Silent Partner (13 page)

"Don't mention it," he said. "Hear from Milo recently?"

"No. Have you? I think he's due back Monday."

"Not a word. The duty roster says he's supposed to be back in the office Monday. Knowing Milo, that means

he'll be in town Saturday or Sunday, pacing around, cussing. And none too soon, far as I'm concerned. The vermin are out in force."

After he hung up, I looked in the Yellow Pages for a rest home on South Brand, found nothing.

A few minutes later Mal Worthy called to remind me of tomorrow's deposition. He seemed worried about my state of mind, kept asking me if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I told him. "Perry Mason couldn't get the better of me."

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"Mason was a wimp. Watch out for these insurance guys. By the way, Denise says definitely no more sessions for Darren. She wants to handle things by herself. But that's off the record. As far as the other side's concerned, the kid will be in treatment for the rest of his life. And beyond."

"How's Darren doing?"

"About the same,"

"Persuade her to continue treatment, Mal. If she wants someone else, I'll get her a referral."

"She's pretty resolute, Alex, but I'll keep trying. Meanwhile, I'm more concerned with helping her put food on the table. Ciao."

I spent the next couple of hours preparing for the deposition, was interrupted by the phone.

"Dr. Delaware? Maura Bannon? L.A. Times?"

She sounded around thirteen, had a high voice with a slight lisp and a New England accent, and turned her statements into questions.

"Hello, Ms. Bannon."

"Ned Biondi gave me your number? I'm so glad I caught you—I wonder if we could meet?"

"For what purpose?"

"You knew Dr. Ransom, right? I thought maybe you could give me some background on her?"

"I don't think I can help you."

"Oh?" She sounded crestfallen.

"I haven't seen Dr. Ransom in years."

"Oh. I just thought... Well, you know, I'm trying to

give a well-rounded picture, establish some context? For the profile? It's such a strange thing, a psychologist killing herself like that—man bites dog, you know? People would be interested in finding out why."

"Have you learned anything more than what you put in your first article?"

"No, I haven't, Dr. Delaware. Is there anything more to find out? Because if there is, I'd surely appreciate knowing about it. I think the police have been holding back on me. I've put several calls in to them, but no one's returned them." Pause. "I don't think they're taking me seriously."

Privacy, the ultimate luxury.

"I'd like to help you," I said, "but I really have nothing to add."

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"Mr. Biondi said—"

"If I led Mr. Biondi to believe any different, I'm sorry, Ms. Bannon."

"Okay," she said. "But if you find out anything, please let me know?"

"I'll do my best."

"Thanks, Dr. Delaware."

I sat back, stared out the window, and felt the loneliness coming on.

Misery loves company—the bigger the other guy's misery, the better the company. I called Newhall information and asked for a number on D.J. Rasmussen. No listing. Thinking of my only other connection to the young drunk, I phoned Dr. Leslie Weingarden's office.

"I was just about to call you," said the receptionist. "Doctor can see you after her last patient, around six."

"1 really don't need an appointment. Just wanted to talk to her over the phone."

"I'm telling you what she told me, Mr. Delaware."

"Six will be fine."

LESLIE WEINGARDEN'S building was a three-story, redbrick Federal structure with limestone cornice and forest green awnings, situated in the heart of Beverly Hills' medical district. The interior was golden oak raised paneling, green-and-rose carpeting. The directory listed several dozen tenants—MD's, dentists, a handful of Ph.D.'s.

One of the Ph.D's caught my eye: KRUSE, P.P. SUITE 300. Made sense—this was couch row.

But years before he'd had another address.

Leslie Weingarden's office was on the ground floor, toward the rear of the building. Her nameplate listed her specialty as Internal Medicine and Women's Health Issues. Her waiting room was small and decorated in budget good-cheer—white and gray miniprint paper, overstuffed white cotton chairs and Danish-modern tables, a scattering of art prints, a potted schefflera in a straw basket. No patients, but the remnants of the day's traffic were apparent: gum wrappers, an empty aspirin bottle and a used emery board on the coffee table, magazines splayed open on the chairs.

I knocked on the glass partition, waited several seconds before it slid open. A Hispanic woman in her fifties looked out. "Can I help you?"

"Dr. Delaware. I have an appointment with Dr. Wein-garden."

"I'll let her know you're here."

I waited for half an hour, leafing through magazines, wondering if any of them had carried Paul Kruse's column. At six-thirty, the door to the inner office opened and a good-looking woman
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around thirty came out.

She was petite, very slender, with frosted short hair and a lean, alert face. She wore dangling silver earrings, a white silk blouse, pleated dove-gray gabardine slacks, and gray suede pumps. A stethoscope hung from around her neck. Under it was a heavy gold chain. Her features were delicate and regular, her eyes almond-shaped and dark brown. Like Robin's. She wore little makeup. Didn't have to.

I stood up.

"Mr. Delaware? I'm Dr. Weingarden." She held out her hand and I shook it. Her bones were tiny; her grip, firm and dry. She placed both hands on her hips. "What can I do for you?"

"You referred patients to a psychologist named Sharon Ransom. I don't know if you've heard, but she's dead, committed suicide on Sunday. I wanted to talk to you about her. About getting in touch with those patients."

No trace of shock. "Yes, I read the paper. What's your involvement with her and her patients?"

"Mostly personal, somewhat professional." I handed her my card.

She examined it. "You're a psychologist too. Then it's Dr. Delaware. Bea told me Mr." She put the card in her pocket. "Were you her therapist?"

The question surprised me. "No."

"Because she sure needed one." Frown. "Why all the concern about her patients?"

"I ran into one of them today. D.J. Rasmussen. He gave me your name."

That made her flinch but she said nothing.

"He was drunk," I said. "Stoned drunk, really out of it. My hunch is that he was unbalanced to begin with, and is now at risk for some kind of breakdown. Maybe violence. Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent. I've been wondering how many of her other—"

"Yes, yes, of course. I understand all of that. But what I still don't get is your concern. What's your involvement in all of this?"

I thought about the best way to answer. "Some of it's probably guilt. Sharon and I knew each other well—back in graduate school. I hadn't seen her for years, ran into her by chance at a party last Saturday. She seemed upset about something, asked if she could talk to me. We made a date.

I had second thoughts and canceled the next day. That night, she killed herself. I guess I'm still wondering if I could have stopped it. I'd like to prevent any more grief, if I can."

She fingered her stethoscope and stared at me. "This is for real, isn't it? You don't work for some shyster lawyer, do you?"

"Why would I?"

She smiled. "So you want me to contact any patients I might have referred to her?"

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"And tell me about any other referral sources you're familiar with."

The smile got cold. "That would be difficult, Dr. Delaware. Not a good idea at all—not that there were that many referrals, anyway. And I have no idea who else referred to her. Though I sure feel sorry for them."

She stopped, seemed to be searching for words. "Sharon Ransom was a... She and I... Well, you tell me first. Why'd you break your date with her?"

"I didn't want to get involved with her. She's... She was a complicated woman."

"She sure was." She looked at her watch, removed the stethoscope. "All right, I'm going to make a call and check on you. If you're who you say you are, we'll talk. But I've got to eat first."

She left me in the waiting room, came back several moments later, and said, "Okay," without looking at me.

We walked a block to a coffee shop on Brighton. She ordered a tuna sandwich on rye and herb tea. I pushed rubbery scrambled eggs around on my plate.

She ate quickly, unceremoniously. Ordered a hot fudge sundae for dessert and finished half of it before pushing the dish away.

After wiping her mouth she said, "When they told me someone was calling about Sharon, frankly, I was uptight. She caused problems for me. We haven't worked together for a long time."

"What kinds of problems?"

"One second." She called the waitress over and asked for a refill of tea. I ordered coffee. The check came with the drinks.

I took it. "On me."

"Buying information?"

I smiled. "You were talking about the problems she caused."

She shook her head. "Boy. I don't know if I really want to get into this."

"Confidential," I promised.

"Legally? As in, you're my therapist?"

"If that makes you comfortable."

"Spoken like a true shrink, Yes, it makes me comfortable. We're talking hot potato here—ethical problems." Her eyes hardened. "There was no way for me to prevent it, but try telling that to a malpractice jury. When a shyster gets hold of something like that, he goes back in the chart, hits on every doc who's ever passed the patient in the hall."

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"The last thing on my mind is fomenting a lawsuit," I said.

"Last thing on my mind, too." She slapped her hand on the table hard enough to make the salt shaker jump. "Darn it! She shafted. Just thinking about her makes me mad. I'm sorry she's dead, but I just can't feel any grief. She used me."

She sipped her tea.

"I only met her last year. She walked in, introduced herself, and invited me out to lunch. I knew what she was doing—hustling referrals. Nothing wrong with that. I've only been in practice a little over a year, have done my share of brown-nosing. And my first impression of her was very positive. She was bright, articulate, seemed to have it all together. Her resume looked terrific—lots of varied clinical experience. Plus, she was right here, in the building—it's always good business to cross-refer. Almost all my patients are women, most of them would be more comfortable with a female therapist, so I figured why not, give it a try. The only reservation I had was that she was so good-looking, I wondered if it mightn't threaten some women. But I told myself that was sexist thinking, began sending her referrals—not that many, thank God! It's a small practice."

"Was her office on the third floor? With Dr. Kruse?"

"That's the one. Only, he was never there, just her, by herself. She took me up there once—tiny place, just a postage-stamp waiting room and one consulting office. She was Kruse's psychological assistant or something like that, had a license number."

"An assistant's certificate."

"Whatever. Everything was kosher."

Psychological assistant. A temporary position, aimed at providing experience for new Ph.D.'s under supervision of a licensed psychologist. Sharon had earned her doctorate six years ago, had been long eligible for full licensure. I wondered why she hadn't gotten it. What she'd done for six years.

"Kruse wrote her this terrific letter of recommendation," she said. "He was a faculty member at the University, so I figured that counted for something. I really expected it to work out. I was blown away when it didn't."

"Do you still have that resume?"

"No."

"Remember anything else from it?"

"Just what I told you. Why?"

"Trying to backtrack. How did she shaft you?"

She gave me a sharp look. "You mean you haven't figured it out?"

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"My guess would be sexual misconduct—sleeping with her patients. But most of your patients are women. Was she gay?"

She laughed. "Gay? Yeah, I could see how you might think that. Frankly, I don't know what she was. I was raised in Chicago. Nothing about this city surprises me anymore. But no, she didn't sleep with women—as far as I know. We're talking men. Husbands of patients. Boyfriends. Men won't go into therapy without prodding. The women have to do everything—getting the referral, making the appointment. My patients asked me for referrals, and I sent half a dozen to Sharon. She thanked me by sleeping with them."

"How'd you find out?"

She looked disgusted. "1 was doing my books, checking out bad debts and failure-to-shows and I noticed that most of the women whose husbands I'd sent her hadn't paid or kept their follow-ups. It stood out like a sore thumb, because other than those, my collections were excellent, my return rate close to perfect. I started calling around, to find out what had happened. Most of the women wouldn't speak to me—some even hung up on me. But two of them did talk. The first let me have it with both barrels. Seems her husband had seen Sharon for a few sessions—something to do with job stress. She taught him to relax; that was it. A few weeks later she called him and offered a follow-up session. Free of charge. When he showed up she tried to seduce him, really came on strong—she took her clothes off, for God's sake, right there in the office. He walked out on her, went home and told his wife. She was livid, screaming that I should be ashamed of myself for associating with a conniving, amoral bitch like that. The second one was worse. She just cried and cried."

She rubbed her temples, took an aspirin out of her

purse, and swallowed it with tea.

"Unbelievable, isn't it? Free follow-up visits. I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop—as in see-you-in-court. I've lost plenty of sleep over it."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Not as sorry as I am. Now you tell me Rasmussen's all freaked out. Great."

"He was one of them?"

"Oh, yeah, a real prince. His girlfriend is the one who just cried. One of my walk-in patients, not too sophisticated, vague psychosomatic complaints—she needed attention. I got to know her a little and she started opening up about him—how he drank too much, took dope, pushed her around. I spent lots of time counseling her, trying to show her what a loser he was, get her to leave him. Of course she didn't. One of those passive types with an abusive father who keeps hooking up with papa surrogates. Then she told me the bum had injured himself on the job, was having back pain, and was thinking of suing. It was his lawyer who suggested he see a shrink—did I know one? I figured here was a chance to get him some help for his head and sent him to Sharon, told her all about his other problems. Boy, did she help him. How'd you meet him?"