Dr. Death (10 page)

"Korn and Demetri. They don't like working for me, and my opinion of them ain't too grand. I put them back on the phones, recontacting families. They whined about scut work— oh this younger generation. Ready for Zoghbie? Let's take my Ferrari, in case we need a police presence."

He crossed the street to the police lot and I followed in the Seville, waiting till he backed out, then sliding into his parking space. Signs all over said POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY, ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED.

I got in the unmarked and handed him the material I'd printed from the Internet. He put it on the backseat, wedged between two of the file boxes that filled the space. The car smelled of old breakfast. The police radio was stuttering and Milo snapped it off.

"What if?" I said, pointing to the warning signs.

"I'll go your bail." Stretching his neck to one side, he winced, cleared his throat, pressed down on the gas and sped to Santa Monica Boulevard, then over to the 405 North, toward the Valley. I knew what I had to do and my body responded by tightening up. When we passed the mammoth white boxes that the Getty Museum comprised, I told him about Joanne Doss.

He didn't say anything for a while. Opened his window, spit, rolled it up.

Another minute passed. "You were waiting for the right moment to inform me?"

"As a matter of fact, I was. Till a few hours ago, I couldn't tell you anything, because even the fact that I'd seen them was confidential. Then Mr. Doss called and asked me to see his daughter and I figured I'd have to bow off Mate. But he wants me to continue."

"First things first, huh?" His jaw worked.

I kept quiet.

"And if he'd said
not
to mention it?"

"I'd have bowed off, told you I couldn't explain why."

Half mile of silence. He stretched his neck again. "Doss . . . yeah, local family— the Palisades. Toward the end of the list— the missus was in her early forties."

"Traveler number forty-eight," I said.

"You knew her?"

"No, she was already dead when I saw Stacy— the daughter."

"Mr. Doss is one of those who has not returned our repeated calls."

"He travels a lot."

"That so . . . Anything about him I should worry about?"

"Such as?"

He shrugged. "You tell me. He said you could blab, right?"

He kept his eyes on the freeway, but I felt surveilled.

"Sorry if this is rubbing you the wrong way," I said. "Maybe I should've begged off the case right from the beginning."

Pause. Long pause, as if he was considering that. Finally, he said, "Nah, I'm just being a hard-ass. We've all got our rule books. . . . So what was the matter with Mrs. Doss that led her to consult Dr. Mate?"

"She was one of the undiagnosed ones I mentioned. Had been deteriorating for a while. Fatigue, chronic pain, she withdrew socially, took to bed. Gained a hundred pounds."

He whistled, touched his own gut. "And no clue as to why all this happened?"

"She saw a lot of doctors, but no formal diagnosis," I said.

"Maybe a head case?"

"Like I said, I never knew her, Milo."

He smiled. "Meaning you're also thinking she might've been a head case . . . and Mate killed her anyway—'scuse me, assisted her
passage.
That could irritate a family member, if they didn't think she was really sick."

He waited.

I said nothing.

"How long after she died did you see the daughter?"

"Three months."

"Why're you seeing her again? Something to do with Mate's murder?"

"That I can't get into," I said. "Let's just say it's nothing you have to worry about."

"Something that just happens to come up now, after Mate's killed?"

"College," I said. "Now's when kids get serious about applying to college."

He didn't answer. The freeway was uncommonly clear and we sped toward the 101 interchange. Milo pumped the unmarked up the eastbound ramp and we merged into slightly heavier traffic. Orange signs on the turnoff announced impending construction for one and a half years. Everyone was going fifteen miles over the limit, as if getting in some last speed licks.

He said, "So you're telling me Mr. Doss is like all the others— big fan of Mate?"

"I'll leave it to him to express his opinion on that."

He smiled again. Not a nice smile at all. "The guy didn't like Mate."

"I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't." He eased up on the gas pedal. We cruised past the Van Nuys exits, Sherman Oaks, North Hollywood. The freeway turned into the 134.

I said, "I found a feminist journal that claimed Mate hated women. Because eighty percent of his travelers were female and he'd never been seen with a woman. Know anything about his personal life?"

Graceless change of subject. He knew what I was doing but let it ride. "Not so far. He lived alone and his landlady said she'd never seen him go out with anyone. I haven't checked marriage licenses yet, but no one's turned up claiming insurance benefits."

"Wonder if a guy like that would carry life insurance," I said.

"Why not?"

"I don't think he valued life."

"Well, maybe you're right, 'cause I didn't find any policies at his apartment. Then again, all his papers might be with that goddamn attorney, Haiselden, who is still incommunicado. Maybe Ms. Zoghbie can direct us to him."

"Find out anything else about her?"

"No criminal record, not even parking tickets. Guess she just gets off on people dying. There seems to be a lot of that going around, doesn't there? Or maybe it's just my unique perspective."

• • •

Any attraction Alice Zoghbie had to the culture of death wasn't reflected by her landscaping.

She lived in a vanilla stucco English country house centered on a modest lot in the northern hills of Glendale. Cute house. The spotless shake roof over the entry turret was topped by a copper rooster weather vane. White pullback drapes framed immaculate mullion windows. A flagstone path twisted its way toward an iron canopy over a carved oak door. Banks of flowers rimmed the house, arranged by descending height: the crinkled foliage and purple bloom of statice, then billowing clouds of multicolored impatiens fringed by a low border of some sort of creeping white blossom.

A white Audi sat in the cobblestoned driveway, shaded by a young, carefully shaped podocarpus tree, still staked. On the other side of the flagstone stood an equally tonsured, much larger sycamore. Where the sun hit, the sloping lawn was so green it appeared spray-painted. The big tree had started to release its leaves, and the sprinkle of rusty brown on grass and stone was the sole suggestion that not everything could be controlled.

Milo and I parked on the street and climbed the pathway. The door knocker was a large brass goat's head, and he lifted the front part of the animal's face, causing it to leer, allowed the jaw piece to fall, setting off oak vibrations. The door opened before the sound died.

"Detectives?" said the woman in the doorway. Thrust of hand, firm dry handshake for both of us. "Please! Come on in!"

Alice Zoghbie was indeed fiftyish— early fifties was my guess. But despite sun-worn skin and a cap of white-hot hair, she seemed more youthful than middle-aged.

Tall, slim, full-busted, strong square shoulders, long limbs, rosy overlay on the outdoorsy dermis, wide sapphire eyes. As she led us through the round entry hall created by the turret into a small, elegant living room, her stride took on a dancer's bounce— speedy, well-lubricated, arms swinging, hips swaying.

The room was set up as carefully as the flower beds. Yellow walls, white moldings, a red damask sofa, various floral-print chairs. Little tables placed strategically by someone with an eye. California oil paintings hung on the walls, all in period gilt frames. Nothing that looked expensive, but each picture was right for its place.

Alice Zoghbie stood in front of a blue brocade chair and cocked a hip, indicating the red couch for us. After we sat, she folded herself on the chair, tucked one leg under the other and smoothed back a feather of white bangs. Down cushions on the sofa made us sink low. Milo's weight plunged him below me and I noticed him shifting uncomfortably.

Alice Zoghbie laced her fingers in her lap. Her face was round, taut around the mandible, seamed at the eyes. She wore a bulky baby-blue cashmere turtleneck, pressed blue jeans, white socks, white suede loafers. Big silver pearls covered her earlobes, and a gold chain interspersed with multicolored cabochons followed the swell of her chest. Bare fingers. Between us was a tile-inlaid coffee table set with a Japanese Imari bowl full of hard candy. Gold and green nuggets; butterscotch and mint.

"Please," she said, pointing to the candy. Managing to sound lighthearted while wearing a grave expression.

"No, thanks," Milo said. "Appreciate your seeing us, ma'am."

"This is all so hideous. Do you have any idea who sacrificed Eldon?"

"Sacrificed?"

"That's what it was," she said. "Some fanatic asshole making a point." One hand clenched. She stared down at her fist, opened the fingers.

"Eldon and I talked about the risk— some lunatic deciding to make headlines. He said it wouldn't happen and I believed him, but it did, didn't it?"

"So Dr. Mate wasn't afraid."

"Eldon didn't function from fear. He was his own man. Knew the only way to dictate your own passage was to dictate the terms. And Eldon was committed— vital. He intended to be around for a long, long time."

Milo moved his bulk again, as if trying to remain afloat in a sea of red silk. The movement served only to plunge him lower and he edged forward on the couch. "But you and he did discuss danger."

"I brought it up. In general terms, so no, there's no specific asshole I can direct you toward. Maybe it was one of those pathetic cripples who used to carp at him."

"Still Alive," I said.

"Them, their ilk."

Milo said, "You spoke in general terms, but did something happen to make you worry, ma'am?"

"No, I simply wanted Eldon to be more careful. He didn't want to hear it. He just didn't believe anyone would hurt him."

"What kind of cautions did you want him to take?"

"Simple security. Have you seen his apartment?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then you know. It's a joke, anyone could just walk in. It wasn't that Eldon was reckless. He simply wasn't attuned to his surroundings. Most brilliant people aren't. Look at Einstein. Some foundation sent him a ten-thousand-dollar check and he never cashed it."

"Dr. Mate was brilliant," said Milo.

Alice Zoghbie stared at him. "Dr. Mate was one of the great minds of our generation."

That didn't jibe with med school in Mexico, internship at an obscure hospital, the bureaucratic jobs. Alice Zoghbie might have known what I was thinking, because now she turned to me and said, "Einstein worked as a clerk until the world discovered him. The world wasn't smart enough to understand him. Eldon had a mind that just never stopped working. Thinking all the time. Science, history, you name it. And unlike most people, he wasn't blinded by personal circumstance."

"Because he lived alone?" I said.

"No, no, that's not what I
mean.
He didn't get distracted by irrelevancies. I'll bet you assume his own parents died in pain and that's why he decided to dedicate his life to relieving pain." Her hand drew an invisible X. "
Wrong.
Both his mother and his father lived to ripe old ages and passed on peacefully."

"Maybe
that
impressed him," said Milo. "Seeing the way it should be."

Alice Zoghbie uncrossed a long leg. "What I'm trying to get across to you people is that Eldon had a worldview perspective."

"Seeing the big picture."

Zoghbie shot him a disgusted look. "Talking about him is making me very
sad.
"

Stating it calmly, almost boastfully. Milo remained expressionless and I did the same.

She gazed back at both of us, as if waiting for further response. Suddenly, the lower lids of the sapphire eyes pooled and twin rivulets flowed down her cheeks.

Tears flowing perfectly parallel to her slender nose. She sat there, immobile, allowing the tracks to reach the corners of her mouth before reaching up and dabbing with spidery fingers. Pink glossy nail polish. From somewhere in the house, a clock chimed.

She said, "I sure as hell hope you find the vicious fuck who did this. They just can't get away with this. That would be the worst thing."

"They?"

"They, he, whoever."

"What would be the worst thing, ma'am?"

"No consequences. Everything should have consequences."

"Well," said Milo, "my job is catching vicious fucks."

Zoghbie's expression went flat.

"Ma'am, is there anything you can tell us that might help the process along?"

"Enough with the ma'am,
okay
?" she said. "It's coming across patronizing. Is there anything I can tell you? Sure, look for a fanatic— probably a religious extremist. My bet would be a Catholic, they seem to be the worst. Though I was married to a Muslim, and they're no great shakes." Her head bobbed forward as she studied Milo's face. "What's your background?"