The Clinic (19 page)

He pressed his solar plexus. “Later I found out I was never obligated to show up. But the letter sure made it sound that way.”

“How’d you feel about getting tested for HIV?”

“You know about that, too?”

“There are transcripts of the committee sessions.”

“Transcripts? Oh, shit. Are they going to be made public?”

“Not unless they turn out to be relevant to the murder.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Jesus . . . there’s a school of thought in the industry says there’s no such thing as bad publicity, just get your name out there. But that only applies to people who’ve already made it. I’m a peasant. The last thing I need is for people to think I’m a rapist or infected.”

“So you’re HIV-negative.”

“Of course I am! Do I look sick?”

“How’s your back?”

“My back?”

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“Mrs. Green said you’d been laid up.”

“Oh, that. Ruptured disc. My own fault. Felt feisty one morning and decided to go for three-twenty on the bench press. Spasmed, like a knife going right through me. Couldn’t get up off the floor for an hour. The pain laid me up for a month, Mrs. G. brought me groceries. That’s why I buy her stuff when I can. Even now I still get a twinge, but other than that I feel great. And I’m totally, one hundred percent negative.”

I repeated the question about being tested.

“How did I feel?Intruded upon. Wouldn’t you? It was outrageous. I think I said something at the hearing about it being Kafkaesque. Did they make everyone at the hearings go through it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

He stared. “Fair enough—anyway, that’s my sum total contact with Professor Devane. Do you think any of this is going to hit the papers?”

“I guess that depends on who the killer turns out to be.”

He turned contemplative. “You really think there’s a chance the committee had something to do with her death?”

“Would that surprise you?”

“Absolutely. The process was nasty but in the end it didn’t amount to much. I can’t see murdering anyone over that. Then again, I can’t see murdering anyone over anything.” He grinned. “Except maybe a juicy part. Just kidding.”

He yawned. “ ’Scuse me. If there’s nothing else, I’d like to catch a nap, have to be at work by six.”

“Where’s work?”

“Delvecchio’s in Tarzana.” He bowed and flourished. “ “And how would you like your steak done, sir? Rare? But what’s my motivation?’ ”

“Professor Dirkhoff said you’d gotten an acting job.”

The handsome face darkened. “Ouch.”

“What hurts?”

“Failure. Yes, that was true—Hollywood-true—when I told him I was dropping out. But I would have left, anyway. The classes were too theoretical. Waste of tuition.”

“What’s Hollywood-true?”

“An air sandwich on imaginary bread.”

“The job fell through?”

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“It never got far enough to fall through. I allowed myself to be naively optimistic because my audition went great and my agent told me I was a shoo-in.”

“What happened?”

“Someone else got the job and I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Hell if I know. They never tell you.”

“What show was it?”

“Some soap opera, independent deal for cable.”

“Did it go into production?”

“Everything was really preliminary. They didn’t even have a name for it, something about spies and diplomats, foreign embassies. The casting director told me I was up for the James Bond part. Wear a patch on one eye and sweep ladies off their feet. Then she pinched my ass and said,

“Yum, grade-A, prime.’ Where are those conduct committees when you need them?”

Milo came to the house from the airport, arriving at seven and looking disheveled.

“Where are the white shoes?” I said.

He flexed a scuffed desert boot. “Decided to go formal.” He sat down at the kitchen table and took an eight- by twelve-inch photo out of his briefcase.

Torso-length color promo shot of a stunning young woman with long, silky, dark hair, feather-blushed cheekbones, bite-me lips slightly parted, amazed oblong eyes the color of espresso.

She wore a white-sequined, strapless dress and leaned forward, offering full, surging breasts split by deep cleavage. A wide diamond choker circled her neck. Diamond clips on each ear.

Too many carats to be real. Some sort of wind machine had been used to gently blow the hair back from her face. Her smile was inviting yet mocking.

At the bottom:

AMANDAWRIGHT

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ACTRESS ANDDANCER

REPRESENTED BYONYXASSOCIATES

“Her agents?” I said.

“Vegas PD says they’re a defunct slick-sleaze outfit, used to do casino booking for topless acts.

Mandy had no criminal record, which isn’t unusual for the high-class honeys who show up when the chips start piling and do the old thigh-rub. Other vital statistics: She was single, liked to party, did grass, pills, coke. Her last boyfriend was a blackjack dealer named Ted Barnaby, also a cokehead, moved to Reno soon after the murder. Vegas interviewed him the day after, he was cooperative and had an alibi: working all that night, verified by the pit boss. Also, he seemed genuinely torn up about her death.”

“But he moved.”

“It didn’t set off any alarms because casino people are transient. A detective took me over to the crime scene last night. Middle-class condos, quiet. Not a lot of trees like Hope’s street, but there was a huge eucalyptus growing right in front of Mandy’s building and that’s where he got her. Vegas and I have both been calling all over the country and no other matches have turned up yet, but there’s plenty to do.”

“Any record of Mandy living in L.A.?”

“Not so far. She’d been leasing the same apartment for almost three years, grew up in Hawaii, no police record there, either. Wouldn’t surprise me if she came down to L.A. at one time or another, but her credit-card receipts don’t show it and they do show other travel.”

“Where?”

Reaching into the briefcase again, he produced a thick black binder that he flipped open and placed next to the photo. Wetting his thumb, he turned to a page that showed two years of Visa and MasterCard summaries reduced to tiny print, three statements per page.

Mandy Wright’s monthly bills ranged from five hundred dollars to four thousand. Plenty of overdue notices and interest charges. A couple of defaults. Both times she’d been cut off and switched companies.

I ran my finger down the itemized expenditures. Mostly clothes, cosmetics, jewelry, and restaurants. The travel information had been circled. A dozen flights: two each to Aspen and Park City, Utah; six to Honolulu; one to New York; one to New Orleans.

“Well-traveled lady,” I said. “Business trips?”

“Hawaii might have been personal, she’s got a brother there, but yeah, the rest could be work: the ski places for the winter—working the lodges as a snow bunny. New Orleans was during Mardi Gras and that’s a big-time hooker scene. New York could be anything any time of the year.”

“But no L.A.,” I said. “Isn’t Vegas to L.A. a big hooker run? Don’t you find it odd that she flew
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everywherebut here?”

“Maybe she doesn’t like smog,” he said. “Maybe she drove down. But you’re right, lots of girls do make the desert run regularly. Last year we had some married women from the Westside picking up change by giving head in motels, back home in time to serve dinner. So maybe Mandy had a regular client in L.A. who didn’t want records kept.” He tapped the photo. “A girl who looked like that, you could see some rich guy paying her to come down regularly, keep it from the wife.”

He got a beer and I examined the rest of the folder, starting with the summary of Ted Barnaby’s interview. A single paragraph written by a Detective A. Holzer, who’d spoken to the boyfriend before he left for Reno. Barnaby had shown “tears and other evidence of grief. Subject professes no knowledge of any motive for the homicide. Says he knew victim did “some call-girl’ work,

“that’s why we didn’t live together. She needed her own place.’ Subject also says he didn’t like the fact that victim engaged in prostitution and that he and victim had argued about this in the past but he’d come to accept it. “You’ve got to accept people on their terms.’ His alibi checks out, verified by Franklin A. Varese, casino pit supervisor, and fellow dealers Sandra Boething and Luis Maldonado.”

Next, autopsy and lab reports:

The toxicology screen showed a moderate amount of cocaine in Mandy Wright’s blood the night of the murder.

Midnight murder. Hope had been stabbed just after 11:00P.M.

I flipped a page.

The wound pattern, described almost word-for-word as in Hope’s file.

The initial blow to the heart had collapsed the organ, death resulting from exsanguination and shock. Prior to that, Mandy Wright’s cardiovascular system had been in excellent condition, the arteries clear and unobstructed. No venereal disease, including HIV. No evidence of any outstanding illness or infection other than minor nasal erosion probably due to cocaine abuse.

The final paragraph cited significant expansion of the anal opening and fibroid scarring of the rectum indicating a history of anal sex, but vaginal sexual intercourse had not taken place within the past twenty-four hours. Postmortem examination of the pelvic region revealed no tumors or other pathology; however, changes related to past pregnancy were noted.

That made me think. As did the last line:

“The fallopian tubes have been ligated; from the degree of atrophy, probably within a year or two.”

“Sterilized? Any record of her having a child?”

Milo shook his head.

“And she’d been pregnant before,” I said. “Meaning an abortion—unless she miscarried. Either before the ligation or at the same time. It’s a long shot, but that kind of surgery is Dr. Cruvic’s
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specialty. What if he was her L.A. connection?”

He put the beer down. “There are lots of obstetricians. That’s some leap.”

“Just throwing out ideas. Should I stop?”

“No, go on.”

“Cruvic has money,” I said. “Drives a Bentley. Those clothes we saw weren’t Kmart. Not inconsistent with the kind of guy who might fly down a party girl and pay for her ticket in cash.”

“First he’s her doctor, now he’s her party pal?”

“He could be both. Maybe that’s why he performed the ligation rather than having a doctor in Vegas do it. Hell, maybe he was even the father of her child—who’d be in a better position to get himself out of a mess than an OB? We’ve got him in at least one fib—not knowing Hope before the fund-raiser. Why try to mislead us? Probably because your hunch was right: Their relationship had been more than friendship. And I’ve got additional support for that.”

I told him what Holly Bondurant had seen in the parking lot, Marge Showalsky’s protest-too-much denials. “Then there’s the matter of his direct billing for Hope’s services. It just doesn’t smell right. Plus, I learned something today that tells me he may skirt other ethical boundaries.”

I repeated my conversation with Mary Farney. “Operating on a mentally deficient minor and knowing she probably couldn’t give informed consent. Maybe he used Hope for backup. Maybe they were involved in other iffy things.”

“Like what?”

“Who knows? Financial shenanigans. Or maybe they did something really ugly, like take eggs out of one fertility patient and sell them to another.”

“So where would Mandy fit in?”

“Wild guess? She could have been an egg donor—young, healthy girl. And she learned something she wasn’t supposed to. Or tried to blackmail Cruvic. Or maybe Cruvic’s just the kind of guy who loves ’em and kills ’em. Hell, I can go on all day but the bottom line is my gut tells me Dr. Cruvic is worth looking into, despite the sex-killer scenario.”

He got up and walked around. “We both noticed how hyper Cruvic was, bouncing all over the place. He tried to tell us it was fitness, but maybe it was coke, andthere’s our link with Mandy.

Though Hope’s autopsy showed no dope in her system and nothing indicates she ever used.

Bringing me full circle: If shewas cheating with Cruvic—or Locking, or anyone else—Seacrest could have found out and decided she’d rubbed his face in it long enough.”

“But what connection would Seacrest have to Mandy Wright?”

He paced some more. “It’s not just flashy guys who fool with girlies. A quiet middle-aged professor might want a hot little playmate, too. And a quiet middle-aged professor would have reason to pay cash to the playmate. And if the playmate realized how vulnerable the professor
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was and decided to blackmail him, the professor could decide to end his problems: heart, vagina, back. And after succeeding at that, why not go after the wife who’s become such a pain in the ass?”

“Creative,” I said.

“You’re a good influence.”

“Okay, as long as we’re screenwriting, how about this: a threesome. Cruvic, Hope, and Mandy.

Or Seacrest, Hope, and Mandy. Or even an unknown guy. Flying down a call girl to spice up a tired relationship. Then, for whatever reason, the guy decides to call it quits. Permanently. Gets rid of Mandy first because murdering a call girl three hundred miles away won’t attract attention in L.A. But Hope’s a different story. She’s prominent, local, smarter. So he waits, planning, waiting for the right time. Then Hope helps him by getting notorious with her book. Which sets up a perfect cover: some nut acting out because of the controversy she generated.”

He thought about that. “But if Mandy and Hope knew each other, wouldn’t Mandy’s murder have alerted Hope?”

“If they’d parted ways, how would she know Mandy’d been killed? Did Mandy’s murder get any media coverage?”

He shook his head. “Just one small blurb in theSun the same day. Still, if Hope had been engaged in a three-way with Mandy, wouldn’t she be likely to find out?”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s say she knew Mandy’d been murdered but didn’t connect it to herself.

Like you said, prostitutes get killed all the time.”

He drank, looked out the kitchen window. The sun was small and pale, silvering the tops of the pines, turning them as shiny as Mandy Wright’s dress.