Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 (28 page)

“You don’t know what the nature of that malpractice was?”

“Well, you gotta understand, the doc’s in his late sixties, or anyway that’s what I’d guess . . . and it’s pretty well known he’s not really functioning on all cylinders, these days.”

“How so?”

Fred shrugged. “He’s forgetful, turned into a regular absent-minded-professor type—hell, maybe even senile. He probably sewed a scalpel up inside somebody.”

This wasn’t tracking. “Then what makes a pregnant movie star want to go under his knife?”

“Dailey’s respectable, with a spotless reputation . . . prior to those resignations, anyway . . . and, besides, I would venture to say he’s not doing the cutting, himself. It’s probably that amazon, doing it.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms folded, shaking my head. “If you’re under the impression I know what the hell you’re talking about, partner, you’re as batty as this doc sounds.”

Fred selected a fresh cigar out of a carved wooden box—like Welles, Rubinski was strictly a Havana man. “I’m talking about this South American woman Dailey took in as a partner—Dr. Maria Winter. Big, handsome gal in her forties, some kind of war refugee.”

“The war was in Europe, as I recall.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, puffing the cigar, getting it going, “she was over there studying, when the bombs started dropping, went to the University of Prague or some such—what landed her in
that part of the world, how the hell should I know? . . . But eventually she wound up on Doc Dailey’s doorstep, when he was still at the County Hospital. He took her under his wing, and she worked as his nurse while she took classes, till she could pass the boards for her California medical license.”

“How do you happen to know all this?”

“I don’t ‘happen’ to know it.” He drew on the cigar, held in some smoke, blew it out, choosing his next words carefully. “I refer clients to them, in need of the Dailey clinic’s particular medical specialty.”

“Oh.”

“Look, any number of people could have filled you in on those two characters—I mean, it’s one of those only-in-Hollywood affairs.”

“How so?”

Fred shook his head, grinned, cigar in his teeth now, like he was waiting for a circus marksman to shoot it out. “Respectable doctor, at the end of his career, happily married, kids, grand-kids—and then this built-like-a-brick-shithouse hot tamale good-neighbor-policies her way into his life.”

I frowned. “She’s not just his business partner, you mean?”

“Naw! The doc is separated from his wife, maybe filed for divorce by now, for all I know. It’s comical—Dailey’s this proper little old man, suddenly in the clutches of this tall, curvy femme fatale—”

“And they’re running an abortion clinic together,” I said. “Right out in the open?”

Fred smirked. “That’s not hard in L.A. It’s a homicide bureau setup, y’know—a protected ring with Dailey and Winter up near the top of the list. The State Medical Board investigates any complaints or info that comes in, regarding abortions performed by doctors or chiros or midwives or whoever; but they turn their results over to the homicide bureau, who either shake down or crack down on anybody outside of the ring . . . and those who
are
in the ring, tip-offs are made, any arrests are smothered . . . you get the picture.”

“Are we back to Fat Ass again?”

“He’s a homicide dick,” Fred said, nodding. “Now, Harry the Hat, he wouldn’t touch this kind of crap.”

“And you’re saying, the A-1 has an existing relationship with Dr. Dailey and his partner—”

“Dr. Winter. Yeah. We get a referral fee.”

“A kickback.”

Half a smile dimpled Fred’s plump cheek. “Why, does that offend your sensibilities, Nate? We swim in Hollywood waters—so what if it’s a swimming pool, and not the Chicago River? That doesn’t make the water any less scummy.”

I sat thinking for a while, then asked, “Early this month, did you get a phone call from a girl—kind of a low, husky voice—wanting to get in touch with me?”

Fred’s endless forehead clenched in thought. “Come to think of it . . . yeah—she was the daughter of an old friend, she said, wanted to say hello.”

“And you gave her my number at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“I think I did. Why? Shouldn’t I have . . . ?”

I didn’t answer. My heard was whirling. I was still trying to wrap my brain around the notion that Beth Short had chosen an abortionist who took referrals from my own detective agency! What the fuck was going on?

“I have to talk to this Dailey,” I said, “
and
his amazon partner—sooner the better.”

Fred was looking at me, funny. “Well, his office is probably open for another half hour or so. . . . What are you not telling me, Nate?”

“You don’t want to know.” I stood, digging my car keys out of my trousers. “Where is Dailey’s office, Fred? Can I make it there before he closes?”

Fred blinked. “Are you kidding?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?” I yelled, leaning in, a hand against the desktop. “Where is Dailey’s office, Fred?”

He swallowed and pointed to his left. “Just down the hall, Nate.”

Down the corridor, around a corner, there it was, on the frosted glass:
Doctor Wallace A. Dailey, M.D., Surgeon; Doctor Maria Winter, M.D., Gynecologist.
The Dailey practice seemed to engulf the equivalent of three or four standard Bradbury Building office layouts.

So.

Elizabeth Short had gone to see her doctor—that is, the abortionist whose fee she was trying to raise—and had noticed, either on her way to or from that doctor’s office, the neighboring A-1 Detective Agency. She had recognized the A-1 as mine, remembered my talking about opening a California branch, and may even have checked the building directory, where my name was listed. Then she called Fred Rubinski and got my number at the hotel.

All of which led me to believe the baby she was carrying had not been mine: that seeing my name had simply reminded her of one more male acquaintance she could shake down in her effort to raise that five hundred dollars she needed to abort
somebody’s
child.

But if I wasn’t the father, then who was?

A man who tortured her and cut her in half and left her, drained of blood, in a vacant lot?

The chairs that lined the waiting room were empty, and the receptionist—a pleasant white-uniformed brunette in her early twenties—looked up and out from her window and informed me the office would be closing, momentarily.

I gave her my card, explained that I was the president of the A-1 Detective Agency, and would like the opportunity to briefly introduce myself to the two doctors.

Soon I was waiting in an office whose walls were decorated with framed diplomas, awards, and group photographs in both hospital and academic settings. I took one of two wooden, cushioned chairs across from a desk that was massive and mahogany and bare except for a blotter and family photos in standing frames—if any work had been done at this desk lately, it wasn’t showing. Wooden filing cabinets hid in corners, and along the back wall a lighted cabinet displayed a considerable collection of carved jade—mostly Buddhas and dragons and other Oriental figurines, with a shelf of exquisite jewelry and an intricate Chinese fan.

The door opened and a man in a white jacket and green tie and brown tweed trousers stepped in, drawing his head back and blinking as he saw me sitting there. He was in his sixties, somewhat pudgy, with a salt-and-pepper mustache—neatly trimmed, as was his full head of gray hair—and regular features, including rheumy green eyes behind wireframed glasses.

He said, “Oh! Please excuse me.”

And he went back out.

I sat there, looking at the closed door, and perhaps two minutes later, he came in and blinked at me again.

This time I stood, however, and stopped him before he could rush out. “Dr. Dailey?”

He looked at me carefully. “Yes? Am I interrupting?”

“No. I was waiting for you. My name is Nathan Heller. I just spoke to your receptionist, your nurse? I wanted a moment of your time.”

“Certainly.” He smiled, nodded. “Certainly.”

He took his place behind the desk and folded his hands. “What can I do for you, Mr. Heller?”

I explained that I was the president of the A-1, that my Chicago agency had merged with Rubinski’s.

“And I understand we’ve been sending you some referrals,” I said.

The doctor frowned in seeming thought. “Have you?”

“Yes. But I wanted to ask you about a specific young woman—Elizabeth Short.”

That name—the hottest topic on the lips of just about every newspaper reader in Los Angeles—got no visible reaction out of him. He just shook his head. “I don’t recall that particular patient. I’m afraid I’m growing a bit forgetful, Mr. . . . uh . . .!”

“Heller. Elizabeth Short was her name—she may have been an old family friend.”

Nodding, eyes narrowed behind the wireframes, he admitted, “Now that does sound familiar. . . . Not the name, but . . .”

“Did you practice medicine in New England, Dr. Dailey, before coming to California?”

He sat up straight. “Did I? I could have. . . .”

“Surely, Dr. Dailey, you can remember where you practiced medicine.”

“Certainly. Medford Memorial Hospital.”

This response had been crisp, immediate.

I said, “Then Elizabeth Short did come here to make an appointment.”

“Did she?”

“Pretty girl, with black hair, fair complexion—she wore a lot of makeup.”

“Like a geisha!” he said, snapping his fingers. He stood. The eyes seemed alert, suddenly. “Let me show you my jade collection.”

“Uh . . . all right.”

The little doctor moved quickly to the cabinet, where I followed him, and for several minutes he described the pieces in detail, in particular a tiny Fei Tsui jade dragon that was particularly valuable.

“Should be in a safe deposit box, I suppose,” he said, shaking his head, “but I just couldn’t bear to hide away such beauty.”

Throughout this mini-lecture, Dailey was entirely coherent and focused; it was no great stretch to see that he’d been a professor. And his hands, gesturing confidently, suggested the respected surgeon he’d once been.

“What was your name?” he asked me, as he settled himself behind his desk again, and I took my chair.

“Yes, what is your name?” another voice asked—female, strong, sultry.

She stood framed in the doorway—unmistakably the amazon Fred had referred to—tall, perhaps as much as six feet, in white smock and pants that neither emphasized nor hid her generously well-shaped form. Not beautiful, exactly, Dr. Maria Winter was indeed “handsome,” her oval face home to large, languid yet piercing dark brown eyes, her nose aquiline, her mouth thin lipped and touched lightly red, her jaw firm, like her expression. Brown hair sat in a bun atop the rather oversize head; her smooth, clear complexion had an olive cast.

“I’m Nathan Heller,” I said, standing. “I gave your
receptionist my card—I’m president of the A-1 Detective Agency . . . your neighbor.”

I offered her a hand and she shook it, firmly, introducing herself.

“I’m afraid Sharon neglected to tell me you were here,” she said. “We’re closing for the day. Is this a business matter, or—”

“Since my agency is sending referrals to you, I thought I should pay a courtesy call.”

“How kind.”

“But I also have a few questions about one of your patients.”

And I went back and sat down. “Dr. Dailey was just telling me about working in Massachusetts.”

She was still framed in the doorway, staring at me as if from two glass eyes.

Dailey turned to her and said, “Would you mind if I showed the gentleman my jade collection?”

Her mouth formed a smile, as she gazed at him, but it didn’t soften the hard, brittle mask of her face. She strode to him, put a hand on his shoulder—gently—and said, “You’ve had a hard day, a long day.”

He touched the hand on his shoulder, beamed up at her lovingly. “Shall we go home, dear?”

“Soon.” Her hand still on the doctor’s shoulder, she stared at me coldly. “Mr. Heller, Dr. Dailey is a fine man, and a fine physician . . . but he has his good days and bad, and his sapient moments and his . . .”

“Not so sapient moments?” I offered.

“The doctor is suffering from encephalomalacia, cerebral and coronary arteriosclerosis, and threat of myocardial infarction.”

“He’s senile and at risk of heart attack.”

“Yes.”

Dailey was smiling at me, hands folded, seemingly oblivious to the conversation we were having about him.

“The doctor and I work side by side,” she said. “He is often quite lucid, and—together—we are able to help many patients.”

“I trust the doctor isn’t performing surgery, any longer.”

“He is not . . . and as for the, uh, procedure in question . . .”

“Abortions, you mean.”

The eyes tightened in the terrible handsome mask. “Mr. Heller, I’m surprised a man in your line of work would be so indiscreet. Surely I don’t have to tell you that a private office can easily be bugged with dictaphones?”

I smiled, shrugged. “My understanding is that you’re protected.”

She folded her arms over the shelf of her breasts; she looked like an annoyed genie. “Be that as it may, the procedure is performed either by myself or by a physician’s assistant.”

“Not a physician?”

“An assistant with sufficient medical training to safely perform this simple procedure.”

“Skip the hard sell, Dr. Winter. I know you’re good; otherwise you and Doc Dailey wouldn’t be the film colony’s favorite mistake correctors.”

A frown disrupted the perfect smoothness of her face. “Is the referral fee we’ve been paying Mr. Rubinski in your view insufficient? I would hope you stand by the terms your partner and I negotiated, when—”

“No, that’s fine. I’m here about Elizabeth Short. You know—the Black Dahlia.”

Only the slightest twitch around her mouth indicated that what I had said had thrown her in any way. She said, simply, “I read the papers.”

I leaned back in the chair. “Don’t play games, Dr. Winter. I know the Short woman was a patient, or anyway a prospective one—she knew Dr. Dailey back in her hometown. She must’ve heard his name bandied about among her Hollywood girl friends, as the reliable quack to go to for ‘the procedure’ . . . and recognized the name as that of an old family friend.”