, bounded off, and ran to the offending machine, baying.
“Doctor, this is Joyce at your service. There's a woman on the line sounds pretty distraught. A Mary Farney?”
The woman at the Women's Center in Santa Monica. Beaten-down mother of Chenise. “Put her on, please.”
A strident voice said, “Hello?”
“This is Dr. Delaware. What can I do for you, Mrs. Farney?”
“You gave me your card— at the center. Said I could— you're the one with the police, right?”
“Yes. What's the matter, Mrs. Farney?”
“I— I know who did it.”
“Who did what?”
“Who killed her. Dr. Devane.”
I was wide-awake now. “Who?”
“Darrell. And now he's gonna kill Dr. Cruvic, maybe he already did, I dunno, maybe I shoulda called nine-one-one but I— you—”
“Darrell who?”
“Darrell . . . oh, Jesus, how could I forget his name, he's always over here. He's Chenise's latest— Darrell Ballitser. He did it, I'm sure.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he hated Dr. Devane's guts. Dr. Cruvic too. For what they did.”
“Chenise's abortion?”
“Tonight he came in all hot and crazy and stoned on something, yelling, taking Chenise with him. He said he's going over there to get him!”
“Dr. Cruvic?”
“Yeah, and he's got Chen—”
“Did he go to the clinic?”
“No, no, he said he was already there, they was closed, that made him madder—”
“Where'd he go, Mrs. Farney?”
“Dr. Cruvic's other office. In Beverly Hills. I tried to stop him from taking Chenise but he pushed me away— I think he's got a knife 'cause I saw it. But Chenise don't have—”
I put her on hold, called 911, told them the problem was in Beverly Hills, and got transferred.
“Civic Center Drive?” said the Beverly Hills operator. “That's right near us. We could walk there.”
“Better run,” I said, hanging up and trying Milo at home. Machine. I called the station, then the cell phone, where I reached him.
“Just left the Club None,” he said, “and guess what—”
“Emergency,” I said, telling him about Darrell Ballitser. “She says he hated Hope and Cruvic for Chenise's abortion. Probably his baby they terminated.”
“BHPD on its way?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, me, too. . . . Wouldn't that be something. All our theorizing and it's some crazy kid.”
“She said he'd already been to the clinic but you might want to alert Santa Monica PD, anyway. Cruvic works nights there, could be on his way over.”
“Will do. Meanwhile, get this lady's phone number and address, find out any details while she's still eager to help.”
“Sure,” I said. But when I got back on the line, it was dead.
I tried my service to see if Mary Farney had left a number. She hadn't. The West L.A. directory yielded only one Farney: first initial M, on Brooks Avenue in Venice. That sounded like a good bet, but no answer. Either she'd phoned me from somewhere else or she'd left.
Copying down the number, I put on street clothes, went into the bathroom, where Robin was still soaking, told her I'd be going out and why.
“Be careful, honey.”
“No sweat,” I said, leaning down to peck her cheek. “Walking distance from the police station.”
BHPD had sent three squad cars the two blocks and I could see their blinking lights from Santa Monica Boulevard. The western entrance to Civic Center Drive was blocked by a sawhorse and a uniform waved me away at the east end near Foothill, but just as I turned, Milo stepped out of the darkness and told the cop to let me through.
I parked twenty yards down from Cruvic's building. Before I got out, a vehicle pulled up beside me. Big white news van from one of the network affiliates. A frantic-looking platinum-haired woman jumped out as if parachuting from a moving plane, stopped, looked around, beckoned to a sound man and a camera operator. I stayed in the Seville as the three of them sprinted toward Cruvic's building, the reporter gesticulating. When they saw Milo they stopped again.
He shook his head and thumbed them on, then came over to me. He had on the same gray suit he'd worn at Kenneth Storm's office, had replaced the shirt and tie with a gray T-shirt. His idea of an L.A. bar-crawl getup. Red lights from the nearest cruiser gave him an intermittent blush and his eyes looked hungry.
“What's happening?” I said.
“Suspect in custody.”
“That was quick.”
“The ominous Darrell turns out to be a skinny kid with poor reflexes. Caught Cruvic driving out of that garage next to the building, stuck a knife through the window, and ordered him out. Cruvic kicked the door, which knocked Darrell down, then he took the knife and was in the process of pounding the shit out of the kid when BH cops showed up.”
“What about Chenise?”
“If she's a teeny little blond thing in a red blouse she was standing on the sidewalk screaming and they took her to the station, along with Darrell. I told BH he's a suspect in the Devane murder, to keep things quiet, but obviously someone found out. They said I can talk to him soon as they clear their paper. What about the mom?”
“Couldn't keep her on the line. She probably lives in Venice.”
Another news van pulled in. And another.
“Vulture-fest,” said Milo. “C'mon, let's get over there and see how our hero's doing.”
The sliding metal door of the garage was open and the silver Bentley Turbo was positioned half-in, half on the sidewalk. The driver's door was still open and the dome light illuminated black leather seats, chrome knobs, polished wood.
But no driver. Cruvic was standing nearby, wearing a black suit and black turtleneck, talking to a uniform and rubbing his knuckles. A black-and-white backed out and turned left, hooking around the municipal parking lot.
The cop smiled at Cruvic, who smiled back, flexed his foot, and pointed to the Bentley. The officer trotted over, got in the big car, drove it to the corner, and let it idle. When he came back to Cruvic, the doctor shook his hand, then that of a second cop. Male-bonding smiles all around. Then Cruvic saw the press and said something to the uniforms.
As the cops held the microphones at bay, Cruvic jogged, head-down, to the Bentley. Milo and I made it over just as he touched the door handle.
“Evening, Doc,” said Milo.
Cruvic turned sharply, as if rea
dy to defend himself again. The black sweater was skintight over a broad chest. Rubbing his knuckles again, he said, “Why, hello, Detective Sturgis.”
“Quite an evening, sir.”
Cruvic looked at his hand and grinned.
“Sore?” said Milo.
“It smarts, but a little ice and some anti-inflammatories should do the trick. Good thing I don't have any surgery scheduled tomorrow.”
He got in the Bentley. Milo positioned himself between the open door and the car.
“Nice wheels, sir.”
Cruvic shrugged. “Four years old. Finicky, but overall it runs pretty well.”
“Can we talk a bit, sir?”
“About what? I already gave my statement to the Beverly Hills police.”
“I realize that, Doctor, but if you don't mind—”
“Actually, I do.” Smile. “It was a tough day to begin with and this was the capper.” He looked at his hand and put it in his pocket. “Got to ice up before it balloons.”
“Sir—”
Shaking his head, Cruvic said, “I'm sorry, I've got to take care of my hand.”
He turned a gold ignition key and the Bentley started up almost inaudibly. Country-rock music boomed from lots of speakers. Travis Tritt singing about T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Cruvic turned the volume up even higher and put the Bentley in drive.
Milo stood there. The camera crew was headed toward us.
Cruvic lifted his foot off the brake and the car began rolling, the door pressing against Milo's back. He stepped away quickly and Cruvic closed the door.
“When can we talk, sir?”
Cruvic's slanted eyes tightened. “Call me tomorrow.”
As the Bentley glided past smoothly, the police cleared a way for its escape.
22
Darrell Ballitser was indeed skinny. Five-ten, 117 pounds according to the booking officer. Nineteen years old, born in Hawaiian Gardens, his current address was an SRO hotel near Skid Row.
He sat in the Beverly Hills PD interrogation room holding a paper cup of Mountain Dew. Third refill. His face was long and narrow, his shaved head topped with bumps. A blond mustache and goatee weren't much more than dandelion fluff. Bloodshot blue eyes that couldn't decide if they were tough or scared looked nowhere.
A blue Harley-Davidson tattoo marked the spot where the back of his neck met his shoulder blades. Another inscription proclaiming PARTY! was a magenta smear on his right bicep. L-I-F-E on the fingers of his right hand. D-E-A-T-H on the right. A blue-and-red Gothic CHENISE across his neck. His baggy white tank top was soiled, as were low-rider jeans barely held up by a wide black leather belt. Two hoop earrings in one ear, three in the other. A nose ring. Nature had provided additional decoration: angry patches of acne, random as buckshot wounds, on his face, back, and shoulders. Cruvic had contributed a black eye, split lip, bruised chin, lumpy jaw.
He rocked in his chair, attaining as much mobility as the hand cuffed to the bolted table would allow. They hadn't cuffed him at first, but he'd screamed and thrashed and tried to hit Milo.
Milo sat across from him, placid, almost bored. Ballitser drank the rest of the sweet yellow soda. He'd finished two sugar doughnuts provided by a slim young brunette detective named Angela Boatwright, chewing painfully, each swallow marked by the rise and fall of a plum-sized Adam's apple.
Boatwright was cheerful, a few sunburns past beautiful, with a surfer-girl rhythm to her speech, faint freckles and pale eyes, a tight runner's body, and slightly oversized hands. She wore a blue-black pantsuit and black flats with stockings. When she was with Ballitser she seemed more sorry than scornful, a long-suffering big sister, but out of earshot she'd referred to him as “a sorry little asswipe.”
Now she drank coffee and sat back behind the one-way glass flexing her hands. It had taken almost an hour to do Ballitser's paperwork. I was surprised at the ease with which Boatwright and her partner, a bald man named Hoppey, had relinquished control to Milo. Maybe she read my mind, because as we entered the viewing room, she said, “We booked him on attempted assault but the murder thing takes precedence. Lucky that doctor had his wits about him.”
A printout of Ballitser's criminal history rested on a fake-wood table between us. Mostly blank, except for notation of a sealed juvenile record and twenty unpaid parking tickets.
“Occupational hazard,” Milo had explained. “When Darrell works he's a messenger.”
“Car or bike?” I said.
“Both.” He gave a tired smile and I knew he was thinking, All that time spent on another stupid one?
Now he said, “I'm gonna get you a lawyer, Darrell, whether you ask for one or not.”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
Ballitser crumpled the paper cup and threw it on the floor.
“Is there any particular lawyer you want me to call?”
“Fuck.”
Milo started to get up.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck, yes, or fuck, no?”
“Fuck no.”
“Fuck no to a lawyer?”
“Fuck yeah.” Ballitser touched his jaw.
“Aspirin didn't kick in, yet, huh?”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
“Fuck.”
Angela Boatwright stretched. “Talk about your one-note solo.”
Milo got up and entered the observation room. “How many public defenders do you have on call?”
“All the PD's are tied up,” said Boatwright. “We've been into the private list for a while, compassionate Wilshire Boulevard guys doing pro bono. I'll go find someone.”
Two more Mountain Dews, a hamburger and fries, and two bathroom breaks later, an unhappy-looking attorney named Leonard Kasanjian showed up with an ostrich-skin briefcase too small to hold much. He had long black hair brushed straight back, a five-day beard, and minuscule pewter-framed eyeglasses over resigned, dark eyes. He wore a tailored olive gabardine suit, tan-check snap-collar shirt, hand-painted brown-and-gold tie, brown suede loafers.
As he approached, Boatwright smiled and whispered, “Pulled him out of Le Dome.”
“Hey, Angela,” he said, brightening. “You in charge, tonight? How's it—”
“Evening, Mr. Kasanjian,” she said in a hard tone, and the lawyer's smile died. She said, “Let me tell you about your client,” and did.
He listened, said, “Sounds pretty clear.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Mr. Ballitser,” said Kasanjian, putting his briefcase on the table.
The boy's free hand shot out, fisted, knocking the case to the floor.
Kasanjian picked it up and flicked lint from his lapel. Smiling, but his eyes were furious.
“Mr. Ballit—”
“Fuck you!”
Milo said, “Okay, we'll transfer him downtown, pull warrants on his room.”
Kasanjian looked down at the booking slip. “Hear that . . . Darrell?”
Ballitser rocked and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“They're taking you to the county jail, Darrell. I'll come by to see you tomorrow morning. Don't talk to anyone til then.”
Nothing.
Then, “Fuck.”
Kasanjian shook his head and stood. He and Milo headed for the door.
Ballitser said, “Spade!”
Both men turned.
“What's that, son?” said Kasanjian.
Silence.
“Spade?” said Kasanjian. “A black guy?”
“Fuck!” said the boy, spraying saliva and kicking wildly.
“Easy, Darrell,” said Kasanjian.
Ballitser slammed his fist on the table.
His eyes shifted to the door, his torso quivered and tightened, every muscle defined beneath the damaged skin, like a frayed anatomical diagram.
“Fu-u-uck Spa-a-ade!”
Kasanjian said, “Spa—”
“Spa-a-a-a-de! Sp-a-a-a-a-de! That's fucking why! That's fucking why!”
Kasanjian looked shak
en. “Try to calm down, Darrell.”
He turned to Milo. “He's obviously in need of psychiatric attention, Detective. I'm making a formal request that you provide immedia—”
The Clinic Page 23
