Survival of the Fittest (35 page)

“Daniel suggested Thursday or Friday. To give the beard some time.”

“Good idea,” he said, “Andrew.”

Chapter

40

The three of them left, talking procedure, cop-to-cop, as I thought about Nolan Dahl.

The parallels to Ponsico; another bright boy destroying himself.

Not very profound. IQ was no defense against pain. Sometimes it hurt to perceive too clearly.

But the next morning it stayed with me.

Dr. Lehmann’s
bleak situation.
The things Helena was better off not knowing.

Things that left Nolan drowning in guilt?

I’d assumed a sexual secret, but maybe not. Helena had talked about Nolan’s embracing extremes.

How far had he taken it?

Had he transferred out of West L.A. because of something he’d
done
in West L.A.?

Irit had been murdered in West L.A. When I’d visited the killing site after Latvinia’s murder, I’d thought about a monster in a uniform.

A cop?

A big, strong, smiling, handsome young cop?

Disgusting   .   .   . but a West L.A. cop would know the park’s backroads, be able to lose himself.

A cop could always offer a reason for being somewhere.

West L.A. didn’t patrol the park, the rangers did   .   .   . a cop on lunch break?

Code 7 for doughnuts and homicide?

But no, that made no sense. Nolan had been dead several weeks by the time of Latvinia’s and Melvin Myers’s murders. And there wasn’t a shred of evidence that Nolan had ever hurt anyone but himself.

Malignant imagination, Delaware. The time line, all wrong.

Unless there was more than one killer.

Not just a boy-girl thing, a killing
club.
That would explain the varying M.O.s.

A group game: dividing the city up, one police district per player. Nolan telling them how to do it because he was an expert on procedure   .   .   .

Enough. I was defaming a dead man because he’d been smart. No doubt Nolan
had
revealed secrets Lehmann thought best left buried.

Still, Helena
had
run away.

Why?

Her home phone was disconnected now. Longterm move.

With both parents gone, no close family, who would she turn to in times of stress?

Distant relatives? Friends? I didn’t know any of them.

Didn’t know much about her at all.

She had mentioned one former relative: the ex-husband.

Gary’s a pulmonologist, basically a nice guy. But he decided he wanted to be a farmer so he moved to North Carolina.

I called Rick at Cedars and he came on the line sounding impatient but softening when he learned it was me.

“Sure,” he said. “Gary Blank. He used to work here, too. Good lung man, Southerner. Kind of a country boy at heart. Why?”

“I’m wondering if Helena would have turned to him for support.”

“Hmm   .   .   . the divorce was friendly. As divorces go. And Gary’s an easygoing type. If she asked him to put her up, my guess is sure, he’d hold the door wide open.”

“Thanks.”

“So   .   .   . you’re still trying to reach her.”

“You know me, Rick. Never developed a taste for unfinished business.”

“Yup,” he said. “Used to be that way, myself.”

“Used to be?”

He laughed. “Yesterday.”

North Carolina had three area codes—704, 910, 919—and I tried Information for all of them before cashing in with 919.

Gary S. Blank, no degree. A rural route near Durham.

Dinnertime in North Carolina.

Helena answered after two rings.

She recognized my voice right away and hers got strained. “How’d you find me?”

“Lucky guess. I don’t mean to be intrusive, but I just wanted to see how you’re doing. If this makes things worse for you, just say so.”

She didn’t answer. I could hear music in the background. Something baroque.

“Helena—”

“It’s okay. You just caught me off-guard.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m—I guess I’m touched that you cared. I’m sorry for skipping out without an explanation but   .   .   . this is very hard, Dr. Delaware. I—it’s just hard. You
really
caught me off-guard.”

“No need to—”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just—I got stressed out, decided to make a clean sweep.”

“Was it something you learned about Nolan?”

Her voice got higher. “What do you mean?”

“You never made another appointment after finding that family photo album in Nolan’s garage. I was just wondering if there was something in there that upset you.”

Another long silence.

“Jesus,” she finally said. “Shit.”

“Helena—”

“Jesus Christ—I really
don’t
want to talk about this.”

“No problem.”

“But I—Dr. Delaware, what I’m saying is, it’s water under the bridge. Nothing I can change. None of my business, really. I’ve got to concentrate on what
I
can do. Get past this, move on.”

I said nothing.

“You’re good,” she said. “Brilliant—uncanny—I’m sorry, I’m not making sense, am I?”

“Yes, you are. You learned something upsetting and don’t want to rake it up.”

“Exactly. Exactly.”

I let a few more moments pass. “One thing though, Helena. If Nolan was involved in something that’s still continuing and you have the ability to—”

“Of course, it’s continuing! The world stinks, it’s full of   .   .   . that kind of thing. But I can’t bear the responsibility for every bit of—what? Hold on.”

Muffled voices. Her hand over the phone.

She came back on. “My ex heard me shouting and came in to check.” Deep breath. “Listen, I’m sorry. Nolan’s death was bad enough, but then to learn he was   .   .   . I’m sorry, I just can’t deal with this. Thanks for calling, but no. I’m fine. I’ll cope   .   .   . it’s really beautiful here, maybe I’ll give country life a try.   .   .   . Sorry for being so edgy, Dr. Delaware, but   .   .   . please understand.”

Three apologies in not many more seconds.

I said, “Of course. You have nothing to be sorry for. Even if Nolan was part of something extreme—”

“I wouldn’t call it extreme,” she said, suddenly angry. “Sick, but not extreme. Guys do it all the time, right?”

“Do they?”

“I’d say so. It’s the oldest profession, right?”

“Prostitution?”

Silence. “What?” she said. “What did
you
mean?”

“I was just wondering if Nolan got into some sort of extreme political activity.”

“I wish.
That
I was used to.” She laughed. “So you’re
not
a mind reader   .   .   . politics. If only. No, Dr. Delaware, I’m just talking about good old whoring around. My noble police-officer brother’s apparent obsession.”

I said nothing.

She laughed again. Kept laughing, louder, faster, until her voice took on a glassy edge of hysteria. “I couldn’t care
less
about Nolan’s politics. He
was
always jumping from one crazy thing to another, big deal. The truth is, at this point, I couldn’t care less about
anything
he did.” Her voice cracked. “Oh, Dr. Delaware, I’m so
angry
at him! So goddamn, goddamn
angry
at him!”

She rescued herself from tears by laughing some more.

“You’re right, it was the photo album,” she said. “Filthy Polaroids, Nolan’s private little stash. He kept it right in the middle of one of the books. Mixed in with pictures of Mom and Dad, our old family stuff. First he takes the album from Mom’s effects and never tells me, then
uses
it for his goddamn sicko
porno
stash!”

“Porno,” I said.

“
Personal
porno. Pictures of
him.
And
hookers.
Young girls—not little kids, thank God it wasn’t
that
sick. But most of them looked young enough to be illegal—fifteen, sixteen, skinny little black girls and Hispanics. Obviously hookers from the way they were dressed—spiked heels, garter belts. They all looked stoned—with a couple you could actually see the needle tracks on their arms. In some of them, he left his uniform on, so he probably was doing it on the job—that’s most likely why he transferred to Hollywood. To be closer to the hookers. He probably picked them up when he was supposed to be out fighting crime, took them God-knows-where, took
pictures
!”

I heard her snort.

“Garbage,” she said. “I turned them into confetti and threw them out. After I closed the garbage-can lid, I thought, what are you doing here? This city, everything’s nuts. Then the next night, someone broke in and that was it.”

“What an ordeal,” I said.

“Dr. Delaware, I never really knew Nolan but nothing could have prepared me for those pictures. It’s just so hard to reconcile, someone you grew up with.   .   .   . Anyway, here I
do
feel safe. Gary’s got forty-five acres with horses, all I see when I look out the window is grass and trees. I know I can’t stay here forever, but right now, it’s working. No offense, but, at this point, a change of scenery seems a lot more valuable than therapy. Anyway, thanks for calling. I haven’t told anyone. Actually, it wasn’t bad being able to unload. Knowing it won’t go any further.”

“If there’s anything else—”

“No.” She laughed. “No, I think this has been quite enough, Dr. Delaware   .   .   . dear little brother. First he goes and kills himself on me, then he leaves me souvenirs.”

Code 7 for hookers.

A sleaze, but not a killer.

Plenty of reason for guilt.

A bleak situation.

Perhaps Nolan had been found out, referred to Lehmann. Talked it out, got no easy answers. Lehmann letting him know he’d have to leave the force. Nolan opting for final exit.

Now I could understand Lehmann’s nervousness.

Confidentiality issues and beyond. He made a living as an LAPD contractor. The last thing he needed was to expose yet another LAPD scandal.

Feeling sad but relieved, I went into my office and thought about being Andrew Desmond.

Place of birth: St. Louis. Suburbia: Creve Coeur.

Self-made father, bourgeois, conservative, looks down on psychology, Andrew’s intellectual pretensions.

Mother: Donna Reed with an edge. Civic volunteer, sharp-tongued. Convinced Andrew was precocious, had his IQ tested as a child. Frustrated at the boy’s chronic underachievement but explains it away as the school’s failure: not stimulating poor Andrew.

For simplicity’s sake, no sibs.

Poor Andrew   .   .   .

Robin came in at six. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, why?”

“You look   .   .   . different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.” She put her hand on my shoulder, touched my stubbled cheek. “A little down?”

“No, I’m fine.”

The hand moved back to my shoulder. “Alex, you’re so
tight.
How long have you been sitting hunched like that?”

“Couple of hours.”

Spike waddled in. Usually he licks me.

“Hi,” I said.

He cocked his head, stared, left the room.

Chapter

41

On Tuesday night, at 11:03, Daniel was waiting for retired Captain Eugene Brooker in the parking lot of a bowling alley on Venice Boulevard in Mar Vista. He’d noticed the lot that afternoon, when he’d driven by Wilson Tenney’s former apartment—a dismal, earthquake-cracked, ten-unit box bordering an alley.

Wearing a suit and tie, he’d represented himself as an insurance claims adjustor to the old Mexican woman who lived in the manager’s unit.

The former park worker, he’d told her, had filed an earthquake claim for damaged personal effects and he wanted to verify Tenney’s residence at the address during the Northridge quake.

“Yeah,” she said, and nothing else.

“How long did he live here?”

Shrug. “Couple years.”

“Was he a good tenant?”

“Quiet, paid his rent.”

“So nothing we should worry about?”

“Nope. Tell the truth, I hardly remember him.” The door shut.

His look into Tenney’s background had been more of the same. No Medi-Cal records or state hospitalizations, no citations on the Chevrolet van, not a single entry or cross-reference to any crime files.

Tenney hadn’t applied for welfare or for a job at any other city, county, or state park within a hundred-mile radius—Daniel had lied creatively for half a day to find out.

So either Tenney had moved, or just disappeared.

Still, Daniel felt something about the guy—an intuition, what else could you call it? So fuzzy he’d never mention it to another detective, but he’d be foolish to ignore it.

The first thing was what he knew about Tenney’s personality—a loner who flaunted the rules, reading on the job instead of working, that remark about being a white male. Put it all together and it resonated.

Second: a van. He could not erase the image of Raymond Ortiz being spirited away in a van.

A vehicle that hadn’t been seen since Tenney’s firing from the park. Shortly after Raymond’s abduction.

Bloody shoes   .   .   .

He’d said nothing about Tenney to Zev Carmeli.

The deputy consul had taken to calling him every day, between 5:00 and 8:00
P.M.
, getting irritated when Daniel was out, even though he knew Daniel was working on Irit and nothing else.

Tonight, Zev had caught him just as he sat down to a tuna sandwich, the police scanner going in the kitchen. “Are they giving you what you need, Sharavi?”

“They’re being cooperative.”

“Well, that’s a switch. So   .   .   . nothing, yet?”

“I’m sorry, no, Zev.”

Silence on the line. Then the same question: “Sturgis. You’re sure he knows what he’s doing?”

“He seems very good.”