L.A. Mental (3 page)

Four

I
t took maybe fifteen minutes to run to my car, make the call to 911, and get back to Nick. Help started arriving very soon after that, by land, air, and sea. A team from Malibu Search and Rescue—volunteers who risked their necks for nothing but the satisfaction of saving lives—came rappelling down the cliffs; the Coast Guard sent an MLB, a fast, tough boat designed for dangerous operations in heavy surf; and overhead, the lights of a helicopter from UCLA Medical Center appeared through the fog.

The personnel were just as competent as they were quick. Within another few minutes, they'd hoisted Nick by sling to the hovering copter and gotten me on board the boat, wrapped in blankets with EMTs checking me over. I was a little bruised, but intact; the only things I really felt were my scraped-up bare feet.

The sky was starting to lighten as the MLB pulled up onto Westward Beach, the closest place with vehicle access. I told the crew again how terrific they were and climbed out of the boat. Right away, I saw several media vans and a knot of reporters in the parking area. I hadn't expected that; these kinds of incidents usually didn't attract so much attention. But as soon as I thought about it, the reason was obvious. These kinds of incidents usually didn't involve the bad-boy son of a prominent family.

There were also a couple of L.A. County sheriff's deputies and a man waiting for me who had the look of a plainclothes cop—late forties, solidly built, with a face that seemed friendly but suggested that you wouldn't want to meet him in an interrogation cell.

I should have expected this; of course the police would want my account. I took my time hobbling across the beach to him, trying to get my story together. With the situation turning so serious, my hiding the dope from Nick's car was also more serious, and I wasn't a quick-witted liar.

But another ugly possibility was rising in my mind—that I might be under suspicion for assault or even attempted murder. The scenario was easy to construct. My anger at Nick had grown over the years of trouble he'd given me, and tonight was the last straw. We'd quarreled, and I'd lost my temper and shoved him over the cliff, but then, stricken by fear or remorse, managed to drag him out of the water. It was entirely plausible. Violent incidents where people gave in to bursts of rage, followed by equally sudden changes of heart, were common.

And that would further explain the strong media presence. An implication of foul play would make for an even juicier story.

“Dr. Crandall, I'm Detective Sergeant Drabyak,” the waiting man said, flipping open a wallet badge. “Are you sure you don't need medical attention?”

“I'm okay. Thanks.”

“You could stand to warm up, I bet. Let's get you in my car.”

“That would be great. But I could really use some dry clothes. I've got some in my own car, if you wouldn't mind taking me to it.”

“Glad to,” he said. “Just out of curiosity, why'd you bring spare clothes?”

Drabyak wasn't wasting any time.

“Just old habit,” I said. “If I've been running, swimming, a hike out in the foothills.”

Drabyak nodded, apparently satisfied. Apparently.

As we walked toward the parking area, the media cameras started flashing and the reporters closed in, thrusting microphones at me. Their faces loomed forward out of the mist with moving mouths that seemed to have a lot of teeth, and the questions came so fast I only half caught most of them.

“Dr. Crandall, that must have been a harrowing rescue. Can you tell us—”

“Sir, what caused your brother to—”

“Was there a struggle?”

“ . . .  drugs involved?”

I held up a hand, palm first. “I don't have anything to say right now.”

“Come on, people, give him a break,” Drabyak called out more forcefully. That stopped the questions, although they still walked along with us, cameras flashing.

We got into his car, a Ford sedan that was unmarked but had door-to-door dashboard electronics, a squawk box emitting bursts of copspeak, and a racked shotgun. Still, the peace and warmth were comforting.

“Ever see that movie
Night of the Living Dead
?” he said wryly, jerking his head toward the figures milling around us.

In spite of it all, I couldn't help smiling.

“How about some coffee?” he said, rummaging under his seat. “Station house crap, but it's hot.”

“You bet.”

He came up with a battered steel thermos and filled two foam cups with the steaming brew. It was crap, all right, but maybe the most welcome crap I'd ever tasted.

“You've had a hell of a night,” he said. “Sure you're feeling all right?”

“I'm sure.”

“A lot of people wouldn't be so steady. But I guess it's not the first time you pulled somebody out of the water.” He was watching me without seeming to—feeling around.

“It scared the shit out of me every time I did, Detective, and nothing in my life ever scared me like tonight,” I said. “But yeah, you get thick-skinned. I'm sure it's the same for you guys, only a lot worse. Nobody was ever shooting at us.”

Drabyak exhaled, a sound that seemed both sad and grimly amused.

“There's an upside—we've usually got solid ground under us and air to breathe.” He put the car in gear, and we started out. I thought the reporters might follow us, but they didn't; I was sure they weren't done with this, but the immediate high drama was over.

“Dr. Crandall, we might as well get clear right away,” Drabyak said. “I need to know what happened between you and your brother. Why don't you give me a rundown while we drive?”

I knew I didn't have to agree—I could have insisted on having a lawyer before I said a word. But that would raise a red flag. I took the gamble that the best way to tamp this down was to talk like I was willing and even eager to. I told him the story, leaving out only the part about the dope in Nick's car.

Drabyak drove slowly, his right wrist hooked over the wheel. Dawn was coming on now, with the early light suffusing the fog.

“Let me confirm a few things,” he said. “You and Nick weren't still scuffling when he fell, is that right?”

“Yes. We were a good ten feet apart.”

“You never provoked him or tried to harm him? Didn't threaten him in any way? Yell something angry, act like you wanted to keep fighting?”

“Nothing like that. Like I said, I was trying my damnedest to get him calmed down and safe. I've been annoyed at Nick plenty—no question there. But I'd never do anything to hurt him, and in general, I never blow up. If I couldn't control myself, I'd have dropped out of psychology a long time ago.”

Drabyak gave me another of his judicious nods. “Okay, I'm fine with all that. No offense intended, by the way—you don't strike me as the kind of guy who'd throw his brother off a cliff. I just need to cover the turf.”

“Understood,” I said, relieved that I seemed to be off the hook, at least for now.

“So why did Nick freak out so bad? You said that phone call was what seemed to set him off. Any idea who'd call him at four o'clock in the morning?”

“I haven't had time to think about it,” I said. “But right off the top, no, and I don't see how it could figure in. It lasted only a few seconds—what could somebody have said in that short a time that would send him completely ballistic? Besides, everything he said was about the problem being inside his head, not coming from somewhere else.”

“Could it have been a suicide attempt?”

I hesitated, but then shook my head. “That's also possible, but Nick's never been suicidal. My personal take is that it doesn't fit with his psychological makeup.”

I'd never tried to do an outright clinical assessment on Nick involving tests and such, but it was clear to me that he was somewhere in the hazy area of borderline psychotic—people who tended to be very self-centered and manipulative, thrived on a secret sense of superiority, and by and large liked themselves just fine. They might do plenty of damage to others, but their top priority was taking care of number one.

Finally Drabyak put his finger on the weak point, changing wrists on the steering wheel and shifting in his seat to face more toward me.

“One more question,” he said. “Do you think he was using drugs?”

“I'd rather not speculate on that, Detective.” He knew as well as I did that meant yes. “But Nick's had his problems along those lines. Assuming he pulls through this, I guarantee we'll get him a thorough clinical workup and whatever treatment is indicated.”

By now our house was coming into sight. Several more L.A. County vehicles were parked in front, patrol cars and investigation units, and the driveway was cordoned off by yellow tape with deputies standing watch. Drabyak stuck his hand out the window, flashing his badge at them, then pulled in among the other vehicles and cut the engine.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Crandall,” he said. “I won't keep you any longer—I know you're anxious to check in on Nick.”

“Can you tell me what happens from here?” I said. “Anything else you're going to want me to do?”

He leaned back and hooked a wrist over the wheel again, like he was still driving.

“That depends,” he said. “Right now, I don't see any evidence that a crime was committed. No crime, there's usually no reason for us to pursue it. We
could
. Trace that phone call, start looking under rocks, find out what he's been doing and who with. But something could come along to kick this back into gear. And let's face it, the Crandalls being who they are—there's going to be a lot of interest.”

Five

R
onald Reagan UCLA Medical Center was like a city in itself, but I'd been there a few times before and I knew my way around. I paid eleven bucks for a parking space and went in the emergency room entrance of the huge main hospital. There I spent the next couple of hours absorbing the information about Nick that came along at intervals. While I waited, I finally had time to replay the events in my mind.

What the hell
had
pushed him, literally, over the edge? In the past years he'd had a few episodes of slipping out of reality, but he'd never come close to losing it so wildly, and he'd never been outright violent. The memory of those awful, desperate howls and of him dancing around clutching his hair made me wince. It was like something really had invaded his head and was torturing him.

The best assumption I could make at this point was that two factors had combined—he'd gotten into some really bad dope, and/or way too much of it, and his general mental condition had deteriorated more than I'd realized.

The explanation didn't much satisfy me. The drug part, maybe; who knew what kind of shit was out there on the streets these days? Still, I had trouble believing that an experienced user like Nick would get so sucker punched. I'd turned over the stuff from his car to the hospital, and the analysis might tell us something, but with the lab's backlog, it would be at least a week before the results came back.

I was even less able to convince myself that his mental state had slipped so far. I kept a close eye on him that way, and while he might be slowly losing ground, I'd seen no signs of serious decline that would suggest a complete psychotic meltdown. That sort of thing typically didn't just come out of the blue, but had a long buildup with recognizable kinds of disturbed behavior. Most important, however erratic or unpleasant he might have seemed, he was always still Nick. Last night he was somebody I'd never seen before.

Then there was that phone call. It occurred to me that he might have been having an ongoing argument with whoever it was, and even though the call lasted only a few seconds, that was long enough for him or her to say something that made Nick snap. But I had a hard time buying that, too. As I'd told Drabyak, it didn't fit with Nick's ranting about the terror inside his head, and it just didn't seem plausible that a few words could drive him into such a blind fury.

While I paced, stewing, news kept trickling out of the ER, and it was generally encouraging. Nick had opened his eyes and seemed to be aware of his surroundings. Initial X-rays indicated that his spinal column was intact. Overall, he was physically stable enough to soon be moved to the ICU. But there was still the possibility of brain damage. A CT scan and other tests were in the works; the doctors thought they'd have a more comprehensive picture later today.

I decided to move on. There was no point in hanging around there in the interim, and I had other things to take care of. I'd been teaching at a community college the past couple of years, and right now we were on break, so I didn't have to worry about canceling appointments or formal business matters. But I did have to worry about our mother; that was top priority now.

I'd called her earlier to break the news; she'd wanted to rush to the hospital, but I told her to stay home and I'd come see her soon. She was a strong, intelligent woman, but she had a brittle edge that had gotten more pronounced since my father's death. I wanted to get a sense of how distraught she might be before she walked into this world of hushed urgency, mysterious machines, and tense visitors waiting for word about their loved ones. It seemed too likely to give graphic shape to her fears.

When I walked out of the hospital, it was midmorning. The fog had burned off; it was probably lingering on the coast and up in the canyons, but here the sky was the smog-tinged blue of a typical L.A. day. The parking garage adjoined the main UCLA campus, crowded with bright, good-looking kids eager for summer vacation. I knew that heady feeling, and ordinarily, I'd have been charmed and amused.

I maneuvered my way through the crowded city streets back onto the absolutely jammed Santa Monica Freeway, and headed west to our family home near Arroyo Seco. By now, the adrenaline that had carried me along was gone. I was down to emotional metal on metal, raw nerves and worry. There was the question of what to do with Nick in the long term. If he was seriously impaired, he might require full-time care for the rest of his life. If he recovered, there was a strong risk that he'd go back to his old ways, treatment or not—he'd already been through one rehab program and had started using again the day he got out.

Besides all that, I kept thinking about what Drabyak had implied about the risks of looking under rocks. As far as I knew, Nick's criminal career was limited to small-time dealing. Still, if he owed somebody money or had otherwise crossed them, they might be out for payback.

My other brother and my sister would be no help with any of that. My mother would try, and she had considerable ability in some spheres, but this wasn't one of them.

The weight was piling on.

As I drove up to my mother's house—the Crandall family's principal homestead, another choice property situated on a cul-de-sac and screened by thick oleander hedges—everything looked pretty much the same as always.

Except for a pair of LAPD motorcycle cops waiting at the driveway entrance—big, stone-jawed guys with Terminator sunglasses, tailored short-sleeved shirts, and knotty biceps that brought the word
steroids
flashing into my mind.

I didn't even have time to wonder what they were doing here. They both came at me fast, the one on the right blocking my way and the other pulling his bike up beside my window.

“Keep your hands where I can see them and get out of your vehicle,” he ordered.

I did.

“Put your hands on the hood and spread your feet.”

I did that, too, but he stepped up behind me and gave the insides of my ankles each a sharp kick with his boot toe. I spread them a few inches farther.

“You got a driver's license?” he said.

“In my wallet. Left back pocket.”

He tugged it out. “How come it's damp?”

“I was swimming earlier.”

“Really?” he said, with his tone changed from macho gruff to sardonic. “You always carry your wallet when you go for a dip, Mr.—”

“Crandall.” I finished his sentence. “This is my mother's house. My wallet's wet because my brother just almost drowned and I went in after him.”

That put a stop to the fun and games, and a long pause told me that he knew he'd stepped in shit and was trying to figure a way out of it. I wasn't inclined to help.

“Okay, you can relax, but wait right here,” he said, and this time he added, “sir.”

He strode away and handed my license to his partner, who wheeled his bike around and roared off toward the house. Within two minutes, he was back, and the first cop returned my wallet with an air of stiff apology.

“Sorry about that, Dr. Crandall,” he said. “The mayor's in there, paying his regards to your mother. We're part of his security escort. Nobody told us you were coming, and, uh, your vehicle doesn't exactly look like it belongs around here.”

I nodded curtly. Like Drabyak, they were just doing their job, although he was a class act compared to this smirking schoolyard-bully shit. But I kept my mouth shut. I avoided pissing matches anyway—they were usually pointless, with nothing to gain but a petty ego stroke—and the last thing I wanted right now was to create friction, especially in law enforcement circles.

I got back in the Cruiser and started toward the house. It helped that the mayor—rising political star Joaquin Sandoval—had come to call. That would give my mother a boost.

Much as I loved
her
, coming back to this place where I'd grown up was always a stab to my heart. It was beautiful, even stunning; the long winding drive led through the grounds to an elegant arts and crafts mansion, fronted by a large patio of hand-hewn granite pavestones with a Renaissance-era marble fountain that my great-great-granddad Tom the First had imported from Tuscany. But that was precisely the problem. Like the Malibu property, only more so, it was a monument to wealth and privilege. I couldn't undo my childhood, but I did all I could to distance myself from those aspects of it.

The driveway ended in a parking circle, where two more watchful LAPD cops were waiting beside the mayor's limo. My mother, Audrey, was hurrying across the patio toward me, with Sandoval, my younger sister, Erica, and an old family friend named Hap Rasmussen just behind her. I got out of my car and stepped into Audrey's embrace.

“Oh, Tom,” she murmured. The sorrow in her voice said it all. She was close to sixty, her chestnut hair threaded with silver, although her willowy, fine-boned beauty took years off her appearance. She was obviously shaken, but she seemed steadier than I'd feared. Along with the mayor's visit, I was glad that Hap was here. Since my father's death, he was more and more becoming her mainstay.

“Nick's doing okay,” I told them. “He's conscious, and his system's strong. They're running tests on him now. With any luck, he'll keep improving.”

Audrey let out a long soft breath of pent-up tension, sagging with relief against me. Erica hugged us both, Hap slapped my back, and even Sandoval gave my shoulders a manly clasp.

“What about you?” Audrey said. “It must have been awful.”

I kissed her cheek and managed to grin. “It was just like back when I was working the beach, Mama—even made me feel like a young guy again. I could use some decent coffee.”

“We've got plenty, dear. Come on inside.”

Everybody started toward the house, but Sandoval caught my eye and motioned me to hang back. I knew him only slightly, and only because he was careful to cultivate the acquaintance of big-money families; without doubt, this gesture of concern toward Audrey had the expectation of a campaign check attached. He'd come up in the barrios, and he was imposing, with a rough-hewn pockmarked face in glaring contrast to the pretty-boy pol look—although he had plenty of that slickness. But he also knew how to turn on a sincere, no-bullshit quality, not that I'd have wanted to depend on it.

“Tom, I've got to get to an appointment—I'm going to sneak out and let you and Audrey catch up,” he said. “I'm glad to hear Nick's on the mend.”

“Thanks for coming, Your Honor. It means a lot to us.”

He glanced around. “I'm not supposed to smoke—it's bad for the image—but I'm dying for one. Bother you?”

“My old man smoked cigars—the house was always full of it,” I said. “I know I shouldn't admit this, but I kind of like it.”

He shook loose a Marlboro and lit it with a match cupped in one hand.

“Look, this will stay between you and me,” he said quietly. “I called the sheriff's department as soon as I heard the news and got hold of that detective you talked to, Drabyak.” Sandoval sucked in a deep drag and kept talking through a thin stream of smoke. “I don't see any problem making this disappear. Might be nice if you offered to cover the county and Coast Guard expenses, cut a donation check to Search and Rescue, that sort of thing.”

“I'll take care of it ASAP.” Along with that check to his campaign coffers.

“Okay. Call me anytime.” He ground out the rest of his smoke on a rock ledge, and dropped the butt in the side pocket of his sport coat. “Don't worry. I've got it lined with tinfoil,” he said, when he saw my look. “I started getting more careful after I left a spark one time and almost torched myself.”

Once burned, twice learned.

As the mayor turned to go, he paused. “By the way, nice work out there, bringing Nick back. It's on the grapevine—cops, search-and-rescue people. You earned yourself a lot of respect.”

“It was pure luck,” I said.

Mayor Sandoval grinned. “Sure it was.”