Guilt (29 page)

“Hey, Alex! Great to hear from you! How’s life treating you?”

I said, “Well, Len. You?”

“Off-the-chart busy, it never stops. But what’s the alternative? Stagnation? We’re like sharks, right? We need to keep moving.”

“Congratulations on the book.”

“Oh, you heard the tape? We’ll see how it does. I calculated my hourly fee writing it. Somewhere south of ten bucks an hour but my agent claims it’s a stepping-stone. She’s been getting nibbles for a talk show, says I’ve got more people-warmth than you-know-who, so maybe. What’s up?”

“What do you know about Prema Moon and Donny Rader?”

A beat. “May I ask why you’d care about people like that?”

“Hollywood types?”

“Shallow types,” he said. “That’s my bailiwick, you’re not going to encroach on my territory, are you, Alex?” He laughed. “Just kidding, you want ’em, they’re yours. Though you have to admit, I’m better suited to that kind of thing because we both know I’m about as deep as a rain puddle in August. You, on the other hand … please don’t tell me you’ve sold out, Alexander. I’ve always thought of you as my positive role model.”

Guffaws, rich, loud, audio-friendly.

“You’re selling yourself short, Len.”

“Not in the least. Know Thyself is my first commandment. Meanwhile, I just bought myself a new Audi R8, the convertible. Tuned it up so the compression’s insane, real beast, and trust me, that didn’t come from listening to whiny mothers. Bet you’re still with the old Caddy, right?”

“Right.”

“There you go,” he said. “Loyalty and solidity. Maybe one day it’ll be a classic.”

“I can hope.”

“So what’s with the sudden interest in the Golden Gods?”

“You know them?”

“If I did, would I be talking about them? No, I don’t know them personally but after all these years … how can I put this—okay, let’s just say if someone told me either of them had Proust on the nightstand I’d figure it was for a drink coaster.”

“Not intellectuals.”

“
None
of them are,” he said, with sudden fury. “They’re genetic freaks—bipedal show-dogs able to memorize a few lines. Sit heel stay emote. Even if they start out with some native intelligence they’re egregiously undereducated so they never
know
anything. I had one—obviously I won’t tell you her name—who came in to talk to one of my staff about a problem kid. But only after she was turned down by the Dog Whisperer. Why’d she go to him first? Probably to get on TV. But the reason she gave us was all animals are the same, right? It just takes the proper vibrations to make everything perfect.”

I laughed

“Sure it’s funny,” said Len, “except we’re talking about a five-year-old with enough problems to fill the DSM and Mommy wants to treat him like a pug. Anyway, no, I’m not personally intimate with either Prema or Donny but I have heard that he’s borderline IQ and she basically runs things. Now, same question: Why the curiosity?”

“Be my therapist, Len.”

“Pardon?”

“I need you to keep this in confidence.”

“Of course. Sure.”

I told him about the broken appointment two years ago, the surfacing of Premadonny’s compound in a current criminal investigation.

He said, “Oh, my. See what you mean about tight lips. And even without the whole ethical thing, no sense getting on the bad side of people like that.”

“They’re that powerful?”

“That’s the town we live in, Alex. You didn’t grow up here, right? You’re from some wholesome flyover place—Nebraska, Kansas?”

“Missouri.”

“Same difference. Well, I was born in Baja Beverly Hills, my dad was an aerospace engineer, back then the studios had their influence but it was mostly about rockets and planes, real people making real product. Not the bullshit-purveying company town it is now. So good luck.”

“He’s no genius and she runs the show.”

“Supposedly he’s close to retarded—’scuse me, developmentally disabled. And living with Stupid, she’d need to run things, no?”

“She sounds like the perfect political spouse.”

“Ha! There it is—that acid wit Alexander occasionally allows himself to indulge in. I used to dig when you did that in school. Made me feel better about my own uncharitable cognitions. I used to dig our time in school, period. Western Peds, too, Alex. They worked us like galley slaves but we knew we were doing good every day and it was exciting, right? We never knew what each day would bring.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Like the time we were trying to have lunch, I remember like it was yesterday, we’ve got our tuna salad and our coffee on our trays, are about to finally take ten minutes and you get paged and this look comes over your face and you just leave. Later, I run into you and you tell me some patient’s father brought a gun onto the onco ward, you spent an hour talking him down.”

“Good times,” I said.

“They
were
, man. Especially ’cause I ate your tuna.” He laughed. “Imagine that, today—shrink gets a call, handles it, finito. Nowadays there’d be a mass panic, some gross overreaction due to protocol, and someone would probably get hurt. I did some of that shit myself when I was there, Alex. Crisis interventions no one heard about because they were successful. Those were
great
times.”

“They were, Len.”

“But get real and move on, huh? I
do
love my R8. How many miles on the Caddy?”

“Lost count by the third engine.”

“Beyond loyal, we’re talking commitment. Well, good for you. And great to hear from you, friend, we need to do lunch.”

I
trolled gossip sites and the links they sent me to for personal sightings of Prema Moon and/or Donny Rader.

They’d been highly visible until four, five years ago, showing up at clubs, screenings, premieres, charity events, shopping sprees. Audiences with heads of state. But the two hits I found covering the last eighteen months featured Prema only, both times in L.A.: World Affairs Council symposium on African famine, Banish Hunger luncheon where the actress received an award.

Time to give my personal conduit to Glitz-World another try. Robin was sweeping her workbench. Pads for applying French polish sat in a wastebasket. The flamenco guitar hung drying.

“Gorgeous.”

“You can test-drive it for me in a couple of days.”

“Perks of the job,” I said. “Do you still have a way of contacting paparazzi?”

“I’m sure some of my clients do.”

“Could you call one of them?”

“Looking for a lead on the
staaahs
?”

I told her about the sudden drop in sightings.

“Burrowing because they’ve gotten weird?” she said. “Okay, I’ll try Zenith. He’s not so big anymore but he hangs with the biggies and his current flame’s that actress on the doctor show and she’s always good for a cleavage shot.”

Zenith Streak né James Baxter professed ignorance of “all that bullshit” but he connected her to his publicist who punted to another rock star’s personal manager. It took three additional calls before she obtained the number of a paparazzo named Ali, whom she sweet-talked before passing the phone to me.

I introduced myself.

He said, “Hey, dog, whusup?” in a Middle Eastern accent.

“Haven’t seen much on Premadonny lately.”

His voice climbed three notes up the scale. “Whu, you know ’em?”

“No. I was just wondering why.”

“Aw, man … so why you— They pissing me off, man.”

“Why?”

“Whu you think? For not
being
, know muh saying?”

“No more photo ops.”

“Got to eat, dog, they the meat, dog. We don’ hassle ’em, we they friends with the lens.”

“So no idea why—”

“They used to
be
, man. Like a clock, we getting the call, they there smiling, waving, smiling, waving. We shooting and booting and sending. Then we spending.”

“They orchestrated everything.”

“Huh?”

“It was all prearranged.”

“Sure, man, what you think?”

“You ever get pictures of their kids?”

“Nah, just them. Pissing me off, know what a baby brings? Hot tot shot’s the mostest lot.”

“Any idea why they don’t call anymore?”

“They crazy.”

“How so?”

“They not callin, they crazy. You not there, no one care. So what, you’re like a music person’s si-nificant other?”

“Yup.”

“You know Katy?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Taylor?”

“No—”

“Adam, Justin—you know even Christina, that’s cool—how bow Bono? You know anyone, I slip you a share of what’s there.”

“Sorry—”

“You don know
no one
, dog?”

I chose to answer philosophically. “Not really.”

“Then we done.”

Robin said, “So they really are playing ground squirrel.” Her smile was sudden, mischievous. “Or they’ve just opted for the simple life.”

I said, “Growing their own vegetables, and raising hyperintellectual organic cattle. For the milk.”

She said, “Don’t forget hand-stitched hemp duds.”

We both laughed. I tried to put my heart into it.

Holly Ruche had phoned while I was in the studio. I called her back, figuring single-session euphoria had faded, the way it often does.

But when she answered, her voice was fat with pleasure. “Thanks so much, Dr. Delaware. For what you’ve accomplished.”

Not sure what I’d done, I said, “Glad everything’s going well.”

“Everything’s going great, Dr. Delaware. Matt’s talking. Really talking, not just the hello how are you we used to do.”

“That’s great, Holly.”

“Turns out what he needed was for me to
tell
him I valued what he had to say. Because his parents
discouraged
talking, his father actually used to say ‘Children should be seen, not heard.’ Can you believe that? Anyway, I did. Tell him. It just opened him up. Me, too. About my issues.
And he was surprised to know how I felt about my mom. Which makes sense, I never talked about her until you led me in the right path. Anyway, Matt listened, nonjudgmental.
Interested
. Then he told me more about his childhood. Then we … everything kind of kicked up to a new level. I’m feeling in control, like I
really
own this pregnancy. Own my entire life.”

“That’s terrific, Holly.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Dr. Delaware.”

My line of work, things like praise from patients aren’t supposed to affect you because it’s all about healing them, not your ego.

To hell with that, I take what I can get. “I really appreciate your telling me, Holly.”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you have another second?”

“What’s up?”

“In terms of … what happened … to the baby. I’m assuming they haven’t found anything out? Because I did read about that other poor little thing, it made my heart ache, I cried, Dr. Delaware.”

“Sorry, Holly, no progress, yet.”

“Something so long ago, I imagine it would be difficult to solve. And this probably won’t help but that box—the blue hospital box? For some reason it bothered me. Someone putting a baby in something like that.”

Her voice caught. “This is going to sound weird but I’ve been going online and searching for something like it and finally I found it. A box just like it at a collectibles site called OldStuff.net. From the same hospital—Swedish, the seller calls it a bank box, for depositing money, she has others for sale, from other hospitals. I called her up and she told me back in the day they used metal boxes for extra security when they brought cash to the bank. Before the armored cars were safe enough so you could use bags.”

“Interesting.”

“Could it be important?”

“At this point, any information’s valuable.”

“Great, Dr. Delaware. Then I feel good about all the time I spent online. Bye.”

I logged onto the site. Identical blue box. No additional wisdom.

Robin knocked on my office door. “Going to keep working for a while?”

“Nah, let’s have some fun.”

She looked at the screen. I explained.

She said, “Never thought of hospitals as cash businesses.”

“Place was an abortion mill back when abortion was a felony. Illegal means high profit margins.”

I logged off.

She said, “Fun sounds okay.” Utter lack of conviction.

I put my arm around her. “C’mon, life’s short, let’s own ours. How about music?”

“Sounds good.”

“Let me check the Catalina … here’s their calendar … Jane Monheit.”

“Like her,” she said. “If we can get tickets, let’s do it.”

Monheit was in fine voice backed by a band that never stopped swinging, the food at the club was decent, a couple of generous Chivas pours went down well.

We got home and beelined to bed and afterward I plunged into sleep, stayed out for an atypical seven hours, woke up with an aching head that filled quickly with words and pictures.

When I got to my office my cell phone was beeping and my landline message machine was blinking.

A pair of calls, less than a minute apart. I punched Play on the machine.

Milo’s voice said, “Found my boy Wedd. Call.”

“Sturgis.”

“Congrats.”

“Hear what I have to say first.”

M
elvin Jaron Wedd had been found in the passenger seat of his pimped-up black Explorer. Single gunshot wound to his left temple. The entry hole said large-caliber. The stippling said up close and personal, though probably not a contact wound.

Brain matter clotted the back of his seat. A Baggie of weed sat between his splayed knees. A glass bong glinted on the floor near his left shoe. The impact had caused him to slide down, leaving his corpse in an awkward semi-reclining state that wouldn’t have been comfortable in life.

His mouth gaped, his eyes were shut, his bowels had emptied. Rot and insect activity said he’d been there days rather than hours.

Masked and gloved, a C.I. named Gloria was going through his pockets. She’d already procured his wallet, pulled out a driver’s license, credit cards, eighty bucks in cash. Milo didn’t need any of that to know who the victim was. A BOLO-find on Wedd’s Explorer had shown up in his office email shortly after six a.m. He’d been online an hour before, “eating futility for breakfast.”