Guilt (32 page)

“Dressing and croutons are fine. Anchovies, too.”

The waiter smiled approvingly, as if someone finally had the sense to do it right.

Brent said, “Lay on the calories and the sodium, easy for you skinny folk.”

He was thinner than me, had the wrinkles and sunken cheeks to show for it. His head was shaved, his oblong hound-dog face had been barbered so closely that I wondered about electrolysis. Last time I’d seen him he’d been thirty pounds heavier and sported a soul patch.

I said, “You’re not exactly obese, Brent.”

“Good tailoring, you don’t want to see me naked.” He looked at the ramekin of salad dressing at his right elbow, considered his options, pushed it away. “I’m under pressure, my friend.”

“Tough job.”

“Not that pressure, body pressure.”

“Honestly, you look good, Brent.”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s relative,” he said. “Got myself a twenty-eight-year-old dancer with statue-of-David definition, I’m talking physical perfection.” He sighed. “Todd claims he loves me but we both know he’s out for the good life. By both of us, I don’t mean him and me, I mean you and me. Seeing as you’re a mental health sage.”

My tea came.

Brent said, “How’s
your
gorgeous other?”

“Terrific.”

“Robin, Robin,” he said. “I always thought she was special. A knockout who knows how to use power tools? Sexy.”

“No argument, Brent.”

His eyelids descended, half hooding irises the color of silt. He looked around the room, bent closer, lowered his voice. “So you want to know about Lancelot and Guinevere.”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Funny,” he said, “I figured
you
could tell
me
.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I sent them to you. Referred them. Figured by now you’d have all the insights.”

“That was you?” I said. “They canceled, never saw them.”

“Figures,” he said. “They’re big on that.”

“Canceling?”

“Reneging.” His hand tensed, gave a small wave and brushed against his glass, knocking it over. The minuscule amount of wine was no threat as it dribbled to the tablecloth, but he flung himself back as if escaping an avalanche. High-strung type.

When the waiter came over to help, he barked, “I’m fine, just bring his food.”

“Yes, sir.”

I drank tea as Brent checked out the adjoining booths. No one paid attention to his scrutiny.

“So they never showed up,” he said. “Well, they fucked me over big-time, that’s why I’m happy to give you dirt. But first tell me why you need to know about them.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Sorry, that’s all I can say, Brent.”

“Ooooh, big giant
police
mystery? Got to be juicy if that cop has you on it.” He winked. “Another O.J. thing? Blake? Something better?”

“Not even close, I was hoping you’d get me closer.”

“I do the giving, you do the taking?” He laughed. “So you’ve met Todd.”

My salad arrived. Brent lifted an anchovy from my plate, chewed, swallowed. “Blood pressure’s probably through the roof now, but yummy.”

“So how’d you come to refer them to me?”

“I was doing a deal and the issue came up. I think kid-shrink, I think you.”

“What kind of problem were they having?”

“How should I know? I never talked to them.”

“Your people set it up with their people. Then you took lunch.”

“Ha ha ha. As a matter of fact, yes, that’s what happened. But high-level people. People authorized to make decisions. We were at that stage by then, I thought I had the deal nailed.”

An index finger massaged the empty wineglass. Reassuring himself he was steady. He said, “My house has a wine cellar, I’ve got twelve hundred bottles, more than I’ll be able to drink, and Todd doesn’t touch alcohol.”

“Embarrassment of riches.”

“Yeah … anyway, that’s it. Someone asked about a therapist, I said I knew someone.”

“They asked for a child therapist, specifically.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I think so—this was what, two years ago?”

“Just about.”

His eyes drifted toward the bar, followed the entry of four men in suits and open-necked shirts. And loafers. He started to wave, stopped when they failed to notice him. Or ignored him. They continued to a corner booth. He finished his wine.

I said, “No hint about what the problem was.”

“Ri … ight.” Still checking out the room.

I ate salad as he gave the anchovies an occasional lustful look. “I need to be honest, Alex. It wasn’t something I thought much about, I was concentrating on the deal. Besides, I get that kind of thing all the time.”

“Requests for referrals.”

“Doctors, dentists, chiropractors, masseuses. All part of the job.”

“Knowing the right people.”

“Knowing the right matches, who fits with who. I figured you’d be
okay for them because you have all the right paper, probably wouldn’t fuck up.”

I smiled. “Thanks for the endorsement, Brent.”

“They canceled, huh? So what else is new.”

“Why’d they bail on your deal?”

“Not
my
deal, a deal between titans, I’m talking A-est of the A-list, something that could’ve been
huge
. I set it up elegantly, if it had gone through, I’d never have to think about anything for the rest of my life.”

“Blockbuster.”

“Blockbuster times a quintzillion, Alex. I’m talking action, romance, long and short arcs, merchandising potential up the wazz, sequels that would’ve gone on for infinity. I’m talking the biggest thing they’d do together,
wa-aaay
bigger than
Passion Power
and that piece of shit pulled in heavy eight figures with overseas distribution. The upside would’ve been astronomical. More important, I staked my word on it, staked my fucking soul. Everything was in place, contracts drawn, clauses hammered out, legal fees alone cost more than entire pictures used to rack up. We were set up for a signing, going to make a big thing about it, press conference, photo ops. The day before, they change their mind.”

“How come?”

“People like that have to give a reason?” His fist hit the table. The wineglass bounced. He caught it. “Gotcha, you little bastard.”

Beckoning the waiter, he brandished the glass. “Take this away, it’s annoying.”

“Yes, sir.”

Flecks of foam had collected at the corners of Brent’s mouth. He made claws out of his hands, scratched air. “I put everything into it, Alex. Hadn’t taken on another client the entire year and I’m talking names, people pissed off at me. Everything else came my way, I delegated to other agents at the firm. So of course, my alleged friends and colleagues held on to everything after I got … after the deal got murdered and I had nothing, was starting from fucking scratch and my
credibility’s worse than a politician. Everything changed. I got moved to a new office. Want to take odds it was bigger? Don’t.” Long sigh. “But I’m getting back to a good place in my life, every day’s progress.”

He shoved his plate to the side. “The deal was perfection, every
meeting
was perfection. And for a bullshit reason like that? Give me a fucking break.”

I said, “Thought they didn’t give you a reason?”

“I said that? I never said that. What I said was people like that don’t
have
to have a reason. Yeah, they gave an excuse. Family matters. And that’s
after
I referred them to you, so what the fuck was their problem?”

His eyelids dropped farther. “Here’s a confession, Alex. For a while I got paranoid. About you. Did they go see you and you laid some shrink crap on them—spend more time with the kids, whatever—and
that’s
what fucked things up? For a while I had … thoughts about you. Then I realized I was getting psycho, if I didn’t watch out I’d go totally psycho.”

He reached across, patted my wrist. “I have to be honest, that’s one reason I wanted to meet with you. To find out what the fuck happened. So now I find out you don’t
know
what the fuck happened and you’re asking
me
what the fuck happened. Funny. Ironic. Ha ha ha. And they’re in some kind of trouble. Good. I’m happy. They should rot in hell.”

“What kind of people are they?”

“What kind do you think? Selfish, narcissistic, inconsiderate, he’s an idiot, she’s a controlling bitch. You buy that Super Mom-Super Dad crap? It’s just part of the façade, everything about people like that is a façade. You ever hear him talk? Dluh dluh dluh dluh. That’s what passes for James Dean, now. Welcome to my world.”

The waiter came over. “Anything else, gents? Coffee?”

Brent said, “No. Check.”

I paid.

Brent said, “Good man.”

I
reached Milo at the coroner’s.

“Just watched a .45 slug get pulled out of Wedd’s head, a weapon ever shows up, it’s early Christmas. His apartment was vacant except for a mattress on the bedroom floor and some over-the-counter pharmaceuticals in the john. He used to get heartburn and headaches, now he’s passed both along to me. Had the place dusted, sent the meds and the mattress to the lab, located one relative, Wedd’s brother, cowboy-type in Montana where Wedd’s originally from. No contact with Brother Mel for years, was appropriately shocked about the murder, said Mel was always the wild one but he never figured it would get that bad.”

He paused for breath.

I said, “Wild but no criminal record.”

“Minor-league stuff when he was young—joyriding, malicious pranks, neighborhood mischief, a few fights. No criminal record because the sheriff was his uncle, he’d bring Mel home and Mel’s dad would whup him. Then Mel got bigger than Dad and the parents basically gave up.”

“When did he come to L.A.?”

“Ten years ago, brother’s had no contact with him since. He wasn’t surprised to know Mel had gone Hollywood. Said the only thing Mel liked in high school was theater arts, he was always getting starring roles, could sing like Hank Williams, do impressions. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, you name it.”

“I’ve got something. You might even think of it as progress.”

I told him about the order from JayMar Lab, my talks with Kevin Dubinsky and Brent Dorf. Leaving out Len Coates because everything he knew was secondhand.

Milo said, “Knives and beetles. Her.”

“Purchased right around the time the baby was born. Poor little thing might’ve been targeted in utero.”

“I need to digest this … got time? My office, an hour.”

Midway through the drive to the station, I got a call from Len.

“Alex, I can’t tell you where I got this, so don’t ask, okay?”

“Okay.”

“The client we discussed did in fact opt for a therapist other than yourself. But the contact was limited to a single visit so obviously there was some serious resistance going on, don’t take it personally.”

“Thanks for the reassurance, Len.”

“Well,” he said, “we have feelings, too, no one likes to be passed over.”

“Agreed. One visit for what?”

He cleared his throat. “Here’s what I can tell you, please don’t ask for more: Client shows up late, can’t seem to articulate a good reason for being there, leaves before the session is over.”

I said, “Trouble focusing.” Thinking of Donny Rader’s voice on the line, his reputation as a barely literate dullard.

Then Len slipped and changed all that. “She … there was a lot of generalized anxiety, no ability to … explicate. Basically, it amounted to nothing, Alex, so I don’t see anything you can do with it.”

She
.

“I’m sure you’re right, Len. Thanks.”

“Law enforcement issues notwithstanding, Alex, none of this can ever be repeated to anyone.”

“I get it, Len. You have my word.”

“Good … you still taking patients?”

“Infrequently.”

“I’m asking because sometimes I get run-over. Good cases, not bullshit ones, things get crazy-busy, I could use backup.”

“Beyond your associates.”

“They’re kids, Alex. We’re vets. You interested?”

“Something short-term, in a pinch, I might be able to help.”

“Pretty busy, yourself.”

“It can get that way.”

“Playing Sherlock, huh? Ever think of selling yourself to TV? Make a good series.”

“Not really.”

“No interest at all?”

“I like the quiet life.”

“Think about it anyway, I’d produce in a heartbeat. And don’t be a stranger.”

I continued toward the station, thought about Donny Rader setting up an appointment, Prema Moon showing up late and leaving early, unable to explain what she was after.

A couple of nervous, caring parents? That didn’t fit with the notion of cold-blooded baby killers. Something was off. I was struggling with that when Milo rang in.

“Almost there,” I said.

“Change of plans.”

He laid them out. I got on the freeway, sped downtown.

T
he chief had opted to hide in plain sight, designating the meet at Number One Fortune Dim Sum Palace, one of those arena-sized places in Chinatown that still feature gluey chop suey, oil-drenched moo goo gai pan, and seafood of mysterious origin.

The air was humid with steam, sweat, and MSG. Linoleum floors had been pounded dull by decades of feet. The walls were red, green, more red, raised panels embossed with gold dragon medallions and outsized renderings of birds, fish, and bats. Chinese lettering might have meant something. Hundreds of lunchers were crammed into vault-like dining rooms, tended by ancient waiters in black poly Mao suits and tasseled gold beanies who moved as if running for their lives.

Enough clatter and din to make the Grill seem like a monastery. If there was a caste system behind this seating scheme, I couldn’t decipher it, and when Milo asked to be directed to the chief’s table, the stunning hostess looked at him as if he was stupid.

“We don’t take reservations and we have eight rooms.”

We set out on the hunt, finally spotted him at a smallish table near the center of the sixth room surrounded by hordes engrossed in their
food. No one paying attention to the white-haired, mustachioed man in the black shadow-stripe suit, white silk tab-collar shirt, gray-yellow-scarlet Leonard tie that screamed
more is more
.