The Clinic (11 page)

“He did. Maybe he’s just a passionate guy.”

“Dr. Heelspur. Saying the same thing Seacrest did: “It had nothing to do with me.’ ”

“No one wants to be close to murder,” I said.

He frowned and pushed the door to the courtyard. Tight-faced Nurse Anna was at the courtyard table, smoking and reading the paper. She looked up and gave a small wave.

Milo gave her a card, too. She shook her head.

“I only saw Dr. Devane when she came to work.”

“How often was that?”

“It wasn’t regular. Every so often.”

“Did she have her own key?”

“Yes.”

“And she always worked out of that room we were just in?”

Nod.

“Nice lady?” said Milo.

Split-second pause. “Yes.”

“Anything you want to tell us about her?”

“No,” she said. “What could there be?”

Milo shrugged.

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Returning the gesture, she stubbed out the cigarette, collected her paper, and stood up.

“Break’s over, better be getting back. Have a nice day.”

She headed back to the building as we crossed the flagstone. As we opened the big door to the street, she was still watching us.

Milo put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it.

“What?” I said.

“Something about Cruvic . . .” He started the car. “Maybe I’ve been on the job too long. Know what came into the station this morning? Newborn baby mauled to death by some dogs.

Seventeen-year-old unwed momma weeping, tragic accident, right? Then the detectives find out the dogs were in the next-door neighbor’s yard, separated by an eight-foot fence. Turns out Momma killed the kid, tossed it over to destroy the evidence.”

“Jesus.”

“No doubt she’ll be claiming she was the victim, going on TV, writing a book.” He gave a terrible smile. “So am I excused for negative thinking?”

Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a portable cellular phone and punched numbers.

“Sturgis. Anything? Yeah, I’ll wait.”

“Mr. Information Highway,” I said, struggling to erase the image of the savaged infant. “Since when does the department issue cell phones?”

“Oh, sure. Department’s idea of the information highway is two extra-largetin cans and heavy twine. This here is a hand-me-down from Rick, he’s got a new one, does all sorts of paging tricks. I don’t like going through the department radio without a tactical band, and pay phones are a hassle. But so is applying for reimbursement, so I write off the calls to Blue.”

Blue Investigations was his evening moonlight: after-hours surveillance jobs, mostly nailing insurance scammers. Mostly he hated it. Lately he’d been turning down referrals.

“If it’s reimbursement you’re after, maybe you should bill it as gynecology,” I said.

He cracked up. “Uh-huh,” he said, into the phone. “Yeah, yeah—where? Okay, got it. Thanks.”

Backing out onto Civic Center, he drove west. “Cindy Vespucci—the girl Kenny Storm threw out of the car—just returned my message. She’ll be lunching at the Ready Burger in Westwood in a quarter hour. Willing to talk if we show up before her next class.”

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The restaurant was on Broxton, on the west edge of the Village, where the streets knot up and walking can be faster than driving. Plastic yellow sign, sweating glass window, two rickety tables on the sidewalk, one occupied by two girls drinking Cokes with straws. Neither acknowledged us and we went inside. Three more tables, yellow tile walls also sweating. Lettuce shreds and straw wrappers flecked the red-brick floor; the smell of frying meat was everywhere. A quartet of Asian countermen with Ferrari hands chopped, flipped, wrapped, and played cash-register arpeggios. A numb-looking queue, mostly students, curved from the door to the counter.

Milo studied the interior tables. The lunchers who noticed him didn’t do so for long. Same for the kids in line.

We went back outside and he checked his watch. One of the girls put her drink down and said,

“Officer Sturgis?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Cindy.”

She was a college freshman but looked like a high-school sophomore. Barely five feet tall, maybe ninety-five pounds, borderline beautiful in an elfin way, with long, straight blond hair, the expected wide sky-blue eyes, an upturned nose, and a cupid’s bow mouth. I felt immediately protective and wondered if I’d ever have a daughter.

She wore a gray University sweatshirt over tight black leggings and white running shoes. Book bag by her chair. The nails at the end of her fingers were gnawed. The girl with her was also pretty and blond, a bit chubby. The table was littered with greasy paper and miniature foil packets of ketchup and mustard.

Milo held out his hand. Cindy swallowed and proffered hers. As she looked up at him her mouth lost resolve. He hunched a bit and made his voice gentle. “Good to meet you, Cindy. We really appreciate your talking to us.”

“Oh, sure.” She looked back at her friend and nodded. The chubby girl stared at us then got up, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Cin?”

“I’m okay, Deb. See you at two.”

Deb nodded and walked up the street, peering over her shoulder a couple of times before crossing and entering a record store.

Cindy said, “Do you—should we just talk here?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Um—I’m sure someone will want to use the table. Can we walk?”

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“Sure.”

She retrieved her book bag, tossed back her hair, and gave a smile so effortful it must have burned calories.

Milo smiled back. Cindy turned away from him and saw me.

“This is Alex Delaware.”

“Hi.” She flinched and shot out her hand. I took it and received a sudden, hard squeeze from cold, child-sized fingers.

The three of us headed west to the end of the block. Across the street was a vast stretch of asphalt—one of the University’s off-campus parking lots serviced by shuttles. An idle blue bus was stationed near the entrance. Thousands of spaces, every one filled.

Milo said, “How about we walk through here? Should be pretty private.”

Cindy thought, gave three rapid nods. Her mouth had set grimly and her hands were closed tight.

As we entered the lot, she said, “When I was a little kid a policeman came to our school and warned us about darting out in front of parked cars.”

“Good advice,” said Milo. “We’ll be sure to look both ways.”

The girl’s laugh was constricted.

We strolled a bit before Milo said, “I’m sure you know why we want to talk to you, Cindy.”

“Of course. Professor Devane. She was—I’m really sorry what happened to her but it had nothing to do with Kenny and me.”

“I’m sure it didn’t, but we have to check out everything.”

Suddenly, the girl’s eyes grew merry. “That sounds just like on TV.”

“Then it’s got to be real, right?”

She gazed up at Milo, then back at me. “I’ve never met an actual detective.”

“Oh, it’s a real big deal. Somewhere between the Pulitzer and the Nobel.”

The girl squinted at him. “You’re funny. What do you want me to tell you about Professor Devane?”

“Your experience with the Interpersonal Conduct Committee.”

The narrow mouth twisted.

Milo said, “I know it’s hard to talk about, but—”

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“No, it’s not really hard. Not anymore. ’Cause it’s over. Kenny and I have resolved things.”

We kept walking. A few steps later, she said, “Actually, we’re dating.”

Milo made a noncommittal sound.

“No doubt it sounds bizarre to you, but it’s working for us. I guess there was some . . .

chemistry between us. Maybe that’s what caused all the initial conflict. Anyway, it’s all worked out.”

“So Kenny knows you’re talking to us.”

“Sure, actually he—” She stopped herself.

“He asked you to talk to us?”

“No, no. It’s just that I’m here in town and he’s down in San Diego, so we thought I could clear things up for both of us.”

“Okay,” said Milo. “What’s to clear?”

She shifted her book bag to another shoulder. “Nothing, really.” Her voice had risen in pitch.

“It was a mistake. Filing a complaint. I should never have made such a big deal, but there were complications. Between Kenny and me—it’s a long story, not really relevant.”

“Your mom and his dad,” I said.

She looked at me. “So that came out, too.”

“There are transcripts of the sessions,” said Milo.

“Oh. Great.” She looked ready to cry. “I thought everything was supposed to be kept confidential.”

“Murder changes the rules, Cindy. But we’re doing all we can to keep it quiet.”

She exhaled and shook her head. “How blown-up is this going to get?”

“If it had nothing to do with Dr. Devane’s death, hopefully not at all.”

“It didn’t. At least Kenny’s and my thing didn’t.” She punched her chest. “God,I was anidiot for going along with it!”

I said, “Someone reading the transcript could get the impression you had a valid claim against Kenny.”

“Well, I didn’t. I told you, it was complicated. Yes, because of our parents. Not that Mom asked me to be her . . . defender. I just . . . I misread some cues. That’s all. Kenny didn’t behave himself perfectly, but he’s no animal. We could have worked things out. Proof is, wehave. ”

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She shifted the bag again.

Milo said, “I’d offer to carry that for you but it’s probably not PC.”

She started to say something, then shot him an amused look and handed over the bag. In his hands it looked like a lunch sack.

Rolling her shoulders, she glanced back at the Village as we continued to stroll between the parked cars. “Is this going to take much longer?”

“Not much. Your mom and Kenny’s dad, how arethey getting along?”

“Fine.”

“Dating again?”

“No! They’re just friends. Thank God. That would be—incestuous. That was a big part of the initial problem. Kenny and I didn’t realize the extent of the baggage. Plus his mother died a year ago. He’s still hurting.”

“What about his kicking you out of the car?”

Cindy stopped. “Please, Detective, I’d know if I was a victim.”

Milo didn’t answer.

She said, “That night, he—it was stupid. I demanded to get out, he opened the door for me, and I tripped.”

She laughed but she looked as if someone had died. “I felt like such a spaz. We needed to work on our communication, that’s all. The proof is empirical: we’re fine.”

“You’re a good student, aren’t you, Cindy?”

The girl blushed. “I work hard.”

“Straight A’s?”

“So far, but it’s just two quarters—”

“Kenny’s not much of a student, is he?”

“He’svery bright! It’s just that he has to find something that inspires him.” Licking her lips.

“Some focus.”

“Motivation.”

“Exactly. People move at different paces. I’ve always known what I want to be.”

“What’s that?”

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“A psychologist or an attorney. I want to work for children’s rights.”

“Well,” said Milo, “we can sure use people doing that.”

We walked past three more aisles. A car pulled out, the driver a girl no older than Cindy. We waited til it sped away.

“So Kenny’s in San Diego,” said Milo. “Thought he was at the College of the Palms in Redlands.”

She shook her head. “He decided not to go.”

“Why?”

“He needed to get his head straight.”

“So he’s not in school in San Diego?”

“Not yet. He’s interning at a real-estate office in La Jolla. Friend of his dad’s. So far he likes it a lot. He’s good at selling things.”

“I’ll bet.”

Cindy stopped again and snapped her head up at him. “He didn’t sell anything to me, if that’s what you’re implying! I’m not some gullible jerk and I wouldn’t settle for a relationship without equity.”

“What do you mean by equity, Cindy?”

“Balance. Emotional fairness.”

“Okay. Sorry if I offended you.” He scratched his chin and we reached the rear of the lot. The fence was backed by tall trees and a soft breeze blew through them.

Cindy said, “I feel good about Kenny and me. The whole reason I agreed to talk to you is because I wanted to do the right thing. Professor Devane’s murder was horrible, but you’re really wasting your time with me. She wasn’t a significant part of my life. Or Kenny’s. He only met her that one time and I just sat in on her class a couple of times before we talked about filing a complaint. She was nice, but even then I was ambivalent. The moment I got in there I knew it was a mistake.”

“Why?”

“The atmosphere—the three of them sitting there at a long table. Tape recorder and pens and paper. The whole thing was . . . inquisitional. Not at all what Professor Devane led me to believe—look, I’m sorry she’s dead and I admired her a lot, but I have to say she was . . .

misleading.”

“How so?”

“She made it sound like it would be a counseling session. Everyone communicating their
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feelings, trying to reach a resolution. More like a discussion group. The moment I saw that table, I knew that was wrong. Kenny said there should have been black candles and he was right. They were clearly out to judge men.”

“Which of Professor Devane’s classes did you sit in on?”

“Sex-Roles and Development. I wasn’t even enrolled but some of my friends were taking it, they kept coming back to the house—the sorority—and telling everyone how great it was. How they were learning all about gender and human behavior. All about men. I had a free period on Tuesday so I figured why not.”

“Was Professor Devane a good teacher?”

“She was a fantastic teacher. Riveting. The lecture was in Morton Hall 100—that’s a huge room, six hundred seats. But she made you feel she was talking right to you. Which, believe me, is rare, especially when it comes to freshman classes. Some of the faculty just go through the motions.”

“She had a way of personalizing things,” I said. Just as she did on TV.

“Exactly. And she knew her stuff. Really a great lecturer.”

“And you sat in two, three times,” said Milo.