Dr. Death (14 page)

He said, "Hold on."

I followed him as he strode toward her. Her hands were clenching the paper, causing it to shimmy. She folded her lips inward and drew the newsprint closer to her face. I got near enough to read the date. Yesterday's paper. The classifieds. Employment opportunities . . .

Milo said, "Ma'am?"

The woman looked up. Her lips unfolded. Thin purplish lips, chapped and puckered, bleached white around the edges. The rest of her complexion was nutmeg brown. Bags under the eyes.

She was somewhere between fifty and sixty, short and heavy with a plump face and big, gorgeous black eyes. She wore a navy polyester bomber jacket over a blue-and-white flowered dress that reached to midcalf. The dress material looked flimsy, riding up her stocky frame, adhering to bulges. Thick ankles swelled over the top seams of old but clean Nike running shoes. White socks rolled low exposed chafed shins. Her nails were square-cut. Her black hair was threaded with gray and braided past her waist. Her skin was slack around neck, jaw and chipmunk cheeks, but stretched tight over a wide brow. No makeup, no jewelry. A rural look.

While working at Western Peds, I'd known several Latin women who'd chosen that same unadorned appearance. Long hair, always a braid, dresses, never pants. Devout women, Pentecostal Christians.

"Something I can do for you, ma'am?"

"Are you . . . you're police, right?" The old mouth emitted a young voice, breathy and tentative. No accent; the merest softening at the end of each syllable. She could've found employment giving phone sex.

"Yes, ma'am." Milo flashed the badge. "And you are . . ."

She reached into the macramé bag and brought out a red plastic alligator-print wallet. Producing her own I.D., as if it had been demanded of her many times.

Social Security card. She thrust it at Milo.

He read, "Guillerma Salcido."

"Guillerma Salcido
Mate
," said the woman defiantly. "I don't use his name anymore, but that doesn't change a thing. I'm still Dr. Mate's wife— his widow."

10

GUILLERMA MATE STOOD straighter, as if fortified by the claim. Took the Social Security card from Milo's fingers and slipped it back into her purse.

"You're married to Dr. Mate?" He sounded doubtful.

Another dip into the bag, another thrust of paper.

Marriage license, fold marks grubby, photocopied lettering faded to the color of raw plywood. Date of issue, twenty-seven years ago, City of San Diego, County of San Diego. Guillerma Salcido de Vega and Eldon Howard Mate wagering on nuptial bliss.

"There," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. Do you live here in L.A.?"

"Oakland. When I heard— it's been a long time, I didn't know if I should come. I'm busy, got a job taking care of the elderly at a convalescent home. But I figured I should come. Eldon was sending me money, this pension he had. Now that he's gone, I should know what's going on. I took the Greyhound. When I got here I couldn't believe it. What a mess this place is, all the streets dug up. I got lost on the city bus. I've never been here."

"To L.A.?"

"I been to L.A. Never been
here.
" Jabbing a stubby finger at the duplex. "Maybe the whole thing was a sign."

"A sign?"

"What happened to Eldon. I don't mean I'm some prophet. But when things happen that aren't natural, sometimes it means you have to take a big step. I thought I should find out. Like who's burying him? He had no faith, but everyone should be buried— he didn't want to be cremated, did he?"

"Not that I know."

"Okay. Then maybe I should do it. My church would help."

"How long exactly has it been since you saw Dr. Mate?"

She touched her finger to her upper lip. "Twenty-five years and . . . four months. Since right after my son was born— his son. Eldon Junior, he goes by Donny. Eldon didn't like Donny— didn't like kids. He was honest about that, told me right at the beginning, but I figured he was just talking, once he had his own he'd change his mind. So I got pregnant anyway. And what do you think? Eldon left me."

"But he supported you financially."

"Not really," she said. "You can't call five hundred a month support— I always worked. But he did send it every month, money order, right on the dot, I'll give him that. Only, this month I didn't get it. It was due five days ago, I have to figure out who to talk to at the army. It was an army reserve pension, they need to send it directly to me now. You have any idea how to contact them?"

"I might be able to get you a number," said Milo. "During the twenty-five years, how often did you and Dr. Mate communicate?"

"We didn't. He just sent the money. I used to think it was because he felt guilty. About walking out. But now I know he probably didn't. For guilt you got to have faith, and Eldon didn't believe in nothing. So maybe he did it out of habit, I don't know. When his mother was alive he used to send
her
money. Instead of visiting. He was always one for habits— doing things the same exact way, every single time. One color shirt, one color pants. He said it left time for important things."

"Like what?"

She shrugged. Her eyes fluttered and she began to sway. Began to fall. Both Milo and I took hold of her shoulders.

"I'm okay," she said, shrugging us off angrily. Smooth- ing her dress, as if we'd messed it. "Got a little low blood sugar, that's all, no big deal, I just got to eat. I brought food from home, but in the bus station someone stole my Tupperware." The black eyes lifted to Milo. "I want to eat something."

• • •

We drove her to a coffee shop on Santa Monica near La Brea. Dulled gold booths, streaked windows, fried-bacon air, the clash and clatter of silverware scooped into gray plastic tubs by sleepy busboys who looked underage. Milo chose the usual cop's vantage point at the back of the restaurant. The nearest patrons were a pair of CalTrans workers inhaling the daily steak- and-eggs special heralded by a front-door banner. Loss leader; the price belonged to the fifties. Unlikely to cover the cost of slaughter.

Guillerma Mate ordered a double cheeseburger, fries and a Diet Dr Pepper. Milo told the waitress, "Ham on rye, potato salad, coffee."

The ambience was doing nothing for my appetite, but I'd put nothing in my stomach since the morning coffee and I asked for a roast-beef dip on French roll, wondering if the meat had been carved from the budget cows.

The food came quickly. My beef dip was lukewarm and rubbery, and from the way Milo picked, his order was no better. Guillerma Mate ate lustily while trying to maintain dignity, cutting her burger up into small pieces and forking morsels into her mouth with an assembly-line pace. Finishing the sandwich, she forked french fries one at a time, consuming every greasy stick.

She wiped her mouth. Sipped Dr Pepper through two straws. "I feel better. Thanks."

"Pleasure, ma'am."

"So who killed Eldon?" she said.

"I wish I knew. This pension—"

"He had two, but I only get one— the five hundred from the reserves. The big one for a couple thousand from the Public Health Service he kept for himself. I don't think I coulda gotten more out of him. We weren't even divorced and he was giving me money." She edged closer across the table. "Did he
make
more?"

"Ma'am?"

"You know, from all the killing he did?"

"What do you think of all the killing he did?"

"What do I think? Disgusting. Mortal sin— that's why I don't go by his name. Had everything changed back to Salcido— he wasn't even a
doctor
when we were married. Went to medical school
after
he walked out. Went down in Mexico, because he was too old for anyplace else. I have friends up in Oakland who know we were married. At my church. But I keep it quiet. It's embarrassing. Some of them used to tell me to go get a lawyer, Eldon's rich now, I could get more out of him. I told them it would be sin money. They said I should take it anyway, give it to the church. I don't know about that— did he leave a will?"

"We haven't found one yet."

"So that means I have to go through that thing— probate."

Milo didn't answer.

"Actually," she said, "we did talk in the beginning, Eldon and me. Right after he walked out. But just a few times. Donny and me were in San Diego, and Eldon wasn't that far, down in Mexico. Then, after he became a doctor, he went up to Oakland to work in a hospital and I did a real stupid thing: I took Donny and we went there, too. I don't know what I coulda been thinking, maybe now that he was a doctor— it was stupid, but there I was with a boy who didn't even know his father."

"Oakland didn't work out?" I said.

"Oakland worked out, I'm still there. But Eldon didn't work out. He wouldn't talk to Donny, wouldn't even pick him up, look at him. I remember it like yesterday, Eldon in his white coat— that scared Donny and he started screaming, Eldon got mad and yelled at me to get the brat out of there— the whole thing just fell apart."

She picked at a scrap of lettuce. "I called him a couple more times after that. He wasn't interested. Refused to visit. Donny's being born just turned him off like a faucet. So I moved across the bridge to San Francisco, got a job. Funny thing is, a few years later I was back to Oakland 'cause the rent was cheaper, but by that time Eldon was gone and the checks were coming from Arizona, he had some kind of government job doing I don't know what. Back
then's
when I thought of getting a lawyer."

"Any reason you didn't file for divorce?" I said.

"Why bother?" she said. "There was no other man I wanted to know, and Eldon was sending me his army pension. You know how it is."

"How is it?" said Milo.

"You don't make a move in the beginning, nothing happens. He sent the check every month, that was enough for me. Then when he started in on that killing business, I knew I was lucky he'd left. Who'd want to live with
that
? I mean, when I heard about that I got sick, really
sick.
I remember the first time. I saw it on TV. Eldon standing there— I hadn't seen him in years and now he was on the TV. Looking older, balder but the same face, the same voice.
Bragging
about what he did. I thought, He's finally gone a hundred percent crazy. The next day I was on the phone, changing my name on the Social Security and everything else I could find."

"So you never talked to him about his new career?"

"Didn't talk to him about anything," she said. "Didn't I just say that?" She shoved her plate away. Pulled more soda through the straws, let the brown liquid drop like the bubble in a carpenter's level before it reached her lips.

"Even if it
was
making him real rich, how would it look if suddenly I showed up wanting more?" She touched the handle of her butter knife. "That was filthy money. I been working my whole life, doing just fine— tell me,
did
he get rich from the killing?"

"Doesn't look like it," said Milo.

"So what was the point?"

"He claimed he was helping people."

"The devil claims he's an
angel.
Back when I knew Eldon, he wasn't interested in helping anyone but himself."

"Selfish?" I said.

"You bet. Always in his own world, doing what he wanted. Which was reading, always reading."

"Why'd you come down here, ma'am?" said Milo.

She held her hands out, as if expecting a gift. Her palms were scrubbed pale, crisscrossed by brown hatch marks. "I told you. I just thought I should— I guess I was curious."

"About what?"

She moved back in the booth. "About Eldon. Where he lived— what had happened to him. I never
could
figure him out."

"How'd the two of you meet?" I said.

She smiled. Smoothed her dress. Sucked soda up the straw. "What? Because he was a doctor and I'm some brown lady?"

"No—"

"It's okay, I'm used to it. When we were married and I used to walk Donny in the stroller, people thought I was the maid. 'Cause Donny's light like Eldon— spitting
image
of Eldon, in fact, and Eldon
still
didn't like him. Go figure. But stuff like that don't bother me anymore, the only thing that matters is doing right for Jesus— that's the real reason I'd never put a claim on Eldon's killing money. Jesus would weep. And I know you're gonna think I'm some kind of religious nut for saying this, but my faith is strong, and when you live for Jesus your soul is full of riches."

She laughed. "Of course, a nice meal once in a while don't hurt, right?"

"How about dessert?" said Milo.

She pretended to contemplate the offer. "If you're having."

He waved for the waitress, "Apple pie. Hot, à la mode. And for the lady . . ."

Guillerma Mate said, "As long as we're talking pie, honey, you got any chocolate cream?"

The waitress said, "Sure," copied down the order, turned to me. I shook my head and she left.

"Eldon didn't believe in Jesus, that was the problem," said Guillerma, dabbing at her lips again. "Didn't believe in nothing. You wanna know how we met? It was just one of those
things.
Eldon was living at this apartment complex where my mother did the cleaning— she wasn't legal so she couldn't get a decent job. My dad was a hundred percent legal, had a work permit, did landscaping for Luckett Construction, they were the biggest back then. My dad got citizenship, brought my mom over from El Salvador, but she never bothered to get papers. I was born here, pure American. My friends call me Willy. Anyway, Eldon was living in the complex and I used to run into him when I was washing down the walkways or trimming the flowers. We'd talk."