Rage (34 page)

George
Ramos wasn’t aware of any notable problems during her six months under the
Daneys’ care, but he admitted, with downcast eyes, that he had never visited
her.

Lee
Ramos had left foster care a month before turning sixteen. On her birthday, at
midnight, she’d stayed home while her roommates went out to party. Shortly
after, she cut her wrists with a rusty box cutter, lay down on a ratty
mattress, and quietly bled to death.

T
alking about his sister had left George Ramos pale and
worn.

Milo
apologized for intruding. Ramos said, “You’re just doing your job,” and stared
at the grass.

I
said, “Did you have any contact with the Daneys?”

“I
called them once after Lee died. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I thought they’d
care.”

“They
didn’t?”

“I
spoke to the wife— Charity, Chastity, something like that— ”

“Cherish.”

“That’s
it,” he said. “She broke down, sobbed, got damn near hysterical. Maybe I’m
cynical but I thought it was a little over the top.”

“Putting
on an act?” said Milo.

“They
only had Lee for a few months and obviously they didn’t do a very good job.”

“You
tell her that?”

“No,”
said Ramos. “I didn’t— wasn’t in a mood to talk.”

“Cherish
do anything to make you think she was faking her grief?”

“No,
but who knows?” said Ramos. “Who knows about anything?”

“Ever
speak with her husband?”

“Nope,
just her.” Ramos stood and snatched up his books and his laptop.

I
said, “Did Lee ever hint around about getting pregnant?”

Ramos’s
long face turned sad. “Don’t you guys get it? We didn’t
talk.
”

He
let the books dangle, clutched his laptop to his chest, and bird-walked away.
Other law students continued to stream out, some chatting in tight little
groups, a few preoccupied loners forging their own trails.

Milo
got up and stretched. “I just creaked.”

“Didn’t
hear a thing.”

“So
the Daneys take on too many wards but don’t supervise. Fits with moral laxity.”

“It
does.”

“Ready
to go?”

I
stayed on the bench.

“Alex?”

“What
if?” I said.

He
sat back down.

* * *

A
group of students passed us. When they were gone, he said, “What evil thoughts
have seized that brain of yours?”

“George
Ramos assumes Lee got pregnant on the street. It could’ve happened in-house.
Literally.”

“Daney?”

“He
was the only male in the house. Which, come to think of it, is a haremlike
situation. All those teenage girls from troubled backgrounds. Maybe there’s a
reason the Daneys ask for female wards.”

“Oh,
man.”

“We
know Daney’s a fraud and an adulterer, and we’ve just raised suspicions about
his involvement in murder. Impregnating a minor under his care doesn’t seem out
of character. He’d have been sure to terminate the pregnancy, which fits with
Lee Ramos’s abortion. It could also explain her suicide. We’re talking about an
extremely troubled girl whose relationship with her father was hostile. She’d
be looking for a compassionate substitute. The state found her one but if he
betrayed her, then had her sweep away the evidence, that would’ve been
traumatic.”

“Surrogate
incest.”

“Precisely
the kind of violation that could have led to serious depression.”

“Slashing
her arms on her birthday,” he said. “If it was suicide.”

“You’re
thinking it wasn’t?”

“I’m
letting my imagination run free.”

* * *

He
phoned the Santa Barbara coroner, spoke to the forensic pathologist who’d
conducted Lee Ramos’s autopsy, did a lot of listening, hung up shaking his
head.

“Doesn’t
seem to be any doubt about suicide. She locked herself in the room from the
inside, put on music, the only window was painted shut. No sign of struggle, no
defense wounds, just deep longitudinal gashes on her arms— serious intent.
Beforehand, she polished off a pint of Southern Comfort and swallowed a bottle
of Valium. If the razor hadn’t done it, the dope would’ve. The kids she lived
with said she’d been really down for the last few weeks. They’d tried to get
her to go party with them— it was for
her
birthday. Lee begged off at
the last moment, said she was feeling sick.”

My
eyes got tight. A girl I’d never met. “Birthday suicide,” I said. “Unable to
face another year.”

Milo
put his weight on the back of the bench, showed me the back of his head, folded
his arms across his chest. A breeze ruffled the trees behind us. The grass
responded a few seconds later.

“She
always had some cash, so the roomies suspected she’d been turning tricks.
Sixteen years old. It doesn’t get that way overnight, does it?”

Before
I could answer, he shot to his feet, marched away slapping his notepad against
his thigh. Nothing avian about
his
walk.

Bear
on the prowl. Definitely a bear.

I
followed, not sure what I was.

We
returned to the car and cruised along the campus’s eastern periphery.

I
said, “Daney works the system. I wonder if he’d dip into his own pocket for an
abortion.”

Milo
slowed. “Bastard knocks up a ward and bills the state? He’s been getting away
with everything else, sure, why not?”

“It’s
one thing,” I said, “that we could elevate from theory to fact.”

* * *

Olivia
said, “Officially, the files are confidential, so I’m not sure you could use it
in court.”

“Let’s
see if there’s anything to use,” I said.

“Your
call, darling. It could take some time.”

“You’re
always worth waiting for.”

“Oh,
yes,” she said. “My girlish allure.”

* * *

My
cell squawked as we drove up the Glen, a mile before my house. “Some time” had
been five minutes.

“Nothing
under ‘Ramos,’ ” Olivia said, “but the termination of Wilfreda Lee
Monahan’s
pregnancy was indeed billed to the taxpayers. The provider’s in North
Hollywood. The Women’s Wellness Place.”

She
recited an address on the six thousand block of Whitsett. Short ride from the
Daneys’ house, more of that same tight net.

“Did
an adult accompany her?” I said.

“That
wouldn’t be in there. State supreme court nixed parental consent back in 1998.”

“Even
with her being in foster care?”

“Even
with. In fact, with the girl already on the rolls, billing would’ve been a
cinch, just toss another code into the mix. Codes, plural. Looks like she also
got a full physical, ob-gyn checkup, pregnancy counseling, and AIDS education.”

“Thorough,”
I said.

“Sounds
like major league chutzpah at play here.”

“You
don’t want to know, Liv. Would you do me a favor and run another name through?
Leticia Maryanne Hollings, seventeen years old.”

“Another
one,” she said. “So it’s worse than chutzpah.”

Leticia
Hollings’s abortion had taken place a month before Lee Monahan’s. Same
comprehensive billing.

Same
clinic.

The
Women’s Wellness Place stuck in my head but I couldn’t say why. I asked Olivia
to cross-reference the two girls who’d left the Daneys and had reached
majority.

One,
a girl named Beth Scoggins, now nineteen, had also terminated a pregnancy at
the Women’s Wellness Place. Two years ago, when she’d been a foster ward.

Olivia
said, “This is getting yucky.”

I
told Milo about Scoggins. His eyes blazed and I could hear his teeth grinding
as he snatched the phone. From the soft, gentle way he thanked Olivia, you’d
never have known.

* * *

We
pulled up in front of my house and I rushed ahead of him into my office.

Thirty-eight
hits for Women’s Wellness Place. Most citations referred to legitimate programs
at major hospitals. Three matched the North Hollywood clinic.

The
first explained my déjà vu.

I’d
come across it before, researching Sydney Weider. Fund-raiser, eight years ago.
Weider and Martin Boestling among the donors. Publicity photo taken during better
times.

The
other two citations were dated two years later, also parties to finance the
“compassionate, nonprofit programs” of the clinic. No mention of Weider or
Boestling; by then they’d split up and dropped several social rungs.

What
the two hits did offer was a roster of Women’s Wellness’s professional staff.

Alphabetized
list. A name as blatant as a scar, sandwiched among M.D.s and Ph.D.s,
chiropractors, counselors, art therapists, massage specialists.

Drew
Daney, M.Div., Pastoral Consultant.

The
growling noise behind me raised the short hairs on the back of my neck.

”
‘I do some work with nonprofits,’ ”
Milo said. “Sure you do, dude. You’re a regular fucking saint.”

“Maybe
he gets a kickback,” I said. “Percentage of total billings. An additional incentive
to get them pregnant and terminated.”

“Additional?”

“Something
like that is never just about money.”

* * *

We
moved to the kitchen and I brewed coffee.

“At
the very least, this guy’s abusing young girls,” said Milo. “If he’s done
everything we’ve wondered about, he’s a dimestore Manson. Problem is I can’t do
a damn thing about it because officially I’m not allowed to have access to the
girls’ medical files. Even
with
the files there’s no proof Daney was
responsible for the pregnancies.”

“As a
psychologist, I’m obligated to report abuse,” I said. “The rules of evidence
don’t apply.”

“How
much proof do you need in order to report?”

“The
law says suspicion of abuse. What that means is unclear. Every time I’ve tried
to get clarification— from the medical board, my lawyer, the state psych
association— I’ve failed. I know colleagues who’ve gotten into trouble for
reporting and those who’ve been screwed because they didn’t.”

“The
law’s an ass,” he said, bypassing the coffee and getting a beer from the fridge.
“One thing puzzles me, Alex. Even with kickbacks, Daney getting all those girls
pregnant would be dangerous. Be easier to get them birth control, or use some
himself, than risk their telling someone.”

“They
haven’t told yet,” I said. “Or maybe they did and no one listened.”

“The
poor Ramos kid.”

I
nodded. “Even if Daney didn’t murder anyone else, if he was the father of her
child, he’s responsible, on some level, for her death.”

He
popped his beer but didn’t drink. “So how do I find out?”