A Playdate With Death (11 page)

The first of Candace’s messages began with a plaintive lament about his failure to contact her. Apparently, it had been a long time since she’d received an E-mail from him. She begged him not to cut her out of the “loop of his life.” The rest of the message had to do with the letter Bobby had written his birth mother. Candace urged him to ignore the
woman’s failure to respond and to contact her. Candace’s tone was almost nagging. Clearly, she’d been giving him this advice for some time. At one point she even threatened to “drive out there” and talk to the woman herself. I didn’t think she was serious, the words were followed by a keyboard;), but the threat didn’t strike me as entirely idle.

In her next message, Candace apologized for “haranguing” Bobby and asked him to call her or come by the café. After that came a string of short messages. A couple begged him to call and apologized again and again for “being so bossy.” Finally, she grew angry and called him cruel and selfish for excluding her from “the most important moment of your life—the culmination of your very existence.”

There followed twenty or so one-line messages along the lines of “Where are you?” and “Why aren’t you answering me?”

The last message began with the words, “You know I love you.” It went on from there. She told him that long before they’d met in person she’d realized that she wanted to dedicate herself to him. She insisted that their shared tragedy brought them together. She berated him for his unwillingness to consider a relationship with her, his obvious “soul mate.” Finally, she wrote, “I know you say that the reason you don’t want to be with me—in every sense of the word—is because you consider me your ‘soul sister,’ and not your lover. But we both know that’s not true. You’re allowing your guilt about Betsy to keep you from realizing your true destiny. The Lakota don’t believe that you can hide from your destiny. You can’t remain shackled to that stoned and destructive soul, not when mine cries out to you.”

I leaned back in my chair with a sigh. Poor Candace. Poor Bobby. The truth was, he seemed an unlikely object of such passionate devotion. Bobby had been handsome, sure, but in a kind of bland, blond way. His good looks were strained, blurred, somehow, as a result, I’d always assumed, of his methamphetamine use—speed wreaks havoc on the skin. Bobby was, of course, in good shape. It was his job to be. He wasn’t, however, bulky and overly defined. He had a pleasantly strong and firm body, and his stomach was less of a washboard than a solid countertop. But really what made him seem something less than a Lothario was his easygoing, almost innocuous manner. He was pleasant and cheerful. He was ready with an encouraging word or an inspiring quote from one of his AA manuals. But he wasn’t passionate. He wasn’t ardent or fervent. He was calm and pleasant and decidedly un–soul mate–like. But then, who am I to say? My soul mate spends most of his days playing with vintage action figures and writing about serial murder, cannibalism, and human sacrifice.

T
HE
next morning, Al called me with the news that he had, basically, no news. His sources at the LAPD weren’t saying much about Bobby’s death.

“Let me put it this way,” Al said. “It could be suicide. Or maybe not. I get the feeling they’re thinking that if it was a homicide, it was a drug hit—you knew the guy was an addict, right?”

“Recovered.”

“Whatever. Once an addict always an addict, that’s what I say.”

I rolled my eyes at the phone. “How original, Al.”

“Anyway, the gun wasn’t registered to him or to anyone else, but there’s no evidence it was an illegal weapon. It was most likely purchased through a gun show, in which case there would be no records about who bought it.”

“Why not? Don’t gun sellers have to do background checks?”

“Not at gun shows.”

“Why not?”

Al didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “Honestly, I’ve never really understood that myself. Anyway, a background check wouldn’t do us much good. Those records are destroyed after the person passes the check.”

“What?” I was shocked. “Why? Why destroy the record of who bought the gun?”

“Haven’t you heard of privacy, girlie? You want the United States government keeping track of its private citizens’ every move?”

“I sure as hell want the government keeping track of the gun buyers!” I said.

I could feel Al seething on the other end of the line. Finally, he said, “Listen, you tree-hugging feminist, I’m just
not
going to have this fight with you. And, anyway, maybe you should be
thanking
me instead of
yelling
at me.”

I was suitably rebuked and decidedly chastened. “You’re right. Thank you so much. Really. Don’t be mad, okay?”

He sighed. “No sweat. It’s not your fault. You’re confused.
Anyway, I got the skip trace results back on the two women from the hospital. I’ll fax them over to you.”

“Thanks. Really. I owe you one.”

“Don’t owe me. Come work with me.”

I laughed.

“I’m not kidding,” he said.

I’
D
already figured that the younger woman, Brenda Fessler, was the mom. I knew that Bobby had been adopted through Jewish Family Services, and Fessler sounded like a Jewish name. Moreover, I thought a nineteen-year-old was more likely to put up a child for adoption than a twenty-six-year-old. The skip trace had turned her up in Reno, Nevada. I tried the telephone number but found it disconnected. I tapped my fingers on the table for a moment, irritated at the dead end. Then, figuring what the heck, I could afford the ninety cents, I called information. There was no Brenda Fessler listed, but there was a Jason Fessler. I decided to give it a whirl. The phone rang once and was picked up by a jaunty voice. I wasn’t really expecting much, but when I asked for Brenda the man yelled out, “Hey, Ma! Now you’re getting
phone calls
at my house! Here, give me the baby.”

“Hello?” The voice was as bright and cheerful as the man’s, and I hoped that this might be the woman I was looking for.

“Hi. I hope you can help me. I’m trying to track down the mother of a baby boy born at Haverford Memorial Hospital on February 15, 1972.”

“Again?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“A nice young man called me about this very thing a month or so ago. He was born on that date and was trying to find his mother. Are you calling about the same baby?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. Much as I wish I could help him, he’s not mine. My Jason was born at Haverford Memorial on February 15, 1972, and he’s right here. You called his house, actually. And I’m holding his son, Jason Jr., who’s six months old. And a doll. Aren’t you? A big precious doll?” I thanked the happy grandmother for her time and hung up.

It had to be Susan Masters. The skip trace had turned up a woman whose maiden name was Susan Masters but whose married name was Sullivan. The fact that confused me was that the date of her name change was 1968, a full four years before Bobby was born. The birth date and the social security number matched, however. For some reason, Susan Sullivan had used her maiden name when she checked into the hospital. Perhaps because she planned to give her baby up for adoption and hoped for some anonymity.

The Sullivans still lived in Los Angeles. Their address was in the Pacific Palisades, a beautiful little community north of Santa Monica. I dialed the number, and a woman’s voice answered almost immediately.

“Hello, I’m looking for Susan Sullivan.”

“This is she.” Did I imagine a whiff of suspicion in her tone?

“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m trying to track down the mother of a baby boy born in Haverford Memorial Hospital on February 15, 1972—”

The phone clicked before I’d even finished my sentence. I was talking to empty air. I tried again, hoping that we’d just been disconnected, but the phone rang and rang. Susan Masters Sullivan did not want to be found. But found she was. I was determined to talk to her and see if she had any information about Bobby’s death, whether she wanted to see me or not.

Unfortunately, I also had to go pick Ruby up from preschool. Isaac, who’d been napping while I made my calls, didn’t even stir when I hoisted him out of bed, flung him over my shoulder, and hauled him out to the car. The boy had slept about twenty minutes in the entire first four months of his life, turning me into a blithering idiot and putting a strain on my marriage the likes of which we’d never experienced before or since. Now a brass band wouldn’t wake him up.

I was only seven minutes late picking up Ruby, a personal record, but nonetheless I found her tapping her foot, arms folded across her narrow little chest. I ignored her irritation and said, “Let’s get moving, kid. You and Isaac need to go home and play with Daddy.”

“Why? I want to play with
you.
”

“Sorry, Ruby. I’m busy this afternoon.”

“What are you doing?”

I certainly wasn’t going to say, “Investigating a murder.” So I settled for, “I’ve got a playdate.”

That seemed to satisfy my daughter.

I don’t know why, but I was expecting Susan Sullivan to live in one of the cute little bungalows on the tree-lined streets in Pacific Palisades. I knew once I saw the address that her house was going to be worth something, but even those little cottages sell for a cool million bucks in today’s overinflated real estate market. What I didn’t expect, however, was a mansion. I didn’t expect a house set so far back off the street that its driveway had a Private Road sign. I didn’t expect a curving drive of crushed pink gravel, lawns and gardens as far as the eye could see (at least up to the boundary rows of fragrant eucalyptus trees), or the glimpse of a marble-bordered pool peeping out from behind one wing of the salmon-stuccoed villa. I cringed as the wheels of my Volvo station wagon crushed the carefully combed stones and marred the manicured perfection of the circular driveway.

Rich people make me nervous. I rummaged around in my purse for some makeup, found an old lipstick, and carefully applied it. I looked for something to cover the triangle of pimples that had taken up residence on my chin, cursing yet again the acne gods who didn’t even allow a single moment of bliss between blemishes and wrinkles. I’d gone from having one to having both with nary a day of smoothness in between.

I fluffed up my cropped curls, relieved that at least I’d remembered to have my roots done, and firmly averted my eyes from the chocolate milk stain down one leg of my khaki capri pants. I was ready to see how the other half lived.

I rang the bell, listening to the chimes echo throughout
the house. The door was answered by an older Mexican woman in a plain gray smock.

“Yes?” she said.

“Buenos días. Estoy buscando la señora de la casa, Mrs. Sullivan.”

The woman flashed me a huge smile brightened by at least four silver teeth along the side of her mouth and, with a cascade of Spanish far beyond my limited skills, ushered me through the door and into a round entry hall. The ceiling was easily twenty or thirty feet tall and opened into a massive, round skylight of leaded stained glass. Little oblongs of brightly colored light glowed on the polished marble floor and up the circular staircase along the back wall.

Within a few moments, the maid returned, following behind a tall blond woman wearing a white tennis dress with mint-green piping. Her bobbed hair was colored strawberry blond, as if she were matching the hair color she’d had as a girl. She looked like a blonde. Not a tanned, California surfer-girl kind of blonde but a pallid, English-lass kind of blonde. She had the faded prettiness so common in women of that coloring. She might have once been beautiful, but her skin had crumpled, and her chin seemed to have slipped back into her neck. Her nose, though, was sharp and defined. Her close-set, pale blue eyes glanced at me nervously, as if she knew me and had anticipated my arrival with trepidation.

“Can I help you?” she said. She sounded as though what she really wanted to do was throw me out of her house.

“Mrs. Sullivan, I don’t mean to cause you any trouble, and
I’m terribly sorry for bothering you. But my friend Bobby Katz is dead, and I think you can help me.”