Obsession (7 page)

“Were there compliance issues?”

“No, because there was no treatment. Her decision.”

“Did you agree?”

“It’s always hard to stand back and watch someone die, but, honestly, there was nothing I could do for her. The goal became making her last days as comfortable as possible. Even there, she opted for less.”

“Resisting the morphine drip, despite the anesthesiologist’s best efforts.”

“The anesthesiologist is my husband,” she said. “Obviously I’m biased but there’s no one better than Joseph. And yes, Patty resisted him. Still, I’m not judging. This was a relatively young woman who learned suddenly that she was going to die.”

“Did she ever talk about that?”

“Infrequently and in a detached manner. As if she was describing a patient. I guess she needed to depersonalize a horrible situation. Is Tanya really doing okay? She seemed mature for her age, but that can be a problem, too.”

“I’m keeping my eyes open. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“About Patty? How about this: Last year my brother ended up in the E.R. Auto accident, pretty nasty. He’s a dentist, was worried about a compression injury of one of his hands. Patty was on the night Gil came in and took care of him. Gil was sufficiently impressed enough to write a letter to Nursing Administration. He told me she was cool under pressure—absolutely unflappable, nothing got past her. When she was referred to me, I remembered her name, felt extremely sad. I wish I could’ve done more for her.”

“You gave her what she needed,” I said.

“That’s kind of you to say.” Small, edgy laugh. “Good luck with Tanya.”

Petra answered her cell phone. “Detective Connor.”

I filled her in.

She said, “Exactly where on Cherokee did this woman live?”

I gave her the address.

“I think I know it. Kind of raw sienna on the outside, not exactly posh?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ve made busts pretty close to there but nothing in that building specifically. Back then, Cherokee was a tough hood. According to all the old-timers who delight in telling me The Way It Was. Not the best place to raise a daughter.”

“Having a daughter wasn’t in her plans.” I explained how Tanya had come to live with Patty.

“Good Samaritan,” she said. “A nurse, to boot. Doesn’t sound like one of the bad guys.”

“I doubt she is.”

“Deathbed confession, huh? We love those. Sorry, Alex, nothing I’ve seen in the cold files matches that. Mostly, what I’ve been doing is compensating for other people’s screwups. You read the murder books, everyone knows who the bad guy is but someone was too lazy or there just wasn’t enough to prove it. But I’ll have another look in the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

“A did-it-even-happen, huh? Milo came up with that all by his lonesome?”

“He’s applying for copyright as we speak.”

“He darn well should. Take all the credit and none of the blame—that’s one of his, too.”

“Words he doesn’t live by,” I said. “Is Isaac still working with you?”

“Isaac? Ah, the database. No, the boy wonder is no longer tagging along. Finished his Ph.D. in BioStatistics, starting med school in August.”

“Double doctor,” I said. “What is he, ten years old?”

“Just turned twenty-three, what a slacker. The obvious question is why I don’t have a copy of his CD-ROM. The answer is he offered it to me but with all the static the department’s been getting about privacy violations, he had to submit a formal application to Parker Center first.”

“They made him apply to donate his own data?”

“In triplicate. After which the brass showed its gratitude by ignoring him for months, kept passing the forms to various committees, then Community Relations, legal counsel, the janitors, the catering truck drivers. We still haven’t heard back. If the bosses don’t get off their collectively spreading duff, I may just find myself a personal copy by accident. It’s nuts. Here I am going through boxes and breaking fingernails and Isaac’s got years worth of mayhem on a disk. Not that you just heard any of that.”

“Heard what?” I said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What kind of static is the department getting about privacy?”

“Mario Fortuno,” she said.

“Private eye to the stars,” I said. “That was what, three years ago?”

“Three and a half is when they got him on the explosives charge but the larger issue is his wiretapping and what I hear is the fallout from that is just beginning.”

“What do illegal taps have to do with Isaac’s crime stats?”

“Fortuno gained access to personal data, had people stalked and harassed and generated some not-so-subtle threats to citizens who’d offended his honcho clients. One way he got the info—and once again you never heard it from me—is by bribing sources at DMV, the phone company, various banks. And the department.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Oh, indeed. If Fortuno ever opens up, there are Hollywood honchos and big-time criminal defense lawyers who could find themselves in the defendant’s chair.”

“Code of silence, so far?”

“In the beginning he put out the
omerta
line, guy loves the whole Mafia intrigue thing. But what I hear is he’s got six more years on a nine-year sentence and prison life hasn’t been fun. Whatever happens or doesn’t, the brass hears ‘computer disk,’ there’s a stampede to the little boys’ room.”

“Is there anything stopping me, as a concerned private citizen, from talking to Doctor-Doctor Gomez who is now a concerned private citizen?”

“Gee,” she said, “that’s an interesting question. Here’s his phone number.”

“Thanks, Petra. Good talking to you.”

“Same here,” she said. “I think I’ll cut out early and get file dust out of my hair.”

Isaac Gomez answered at his parents’ Union district apartment.

“Hey, Dr. Delaware.”

“Congratulations, Dr. Gomez.”

“Dr. Gomez is some guy with gray hair and bifocals,” he said. “Though if you ask my mother, I’ve already earned tenure and it’s only a matter of time before the Nobel committee knocks at our door.”

“Your mother’s cooking might clinch the award,” I said. “Getting ready for med school?”

“I’m not sure you can ever be ready. I sat in on a few classes last semester and after grad school it seemed regressive, everyone sitting in one room, no curriculum flexibility. One factor might make it more enjoyable. My girlfriend will be in the class.”

“Congrats again.”

“Yes, it’s great.”

Heather Salcido was a tiny, dark-haired beauty whom Isaac had saved from a killer. As good a foundation as any for romance.

“She’d already taken the premed courses studying for her RN. I convinced her to take the MCATS. She scored high, applied, got in. She’s still a little apprehensive but I’m certain she’ll excel. We’re hoping seeing each other daily will help ease the process. So why are you calling?”

I told him.

He said, “Making you a copy of the disks—there are two—is no problem. But they’re encrypted and fairly inaccessible unless you’ve had experience decoding.”

“Not since I worked with the Navajos and unlocked secret Nazi transmissions.”

“Ha. Why don’t you give me the specific addresses on your list and I’ll check for straightaway matches. If I don’t find any, I’ll program a search function that pulls up loci in a steadily widening concentric net where we can adjust for radius. Do you have any geographical criterion in mind?”

Close by.

I said, “Not yet.”

“Okay, so we’ll adopt an empirical approach. Swing the net—like a seine—and analyze which patterns emerge. I could do it in, say in a couple of days?”

“That would be great, Isaac. I really appreciate it.”

“One complication, Dr. Delaware. Heather and I are taking a trip to Asia—last vacation before the grind. Once we’re there, I won’t be available because Myanmar—what used to be Burma—is part of our itinerary and the government there has been known to confiscate computers and refuse entry to anyone trying to bring one in.”

“Maybe that’ll be good for you,” I said.

“How so?”

“Pure vacation, no encumbrances.”

“That’s what Heather says, but to me a computer’s no encumbrance. The notion of traveling without one feels like leaving an arm or a leg at home. It’ll be interesting to see how I adapt.”

Talking about himself as a research subject. I thought of Patty’s detachment. The partitions we all build.

He said, “Meanwhile, give me those streets and I’ll play around.”

Two hours of my own computer games produced no citation or image of Patty Bigelow, no crimes at any of the four addresses.

I made a grilled cheese sandwich that I shared with Blanche. When I poured coffee, she opened her mouth and panted. A coffee-coated fingertip placed on her tongue caused her to back away, shake her head, and spit.

“Everyone’s a critic,” I said. “Next time I’ll brew espresso.”

I tried Robin’s cell, got her voice on message tape. After wondering some more about Patty’s housing choices, I tried Tanya.

“No malpractice,” she said. “Dr. Silverman’s sure?”

“He is.”

“Okay…have you been able to learn anything?”

“Detective Sturgis is going to do some introductory investigation.”

“That’s great,” she said. Flat voice.

“Everything okay, Tanya?”

“I’m a little tired.”

“When you have more energy, I’d like to talk to you again.”

“Sure,” she said. “Eventually.”

“I don’t mean therapy,” I said. “I’d like to find out more about all the places you and your mother lived. For background.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sure, I can do that. I’ve some straightening up to do, then it’s back to campus for study group. Summer school’s supposed to be more mellow but the profs don’t seem to realize that. And with the quarter system, you barely have time to buy books before midterms…could we do it late, say nine thirty? No forget that, I don’t want to impose.”

“It doesn’t need to be tonight, Tanya.”

“I hate having things pile up, Dr. Delaware. If you had time, so would I, but of course that’s not right. You need your evenings—”

“Nine thirty’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Could we make it nine forty-five, just to be safe? I could come back to your office or you could come to my house—maybe you’d like to see the home Mommy made.”

“I would.”

“Great!” she said. “I’ll make coffee.”

At nine twenty, as I was crating Blanche, my private line rang.

A welcome voice said, “I love you.”

“Love you, too. Having fun?”

“I’m coming home a day early. The lectures were good but it’s starting to feel like school. I sold that F5 replica, some dot-com guy kept upping the ante.”

Robin had spent a year acquiring the aged fiddle-grain maple and red spruce billets for the elaborately carved mandolin, had worked on tapping and shaving and shaping for another twelve months, brought the finished product to Healdsburg for display only.

“Must’ve been a nice ante?” I said.

“Twenty-one thousand.”

“Whoa. Congratulations.”

“I hated to part with it, but a girl has her price. I guess…I figure to set out early Sunday morning, be back by evening. What’s your schedule like?”

“Flexible.”

“Has the little blonde moved in on my territory, yet?”

“The little blonde eats kibble and sleeps all day.”

“The quiet ones,” she said, “they always bear watching.”

I drove to Tanya’s house, thinking back to the first time I’d met her.

Skinny little blond girl wearing a dress, anklet socks, and shiny sandals. Back pressed to the wall of my waiting area, as if the carpet was bottomless water.

When I’d stepped out of the office, Patty had touched Tanya’s cheek gently. Tanya’s nod was grave, a movement so brief it bordered on tic. Fingers as delicate as fettuccini gripped her mother’s chunky hand. A shiny foot tapped. The other was planted on the imaginary shoreline.

I bent to child’s eye level. “Nice to meet you, Tanya.”

Murmured reply. All I could make out was “you.”

Patty said, “Tanya chose her outfit. She likes to dress up, has excellent taste.”

“Very pretty, Tanya.”

Tanya mouth-breathed; I smelled hamburger and onion.

I said, “Let’s go in there. Mom can come, too, if you’d like.”

Patty said, “Or I don’t have to.” She hugged the little girl and stepped away. Tanya didn’t move.

“I’ll be right here, honey. You’ll be okay, I super-promise.”

Tanya looked up at her. Took a deep breath. Gave another grim little nod and stepped forward.

She surveyed the props on the play table. Open-sided dollhouse, family-member figurines, pencils, crayons, markers, a stack of paper. Prolonged eye contact with the paper.

“Do you like to draw?”

Nod.

“If you feel like drawing now, that’s fine.”

She picked up a pencil and drew a slow, wispy circle. Sat back, frowned. “It’s bumpy.”

“Is bumpy okay?”

Pale green eyes studied me. She put the pencil down. “I came here to break my habits.”

“Mom told you that?”

“She said if I want to, I should tell you.”

“Which habits bother you the most, Tanya?”

“Mommy told you all of them.”

“She did. But I’d like to know what you think.”

Puzzled look.

“They’re your habits,” I said. “You’re in charge over them.”

“I don’t want to be in charge.”

“You’re ready to let go of the habits.”

Mumble.

“What’s that, Tanya?”

“They’re bad.”

“Bad like scary?”

Head shake. “They make me busy.”

The pencil was an inch from where it had lain originally and she rolled it back. Adjusted the tip, then the eraser. Readjusted and tried, without success, to smooth a curling corner of paper.

“That bumpy circle,” I said, “could be the start of a person’s face.”

“Can I throw it out?”

“Sure.”

Folding and unfolding the sheet lengthwise, she ripped slowly along the crease. Repeated the process with each of the halves.