Survival of the Fittest (33 page)

“Plastic,” said Milo. “Glock.”

“No, a smaller manufacturer.” Sharavi slipped the weapon into a pocket of the shorts. “So the blind man
was
part of it.”

Milo told him what we’d learned and we returned to the computer room. Moments later we learned that Melvin A. Myers had no criminal record and had received various forms of public assistance for most of his life. No family.

“Let’s try the school,” said Milo. “Central City Skills Center.”

Unsurprisingly, no one answered and Sharavi played with data banks for a while, finally locating a two-year-old article on the school in the
Los Angeles Times.
The director at that time had been a woman named Darlene Grosperrin.

“At least it’s not Smith,” said Milo. “Look her up.”

He was sitting on the edge of his folding chair, moving in rhythm with Sharavi’s one-handed stabs at the keyboard. Unaware of the harmony.

Sharavi complied. “Yes, here it is, DMV: Darlene Grosperrin, Amherst Street, Brentwood.”

Milo’s long arm shot forward as he grabbed the phone and dialed 411. He barked, listened, wrote down the number. “Grosperrin, D., no first name, no address, but how many of those can there be.   .   .   . Here’s what you get for your trusting nature, Ms. G. A midnight call.”

He punched numbers again.

“Darlene Grosperrin? This is Detective Milo Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department, sorry to call this late—pardon, ma’am? No, no, not your daughter, sorry to scare you, ma’am   .   .   . it’s about one of the students at the skills center, a gentleman named Melvin A. Myers—no, ma’am, unfortunately, he’s
not
okay   .   .   .”

He put the phone down ten minutes later.

“Top student, she says. And not retarded, smart, one of their best trainees, could type over one hundred fifty words a minute on the computer. He was due to graduate in a few months, she was sure he’d get a job.”

He rubbed his face.

“She was pretty broken up, couldn’t tell me what he’d been doing in the alley. Sometimes he ate dinner downtown before heading back to Crenshaw but there’d be no reason for him to wander in there. And he was pretty good with that cane, knew the street layout.”

“So he
was
lured,” I said. “What about family?”

“None—lucky for Bob Pierce. Myers has been living alone for the last five years, since his mother died. Apparently she sheltered him and after she was gone he decided to pull himself together. First he took some training at the braille center, then he enrolled at the school. They’ve got an eighteen-month computer program and he was acing it. The address on Stocker is a state-financed group home.”

Sharavi removed the black-matte pistol and placed it next to the computer. “A blind man   .   .   . my contact back east called me while you were gone. He’s found nothing on Meta in New York, but the lawyer who wrote that article in
The Pathfinder—
Farley Sanger—is still practicing at the same Wall Street firm. The editor—that woman stock analyst, Helga Cranepool—is still working at her job, too. Neither of them comes up in Lexis, so Sanger doesn’t go to court on important cases. My source says the firm does estate planning for rich people.”

“What kind of car does he drive?” said Milo. “What kind of shampoo does he use?”

“Mercedes station wagon, one year old. I’ll try to find out about the shampoo. And if he uses cream rinse.”

Milo laughed.

Sharavi said, “The Mercedes is registered in Connecticut. Sanger’s got a home in Darien and an apartment on East Sixty-ninth Street. He’s forty-one years old, married, has two children, a boy and a girl, no record of criminal activity.”

“So Sanger’s being watched.”

“For a while. I also looked up Zena Lambert, the bookstore clerk. No criminal record for her, either. She’s twenty-eight years old, lives on Rondo Vista Street in Silverlake. The bookstore’s nearby. She has a MasterCard but rarely uses it. Last year, she earned eighteen thousand dollars.”

He smiled. “I’ll check into her hair-care, as well.”

“You surveilling her, too?” said Milo.

“Not without your agreement.”

“How long are you planning to surveil Sanger?”

“Long as necessary. In view of his belief that retarded people are—what was the phrase, Dr. Delaware—”

“Meat without mentation,” I said.

“—meat without mentation, it seems a good idea, maybe he’ll do something that tells us more about the group. On both coasts.”

“Speaking of coasts, any chance of accessing his travel records?” said Milo. “Corporate lawyers fly back and forth all the time, nice cover.”

“Good idea,” said Sharavi. “I’ll do it tomorrow, when offices open in New York. In view of Myers’s murder, I did call all the major hotels here in L.A., just to check if Sanger’s registered and he’s not. But he could be traveling under a different name.”

“Thanks for all the work.”

Sharavi shrugged. “What next?”

“I’ve got an appointment to meet with Mrs. Grosperrin tomorrow morning, see if I can learn more about Myers, why he was lured, as opposed to some other student.”

“For one, he was black,” I said. “Every single victim—except Ponsico—was non-Anglo.”

“A racist eugenicist,” said Sharavi.

“The two have generally gone together. A look at the books Spasm sells might give us some information. Something tells me the place doesn’t specialize in children’s literature. When do I go?”

Sharavi’s eyebrows rose.

Milo told him, “He wants to play Superspy. I blame
you.
”

“Are you thinking of going as yourself, Doctor?”

“I wasn’t planning to show ID.”

“Then maybe you should take alternative ID.” Sharavi turned to Milo. “It’s the kind of thing I could be helpful with.”

“Undercover hoo-hah?” said Milo.

“For his protection. If he’s up for a bit of role-playing.”

Talking about me in the third person.

Sharavi gave me an appraising look. “You’ve already made progress on a beard.”

Chapter

38

At that point, something in the room changed.

Milo and Sharavi found several points of agreement:

Undercover work was serious business—temporary dissociation, Sharavi called it.

“We’re talking a visit to a bookstore,” I said.

“A visit that could lead to something, Doctor. You need to be extremely careful from the start.”

“Meaning?”

“Go as someone else, get comfortable being someone else.”

“Fine.”

“And,” said Milo, “you need Robin’s okay on this.”

“Don’t you think this is a little—”

“No, Alex, I don’t. What will probably happen is you’ll go there, look at some weird books, come home. Even if you do hook up with Meta, it could dead-end, maybe they’re just weenies. But Daniel and I both know police work’s ninety-nine percent boredom, one percent panic at the unexpected. We are dealing with a person who stabbed a blind man in the back.”

He asked Sharavi, “How long would it take you to get him false papers?”

“Half a day,” said the Israeli, “for driver’s license, credit cards, social security. I can also get him clothes, if that’s necessary, and a car.”

“The address on the ID,” said Milo. “Bogus or real?”

“Real is better—I know of a place in the Valley that’s available right now, but I may also be able to find one in the city.”

“Just cover or actual use?”

“In the event of a prolonged role-play, he could use it.”

Milo turned to me. “What if you need to move for a while, Alex? Are you ready for that?”

Hard voice. I knew what he was thinking. The last time I’d relocated, the move had been coerced. Running from the psychopath who’d burned my house down.

“I assume we’re not talking long-term.”

“Probably days, not weeks,” said Milo. “But what about patients?”

“No active ones,” I said. Since Helena Dahl had dropped out. I thought of her brother, another high-IQ suicide   .   .   .

“What about old patients in crisis?”

“I can always check in with my service. Most of what I’ve got is paperwork—reports due.”

“Good,” said Sharavi. “So far, your lifestyle seems to fit this nicely.”

Milo frowned.

They both gave me more rules:

In order to avoid accidental slipups, I needed to use a false name similar to my real one and a personal history that grew out of my own.

“A psychologist, but not one in active practice,” said Milo. “Nothing traceable.”

“How about someone who attended psychology graduate school but dropped out before finishing?” I said. “ABD. All but dissertation.”

“Dropped out for what reason?”

“Personality conflicts,” I said. “He was too smart for them, so they messed him up during his dissertation. My instinct is that’s a Meta-compatible profile.”

“Why?”

“Because people who spend lots of time talking and thinking about how smart they are generally don’t accomplish much.”

Milo considered that and nodded.

“So far so good?” he asked Sharavi.

“Yes, but you should start thinking in terms of
you,
Doctor, not
he.
”

“Okay,” I said. “They messed
me
up because I threatened them. My research threatened them. The genetics of IQ, politically incorrect—”

“No,” said Milo. “Too close—too cute.”

“I agree,” said Sharavi. “These people may not be as smart as they think they are but they aren’t stupid. You can’t come in there agreeing with them too strongly.”

“Exactly,” said Milo. “Way I see it, you need to show casual curiosity but not jump on their bandwagon. If it goes that far.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling vaguely foolish. “I’m essentially an antisocial guy, don’t trust groups, so I’m not itching to join any new ones.   .   .   . My research was on—how about sex-role stereotypes and child-rearing patterns? I did some work on that in grad school, then I switched to hospital work and never published, so there’s no connection in writing.”

Sharavi wrote something down.

“Fine,” said Milo. “Go on.”

“I ran out of money, the department wouldn’t support me because I refused to play the game and—”

“What game?” said Sharavi.

“Interdepartmental politics. That’s also something I can talk about with authority.”

“When did all this happen?” said Milo.

“Ten years ago?”

“What school?”

“How about an unaccredited program—one that’s gone out of business? During the eighties there were plenty of them.”

“I like that,” said Sharavi. He glanced at Milo, who grunted assent. “I’ll find one and create some paper for you.”

“Seeing as your print shop’s that good,” said Milo, “how about some twenty-dollar bills?”

Sharavi waved at the dismal little room. “How do you think I finance such luxury.”

Milo chuckled, turned serious. “Speaking of financing, how’ve
you
supported yourself since dropping out, Mr. All But Dissertation?”

“Family money?” I said. “A small inheritance? Just enough to get by, but no luxuries. Yet another reason for my frustration. I’m brilliant, too good for my station in life.”

“Do you work?”

“Nope. Still searching for something fulfilling. Your basic L.A. slacker.”

They both nodded.

“So what’s my name?” I said. “How close should I get?”

“Close enough to make it easy to remember,” said Milo, “but not so close that you use the real one by mistake.”

“Allan?” I said. “Allan Del something—Delvecchio? I could pass for Italian.”

“No,” said Milo. “Let’s keep ethnicity out of this. They may not like ethnics of any kind and I don’t want you to have to fake some conversation about Mama’s gnocchi recipe.”

“How about Delbert? Delham—or just plain Dell.”

“Allan Dell?” he said. “Sounds phony. And too close.”

“Arthur Dell? Albert, Andrew?” I said. “Andy?”

“What about Desmond?” said Milo. “Like the old biddy in
Sunset Boulevard.
Andy Desmond—can you live with it?”

I repeated it to myself several times. “Sure, but now I expect a big house, Daniel.”

“Sorry,” said Sharavi. “There are limits.”

“Andrew Desmond,” said Milo. “Would-be psychologist—Mr. Would Be. So can we get papers tomorrow?”

“We could but I suggest we hold off for a few days.”

“Why?”

“To give Alex a chance to get comfortable with the role. And to let that beard grow—do you wear contact lenses?”

“No.”

“Good. I can supply glasses with clear lenses, it’s surprising how effective they can be. And you might consider a haircut. A short one. Those curls are a little   .   .   . conspicuous.”

“A buzz. Robin’s gonna love that,” said Milo.

“If it’s a problem—”

“It’s no problem,” I said.

Silence.

“Fine, then,” said Sharavi. “Let’s hear more about you, Andrew—tell me about your childhood.”

A glance at Milo. “I always wanted to say that to a psychologist.”

Chapter

39

The next morning I told Robin.

She said nothing. Then: “And it has to be you.”

“If you really don’t—”

“No,” she said. “If I stopped you it would be   .   .   . if something else happened that could have been prevented I’d never forget that—you’re sure they can keep you safe?”

“It’s just a visit to a bookstore.”

“Just a visit. Browsing the shelves, huh?”

“Robin—”

She gripped my arm. “Be careful—I guess I’m saying it more for myself than for you.”

Her fingers loosened. She kissed me and went to the studio.

I called my service, told them I’d be out of town for a week on vacation, would call in regularly.

“Somewhere nice, I hope, Dr. Delaware?” said the operator.

“Somewhere very private.”

That evening, Daniel Sharavi called and asked if he could bring over some of my new ID at ten.

“Does Milo know?”

“I just spoke to him. He’s briefing the other detectives on Melvin Myers. He’ll come by while I’m there.”