31
He stopped in front of my house, keeping the engine running. “Gonna set up the watch schedule for tonight, maybe I’ll get lucky and catch Mandy doing something bad. Have a nice rest-of-the-day.”
Before I could answer, he’d sped away.
* * *
—
Robin’s Post-it was stuck to the inside of the front door. Out delivering a Baroque lute to a rock musician in Pacific Palisades who didn’t play Baroque music or the lute. (“Took Blanchie. I need intelligent conversation.”) I went to my office and tried Maxine Driver again.
She said, “You are persistent. I was just about to text you, good, this saves my fingernails. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to report. I made all the calls I could think of without arousing suspicion. Got a general sense that no one wants to talk about the program.”
“The suicide?”
“I was told it just didn’t work, kids dropped out. What I did manage to pry out is that it wasn’t a touchie-feelie group thing. No meetings of all the kids, just individual mentoring when requested.”
I said, “When requested. Sounds like a loose setup.”
“That was the point, another do-your-own-thing. That’s the way it is nowadays, Alex. Too much structure’s a no-no because if you offend the little bastards they slime you on Yelp, you might as well be a sushi bar or a shoe store. You’d expect administration to back up the faculty. You’d be wrong. They read the ratings and get all antsy about fewer applications leading to a lower rating in U.S. News leading to Academic Armageddon.”
I said, “Toddlers running the nursery.”
“Except toddlers are cute. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Who mentored these tots?”
“Outside advisors.”
“Not regular faculty?”
“Nope.”
“Academics from other colleges?”
“No idea, Alex. For all I know they used volunteer alumni. The program only lasted two quarters, which in postmodern, ADHD college terms means it never happened.”
I said, “Poor you, Maxine. Short attention spans must be tough for a historian.”
“It’s death on wheels. I mention Darfur I get blank looks. I talk about socialism and the little darlings think it means a lot of likes on Facebook and Instagram.”
“Thanks, Maxine.”
“Wish there was something to thank me for. Any progress at your end?”
“We got a victim I.D. but it could be false. Suzanne DaCosta. Please tell me she sat in your class next to Amanda.”
She laughed. “Want me to see if she was ever enrolled here?”
“If you could.”
“Easy-peasy,” she said. “Compared with all that CIA attitude I get when I ask about that stupid program.”
* * *
—
I phoned Robin.
She said, “On the way home, sitting on Sunset near the Archer School. Two blocked lanes, guys in orange vests and hard hats standing around near big machines looking way too mellow.”
A couple of miles west of the Glen. “ETA?”
“At least half an hour.”
I groaned.
She said, “Exactly. I thought I’d cook but now I don’t feel like it. Let’s go out.”
“You bet. Where?”
“Anywhere away from idlers in orange vests.”
* * *
—
I checked my notes for direction.
One source I hadn’t gotten close to: Peter Kramer, assistant manager of the apartment complex when Cassy Booker had died.
I searched some more, came up empty. Lots of reasons for that. Given the building on Strathmore, one stuck in my head. Unlikely, but…
I looked at my watch. Unfair to Basia?
Then again, if she was still in the office, she was working.
* * *
—
She answered, sounded tired. “I’m on my way out, Alex.”
“Sorry. Forget it.”
“Very clever, making me curious. What?”
“I was wondering if you could look up one more name to see if he ever checked into your hotel.”
“Hotel,” she said, laughing. “Morbid. I like that. Who’s the potential guest?”
“Peter Kramer. To be relevant, his death would have to occur no later than two years ago, February.”
“After the Booker girl died. You think he’s connected to her?”
“Probably not but he worked at her building and disappeared shortly after she died.”
“Hold on.”
Click click click.
Her breath caught.
“Oh, Alex. The body of a man by that name came to us on March seventh. He was found in an alley off East Fourth Street.”
“Skid Row.”
“Right in the center of Skid Row. Would you care to guess COD?”
“Heroin with a fentanyl chaser.”
“No, just heroin,” she said. “We termed it accidental…well-nourished Caucasian male, thirty-four years of age…et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…this is interesting: one fresh puncture mark in the right cubital fossa but no sign externally or internally of addiction.”
“A virgin?” I said. “A serious shot of heroin alone would do it.”
“Based on his blood chemistry, a very serious shot. Twice the estimated lethal dosage.”
“Any family contacts listed?”
“Father,” said Basia. “Milo needs to officially ask for the infor—oh, forget it. Do you have a pen?”
CHAPTER
32
Paul Kramer, M.D., office on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, residence on South Camden Drive in the same city.
Sixty-nine years old, board-certified in orthopedic surgery, M.D. from Tufts, internship and residency at Mass General in Boston.
I texted the information to Milo along with what it meant.
My phone pinged an incoming text. Not his reply, Robin letting me know she was hung up in another clot on the western edge of the U., figure at least another fifteen minutes.
So near, yet…Blanche is serene. Good influence on me, I’m deep-breathing.
I answered: Poor you. Bel-Air tonight? It’s still Sunset but later should be okay.
Let me think. OK, thought: Yum!! Give me forty-five to clean up.
No need but sure.
Shameless flatterer. AKA good relationship.
* * *
—
My phone pinged an incoming call.
Milo said, “Kramer. How’d you find all this out?”
“Bothered Basia. Maxine couldn’t tell me much—no evidence of any group meetings—so I tried another avenue.”
“God bless you,” he said. “This is getting interesting in a bad way.”
I said, “Maybe a visit to Dr. Kramer can clarify.”
“Let’s try for tomorrow. Meanwhile I’m watching Amanda and she’s not obliging by doing anything iffy. One short bike ride to get a burger in the Village, then back inside the building. I’m going to wrap it up in another hour and take the chance nothing happens before Alicia’s on shift tomorrow morning. What time would you be up for Kramer’s dad?”
“Whenever he’s available.”
“I’ll call his home at seven a.m., surgeons are early risers.” The sound of chewing intruded on his speech. “Street taco, in case you’re curious. Okay, thanks again for being curious and obsessive. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight, maybe abject terror will keep me up.”
“What are you scared of?”
“That damn building,” he said. “Something’s obviously going on there. What if we’re totally wrong about Garrett and it’s some twisted troll we don’t know about? Lives quietly in one of those units, gets off on sadistic pharmacology? How the hell am I going to pry that out.”
I said, “Ergo following Amanda, persisting with Mr. Pena, and trying Dr. Kramer.”
“Went to parochial school. Latin doesn’t calm me down, just the opposite.”
* * *
—
Robin was home ten minutes later. Forty-five minutes of “cleanup” distilled to half that time, the result an hourglass body in a clinging navy dress set off by quiet but strategic jewelry. Auburn curls fluffed and nearly wild, shining, brown almond eyes huge and clear.
Some perfume I’d never smelled before.
I kissed her long and hard. She pressed against me.
“Ooh. Someone’s got a healthy appetite.”
“For food, as well.”
“Hah.” Taking me by the hand, she led me out of the house and down to the Seville. “Looking forward to a bit of luxe, been a while. And we always get priority parking ’cause the attendants love the car.”