Over the Edge (37 page)

As I drove north on La Brea, I thought of how downbeat I'd been with Robin and realised that Oberheim wasn't the only one with a self-absorption problem. I'd been so wrapped up in the case and the guilt it had unearthed that I'd neglected her, using her as a sounding board without considering that she might need some attention herself.

Determined to make amends, I made a three-point turn at a gas station on Fountain, drove south to Wilshire, and headed west, into Beverly Hills. There was about an hour left before the shops closed, and after parking in a city lot on Beverly Drive, I spent it like a gameshow winner on a spree, buying an antique lace blouse at a boutique on Canon, perfume and bath soap at Giorgio, a quart of Friisen Gladje raspberry chocolate ice cream, an enormous gourmet basket at Jurgensens, the copper skillet she'd wanted at Davis-Sonoma, a dozen coral roses arranged with leather fern and baby's breath. It was no solution, just a start in the right direction.

Manoeuvering through a sea of Mercedes, I drove away from the high-rent district and made one more stop - at a fish market near Overland - before heading home. When I got there, at six-thirty, Robin's truck was nowhere in sight, and she'd left word with the service that she'd be home by seven forty-five.

'There's another one, too, Doctor?' said the service operator. 'Do you want it?'

'Sure.'

'A Jennifer Leavitt called at three. She left two numbers.'

I copied them on a scrap of paper. One was a university extension; the other, a Fairfax District exchange. I was curious about what Jennifer wanted but not curious enough to interrupt my plans. Making a mental note to call her later that evening, I placed the scrap in my pocket.

Carrying the gifts into the bedroom, I arranged them on the bed. After changing into jeans and a well-worn corduroy shirt, I went into the kitchen, put Joe Pass on the stereo, an apron around my waist, and set about preparing dinner: an appetiser of jumbo mushrooms stuffed with garlic and breadcrumbs; a salad of butter lettuce, pepper, and Chinese scallions; a carafe of tarragon vinaigrette; grilled fillets of Norwegian salmon topped with capers; fresh string beans lightly buttered; and a bottle of sauvignon blanc - a virgin white from the vineyard of a lady judge I'd once met. The Friisen Gladje would serve as dessert.

She walked through the door just as I was dressing the salad. I took her coat and portfolio, led her to the kitchen,

sat her at the table, and brought a basin and cup with which to wash her hands.

'Whew!' She grinned broadly. 'To what do I owe all this?'

Shushing her with a kiss, I uncorked and poured the wine and brought the mushrooms to the table, along with a log of sourdough.

'Alex, this is terrific!'

'Wolfgang Puck, eat your heart out.'

We ate slowly and tranquilly, with a minimum of conversation.

'Delicious,' she said, pushing her plate away.

'Ready for dessert?'

She groaned and patted her tummy.

'Can we wait awhile?'

'Sure. Go relax while I clean up.'

'Let me help you,' she said, standing. 'I need to move around.'

'All right, but first go in the bedroom and bring me a cooler shirt.'

'Sure, hon.'

She came back holding the lace blouse to her breast, smiling like a kid.

'Baby,' she said.

We moved toward each other, embraced, and never separated for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, after she'd gone to the shop, I hung up my jeans and the scrap with Jennifer's numbers fell out. After picking up the phone, I dialled the university extension. A slow-talking baritone informed me that I'd reached the psychobiology lab. In the background was a wash of voices.

'This is Dr. Delaware returning Jennifer Leavitt's call.'

'Who?'

'Dr. Delaware.'

'No, who're you calling?'

'Jennifer Leavitt.' I spelled it.

'Oh. Uh, one second.' He put down the phone and

shouted out her name, returned to the line even more lethargic than before. 'Uh, no, she's not here.'

'When do you expect her?'

'Don't know. Uh, we're right in the middle of something, so why don't you, uh, call later.'

'Can you leave a message for her?'

'Uh, well, I really don't-'

'Thanks.'

I hung up and dialled the Fairfax exchange. A cheerful-sounding woman answered.

'Mrs. Leavitt?'

'Yes?'

'This is Dr. Delaware. I used to work with Jennifer at Project 160-'

'Oh, yes, Doctor. Jennifer was quite anxious to talk with you. She said to tell you she'll be out for the day. She and Danny - that's her boyfriend - have gone to La Jolla. But she should be back this evening. Where can she reach you?'

I gave her my home number and thanked her.

'My pleasure, Doctor. Jennifer always had wonderful things to say about you. She was so young when she entered the project, and you really helped her adjust.'

'That's great to hear.'

'Now she's going to be a doctor herself. Isn't that wonderful?'

'You must be very proud.'

'Oh, we are, Doctor. We are.'

I did some housekeeping, fed the koi, practised karate katas, took a three-mile run and a long soak in the tub. The morning mail held the usual junk along with a subpoena to appear as an expert witness in a custody case I'd thought long resolved, but the date was a month away, so I filed it.

All the makings of a peaceful morning, but the fact that someone had outbid me for The Wretched Act kept slipping into my mind. Voids Will Be Voids was some surgeon's tax dodge, hardly meant to be a bustling enterprise, yet all of a sudden customers were vying for a particular sculpture. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it.

It was only twelve-thirty, several hours before the gallery opened, but I had time on my hands, so I drove back downtown in the hope of spotting Stripehead nearby. He was nowhere in sight, and the gallery was dark, so I went for lunch in Chinatown.

Belly full of dim sum, I returned at two. Voids was still closed, but I spotted my quarry picking through the rags on a rack in front of one of the clothing outlets. By the time I'd parked and walked up behind him, he'd selected a pair of mock tigerskin stretch pants, a polyethylene tank top, and an extra-large J.C. Penney white-button shirt.

'Hi,' I said softly.

He jumped and dropped the clothes on the sidewalk. I picked them up and brushed them off. The Korean who owned the outlet stared suspiciously from the doorway. Stripehead absorbed the suspicion and passed it along to me.

'Whaddya you want, man?'

'I want to do a little more business.'

'Business starts at four o'clock.' He pretended to inspect the tank top.

'I'm not interested in art. Just information.'

'Then call the freakin' information bureau.'

The Korean came out and stood beside us. 'Buy or look?' he demanded.

Before Stripehead could sneer a reply, I said:

'Buy. How much?'

The Korean quoted a figure. I offered him half as much, and we settled for two-thirds. Stripehead looked on incredulously, then held the clothes out to me.

'Keep 'em,' I said. 'Merry Christmas.'

He started walking toward the gallery, and I stayed with him.

'You Jewish or something?' he asked.

'No. Why?'

'You do business like a Chink or a Jew, and you're sure not no Chink.'

'You're welcome.'

'Huh?'

'Nevermind.'

We reached Voids. He stood with his back to the iron grating, clutching the clothes as if afraid that he who gaveth would suddenly taketh away.

'I want to know who bought The Wretched Act.'

'I told you, man. Some suit.'

'What was the man's name?'

'He din't give no name.'

'What about a receipt?'

'He wanted cash-and-carry, just like you.'

'Tell me what he looked like.'

'I told you, man, I don't look at - '

The twenty under his nose stopped him mid-sentence.

'Fifty.' He tried.

I pulled the money back angrily.

'Forget it. I have a friend on the police. When I leave here, I'm calling him and filing a complaint about fraudulent business practises.'

'Hey, man, I didn't do nothing.'

'Maybe, maybe not. But when they take one look at you, it'll be body-search time.'

I turned to leave. Scrawny fingers held me back.

'Hey, man, I was just tryin' to be fair. The other suit paid me fifty not to talk, seems you should do the same.'

I peeled his hand off and started walking.

'Fuck you, man! Okay, okay! Twenty.'

I stopped and turned around.

'First let's hear what you have to say.'

'He had a big freaking mouth.'

'I need a description, not a personality assessment.'

'Okay, hold on. Let's see. He was white. And tan. Like some faggot who sits in front of a sun lamp all day.'

'How tall?'

'Like you, but heavier.'

'Fat?'

'Muscles.'

' What about his hair?'

'Short. Like some faggot who lifts weights and grooms himself all day.'

'What else?"

He contorted his face, trying to remember.

'He had a beard. Yeah. That's it, man."

'What colour?'

'Dark.'

In his addled way he'd produced a good description of Erno Radovic.

'Did he say why he wanted the sculpture?'

'No, he, uh - sure. He said he liked art.'

I showed him another twenty and said:

'Come on. Let it out."

'Hey, man, I don't wanna get in any shit over this. He was a real asshole.'

'He'll never know.'

He looked up and down the street, then back at the money.

'The first time you were here he came in right after you left. Asked me what you were up to. I said, "Hey, man, this is Voids, not some information bureau." Then he got this bizarro look on his face and produced some cash, so I told him I never saw you before, you just wanted to buy trash. I showed him which trash, and he bid you up. That's it, man. Okay?'

Milo had told me to call him if the bodyguard showed his face. I went to the phone booth in the parking lot and punched in his number at the West L.A. station.

He was out, so I asked for Del Hardy, his occasional partner. It took a while to locate the black detective, and when he came to the phone, he was out of breath.

'Doc,' he panted.

'Hi, Del. You okay?'

'Aerobics . . . stress management programme . . . orders from the brass . . . dropping like flies . . . gonna lose ... a lot of good men.'

'Milo involved in it, too?'
                                 
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'Supposed to be ... but he keeps .. . making up excuses. Like trying to solve crimes.'

I laughed.

'I'd like to talk to him when he gets back. It's no emergency, just something about Erno Radovic.'

He exhaled, and his voice tightened.

'That racist pig? He hassling you again?'

'Not exactly. But I have reason to believe he's been following me.'

'You in any trouble?'

'Not at all. Like I said, it's no emergency.'

'Okay. Anyway, Milo hasn't come in today. I think he's out on a call. But he should be phoning in within the hour, and I'll make sure he gets the message. Meanwhile, if you see the motherfucker skulking around again, phone me collect.'

'Thanks, Del.'

I drove home, pulled out a stack of psych journals, and prepared to catch up on some reading. I'd just immersed myself in an article on the psychological development of premature infants when the service called.

'Good, you're home,' said the operator. 'I've got a Sergeant Michael Sturgis on the line. It's the third time he's called.'

'Please put him through.'

'Certainly, Doctor. Go ahead, sir. Doctor's on the line.'

'Alex?' The connection was peppered with static, but the urgency in Milo's voice was clear.

'What's up?' I asked.

'Del said you wanted to talk about Radovic. Go ahead.'

I told him about the bodyguard's following me and purchasing The Wretched Act.

'A sculpture?'

'More than just a sculpture, Milo. It combines elements of Jamey's father's death and Chancellor's murder. Radovic paid a lot of money for it. You might want to ask him about it once you locate him.'

There was no reply, only crackles and pops.

'Milo?' I said, wondering if we'd been cut off.

'We've located him,' he said softly. 'He's lying a few feet from where I'm standing, gutted like a fish.'

'Oh, shit.'

'Wait, there's more. We've got an eyewitness to the knifing. There were two guys involved. Bikers. One skinny, the other a veritable tub of lard.'

'Jesus. Where did it happen?'

'Near Bitter Canyon, off the Antelope Valley Highway. We need to talk, Alex. Soon.'

'Name it.'

'Whitehead and Cash are still here beating their meat, but they're splitting in a couple of minutes. I volunteered to handle the paper work, so I'll be here for a while. It's a forty-minute ride, give or take ten on either side. Leave in an hour, so you don't pass anyone on the freeway; it's an open road and every car's visible. Know how to get here?'

'Four-oh-five north?'

'Right. Stay with it past the merge with five, then hook east on fourteen, toward Lancaster and Mojave. You'll pass Soledad Canyon, Agua Dulce, and the L A. Aqueduct. Bitter Canyon's a few miles before Palmdale. The highway cuts through high desert, and the exit road will drop you a thousand feet. It's damned deserted out here, so don't get spooked. Just keep going until you see an old Texaco station. The meat wagon will probably be there. You won't be able to miss it.'

THE NORTHERN edge of the Valley began to bleed off into empty stretches just past San Fernando. As I turned onto the Antelope Valley Highway, the way posts of prefab civilisation - Colonial Kitchens, Carrows, Dennys, Pizza Huts - disappeared, and expanses of increasingly raw terrain slid into view: low sandstone hills parched white under a stubble of creosote and sagebrush, squat and pitiful against the distant black backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains; long sashes of ravaged gravel pit; chaparral still scorched from last summer's brush fires; sudden flashes of brilliant canary yellow wildflowers.