Dr. Death (35 page)

"If it comes to that. The only problem is, because he's so screwed up, in the process he may have upset his kids. His own peccadilloes, he can deal with. But his kids, he needs help with that."

Murder-for-hire as a peccadillo.

I said, "Do the kids know what he's done?"

"He hasn't told them, but they're smart kids, they may have figured it out."

"May have."

He nodded.

I said, "Does he intend to tell them?"

"He doesn't see the point of that."

"So he wants someone else to tell them."

"No," he said, suddenly raising his voice. A splash of rose seeped from under his shirt collar and climbed to his earlobes, vivid as a port-wine stain. "He definitely does
not
want that, that is
not
the issue. Helping them through the process
is.
I— he needs someone to tide them over until things settle down."

"He expects things to settle down," I said.

He smiled. "Circumstances dictate optimism. So, do we have an understanding of the issues at hand?"

"No knowledge provided to the kids, holding their hands until their father is out of trouble. Sounds like high-priced baby-sitting."

The flush darkened his entire face, his chest heaved and his eyes began to bulge. The surge of color made me draw back defensively. It's the kind of thing you see in people who have a serious problem with anger. I thought of Eric's outburst in the victims' room at the station.

New side of Richard. Before this, he'd been unfailingly contentious, sometimes irritable, but always cool.

He worked at cooling off now, placing one hand on the arm of the sofa, cupping a knee with the other, as if hastening self-restraint. Ticking off the seconds with his index finger. Ten ticks later, he said, "All right," in the tone you'd use with a slow learner. "We'll call it baby-sitting. Well-trained, well-
paid
baby-sitting. The main thing is the kids get what they need."

"Until things settle down."

"Don't worry," he said. "They will. The funny thing is, despite his poor judgment, he didn't actually
do
anything."

"Soliciting murder's not nothing— hypothetically speaking."

His eyelids drooped. He got up, stepped closer to my chair. I smelled mint on his breath, cologne, putrid sweat. "Nothing
happened.
"

"Okay," I said.

"
Nothing.
This person learned from his mistake."

"And didn't try again."

He aimed a finger gun down at me. "Bingo." Easy tone, but the flush had lingered. He stood there, finally returned to the sofa. "Okay then, we have a meeting of the minds."

"What exactly do you want me to tell your kids, Richard?"

"That everything's going to be fine." Making no attempt to steer it back to third-person theoretical. "That I may be . . . indisposed for a while. But only temporarily. They need to know that. I'm the only parent they have left.
They
need
me
, and
I
need
you
to facilitate."

"All right," I said. "But we should also be looking for other sources of support. Are there any family members who could—"

"No," he said. "No one. My mother's dead, and my father's ninety-two and living in a home in New Jersey."

"What about Joanne's side—"

"Nothing," he said. "Both of her parents are gone and she was an only child. Besides, I don't need meddling laymen, I need a professional. Not a bad deal for you. I'll start paying you the way I pay Safer— driving time, thinking time, every billable second."

I didn't answer.

He said, "Why do we have this thing, you and I, everything turns into a push-and-pull?"

Lots of answers to that one, none good. I said, "Richard, we have a meeting of the minds on one point: my role is helping Stacy and Eric. But I need to be honest with you: I have no magic to offer them. Information's my armament. I need to be equipped."

"Oh for God's sake," he said, "what do you want from me, confession? Expiation?"

"Expiation," I said. "Eric used that word, too."

His mouth opened. Shut. The flush drained from his face. Now he'd paled. "Eric has a good vocabulary."

"It's not a topic you and he have discussed?"

"Why the hell
would
it be?"

"I was just wondering if Eric had some reason to feel guilty."

"What the hell about?"

"That's what I'm asking," I said, feeling more like a lawyer cross-examining than a therapist easing pain. He was right, this was our script, and I was as much a player as he.

"No," he said, "Eric's fine. Eric's a great kid." He slumped, rubbed his eyes, half disappeared into the couch, and I began to feel sorry for him. Then I thought of him passing cash to Quentin Goad. In the name of closure.

"So there's nothing particular on Eric's mind."

"His mother destroyed herself, his father got hauled in by the gestapo. Now, what could be on his
mind
?"

He resumed staring at the TV screen. "What's the problem here? Do you resent us because we've made it? Did you grow up poor? Do you resent rich kids? Does having to deal with them day in and day out because they're the ones who pay your bills piss you off? Is that the reason you won't help us?"

My sigh was involuntary.

He said, "Okay, okay, sorry, that was out of line, it's been a . . . rough time. All I'm asking for is some help with Eric and Stacy. If I wasn't so close to the situation, I could deal with it myself. At least I have the insight to know my limitations, right? How many parents can you say that of?"

Footsteps sounded from above. Someone walking. Pacing. Stopping. The kids on the second floor . . .

I said, "No stonewall, Richard. I'm here for Eric and Stacy. Are you in any state to answer a few questions about Joanne?"

"What about Joanne?"

"Basic history. At what hospital did she take her medical tests?"

"St. Michael's. Why?"

"I may want to look at her medical records."

"Same question."

"I'm still trying to understand what was wrong with her."

"Her medical records won't tell you a damn thing," he said. "That's the point, the doctors didn't know. And what does Joanne's illness have to do with the current situation?"

"It may have something to do with Eric and Stacy," I said. "As I said, I run on information. May I have a release from you to look at her records?"

"Sure, sure, Safer can give it to you, I signed over power of attorney to him while I was indisposed. Now, how about going up to talk to my kids?"

"Please bear with me," I said. "After Joanne died, you called Mate, but he never called you back—"

"Did I tell you that?"

"No, Judy did when she made the referral."

"Judy." He swiped at his brow with the back of his hand. "Well, Judy's correct. I did try. Not once, several times. The bastard never gave me the courtesy."

"He didn't throw a press conference regarding Joanne, either."

His eyes slitted. "So?"

"Publicity seemed to be a motive for him—"

"You've got that right," he said. "He was a scum-sucking publicity hound. But don't ask me to explain what he did and didn't do. To me he was a name in the papers."

Easy to erase?

I said, "One other discrepancy: by the time Joanne contacted Mate, he'd already shifted from motels to vans. Yet Joanne died in a motel. Would there have been some reason for her to insist upon that? Some reason for her to travel to Lancaster—"

"She was
never
there," he said.

"Never at the motel?"

"Never in Lancaster." He laughed. Sudden, bitter, incongruous laughter. "Not till that night. It was a thing between us. I was out there all the time, did several projects there, building shopping centers, turning shit into gold. Used to copter from the Municipal Bank Building to Palmdale, drive the rest of the way. Spent so many goddamn hours there I used to feel I was
made
of sand. Joanne never saw
any
of it. I used to ask her
— beg
her— to drive out, just once in a while. Join me for lunch, see what we were accomplishing. I told her the desert could be beautiful when you looked at it a certain way, we could find some good, cheap eats, go casual— goddamn Pizza Hut or something, like when we were broke and dating. No way. She always turned me down, said it was too far to drive. Too much traffic, too dry, too hot, too busy, there was always a reason."

He laughed again. "But she ended up there." Turning to stare at me. For once, not a combative glare. Sad, pitiful, seeking an answer.

"Oh Jesus," he said. An abrupt, suppressed sob made him choke. He bounced once in the sofa, as if levitated by pain and slammed back down by fate.

"Goddamn her," he whispered. Then he lost the fight and the tears gushed. He punched air, punched his knees, attacked his own chest, his shoulder, knuckled his eyes. Hid his face from me.

"Fuckin'
Lancaster
! For
that
she goes out there! Oh
Jesus
! Oh Jesus
Christ
!"

He lowered his head between his legs, as if about to vomit, found no comfort in that position and sprang up, running to the wall of french doors, where he turned his back on me and cried silently while facing his swimming pool and his land and the faraway ocean.

"She must've really hated me," he said.

"Why would she hate you, Richard?"

"For not forgiving her."

"What did she do?"

"No," he said. "No more of this, don't strip off my skin, just let me get through this with my
skin
on, okay? I won't try to tell you how to do your job, just let it be. Help my kids.
Please.
"

"Sure," I said. "Of course."

27

THE FOOTSTEPS FROM above resumed. Moments later Joe Safer knocked on the doorjamb. Richard was still staring through the glass. He turned.

Safer said, "Everything all right?"

"Joe, I'm really bushed, think I'll lie down." Trudging to the sofa, Richard removed his shoes, lined them up at the base of the couch, stretched out.

"Why don't you go upstairs to bed?" said Safer.

"Nah, I'll just sack out here. This is my relaxation spot." Richard reached for a remote control, clicked on seventy inches of the Home & Garden channel. Someone wearing a plaid shirt and a massive tool belt building a redwood deck. Making it look as easy as licking an envelope, the way those types always do.

Within seconds, Richard seemed hypnotized.

"Ready for the children?" Safer asked me.

"Ready."

• • •

I followed him up a rear staircase, arranging the file cards in my head.

Guilt, expiation.
I didn't forgive her.

Joanne transgressing— probably exactly what I'd guessed: an affair.

Eric, close to his father, aligned with his father. Had Joanne's transgression led her son to despise her? Spending time with her as she destroyed herself, loving her but also
hating
her? Could that explain the Polaroids? Documenting her descent— her punishment— then passing the pictures to Richard . . .

That level of filial contempt was hard to imagine, but Eric was explosive and impulsive and he had the genes for it. Now, months later, was he coming to grips with what he'd done? Seeking his own expiation?

Richard had just admitted paying Quentin Goad to murder the death doctor.

Make it look bloody . . .
the wrong guy to cheat on. With Richard's need for control, how could Joanne have expected anything but rejection and retribution?

Attempted murder as closure . . . and, if Mate hadn't helped Joanne die, a grand mistake.

If he hadn't, who
had
?

Do-it-yourself job? As a microbiologist, Joanne had access to lethal chemicals, the skills for self-injection. But given her physical condition I couldn't see driving to Lancaster by herself . . .

She hated me.
Now I had a reason she'd died in the Happy Trails Motel.

So maybe Mate
had
been there, agreeing to revert back to rented rooms in order to respect Joanne's wishes. Same for the lack of publicity: perhaps Joanne had requested he keep it quiet. For the sake of the kids? No, that made no sense. If she'd wanted to shield Eric, why choose such a conspicuous suicide?

Why kill herself by
any
means?

One thing seemed clear: Mr. and Mrs. Doss had suffered through a troubled relationship. Mrs. had sinned and Mr. had refused to forgive her.

Joanne had bought into Richard's rage. Hating herself enough to self-destruct.

But she hadn't gone out without a parting shot.