21

Back at the unmarked, I said, “Believe him?”

“The hooker thing,” he said, “is exactly what a dumb, lonely kid would do. And he probably isn't smart enough to plan. If I can find the massage girl and she alibis him and I don't get the feeling Daddy's paid her off, there's another one off the list.”

“And he seemed genuinely unfamiliar with Mandy's name.”

He pulled out a cigarillo and looked at it. A warm breeze was drifting from the San Gabriels and the palm trees planted close to the building were doing a line dance.

“So, bye-bye, committee. Hope was probably killed because of something in her private life- those bruises on her arm are bringing me back to Seacrest. And/or Cruvic, 'cause he was probably fooling around with her. Problem is, I can't get close to either of them… and I can't get a clear picture of Hope. Just polarized opinions- she was Womanhood's Great Savior, or she was a man-hating manipulator. Nothing about her… core.”

“One of the problems,” I said, “is that there's no family other than Seacrest. No one to talk about her development- her childhood, what she was like outside of her professional role.”

“All I know about her childhood is she grew up in that aggie town- Higginsville. Parents dead, no sibs. And if she's got distant relatives, they must be damned distant, because after the murder, no one ever stepped forward.”

He got in the car.

“Still,” I said, “no family doesn't mean no family history. I could go up to Higginsville, ask around. In a small town, someone might remember her.”

“Sure,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I'll call the local police and let them know you're coming, see if they can get you access to records. When do you want to go?”

“No reason it can't be tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Dress for the heat, we're talking farmland. Don't they grow artichokes up there, or something?”

That night, Robin and I went out to dinner. By eight, she was soaking in a bath and I was stretched out on a sofa in my office rereading the conduct-committee transcripts. Uncharacteristically, Spike had chosen to stay with me. Probably the lingering smell of steak. Now, his big, knobby head rested in my lap and he snored. The rhythm was soporific and the bitter dialogue began to blur.

I learned nothing, felt myself grow drowsy, knew it was time to stop.

Just as I put the transcripts down, the phone rang. Spike snapped upright, bounded off, and ran to the offending machine, baying.

“Doctor, this is Joyce at your service. There's a woman on the line sounds pretty distraught. A Mary Farney?”

The woman at the Women's Center in Santa Monica. Beaten-down mother of Chenise. “Put her on, please.”

A strident voice said, “Hello?”

“This is Dr. Delaware. What can I do for you, Mrs. Farney?”

“You gave me your card- at the center. Said I could- you're the one with the police, right?”

“Yes. What's the matter, Mrs. Farney?”

“I- I know who did it.”

“Who did what?”

“Who killed her. Dr. Devane.”

I was wide-awake now. “Who?”

“Darrell. And now he's gonna kill Dr. Cruvic, maybe he already did, I dunno, maybe I shoulda called nine-one-one but I- you-”

“Darrell who?”

“Darrell… oh, Jesus, how could I forget his name, he's always over here. He's Chenise's latest- Darrell Ballitser. He did it, I'm sure.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he hated Dr. Devane's guts. Dr. Cruvic too. For what they did.”

“Chenise's abortion?”

“Tonight he came in all hot and crazy and stoned on something, yelling, taking Chenise with him. He said he's going over there to get him!”

“Dr. Cruvic?”

“Yeah, and he's got Chen-”

“Did he go to the clinic?”

“No, no, he said he was already there, they was closed, that made him madder-”

“Where'd he go, Mrs. Farney?”

“Dr. Cruvic's other office. In Beverly Hills. I tried to stop him from taking Chenise but he pushed me away- I think he's got a knife 'cause I saw it. But Chenise don't have-”

I put her on hold, called 911, told them the problem was in Beverly Hills, and got transferred.

“Civic Center Drive?” said the Beverly Hills operator. “That's right near us. We could walk there.”

“Better run,” I said, hanging up and trying Milo at home. Machine. I called the station, then the cell phone, where I reached him.

“Just left the Club None,” he said, “and guess what-”

“Emergency,” I said, telling him about Darrell Ballitser. “She says he hated Hope and Cruvic for Chenise's abortion. Probably his baby they terminated.”

“BHPD on its way?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, me, too… Wouldn't that be something. All our theorizing and it's some crazy kid.”

“She said he'd already been to the clinic but you might want to alert Santa Monica PD, anyway. Cruvic works nights there, could be on his way over.”

“Will do. Meanwhile, get this lady's phone number and address, find out any details while she's still eager to help.”

“Sure,” I said. But when I got back on the line, it was dead.

I tried my service to see if Mary Farney had left a number. She hadn't. The West L.A. directory yielded only one Farney: first initial M, on Brooks Avenue in Venice. That sounded like a good bet, but no answer. Either she'd phoned me from somewhere else or she'd left.

Copying down the number, I put on street clothes, went into the bathroom, where Robin was still soaking, told her I'd be going out and why.

“Be careful, honey.”

“No sweat,” I said, leaning down to peck her cheek. “Walking distance from the police station.”

BHPD had sent three squad cars the two blocks and I could see their blinking lights from Santa Monica Boulevard. The western entrance to Civic Center Drive was blocked by a sawhorse and a uniform waved me away at the east end near Foothill, but just as I turned, Milo stepped out of the darkness and told the cop to let me through.

I parked twenty yards down from Cruvic's building. Before I got out, a vehicle pulled up beside me. Big white news van from one of the network affiliates. A frantic-looking platinum-haired woman jumped out as if parachuting from a moving plane, stopped, looked around, beckoned to a sound man and a camera operator. I stayed in the Seville as the three of them sprinted toward Cruvic's building, the reporter gesticulating. When they saw Milo they stopped again.

He shook his head and thumbed them on, then came over to me. He had on the same gray suit he'd worn at Kenneth Storm's office, had replaced the shirt and tie with a gray T-shirt. His idea of an L.A. bar-crawl getup. Red lights from the nearest cruiser gave him an intermittent blush and his eyes looked hungry.

“What's happening?” I said.

“Suspect in custody.”

“That was quick.”

“The ominous Darrell turns out to be a skinny kid with poor reflexes. Caught Cruvic driving out of that garage next to the building, stuck a knife through the window, and ordered him out. Cruvic kicked the door, which knocked Darrell down, then he took the knife and was in the process of pounding the shit out of the kid when BH cops showed up.”

“What about Chenise?”

“If she's a teeny little blond thing in a red blouse she was standing on the sidewalk screaming and they took her to the station, along with Darrell. I told BH he's a suspect in the Devane murder, to keep things quiet, but obviously someone found out. They said I can talk to him soon as they clear their paper. What about the mom?”

“Couldn't keep her on the line. She probably lives in Venice.”

Another news van pulled in. And another.

“Vulture-fest,” said Milo. “C'mon, let's get over there and see how our hero's doing.”