Dr. Death (16 page)

"We're trying to contact Mr. Haiselden about a case—"

"Dr. Death's murder?"

"You've seen him with Dr. Mate?"

"No, but everyone knew he was Dr. Death's lawyer. People in the neighborhood talk about it. He's a jerk, Haiselden. Last year, we had a party— there are four of us living here, grad students. Nothing wild, we're all grinds, all we had was that single party the entire year to celebrate semester-end. We tried to be considerate, even sent notes around to the neighbors. One woman— Mrs. Kaplan next door— sent us a bottle of wine. No one had a problem with it except Haiselden.
He
called the cops on us. Twenty after eleven and believe me, it was nothing wild, just some music, maybe it got a little loud. What an uptight hypocrite. After all the disruption he brought to the neighborhood."

"What kind of disruption?"

"Reporters, media, all that garbage."

"Recently?"

"No, a few years ago," said Chambers. "I never saw it, wasn't living here back then, but one of my roommates was— he said the whole street was a zoo. This was back when Mate was still getting arrested. He and Haiselden threw press conferences right here. TV crews would show up— lights, cameras, the works. Blocked driveways, cigarettes and garbage left on the lawns. Some of the neighbors finally complained to Haiselden, but he ignored them. So after all that, he goes and calls the cops on
us.
A jerk, always had this irritated look on his face. So why do you want him? Did he kill his buddy?"

"Why would you say that, Mr. Chambers?"

Chambers grinned. "Because I don't like the man . . . and the fact that he split. You'd think, his being Mate's mouthpiece, that he'd stick around, grab some more PR. 'Cause that's what it was all about, right? That's the only problem I have with what Mate did."

"What do you mean?" said Milo.

"The tackiness, making a spectacle out of other people's pain. You want to put a sick person out of their misery, fine. But shouldn't it be private? From what my roommate told me about the way Haiselden used to behave, he loved playing for the cameras. So you'd think he'd be doing the same thing now. Though I guess there's nothing for him to comment on anymore, with Mate gone."

"Guess not," said Milo. "Is there anything else you want to tell me about him?"

"Nope— listen, if you leave me your number and I see him, I'll call you. Siccing the cops on our party. What a jerk."

• • •

Driving back to the station, Milo said, "First Mrs. Mate, now him. Insights from the man on the street. Everyone seems to have figured things out except me."

"A lawyer who drives a van."

"Yeah, yeah, psycho killer's transport of choice. Wouldn't that be something? One serial killer representing another in court. And winning."

"Only thing he did win," I said. "He couldn't make a living practicing law, so he turned to coin-ops. Zoghbie said it was because of Mate, but maybe he was struggling before and Mate was his salvation. He latches on to the whole travel thing, rides the coattails, enjoys the glory. Then he and Mate have some kind of rift. Or, as you said, Haiselden starts yearning for more."

"Up the suspect ladder he goes. Time for a pass by his office."

"Where's that?"

"Miracle Mile, the old part, east of Museum Row. He leases some space over a Persian restaurant. Him and some other low-rent outfits. The place has a moldy feel to it, like out of an old movie."

"No secretary?"

"I've been there twice, Korn and Demetri another two times. The door's always locked and no one answers. Time to find the landlord. No sense wasting
your
time. Go home to Robin and Fido."

I didn't argue. I was tired. And Stacy Doss was coming in tomorrow; I needed to review her file.

"So who're you concentrating on?" I said. "Haiselden or Donny Mate?"

"Do I have to choose between Door Number One and Door Number Two, Monty? Can I take Number Three? Better yet, I'll concentrate on both of them. If Donny's our street wacko, it may take a while to find him. I wanna find out if he was released clean or placed on parole. Maybe he's got a P.O. I can talk to. If he was the bum Mrs. Krohnfeld saw, maybe he's still hanging in Hollywood. That would also fit with your idea about stalking Mate."

"Stalking Daddy."

"Who's off in his own world and thinks he's immor- tal . . . I think I'll touch base with Petra, she's as clued in to the streets as anyone."

Petra Connor was a Hollywood Division homicide detective, young, bright, intense, recently promoted to D-II because of some help she'd given Milo on a series of killings of handicapped people. Just after that, she and her partner had solved the Lisa Ramsey case— ex-wife of a TV actor, found hacked up in Griffith Park. She'd referred me a case, a twelve-year-old boy who'd witnessed the crime while living in the park, a brilliant, complex child, one of the most fascinating patients I'd ever encountered. Rumors were that her partner, Stu Bishop, was in line for a major administrative job and that she'd be a D-III by year's end, then groomed by the new chief for something conspicuous.

"Give her my best," I said.

"Sure," he said, but his tone was detached and his eyes were somewhere off in the distance.

Staring into
his
own world. At that moment, I was happy not to be sharing.

12

MONDAY, NINE-THIRTY P.M., nearing the end of a very long day.

Robin was soaking in the bath and I was in bed, reviewing Stacy Doss's chart.

Tomorrow morning, Stacy and I would be talking, ostensibly about college.

She'd used college as a cover the first time.

• • •

March, a warm Friday afternoon. I'd seen two other kids before her, sad children caught up in the poison of a custody dispute. The next hour was spent writing reports. Then waiting for Stacy. Curious about Stacy.

Despite my preconceptions about Richard Doss
— because
of them— I'd labored to keep an open mind about his daughter. Still, I wondered. What kind of girl would result from the union of Richard and Joanne? I really had no clue.

The red light signaling someone at the side door lit up precisely on time and I went to fetch her. A small girl— five-two in brown loafers. Perfect genetic logic; no reason for the Dosses to produce a basketball player. A bright-green oversize book was sandwiched between her right arm and her chest, the title obscured by her sleeve. She wore a white cotton mock turtle, snug blue jeans, white socks with the loafers.

Normal teenage curves, a bit of flesh on her face, but certainly not overweight. If she'd gained ten pounds, as Judy Manitow had claimed, she'd have been extremely thin before. That made me wonder about Judy— her own tendency toward sharp angles, snapshots of her daughters in her chambers. A pair of bright-eyed blondes in very short, very tight party dresses . . . also skinny. The younger one— Becky— veering too close to skeletal?

No matter, Stacy was the patient. She had full cheeks but a long face that evoked her mother's college picture. Richard's high, broad brow, stippled by a few tiny pimples. Pixie features; another endowment from both parents.

She smiled nervously. I introduced myself and held out my hand. She took it readily, maintained eye contact, flashed a half-second smile that burned lots of calories.

Making an effort.

Prettier than Joanne, with dark, almond eyes and the kind of small-boned good looks that would attract the boys. During my high-school days, she'd have been labeled a Gidget. In any generation, she'd be termed cute.

Another paternal donation: her hair— thick, black, very curly. She wore it long and loose, glossed with some kind of product that relaxed the helixes to dancing corkscrews. Lighter complexion than Richard's— skin the color of clotted cream. Thin skin; traces of blue surfaced at jawline and temple. A cuticle picked raw on her left middle finger had turned red and swollen to a silky sheen.

She hugged the book tighter and followed me in. "That's a pretty pond I passed. Koi, right?"

"Right."

"The Manitows have a koi pond, a big one."

"Really." I'd been in Judy Manitow's chambers several dozen times, never visited her home.

"Dr. Manitow put in an incredible waterfall. You could swim in there. Yours is actually more . . . accessible. You have a beautiful garden."

"Thanks."

We entered the office and she sat down with the green book across her lap. Yellow lettering shouted:
Choosing the Right College for You!

"No problem finding the place?" I said, settling opposite her.

"Not at all. Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Delaware."

I wasn't used to being thanked by adolescents. "My pleasure, Stacy."

She blushed and turned away.

"Recreational reading?" I said.

Another strained smile. "Not exactly."

She began to look around the office.

"So," I said, "do you have any questions?"

"No, thanks." As if I'd offered her something.

I smiled. Waited.

She said, "I guess I should talk about my mother."

"If you want to."

"I don't know if I want to." Her right index fin- ger curled and moved toward her left hand, located the inflamed cuticle. Stroking. Picking. A dot of blood stretched to a scarlet comma. She covered it with her right hand.

"Dad says he's worried about my future, but I suppose I should talk about Mom." She angled her face so that it was shielded by black curls. "I mean, it's probably the right thing for me. That's what my friend says— she wants to be a psychologist. Becky Manitow, Judge Manitow's daughter."

"Becky's been doing some amateur therapy?"

She shook her head as if thinking about that made her tired. Her eyes were the same dark brown as her father's, yet a whole different flavor. "Becky's been in counseling herself, thinks it's the cure for everything. She lost a lot of weight, even more than her mother wanted her to, so they shipped her off to some therapist and now she wants to be one."

"You two friends?"

"We used to be. Actually, Becky's not . . . I don't want to be cruel, let's just say she's not into school."

"Not an intellectual."

She let out a small, soft laugh. "Not exactly. My mom used to tutor her in math."

Judy had never mentioned her daughter's problem. No reason to. Still, I wondered why Judy hadn't referred Stacy to Becky's therapist. Maybe too close to home, keeping everything in neat little boxes.

"Well," I said, "no matter what Becky or anyone says, you know what's best for you."

"Think so?"

"I do."

"You don't even know me."

"Competent till proven otherwise, Stacy."

"Okay." Another weak smile. So much effort to smile. I wrote a mental note:
poss. depress. as noted by J. Manitow.

Her hand lifted. The blood on her finger had dried and she rubbed the sore spot. "I don't think I really do. Want to talk about my mother, that is. I mean, what can I say? When I think about it I get down for days, and I've already had enough of those. And it's not as if it was a shock— her . . . what happened. I mean it
was
, when it actually happened, but she'd been sick for so long."

Same thing her father had said. Her own little speech, or his?

"This," she said, smiling again, "is starting to sound like one of those gross movies of the week. Lindsay Wagner as everyone's mom . . . What I'm saying is that what happened to my mother took so long . . . It wasn't like another friend of mine,
her
mother died in a skiing accident. Crashed into a tree and she was gone, just like that." Snap of the inflamed finger. "The whole family watching it happen.
That's
traumatic. My mother . . . I knew it was going to happen. I spent a long time wondering
when
, but . . ." Her bosom rose and fell. One foot tapped. The right index finger sought the sore spot again, curled to strike, scratched, retracted.

"Maybe we
should
talk about my so-called future," she said, lifting the green book. "First could I use the bathroom, please?"

• • •

She was gone ten minutes. After seven I started to wonder, was ready to get up to check if she'd left the house, but she returned, hair tied back in a bushy ponytail, mouth shiny with freshly applied lip gloss.

"Okay," she said. "College. The process. My lack of direction."

"That sounds like something someone told you."

"Dad, my school counselor, my brother, everyone. I'm almost eighteen, nearly a senior, so I'm supposed to be into it— career aspirations, compiling lists of extracurricular activities, composing brag sheets. Ready to sell myself. It feels so . . . phony. I go to Pali Prep, freak-city when it comes to college. Everyone in my class is freaking out daily. I'm not, so I'm the space alien." Her free hand flipped the edges of the green book's pages.

"Can't get into it?" I said.

"Don't
want
to get into it. I honestly don't care, Dr. Delaware. I mean, I know I'm going to end up somewhere. Does it really make a difference
where
?"