Bad Love (36 page)

“How old was the student?”

“Fifteen.”

“Vehicular accident off a mountain road,” I said. “Grant Stoumen was hit by a car and Mitchell Lerner was pushed off a mountain.”

“That’s a little abstract, Alex.”

“Maybe not, if matching things — achieving consistency — is part of the killer’s fantasy.”

Pause. “You’d know more about that than I would, but why focus on the school when we’ve got a victim with no connection to it? No obvious connection to de Bosch, period.”

“Shipler could have been connected to the symposium.”

“How? A janitor with a side interest in psychology, or did he sweep up afterward?”

“Maybe it’s the race angle somehow. Shipler was black and de Bosch was a covert bigot.”

“Why would someone pissed off about
racism
beat a
black
man to death?”

“I don’t know . . . but I’m sure de Bosch is at the core of this. The school, the conference — all of it. Merino told Harrison the conference set off something in him — maybe it was seeing de Bosch lauded publicly, when he knew the truth to be otherwise.”

“Maybe, but so far the school’s got a clean record.”

“Bancroft seemed to think it was a hotbed of antisocial behavior.”

“Bancroft isn’t your most reliable witness. Sally says he’s been known to hit the bottle pretty hard, and his world view’s somewhat to the right of the Klan. Compared to his old man, he’s a pussycat. The two of them had a special thing for de Bosch because de Bosch overbid Bancroft Senior for the land the school was built on. When de Bosch broke ground in sixty-two, they tried to mobilize the neighbors against it — disturbed kids running amok. But no one went along with it because the Bancrofts had alienated everyone over the years.”

“The neighbors didn’t mind a school for problem kids?”

“There were some worries, but the lot being vacant bothered them more. Vagrants used to come off the highway, light fires, toss trash, make a mess. Bancroft Senior had dickered with the owner for years, making offers, withdrawing them. De Bosch’s school was an improvement as far as the neighborhood was concerned. Real quiet, no problems.”

“Except for a fifteen-year-old kid in a stolen truck.”

“One incident in twenty years, Alex. Considering that de Bosch dealt with emotionally disturbed kids, wouldn’t you say that’s pretty good?”

“I’d say it’s excellent,” I said. “Exemplary. And one way to keep things so tidy is through firm discipline.
Very
firm discipline.”

He sighed. “Sure, it’s possible. But if de Bosch was running a torture chamber, wouldn’t there be complaints?”

“Five dead people is a complaint.”

“Okay. But if you want a hostility motive, look at Bancroft. He had a
hard-on
for de Bosch for over twenty years. But that doesn’t mean he ran around the country murdering everyone associated with him.”

“Maybe he
should
be looked into.”

“He will be,” he said wearily. “He’s
being
looked into. Meanwhile, you be careful and sit tight. I’m sorry, Alex, I wish the goddamn pieces had fit together neatly, but it’s turning out to be messy.”

“Just like real life,” I said. “Anything new on Katarina?”

“Coroner still can’t decide if she was conscious or unconscious after those blows to the face. Her baby was, indeed, a twenty-two-week-old normal male, Caucasian. I called the sperm bank, they wouldn’t even verify she was a customer. Sally and I can probably pry some information loose, eventually. Meanwhile, is Robin coming to us? Rick says no problem except for Rover — excuse me, Spike. Dog allergy. But if Robin really wants to take the pooch with her, he can put himself on antihistamines.”

“He won’t need to,” I said. “Robin insists on staying with me.”

“Must be your charm . . . well, don’t sweat it, I’m sure you’re safe.”

“Hope so.” I told him about the brake lights the previous night.

“Just lights, nothing funny?”

“Just lights. And then the car drove off.”

“What time was this?”

“Nine forty-five or so.”

“Any other cars around?”

“Quite a few.”

“Sounds like nothing. If you see anything funny, call Beverly Hills PD — they protect their citizenry.”

“I will. Thanks for everything. . . . The kid who went off the mountain, did he have a name?”

“Still on that, huh?” He gave a small laugh. “His name was Delmar Parker and he originally came from New Orleans.”

“What was he being treated for at the school?”

“Don’t know, there’s no complete police report, because the case was closed and filed. We’re working from summary cards at the coroner’s office and lucky to find
them. . . 
. Let’s see . . . name, date, age, cause of death — multiple traumas and internal injuries — place of birth, N’Awleens . . . parent or guardian — here it is — the mother . . . Marie A. Parker.”

“Any address?”

“No. Why? You want to dig up
another
one?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t
want
to dig up anything, believe me. I’m just grasping, Milo.”

Silence. “Okay, I’ll try, but don’t count on it. It was a long time ago. People move. People die.”

I pretended everything was normal. Robin and I ate lunch out by the pool. The sky was clear and beautiful, bracing itself for a smog cloud heading over from the east.

Lifestyles of the rich and fearful.

Terror and anger still gnawed at my spine, but I thought of the people under the freeway and knew I had it damned good.

The phone rang. My service operator said, “There’s a long-distance call for you, Dr. Delaware. From New York, a Mr. Rosenblatt.”

“Mister, not doctor?”

“Mister’s what he said.”

“Okay,” I said. “Put him on.”

She did, but no one answered my hello. A few seconds later a young woman with an all-business voice clicked in and said, “Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer. Who are you holding for?”

“Mr. Rosenblatt.”

“One moment.”

A few seconds later a young voice said, “This is Mr. Rosenblatt.”

“This is Dr. Delaware.”

Throat clear. “Dr. Delaware, my name is Joshua Rosenblatt, I’m a practicing attorney here in New York and I’m calling to ask you to stop phoning my mother, Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt.”

“I’ve been phoning because I was concerned about your father—”

“Then you have nothing to be concerned about.”

“He’s all right?”

Silence.

I said, “Is he all right?”

“No. I wouldn’t say that.” Pause. “My father’s deceased.”

I felt myself deflate. “I’m sorry.”

“Be that as it may, Dr. Delaware—”

“When did it happen? Was it four years ago?”

Long silence. Throat clear. “I really don’t want to get into this, doctor.”

“Was it made to look like an accident?” I said. “Some kind of fall? Something to do with a vehicle? Were the words “bad love’ left anywhere at his death scene?”

“Doctor,” he began, but his voice broke on the second syllable and he blurted: “We’ve been through enough, already. At this point, there’s no need to rake it up.”

“I’m in danger,” I said. “Maybe from the same person who killed your father.”

“What!”

“I called because I was trying to
warn
your father and I’m so sorry it’s too late. I only met him once, but I liked him. He seemed like a really decent guy.”

Long pause. “When did you meet him?” he said, softly.

“In nineteen seventy-nine, here in Los Angeles. He and I co-chaired a mental health symposium called “Good Love/Bad Love, Strategies in a Changing World.’ A tribute to a teacher of your father’s named Andres de Bosch.”

No response.

“Mr. Rosenblatt?”

“None of this makes any sense.”

“You were with him on that trip,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”

“I went on lots of trips with my father.”

“I know,” I said. “He told me. He talked about you quite a bit. Said you were his youngest. You liked hot dogs and video games — he wanted to take you to Disneyland, but the park closed early in the fall, so I suggested he take you to the Santa Monica pier. Did you go?”

“Hot dogs.” His voice sounded weak. “So what? What’s the point?”

“I think that trip had something to do with his death.”

“No, no, that’s crazy — no. Back in seventy-nine?”

“Some kind of long-term revenge plot,” I said. “Something to do with Andres de Bosch. The person who murdered your father has killed other people. At least five others, maybe more.”

I gave him names, dates, places.

He said, “I don’t know any of those people. This is crazy. This is really insane.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s all true. And I may be next. I need to talk to your mother. The killer may have presented himself to your father as a patient — lured him that way. If she’s still got your father’s old appointment books, it could—”

“No, she has nothing. Leave her out of this.”

“My life’s at stake. Why won’t your mother just talk to me? Why’d she have you call me instead of calling herself?”

“Because she can’t,” he said angrily. “Can’t talk to anyone. She had a stroke a month ago and her speech was severely affected. It just came back a few weeks ago, but she’s still weak.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Listen, I’m sorry, too. For what
you’re
going through. But at this point, I just don’t see what I can do for you.”

“Your mother’s talking now.”

“Yes, but she’s weak. Really weak. And to have her talk about my father. . . . She just started rehab and she’s making progress, Dr. Delaware. I can’t have her interrogated.”

“You never told her I called?”

“I’m taking care of her. It calls for decisions.”

“I understand,” I said. “But I don’t want to interrogate her, I just want to talk to her. A few questions. At her pace — I can fly out to New York, if that’ll help, and do it face-to-face. As many sessions as she needs. Go as slowly as she needs.”

“You’d
do
that? Fly out here?”

“What choice do I have?”

I heard him blow out breath. “Even so,” he said. “Her talking about Dad — no, it’s too risky. I’m sorry, but I have to hold firm.”

“I’ll work with her doctors, Mr. Rosenblatt. Clear my questions with them and with you. I’ve done hospital work for years. I understand illness and recovery.”

“What makes you think she knows anything that could help you?”

“At this point she’s my last hope, Mr. Rosenblatt. The creep who’s after me is picking up his pace. He murdered someone in Santa Barbara yesterday — de Bosch’s daughter. She was pregnant. He cut her up, made it a point to go after the fetus.”

“Oh, God.”

“He’s stalking me,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’d be safer in New York than here. One way or the other, I may come out.”

Another exhalation. “I doubt she can help you, but I’ll ask.”

“I really apprecia—”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not promising anything. And fax your credentials to me, so I can check them out. Include two verifiable references.”

“No problem,” I said. “And if your mother won’t speak to me, please ask her if she knows anything about the term “bad love.’ And did your father report anything unusual about the nineteen seventy-nine conference. You can also throw out some names: Lyle Gritz, Dorsey Hewitt, Silk, Merino.”

“Who’re they?”

“Hewitt’s a definite killer — murdered a therapist out here and was shot by the police. Gritz was his friend, may have been an accomplice. He may also be the one who killed your father. Silk and Merino are possible aliases.”

“Fake names?” he said. “This is so bizarre.”

“One more thing,” I said. “There’s an LAPD detective working the case out here, named Milo Sturgis. I’m going to inform him of your father’s murder and he’ll be contacting the New York police and asking for records.”

“That won’t help you,” he said. “Believe me.”

Milo was no longer at Records, and Sally Grayson’s number was picked up by a male detective who hadn’t seen her all morning and had no idea who Milo was. I left a message, and wondered why Joshua Rosenblatt had been so sure the police couldn’t help.

My offer to go to New York had been impulsive — probably an escape reflex — but maybe something would come out of my talk with Shirley Rosenblatt.

I’d leave as soon as possible; Robin would
have
to move out now.

I looked out at the pool, still as a slab of turquoise. A few leaves floated on top.

Who cleaned it? How often?

I didn’t know much about this place.

Didn’t know when I’d be able to leave it.

I got up, ready to drive into Beverly Hills to find a fax service. Just as I put my wallet in my pants pocket, the phone rang and my service operator said, “A Mr. Bucklear wants to talk to you, doctor.”

“Put him on.”

Click.

“Doctor? Sherman Bucklear.”

“Hello.”

“Have you received my correspondence?”

“Yes, I have.”

“I haven’t received any reply, doctor.”

“Didn’t know there was anything to reply to.”

“I have reason to believe you have knowledge of the whereabouts—”

“I don’t.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Do I have to?”

Pause. “Doctor, we can go about this civilly or things can get complicated.”

“Complicate away, Sherman.”

“Now, wait a sec—”

I hung up. It felt great to be petty. Before I could put down the phone, the service patched in again with a call from New York.

“Dr. Delaware? Josh Rosenblatt, again. My mother’s willing to talk to you but I’ve got to warn you, she can’t handle much — just a few minutes at a time. I haven’t discussed any details with her. All she knows is you knew my father and think he was murdered. She may have nothing to tell you. You may end up wasting your time.”

“I’ll take the chance. When would you like me there?”

“What’s today? Tuesday . . . Friday’s bad and she needs her weekends for total bedrest — Thursday, I guess.”

“If I can catch a flight tonight, how about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow . . . I guess so. But it’ll have to be in the afternoon. Mornings she has her therapy, then she naps. Come to my office first — 500 Fifth Avenue. Schechter, Mohl, and Trimmer. The thirty-third floor. Have you faxed me your credentials yet?”