The Clinic (8 page)

Does that orchestrated wound pattern seem like the work of a kid with a short fuse and a dirty mouth? Fifty wounds would fit that better. Or bashing her head in. Plus Storm went through channels to vent his spleen, got his revenge through Daddy’s lawyer.”

“That’s why I asked if he’s still in school. Maybe going through channels didn’t prove satisfying.

And don’t forget the bike tire marks.”

“Boy on a ten-speed.” The light changed and he turned east, drove slowly til the traffic thinned, then made a quick right south of the boulevard. We were close to the murder street. By L.A.

terms, Hope had been my neighbor. Robin had probably been thinking about that.

We sailed through the cold, black privacy of Holmby Hills, past high walls and old trees; small,
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hostile signs reminding us of the presence of an armed patrol. Milo rolled through a boulevard stop and continued south. The estates gave way to houses as we entered residential Westwood.

“I’ll follow up on Storm Junior,” he said. “On all three of them. Going to be making a lot of people who thought they’d put the committee behind them very unhappy.”

We sat parked near the big elm for a while, talking about the murder and other things before sinking into an aspic of silence. No movement behind the amber-lit curtains. No signs of life.

“Ready to meet him?”

“Thrilled.”

“Yeah, he’s a thrilling guy.”

Just as we were about to get out, headlights came at us and a car stopped in front of the Devane/Seacrest house, turned up the driveway, and parked behind the Volvo.

Red Mustang.

“There you go,” I said. “He does go out. Took a spin in the sports car.”

“Her sports car.” Milo stared, mouth tight, eyes tuned.

The headlights shut off and a man got out of the red car and walked up to the front door.

“That’s not Seacrest. Seacrest is taller.”

The man rang the bell. It was too dark to make out details but he was short—maybe five seven—and wore a long coat. Hands in pockets, his back to us.

A house light went on downstairs and the door opened partially. The man slipped inside.

“A pal?” I said. “Someone Seacrest lent the car to?”

“Long as he’s being hospitable, let’s partake.”

It took a lot longer for our ring to be answered. Finally from behind the door came a “Yes?”

“It’s Detective Sturgis, Professor.”

Another partial opening. Philip Seacrest was indeed taller than the man in the coat. Close to Milo’s six-three but sixty pounds lighter, with narrow shoulders and a drawn, squarish face turned grubby by a poorly trimmed gray beard. His nose was small and wide and might have been broken once. His hair was gray and unruly, puffing over his ears but skimpy on top. He wore a gray-and-green plaid shirt, gray twill slacks that had once been expensive but were shiny at the knees, felt bedroom slippers. The shirt was rolled to his elbows, exposing hairless,
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soft-looking arms.

One incongruity: a small anchor tattoo on his left forearm, pale blue, crudely done, probably a Navy souvenir. I knew he was fifty-five but he looked older. Maybe it was grief. Or bad genes.

Or going to work every day and doing the same thing over and over without distinction.

“Detective.” He took hold of the doorpost. Quiet voice, just above a mumble. If he lectured that way the back rows wouldn’t hear him.

Behind him I could see old, clumsy furniture, floral wallpaper, a grandfather clock in the crook of a narrow staircase. Small brass chandelier. I smelled the not-quite-cooked odor of microwaved food.

On the far wall of the entry, a colonial eagle mirror’s convex lens stared back like a giant eye.

No sight of the Mustang driver.

“Professor,” said Milo.

Seacrest’s eyes were big, brown, two shades darker than those of his dead wife, soft as a child’s.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Are we interrupting something, sir?”

The “we” made him notice me, but not for long.

“No.”

“May we come in?”

Seacrest hesitated for a second. “All right.” Saying it louder—warning the other man? He stayed in the doorway, then stepped aside.

No eye contact. I was already picking up the evasiveness that had alerted Milo.

Then he did look at us. But not with affection.

Sometimes cops and victims’ families bond, but there was none of that here. Quite the opposite. A coldness.

Maybe it was because he didn’t like being dropped in on.

Or because he’d been treated as a suspect from the beginning.

Maybe he deserved that.

He remained in the entry hall, licking his lips and touching his Adam’s apple, then he looked over his shoulder at the staircase. The shorter man up there?

Milo stepped closer and Seacrest retreated a step. It took him nearer the convex mirror and he became a gray smear in the silvered glass.

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“So,” he repeated. “What can I do for you?”

“Just checking in,” said Milo.

“No progress.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

Seacrest nodded, as if bad news were to be expected.

I took in the house. Center hall plan, the entry modest, floored in vinyl tiles that simulated white marble, the staircase carpeted in faded green.

Living room to the right, dining room to the left. More fusty furniture, not quite old enough to be antique. He’d inherited the house from his parents. Probably the stuff he’d grown up with.

Disparate throw rugs spread limply over brown wall-to-wall plush. Beyond the stairs was a small pine-paneled room lined with books. Books on the floor, too. A plaid couch. The grandfather clock hadn’t been set and its pendulum hung inertly.

Footsteps thumped from the second floor.

“One of Hope’s students,” Seacrest said, fingering his beard. “Retrieving some research material Hope left behind. I finally had the gumption to go through Hope’s things after the police took everything apart, and repack them. Those first two detectives just threw everything around—one second.”

He climbed halfway up the stairs. “Almost through?” he called. “The police are here.”

A voice from above said something. Seacrest came back down slowly, like an unwilling bride.

“Research material,” said Milo. “It belongs to the student?”

“They were working together. It’s the norm at the doctoral level.”

I said, “How many students did she have?”

“I don’t believe many.”

“Because of the book?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“The time demands.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But also because Hope was particular.” Seacrest glanced toward the stairs.

“It’s still a mess—Hope’s approach to things was . . . she wasn’t overly . . . compulsive. Which is not to say her mind wasn’t organized. Itwas. Exceptionally so. One of her many talents. Perhaps that was the point.”

“What was, Professor?”

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Seacrest pointed up the stairs, as if at a chalkboard. “What I mean to say is I always wondered if the reason she could afford to work in disorder was because she was sointernally tidy—so beautifully schematized—that she had noneed for external order. Even as a graduate student she’d study with the radio on, the television. I found that unbelievable. I need absolute solitude.”

He sniffed. “She was much smarter than I.” His eyes got wet.

“You’re not getting much solitude tonight,” said Milo.

Seacrest tried to smile. His mouth wouldn’t go along and it came out a pig’s-tail of ambivalence.

“So, no new ideas,” he said. “I wish I had some of my own. But madness is just madness. So banal.”

“Coming down,” said a voice from the stairs.

The shorter man descended, a cardboard box in both hands.

He was in his twenties with long, dark, straight hair slicked back from a face so angular it made James Dean’s look pudgy. He had full, dark lips, hollow cheeks, smooth skin, and heavy black eyebrows. The long coat was a scuffed black leather trench and under the hem was an inch of blue denim cuff. Black boots with thick soles and heavy chrome buckles.

He blinked. Long, curving lashes over dark blue eyes. Upstairs, where the bedrooms were. I thought about Seacrest’s possible warning and wondered about whether he’d come for something other than data.

Driving Hope’s car . . . quite a privilege for someone else’s student. But for a new friend . . .

I glanced over at Milo. He hadn’t budged.

The young man reached the bottom, holding the box out in front of him like an offering. Neat writing in black marker on the side saidSELF-CONTROL STUDY, BATCH 4, PRELIM.He put it down. Half-open flaps revealed computer printouts.

He had long, slender hands. On the right index finger was a big silver skull ring. Red glass for the skull’s eyes. The kind of thing you get in a Hollywood Boulevard schlock shop.

“Hi, I’m Casey Locking.” His voice was deep and liquid, relaxed, like that of an all-night DJ.

Milo identified himself.

Locking said, “I spoke to two other detectives right after it happened.”

Milo’s jaw twitched. Nothing about the interview in Paz and Fellows’s files.

“Have you learned anything, yet?” said Locking.

“Not yet.”

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“She was a great teacher and a fantastic person.”

Seacrest sighed.

“Sorry, Professor,” said Locking.

“Your name rings a bell,” said Milo. “Got it. You sat on the conduct committee, right?”

Locking’s black eyebrows became tiny croquet wickets. “Yes, I did.”

Seacrest turned toward the conversation with sudden interest.

Locking touched a leather lapel and a crescent of white T-shirt became visible. “You’re not thinking the committee had something to do with . . . what happened?”

“You don’t think that’s possible?”

Locking rolled his fingers. “God, I never really considered that.”

“Why not?”

“It just didn’t seem—I guess to me all those guys seemed like cowards.”

“I’d say Professor Devane was killed in a cowardly manner.”

I tried to observe Seacrest without being obvious. Still looking at the floor, arms loose and limp.

“I guess so,” said Locking. “You’re the detective, but . . . did you know that the dean sent down a directive? Everything associated with the committee is confidential. So I can’t talk about it.”

“Things have changed,” said Milo.

“Yes, I guess they have. But that’s really all I have to say.” Locking picked up the box. “Good luck.”

Milo edged closer to him. Milo’s height and bulk often cause people to retreat. Locking didn’t.

“So you did research with Professor Devane?”

“She was my dissertation advisor. We did some work together.”

“Have you found a new advisor yet?”

“Not yet.”

“How many other students was she supervising?”

“Just me and one other.”

“What’s the other’s name?”

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“Mary Ann Gonsalvez. She’s been in England for a year.” Locking turned to Seacrest. “The car’s fine, Professor Seacrest. Just needed an oil change and a new air filter. I left the keys upstairs.”

“Thank you, Casey.”

Locking walked to the door, freed one hand to open it while keeping the box up against his chest.

“Nice ring,” said Milo.

Locking stopped, gave a slow abdominal laugh. “Oh, that. Tacky, isn’t it? Someone gave it to me. I guess I should get rid of it.”

Milo closed the door after him.

“Nice of him to get your car fixed, Professor.”

“A barter,” said Seacrest. “I searched for his data and he took care of the car. Is there anything else, Mr. Sturgis?”

“No, just checking to see if you’ve thought of anything. And I wanted to introduce you to Dr.

Delaware. He’s our consulting psychologist.”

The soft eyes squinted. “Oh?”

“Given your wife’s background I thought Dr. Delaware might be able to help us.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a good idea.”

“By the way, where’s the dog?”

“Pardon?”

“Your Rottweiler.”

“Hilde? I gave her away. She was Hope’s dog.”

“Not a dog person, yourself?”

Seacrest hadn’t stopped staring at me. “The truth is, I’m tired. Can’t seem to get my energy back. Can’t give Hilde the attention she deserves. And I don’t need yet another reminder of the way things used to be.”

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“Who’d you give her to?”

“An organization called Rottweiler Rescue.”

“What kind of dog was Hilde?”

“Nice, a bit rambunctious.”

“Was she protective?”

“Seemed to be, though that’s not why Hope bought her. She wanted companionship. When she walked.”

Seacrest wiped his eyes.

“Did the two of you never walk together?” said Milo.

“No, I’m not one for exercise. Hope loved physical activity and Hilde was an active dog.

Always had her eyes on Hope. That’s why it was terribly . . . ironic. Hilde not being there.” He scratched his beard. The eyes were wide, again. Very bright, as if backlit by hot, white metal.

“After Hope’s death, the dog was miserable,” he said. “I was depressed, not equipped.”

“Who took care of Hilde during Professor Devane’s book tour?”

“Oh, I did, but Hope never stayed away long. Two, three days on the road, back for two or three, then out again.”

“Did Hilde have a history of stomach problems?”

“No.” Seacrest’s eyes left mine reluctantly. “The first two detectives wondered if she’d been poisoned by the murderer. Had I thought of that I would have had her tested. Not that it would tell much, I suppose.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s say shewas given something. We’d still have no idea by whom.”

Seacrest looked at me again. “A police psychologist. That’s a job Hope would never have taken.”

“Why not?” said Milo.

“She distrusted authority. I’m from a different generation.”

“She didn’t like the police?” said Milo.

“She felt all organizations were inherently . . . inefficient.”

“And you disagreed.”

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