Dr. Death (15 page)

"This was in San Diego?"

"That's right. I was out of high school only a few years, helping my mom out, taking classes part time at the JC, planning to be a nurse. Eldon was a lot older— thirty-six and he looked in his forties, had lost most of his hair already. I wasn't attracted to him at first, but then I started to like him. 'Cause he was polite. Not just for show, all the time. Quiet, too. That was good, I'd had enough of noisy men. Also, back then I thought he was a genius. He had a job as a chemist, kept science books and all kinds of other books everywhere, reading all the time. Back then, that impressed me. Back then I thought education was the way to get saved."

"No more, huh?"

"Wise man, fool— we're all weak mortals. The only genius is the one up there." Pointing to the ceiling. "Proof is, would a genius go around killing other people? Even those who asked for it? Does that sound like a smart thing to do when we're all gonna answer for our deeds in the next world?"

She shook her head and spoke to the ceiling tiles. "Eldon, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now."

The dessert came. She waited until Milo'd taken a forkful before attacking her pie.

I said, "But at the beginning you were impressed with his education."

"I used to think education was everything. I was gonna be a registered nurse— when I moved up to Oakland, I had these . . . fantasies, I guess you'd call 'em. Eldon would open up a doctor's office, I'd work with him. But then he wouldn't have nothing to do with Donny and me, so I had to keep working and never got to finish school." She licked her lips. "I'm not complaining. I take care of the elderly, do what nurses do, anyway. And now I know there's no shortcut to happiness, doesn't matter what your job is in this world. The main world is the one
afterward
, and the only way to get
there
is Jesus. It's exactly what my mother taught me, only back then I wasn't listening to her. No one listened to her, that was the burden she carried around. My father was
godless.
She never turned him around till he was dying, and even then, not till the pain came on real bad, so what else could he do but pray?"

The back of her spoon skated over the chocolate cream pie, picking up a coating of whipped cream. She licked it, said, "My dad smoked all his life, got lung cancer, it spread to his bones, all over his spine. He died in bad pain, choking and screaming. It was horrible. Made a big impression on Eldon."

"Eldon saw your father die?" I said.

"You bet. Dad died right after we were married. We'd go visit Dad in the hospital and he'd be coughing up blood and screaming from the pain and Eldon would turn white as a ghost and have to leave. Who'da figured he'd be a doctor? You know what
I
think? Seeing Dad die could be part of what started out Eldon on this killing business. 'Cause it really
was
horrible, Mom and me got through it by praying. But Eldon didn't pray. Refused to, even when Mom begged him. Said he wouldn't be a hypocrite. If you don't have no faith, seeing something like that is gonna scare you."

She finished her pie.

Milo said, "Is there anything you can tell us that might help us learn who killed your husband?"

"I'd say someone didn't like what Eldon was doing."

"Anyone in particular?"

"No," she said. "I'm just talking . . . logical. There's got to be lots of people who didn't approve of Eldon. Not God-fearing people, God-fearing don't go running around killing. But maybe someone . . ." Smile. "You know, it could be someone
like
Eldon. Got no faith and a big hate grew inside him
about
Eldon. 'Cause Eldon had a difficult personality— didn't care what he said or how he said it. Least, that's the way he was back when we were married. Always getting into it with people— bring him into a place like this and he'd be complaining about the food, marching up to the manager and starting an argument. Maybe he got the wrong person mad and this person said, Look what he does and gets away with it, sure, it's okay to kill, it's no different from tying my shoes. 'Cause let's face it, if you don't believe in the world hereafter, what's to stop you from killing or raping or robbing or doing whatever it is your lust tells you to do?"

Milo sat there, probing the rim of his piecrust with his fork. I wondered if he was thinking what I was: a lot of insight in one little speech.

"So," she said, "who do I talk to about that pension? And the will?"

• • •

Back in the car, Milo made a series of calls and got her the number of the army pension office.

"As far as the will is concerned," he told her, "we're still trying to contact Dr. Mate's lawyer. A man named Roy Haiselden. Has he ever called you?"

"That big fat guy always with Eldon on TV? Nope— you think
he
has the will?"

"If there is one, he might. Nothing's been filed with County Records. If I learn anything, I'll let you know."

"Thanks. I guess I'll be staying in town for a few days, see what I can find out. Know of any clean, cheap places?"

"Hollywood's a tough area, ma'am. And nothing decent's gonna be that cheap."

"Well," she said, "I'm not saying I don't have any money. I work, I brought two hundred dollars with me. I just don't want to spend more than I have to."

We drove her to a West Coast Inn on Fairfax near Beverly and checked her in. She paid with a hundred-dollar bill, and as we walked her to her first-floor room, Milo warned her about flashing cash on the street and she said, "I'm not stupid."

The room was small, clean, noisy, with a view across Fairfax: cars whizzing by, the sleek, modern lines of the CBS studios a black-and-white subpanel to the horizon.

"Maybe I'll see a game show," she said, parting the drapes. She removed another floral dress from the macramé bag and headed for the closet. "Okay, thanks for everything."

Milo handed her his card. "Call me if you think of anything, ma'am— by the way, where's your son?"

Her back was to us. She opened the closet door. Took a long time to hang the dress. On the top shelf was an extra pillow that she removed. Fluffing, compressing, fluffing.

"Ma'am?"

"Don't know where Donny is," she said.

Punching the pillow. All at once, she looked tiny and bowed. "Donny's real smart, just like Eldon. Did a year at San Francisco State. I used to think he'd be a doctor, too. He got good grades, he liked science."

She stood there, hugging the pillow.

"What happened?" I said.

Her shoulders heaved.

I went over and stood next to her. She edged away, placed the pillow atop a dresser. "They said it was drugs— my friends at church said it had to be that. But I never saw him take any drugs."

"He changed," I said.

She bent, cupped a hand over her eyes. I risked taking her by the elbow. Her skin was soft, gelatinous. I guided her onto a chair, handed her a tissue that she grabbed, crushed, finally used to wipe her face.

"Donny changed totally," she said. "Stopped taking care of himself. Grew long hair, a beard, got filthy. Like one of those homeless people. Only he's
got
a home, if he'd ever come back there."

"How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Two years."

She sprang up, marched into the bathroom, closed the door. Water ran for a while, then she emerged announcing she was tired. "When I'm ready to eat, where can I get some dinner around here?"

"Do you like Chinese, ma'am?" said Milo.

"Sure, anything."

He phoned up a takeout place and asked them to deliver in two hours. When we left, she was consulting the cable TV channel guide.

• • •

Out in the car, Milo sat back in his seat and frowned. "One happy family. And Junior's a homeless guy with mental problems, maybe a druggie. Someone with a reason to kill Mate— who might still want to
be
Mate. Maybe I was wrong to dismiss the street bum so quickly."

"If Donny was intelligent to begin with, even with some sort of mental breakdown, he might've held on to enough smarts to be able to plan. Mate abandoned and rejected him in the worst kind of way. Exactly the kind of primal anger that leads to violence. Mate's getting famous wouldn't have helped things. Maybe Donny smoldered, seethed, decided to come back, take over the family business . . . Oedipus wrecks. Maybe Mate finally agreed to see him, arranged a talk up in Mulholland because he didn't want Donny in his apartment. He could've even had concerns about his safety, that's why he backed the van in. But he went through with it— guilt, or he enjoyed the danger."

He made no comment, got on the phone, hooked up with NCIC, asked for a felony search on Eldon S. Mate. Nothing. But plugging in Eldon
Salcido
pulled up three convictions. All in California, and the vital statistics fit.

Driving under the influence six years ago, larceny two years after that, assault eighteen months ago. Jail time in Marin County. Release six months ago.

"A year and a half in jail and he doesn't call his mother," I said. "Socially isolated. And he progressed from DUI to assault. Getting more aggressive."

"Family values," he said. "Be interesting to see what the grieving widow does when she finds out Mate left over three hundred grand in the bank. Wonder if Alice or anyone else will press a claim— that's really why old Willy came down here. It always boils down to anger and money— okay, I'll look into Donny, but in the meantime let's try to ferret out that goddamn lawyer."

11

ROY HAISELDEN WAS living better than his prime client, but he was no sultan.

His house was a peach-colored, one-story plain- wrap on Camden Avenue, west of Westwood, south of Wilshire. Mown lawn but no shrubs, empty driveway. Alarm-company sign staked in the grass. Milo rang the bell, knocked on the door— dead-bolted with a sturdy Quikset— pushed open the mail slot and sighted down.

"Just some throwaway flyers," he said. "No mail. So he left recently."

He rang and knocked again. Tried to peer through the white drapes that sheathed the front windows, muttered that it just looked like a goddamn house. A check in back of the house revealed more grass and a small oval swimming pool set in a brick deck, the water starting to green, the gunite spotted with algae.

"If he had a pool man," I said, "looks like he canceled a while back. Maybe he's been gone for a while and put on a mail stop."

"Korn and Demetri checked for that. And the gardener's been here."

The garage was a double, locked. Milo managed to pry the door upward several inches and he peered in. "No car, old bicycle, hoses, the usual junk."

He inspected every side of the house. Most of the windows were barred and bolted and the back door was secured by an identical dead bolt. The kitchen window was undraped but narrow and high, and he boosted me up for a look.

"Dishes in the sink, but they look clean . . . no food . . . another alarm sticker high on the window, but I don't see any alarm leads."

"Probably a fake-out job," he said. "One of those clever boys who thinks appearance is everything."

"Overconfident," I said. "Just like Mate."

He let me down. "Okay, let's see what the neighbors have to offer."

Both of the adjacent houses were empty. Milo scrawled requests to call on the back of his business cards and left them in the mailboxes. In the second house to the south, a young black man answered. Clean-shaven, full-faced, barefoot, wearing a gray athletic shirt with the U. logo and red cotton shorts. Under his arm was a book. A yellow underlining pen was clenched between his teeth. He removed it, shifted the book so I could see the title:
Organizational Structure: An Advanced Text.
The room behind him was set up with two bright-blue beanbag chairs and not much else. Soda cans, potato chip bags, an extra-large pizza box mottled with grease on the thin khaki rug.

He greeted Milo pleasantly, but the sight of the badge caused his face to tighten.

"Yes?" The unspoken overtone:
What now?
I wondered how many times he'd been stopped for driving in Westwood.

Milo stepped back, bent his knee in a relaxed pose. "I was wondering, sir, if you've seen your neighbor Mr. Haiselden recently."

"Who— oh him. No, not for a few days."

"Could you say how many days, Mr. . . ."

"Chambers," said the young man. "Curtis Chambers. I think I saw him drive away five, six days ago. Whether he's been back since, I can't say, 'cause I've been holed up here studying. Why?"

"Do you recall what time of day it was when you saw him, Mr. Chambers?"

"Morning. Before nine. I was going to meet with a prof and he needed to do it by nine. I think it was Tuesday. What's going on?"

Milo smiled and held up a delaying finger. "What kind of car was Mr. Haiselden driving?"

"Some kind of van. Silver, with a blue stripe down the side."

"That his only vehicle?"

"Only one I've seen him in."

"Anyone else live there with him?"

"Not that I know," said Curtis Chambers. "Could you please tell me what's up?"