Diagnosis Murder 5 - The Past Tense (20 page)

"I wouldn't miss it," Mark said, "though it feels strange to actually be invited."

"You're the key to this case," Steve said. "You're the only one who can break it. But there's one visit I have to make that you might want to sit out."

"What's that?"

"We've identified the murder victim," Steve said. "Now I have to tell Brooke Haslett's parents that their daughter is dead."

Mark filed his report on Dan Marlowe with the hospital chief of staff, then accompanied Steve out to Valencia, where Brooke Haslett's parents lived. It was a thirty-minute drive they made in silence, both lost in their thoughts.

Mark was thinking about what he'd just done to Dan and how his old friend would take the news, once it came down. There was no doubt in Mark's mind what the hospital would decide to do. Dan would be stripped of his hospital privileges immediately. And it would be entirely Mark's fault. First, he'd told Dan he was going to die. And tomorrow, he'd probably have to tell Dan he was taking away his right to practice medicine. Mark was going to prevent Dan from doing what he loved most, perhaps the one thing that gave him the strength to fight the cancer that was ravaging his body and would soon claim his life.

Steve was thinking about what he was going to have to tell the Hasletts. He wasn't just telling them their daughter was dead. She was murdered. Without knowing a single detail, they would be tortured by that fact alone. They wouldn't be able to stop themselves from imagining the terror and pain their daughter must have experienced. But the real nightmare would come when they inevitably found out the atrocities that she had suffered.

There was no soft or easy way for Steve to do this, and he'd yet to develop a thick enough skin not to be emotionally affected himself.

Steve Sloan would never admit it, but he was grateful to have his father with him. Mark was experienced at delivering devastating news to family members on an almost daily basis. His bedside manner was impeccable. He was a natural, calming presence. Many families had found comfort and strength in his warmth, good humor, and integrity. Steve hoped his dad would apply those same skills in this unpleasant situation.

The Hasletts lived in a sprawling, brand-new neighborhood of tract homes, duplexes, and condominiums crowded around a shallow man-made lake that was, essentially, a massive duck pond. The nicest homes were "lakefront" properties with tiny docks for their pedal boats, some of which were tricked out to look like aircraft carriers, ocean liners, Rolls-Royces, and even the Starship
Enterprise
.

The sun had broken through the gray clouds for a moment, and people were out on the wet sidewalks and bike paths, taking full advantage of the intermission in the storm.

Ginny Haslett was outside her colonial-style lakefront duplex, washing duck droppings off her unadorned pedal boat with her garden hose, when Mark and Steve approached her. She was tall and sun-bronzed, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, baggy shorts, and leather flip- flops in a show of bright optimism in the face of certain showers.

"Excuse me," Steve said. "Mrs. Haslett?"

She turned and, startled; nearly lost her balance. Mark rushed forward and took her by the arm to steady her from falling.

"Are you all right?" Mark asked. "We didn't mean to frighten you."

Mrs. Haslett laughed. "You didn't scare me, Doctor. I'm just surprised to see you again."

Now it was Mark's turn to be startled. "You know me?"

"I'll never forget you, but I certainly don't expect you to recognize me," she said. "I've changed a lot in forty years."

Mark suddenly felt as off balance as Mrs. Haslett had only a moment ago. If he hadn't still been holding on to her arm, he might have tipped into the lake himself. He exchanged a look with Steve, whose blank expression revealed none of the anxiety his father knew he must be feeling.

"Please forgive me, Doctor, but there is one thing I've forgotten," she said. "And that's your name."

"Mark Sloan," he said. "And this is my son, Steve."

"The last time you saw me, I was twelve years old and came close to drowning in the LA River," Mrs. Haslett said. "I had a dislocated shoulder. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as big an event in your life as it was in mine."

Mark stared at her. It was during the rescue of her and her little brother that firefighters had found the corpse of Sally Pruitt.

"I remember," Mark said, his voice, barely above a whisper, feeling the full impact of the killer's careful planning, the cruel significance of Brooke Haslett's murder, and the true scope of the evil that was unfolding.

Whatever horror had started on that rainy February day in 1962 had come full circle. The killer was saying that there was no escaping the past. Not for Mark Sloan. Not for Ginny Haslett. And not for their children. The only way out was death.

Mark knew now that Brooke's class ring was intentionally dropped on the beach. The killer wanted the police to discover who his victim was, but he also wanted them to have to work at it a bit first.

More manipulation.

More games.

Ginny Haslett must have read something on Mark's face, or suddenly realized he was here for a reason and, judging by his expression, it wasn't a pleasant one. Her surprise quickly faded, uneasiness and dread washing over her.

"Where's your husband, Mrs. Haslett?" Steve asked gently.

"At the grocery store. He'll be right back." She turned to Mark, and when she spoke, her voice trembled. "Why are you here, Dr. Sloan?"

There was so much Mark wanted to say, so many apologies he wanted to make, but he couldn't find the words or the voice to speak them.

Steve pulled Out his badge and held it up for her to see. "I'm a homicide detective, Mrs. Haslett. Perhaps we should go inside and wait for your husband to get back."

"Oh my God," she said, crumpling into Mark's arms and breaking into deep, guttural sobs.

Mark held her tight and thought he felt some of her tears on his cheek before he realized they were his own.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mark and Steve left the Hasletts' home and the grieving parents, who were sobbing quietly in each other's arms over the loss of their only child.

Steve maintained his professionally stolid composure throughout the agonizing, and ultimately fruitless, interview, but he could feel the stomach cramps wrought by his suppressed emotions. As soon as he got home, he intended to jog the cramps and the pain away on the beach, no matter how hard it was pouring outside. In fact, the more soaked he got the better, to wash away the stink of his ugly job.

Mark wasn't as successful at hiding his sorrow, his pain, or his fury. The emotions clashed within him, a battle visible on his face and in his eyes. He felt personally responsible for the horror and misery inflicted on the Hasletts. They were suffering so that he would, too. And this, of course, brought the anger. Whoever was doing this to Mark, and to the Hasletts, had to be stopped.

No, it was more than that.

Whoever was doing it had to be punished.

As soon as Mark got into the car, Steve started the motor and glanced at his father.

"I'm no doctor, but you don't look well to me," Steve said. "I can drop you off at home if you aren't up to this."

"You said it yourself, Steve. I'm the key to this murder. I fit into the motive somehow. I need to be at these interviews," Mark said. "But you're right, I'm not well. I've never felt so emotionally sick or encountered such a cold, calculating evil in my entire life."

"You've seen worse," Steve said. "We both have. The difference this time is that it's personal. The killer is making this about you."

"I wish I knew why," Mark said.

"Let's try revenge for starters." Steve opened his note book. "Alistair Whittington was never publicly or officially cleared of the killings. And his son, Roland, just happens to be in Los Angeles for the first time in thirty years."

"What's he doing here?" Mark asked.

"He's an attorney for a British pharmaceutical company, working on a merger with an American competitor," Steve said. "And maybe he's also taking care of some unfinished family business."

Roland Whittington's lavish suite at the Century Plaza Hotel had a breathtaking view of West Los Angeles, clear to Santa Monica Bay. From where he stood, his back to the Sloans, he could see Community General Hospital and the Brentwood neighborhood where he had once lived.

The attorney bore an uncanny resemblance to his father in looks and bearing. He certainly had his father's taste in clothes, wearing an impeccably tailored four-button charcoal-gray, single-breasted Brioni suit, a Turnball and Asser shirt, and a crisply knotted Oxford tie.

"I assure you, it's a coincidence," Roland said, turning to face the Sloans, who were sitting on the couch in the suite's small living room. "Though I will admit I had reservations about coming back to Los Angeles. But I felt it was time to confront the past."

"It's how you've chosen to confront it that concerns me," Steve said.

"Are you accusing me of murder, Lieutenant Sloan?" Roland asked.

"No," Steve said. "I just have a hard time accepting coincidences."

"The confrontation I speak of is being waged entirely within myself," Roland said. "I have no resentment towards anybody except my father, which is unfortunate, since he long ago escaped being held accountable to me for any of his myriad sins."

"Then you won't mind if we look into your activities while you've been here," Steve said.

"Not at all," Roland replied. "You should talk with my executive secretary, Miss Lawson. She controls my calendar and has kept a detailed record of all my billable hours."

"And what about when you've been off the clock?"

Roland glanced, perhaps inadvertently, at the neatly made king-sized bed. "You can check with her about that, too."

"What do you know about what happened in 1962?" Mark asked.

"My mother told me everything—that my father lost all that we had," Roland said. "Our home, our money, and our good name. Although he didn't kill himself, he was surely to blame for his own murder."

"You're pretty clinical about it," Steve said. "It almost sounds like you're talking about a stranger."

"In some ways I am," Roland said, taking a seat in a chair across from them. "I was nine years old when my mother left him."

"Why did she leave?" Mark asked. "Was it just about the money?"

"If it was only the money, she would have stayed. You can always make money again. Other losses, like trust and love, are harder to restore," Roland said. "She caught him late one night watching a home movie. Only it wasn't a film of my birthday, our Hawaii vacation, or one of our Disneyland trips. He was watching himself in bed with one of his nurses."

"Do you know which one?" Mark knew it was unlikely that Roland would, but he had to ask anyway.

"Alice Blevins," Roland said, surprising Mark and seeming to take some pleasure in it. "You didn't expect me to know, did you?"

"Honestly, no."

"If it had been anybody else, it wouldn't have hurt my mother quite as much. Alice and my father met in Korea, during the war," Roland said. "She was a frequent visitor to our home when I was growing up. My mother didn't realize that Alice was also a frequent visitor to my father's bed. Not the marital bed, of course, but some hideaway my father had expressly for his assignations."

"The house in Northridge," Mark said.

"Presumably," Roland said. "My mother had suspected an affair between them for some time. The film only confirmed it."

At least now Mark knew why Whittington, with a gun at his head, had refused to turn over the film to Chet Arnold. Whittington was afraid of being blackmailed himself.

"Was your father sleeping with any of the other nurses?" Steve asked.

"Not that I know of," Roland said. "But he liked to watch himself in action, or so my mother told me. It excited him."

"How did she catch him watching the movie?" Mark said. "I doubt he was screening it in his office where she could just walk in on him."

"I don't know," Roland said.

"Does she know where your father hid the films?"

"If she did," Roland said, "she never told me."

"I'd like to ask her myself," Mark said. "Can you tell me how to reach her?"

"She can't be reached, I'm afraid," Roland said. "She's in a nursing home being treated for Alzheimer's disease. Mum doesn't even know who I am."

Mark sighed with disappointment. If only he'd talked to her years ago. Then again, it had never occurred to him to call her again after telling her what really happened to her husband. The investigation was over and seemed best left undisturbed, for the sake of everyone involved. There seemed to be no purpose, and no good to be accomplished, by finding the film and embarrassing the people involved with their past indiscretions.

"What was life like for you and your mother after your father's death?" Steve asked.

"Murder," Roland corrected him. "I was too young to appreciate the shame and disgrace my mother endured. People assumed she'd known what kind of man my father was and turned a blind eye to it. Or, worse, that she was so bereft of decent character and judgment, she wasn't able to detect his inherent monstrosity. She was never able to remarry. No man of any stature wanted to be associated, even remotely, with the scandal. Never mind that she was as much a victim as any of those dead women."

"What about you?" Mark said, gesturing to Roland. "How did you cope with the disgrace?"

"Beyond watching what it did to my mother, and feeling utterly powerless to help her, I was untouched," Roland said. "By the time I was ready to pursue my own life, my father and the scandal he created were entirely forgotten."

"Clearing him of murder might have created more sympathy for your mother," Steve said. "It might have made her life a lot easier."

"It wouldn't have erased the financial, sexual, and criminal improprieties he committed. There's no disputing he was an adulterer, blackmailer, and pimp. The disgrace was complete and irrevocable, whether he was a murderer or not." Roland met Steve's gaze. "You're wondering whether I would gain any measure of comfort by murdering a young woman in the same fashion as my father's killer did as a way of punishing Dr. Sloan for burying the truth."