The Murder Book (18 page)

“No coroner’s records, so much for science,” I said. “When’s the last time you saw the file?”

“The morning before my interrogation by Broussard and that Swede. After they worked me over, I was so shaken up I didn’t return to my desk, just split the station. The next day, the transfer notice was in my box, and my desk had been cleared.”

He tilted back in his chair, stretched his legs, seemed suddenly relaxed. “You know, my friend, I’ve been working too damn hard. Maybe
that’s
what I can learn from old Mr. Serene. Stop and sniff the manure.”

A smile, abrupt and broad, did something unsettling to his mouth. He rotated his head for several turns, as if working kinks out of his neck. Brushed black strands of hair out of his face. Sprang to his feet.

“See you. Thanks for your time.”

“Where are you headed?” I said.

“Into a life of meditative leisure. Got lots of vacation time stored up. Seems a good time to cash in.”

L
eisure was the last thing I needed. The moment the door closed, I reached for the phone.

Larry Daschoff and I have known each other since grad school. After our internships, I took a professorship at the med school crosstown and worked the cancer wards at Western Pediatric Medical Center, and he went straight into private practice. I stayed single and he married his high school sweetheart, sired six kids, made a good living, converted his square-meal-in-a-round-can defensive-guard physique to middle-aged fat, watched his wife go back to law school, took up golf. Now, he was a young grandfather, living on investment income, wintering in Palm Desert.

I reached him at his condo, there. It had been some time since we’d spoken, and I asked him about the wife and kids.

“Everyone’s great.”

“Especially the Ultimate Grandchild.”

“Well, as long as you asked, yes Samuel Jason Daschoff is clearly the messenger of the Second Coming — another Jewish savior. Little guy just turned two and has evolved from sweetness and light to age-appropriate obnoxiousness. Let me tell you, Alex, there’s no revenge sweeter than watching your own kids contend with the crap they shoveled at you.”

“I’ll bet,” I said, wondering if I’d ever know.

“So,” said Larry, “how’ve you been doing?”

“Keeping busy. I’m actually calling you about a case.”

“I figured as much.”

“Oh?”

“You were always task-oriented, Alex.”

“You’re saying I can’t be purely sociable?”

“Like I can be purely skinny. What kind of case, therapy or the bad stuff you do with the constabulary?”

“The bad stuff.”

“Still subjecting yourself to that.”

“Still.”

“I guess I can understand the motivation,” he said. “It’s a helluva lot more exciting than breathing in angst all day, and you were never one to sit still. So how can I help you?”

I described Caroline Cossack, without mentioning names. Asked him to guess where a teen that troubled might’ve been schooled twenty years back.

“Dosing Rover with cyanide?” he said. “Impolite. How come she didn’t end up in trouble?”

“Maybe family connections,” I said, as I realized incarceration would be an excellent reason not to have a social security card, and neither Milo nor I had thought of checking prison records. Both of us thrown off kilter.

“A
rich
, not-nice kid,” said Larry. “Well, back then there was no real place for a run-of-the-mill dangerous delinquent other than the state hospital system — Camarillo. But I suppose a rich family could’ve placed her somewhere cushy.”

“I was thinking Achievement House or Valley Educational, or their out-of-state counterparts.”

“Definitely not Valley Educational, Alex. I consulted there, and they stayed away from delinquents, concentrated on learning probs. Even back then they were getting fifteen-grand tuition, had a two-year waiting list, so they could afford to be picky. Unless the family covered up the extent of the girl’s pathology, but that kind of violent tendency would be hard to suppress for very long. As far as Achievement House, I never had any direct experience with them, but I know someone who did. Right around that time period, too, now that I think about it — nineteen, twenty years ago. Not a pretty situation.”

“For the students?”

“For the someone I know. Remember when I used to do mentoring for the department — undergrads considering psych as a career? One of my mentorees was a freshman girl, precocious, barely seventeen. She got herself a volunteer placement at Achievement House.”

“What problems did she have there?”

“The director got… overtly Freudian with her.”

“Sexual harassment?”

“Back then it was just called mashing and groping. Despite her age, the girl was a clearheaded feminist way ahead of her time, complained to the board of directors, who promptly gave her the boot. She talked to me about pursuing it — she was really traumatized — and I offered to back her up if she wanted to take it further, but in the end she decided not to. She knew it was his word against hers, he was the respected health administrator, and she was a good-looking teenager who wore her skirts too short. I supported the decision. What would she have gained other than a mess?”

“Was there ever any suggestion the director was molesting students?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Remember his name?”

“Alex, I really don’t want my mentoree drawn into it.”

“I promise she won’t be.”

“Larner. Michael Larner.”

“Psychologist or psychiatrist?”

“Business type — administrator.”

“Are you still in touch with the mentoree?”

“Occasionally. Mostly for cross-referrals. She stayed on track, graduated summa, got her Ph.D. at Penn, did a fellowship at Michigan, moved back here. She’s got a nice Westside practice.”

“Is there any way to ask her if she’d talk to me?”

Silence. “You think this is important.”

“Honestly, I don’t know, Larry. If asking her will put you in a difficult position, forget it.”

“Let me think about it,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

“That would be great.”

“Great?” he said.

“Extremely helpful.”

“You know,” he said, “right as we speak, I’ve got my feet up and my belt loosened and I’m looking out at miles of clean white sand. Just finished a plate of
chile rellenos con mucho cerveza
. Just let out a sonic-boom belch and no one’s around to give me a funny look. To me,
that’s
great.”

I heard from him an hour later. “Her name’s Allison Gwynn, and you can call her. But she definitely doesn’t want to get involved in any police business.”

“No problem,” I said.

“So,” he said. “How’s everything else?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“We should get together for dinner. With the women. Next time we come into town.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Call me, Larry. Thanks.”

“Everything’s really okay?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t know… you sound a bit… tentative. But maybe it’s just that I haven’t talked to you in a while.”

I called Dr. Allison Gwynn at her Santa Monica exchange.

A
you-have-reached-the-office
tape answered, but when I mentioned my name, a soft-around-the-edges female voice broke in.

“This is Allison. It’s funny, Larry calling out of the blue and asking if I’d talk to you. I’ve been reading some articles on pain control, and a couple were yours. I do some work at St. Agnes Hospice.”

“Those articles are ancient history.”

“Not really,” she said. “People and their pain don’t change that much, most of what you said still holds true. Anyway, Larry says you want to know about Achievement House. It’s been a long time — nearly twenty years — since I had anything to do with that place.”

“That’s exactly the time period I’m interested in.”

“What do you need to know?”

I gave her the same anonymous description of Caroline Cossack.

“I see,” she said. “Larry assures me you’ll be discreet.”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s essential, Dr. Delaware. Look, I can’t talk now, have a patient in two minutes and after that I’m running a group at the hospice. This evening, I’ll be teaching, but in between I will be eating dinner — fiveish, or so. If you want to stop by, that’s fine. I usually go to Café Maurice on Broadway near Sixth, because it’s close to St. Agnes.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she said. “I hope.”

I endured the afternoon by running too fast for too long. Trudged up my front steps winded and dehydrated and checked the phone machine. Two hang-ups and a canned solicitation for discount home loans. I pressed *69 and traced the hang-ups to a harried woman in East L.A. who spoke only Spanish and had dialed a very wrong number, and a Montana Avenue boutique wondering if Robin Castagna would be interested in some new silk fashions from India.

“I guess I should’ve left a message,” said the nasal girl on the other end, “but the owner likes us to make personal contact. So do you think Robin might be interested? According to our records, she bought a bunch of cool stuff last year.”

“When I talk to her, I’ll ask her.”

“Oh, okay… you could come in yourself, you know. Do like a
gift
thing? If she doesn’t like it, we’ll give her full store credit on return. Women love to be surprised.”

“Do they?”

“Oh, sure. Totally.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You really should. Women
love
when guys like surprise them.”

“Like a trip to Paris,” I said.

“Paris?” She laughed. “You can surprise
me
with that — don’t tell Robin I said that, okay?”

At 4
P.M.
, I stepped out the kitchen door to the rear patio, crossed the garden to Robin’s studio, unlocked the cool vaulted room, and walked around smelling wood dust and lacquer and Chanel No. 19 and listening to the echos of my footsteps. She’d swept the floor clean, packed her tools, put everything in its place.

Afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Beautiful space in perfect order. It felt like a crypt.

I returned to the house and skimmed the morning paper. The world hadn’t changed much; why did I feel so altered? At four-thirty, I showered, got dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, clean blue jeans, brown suede loafers. At ten after five, I walked into Café Maurice.

The restaurant was compact and dark, with a copper-topped bar and a half dozen tables set with white linen. The walls were raised walnut panels, the ceiling repousse tin. Inoffensive music on low volume competed with low conversation among three white-aproned waiters old enough to be my father. I couldn’t help but think of the Left Bank bistro where Robin had told me of her plans.

I buttoned my jacket and allowed my eyes to acclimate. The sole patron was a dark-haired woman at a center table peering into a glass of burgundy. She wore a form-fitted, whiskey-colored tweed jacket over a cream silk blouse, a long, oatmeal-colored skirt with a slit up the side, beige calfskin boots with substantial heels. A big leather bag sat on the chair next to her. She looked up as I approached and gave a tentative smile.

“Dr. Gwynn? Alex Delaware.”

“Allison.” She placed her bag on the floor and held out a slender white hand. We shook, and I sat.

She was a long-stemmed beauty out of John Singer Sargent. Ivory face, soft but assertive cheekbones highlighted with blush, a wide strong mouth shaded coral. Huge, judiciously lined deep blue eyes under strong, arching brows studied me. Warm scrutiny, no intrusiveness; her patients would appreciate that. Her hair was a sheet of true black that hung midway down her back. Circling one wrist was a diamond tennis bracelet; the other sported a gold watch. Baroque pearls dotted each earlobe, and a gold link cameo necklace rested on her breastbone.

Her hand returned to her wineglass. Good manicure, French-tipped nails left just long enough to avoid frivolousness. I knew she was thirty-six or -seven but despite the tailored clothes, the baubles, the cosmetics, she looked ten years younger.

“Thanks for your time,” I said.

“I wasn’t sure if you were a punctual person,” she said, “so I ordered for myself. I only have an hour till class.” Same gentle voice as over the phone. She waved, and one of the ancient waiters tore himself away from the staff confab, brought a menu, and hovered.

“What do you recommend?” I asked.

“The
entrecôte
is great. I like it rare and bloody, but they’ve got a pretty good selection of more virtuous stuff if you’re not into red meat.”

The waiter tapped his foot. “What’re you drinking, sir? We’ve got a good selection of microbrews.” I’d expected a Gallic accent, but his drawl was pure California — surfer boy grown old — and I found myself musing about a future where grandmothers would be named Amber and Heather and Tawny and Misty.

“Grolsch,” I said. “And I’ll have the
entrecôte
, medium rare.”

He left and Allison Gwynn smoothed already-smooth hair and twirled her wineglass. She avoided my eyes.

“What kind of work do you do at St. Agnes?” I said.

“You know the place.”

“I know of it.”

“Just some volunteer work,” she said. “Mostly helping the staff cope. Do you still work in oncology?”

“No, not for a while.”

She nodded. “It can be tough.” She drank some wine.

“Where do you teach?” I said.

“The U., adult extension. This quarter I’m doing Personality Theory and Human Relations.”

“All that and a practice. Sounds like a busy schedule,” I said.

“I’m a workaholic,” she said, with sudden cheer. “Hyperactivity channeled in a socially appropriate manner.”

My beer arrived. We both drank. I was about to get down to substance, when she said, “The girl you described. Would that be Caroline Cossack?”

I put down my mug. “You knew Caroline?”

“So it
was
her.”

“How did you know?”

“From your description.”