The Clinic (39 page)

Too much flesh in the shows, too much customer-dancer contact, liquor served to underage patrons.

I thought of something Cruvic had told us at his Beverly Hills office.

The rise in infertility problems due toall the messing around people did in the seventies.

Firsthand knowledge.

The articles described lots of arrests but no convictions. Lots of dismissals prior to trial.

Prosecutors had even made a stab at the old crime-busting standby: a tax-evasion charge that Kruvinski beat by proving the bulk of his income came from agricultural holdings in the Central Valley, some of which had earned him federal subsidies. His theaters on O’Farrell and Polk streets had finally closed down but not, apparently, due to legal problems.

Almost no quotes, either; when Kruvinski communicated with the press, he did it through Robert Barone. But I did find one ten-year-old interview, a fawning piece by a self-consciously Runyonesque columnist who prided himself on having San Francisco’s pulse in his pocket.

He’d spoken to Kruvinski at home and the piece helped explain the porn broker’s business shift out of live entertainment.

“We moved into video,” said the once-robust entrepreneur from his multilevel redwood/glass Sausalito-lair-with-a-bay-view. “Guys don’t want to go to a theater anymore, put up with all the harassment.”

Then with typical Micky K. generosity and a Slavic smile as wide as the Embarcadero, he offered me a scotch—21 y.o. Chivas in the true-blue bottle, of course—even though he couldn’t partake, himself. Liver problems. Heart. Kidneys. Last year’s transplant, his second, was a beacon in the fog, but it didn’t take.

I refused the booze but Micky wouldn’t hear about abstinence in the name of empathy. An affectionate “Honey,” brought Mrs. Micky, the beauteous, tanned, and aerobi-toned former actress-and-model Brooke Hastings out from her state-of-the-culinary-art galley, smiling and reflecting Sausalito sunlight as she wiped Micky’s brow and murmured soothing, wifey words.

“His favorite thing is watching the sea lions,” she confided in me, while pouring a generous dollop of the divine Chiv. Bros. blended brew. “Has fresh fish brought down to them every morning. He loves animals. Anything organic and alive. That’s what attracted me to him.”

Then she kissed the big guy’s pate in a way that went way beyond spousal duty and he smiled and looked out a picture window as big as the stage of the Love Palace Theater. Almost dreamily, and maybe he was dreaming—who’s this scrivener to testify otherwise. The former Miss H. put her arm around him and he kept looking. Looking and dreaming. Like at a movie.

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Different from the movies he produces, but just as sensual in its own way. T.F. Miss H. crossed shapely gams and yours truly sipped Chivas, feeling the warm fire flow down ye olde deadline slave’s gullet like Scottish lava. All in all, not a bad day in Xanadu. We can only hope Micky has lots more.

Brooke Hastings. An “actress” taking the name of hubby’s stock-and-fertilizer company.

Kruvinski’s joke—had she known to what he was comparing her?

Family joke, Junior using the same name for the institute he’d supposedly attended during the year between residencies, the year after he’d left the University of Washington.

I finished the rest of the articles. No mention of the first wife, the doctor son, or any other relatives. Ending with Big Micky’s health problems, enough pathos to gag a talk-show junkie.

Where was the old man, now? Moved down to L.A., so Junior could take care of him? In the big house on Mulholland, hidden behind gates?

But no kidney function meant dialysis. Equipment, monitoring.

A home clinic?

Was that where Anna the nurse had driven, the night I saw her in the car with Locking?

Private nurse for a very private patient?

Junior doctoring Senior . . .

But Junior was a gynecologist. Was he qualified?

A gynecologist who’d started out to be a surgeon.

Whyhad he left the U of Washington residency program?

And howhad he filled the year?

I returned home and phoned Seattle.

The head of the surgery residency program was a man named Arnold Swenson but his secretary told me he was new to the job, having arrived the year before.

“Do you recall who the head was fourteen years ago?”

“No, because I wasn’t around, either. Hold on, let me ask.”

Seconds later an older-sounding woman came on.

“This is Inga Blank, how may I help you?”

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I repeated the question.

“That would be Dr. John Burwasser.”

“Is he still in practice?”

“No, he’s retired. May I ask what this is concerning?”

“I’m working with the Los Angeles Police Department on a homicide case. We’re trying to get information on one of your former residents.”

“A homicide case?” she said, alarmed. “Which resident?”

“Dr. Milan Cruvic.”

Her silence was worth more than words.

“Ms. Blank?”

“What has he done?”

“We’re just trying to find out some background information.”

“He was only in the program briefly.”

“But you remember him well.”

More silence. “I can’t give out Dr. Burwasser’s number, but if you leave me yours, I’ll give him the message.”

“Thank you. Isn’t there something you can tell me about Dr. Cruvic?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“But you’re not surprised that the police would be interested in him.”

I heard her throat clear. “Very little surprises me nowadays.”

Not expecting any return call and figuring Milo was still with Barone, I got into jogging clothes and prepared to sweat off the frustration.

The phone rang just as I closed the door behind me and I rushed back into the house and caught it before the service picked up.

“Dr. Delaware.”

“This is Dr. Burwasser,” said a dry, testy voice. “Who are you?”

I started to explain.

“Sounds fishy,” he said.

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“If you’d like, I can have Detective Sturgis call you—”

“No, I’m not wasting any time on this. Cruvic was with us for under a year, fourteen years ago.”

Notaround fourteen. Brief but memorable?

“Why’d he leave?” I said.

“That’s no one’s business.”

“It will be soon. He was intimate with a woman who was murdered and he’s a possible suspect.

The more effort it takes to get the information, the more public it’ll be.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not at all, just a statement of fact, Dr. Burwasser. Did Cruvic do something to disgrace the surgery program?”

Instead of answering, he said, “I’m not impressed by murder, seen plenty of things in my day.”

“What did Dr. Cruvic do?”

“He never murdered anyone here.”

“Did he murder someone somewhere else?”

“No, of course not—is this being taped?”

“No.”

“Not that it matters, nothing I tell you is libelous because it’s true, all on the record.”

“Exactly,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“What’d he do, Dr. Burwasser?”

“He stole.”

“From whom?”

“That I willnot tell you because the dead are entitled to their dignity.”

That took a moment to process. “He stole from a corpse?”

“Tried to.”

“How much?”

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He laughed shallowly, as if needing the release. “Hard to say, the market varies.”

“Jewelry?”

“Of sorts.” Another laugh. “Family jewels. Organs. We caught the little bastard trying to remove a heart. The only problem was, the donor wasn’t quite dead.”

“My God.”

“Don’t get dramatic, I said it wasn’t murder. The patient was terminal—flat-lining. We were getting ready to turn off the machines and pronounce but we couldn’t locate next of kin.”

“But the heart was still going.”

“Of course it was, otherwise why bother taking it out? Nice and strong. Young fellow, head trauma—motorcycle accident. Turned out to be a tourist from Germany, the idiot could have caused an international incident.”

“Who’d he try to steal the heart for?”

“Not who.What. Research. He’d conned us into giving him some lab space, said he wanted to practice gall-bladder resections on dogs, write a paper.”

“Not true?” I said.

“Oh, he worked on a few beagles but that wasn’t thereal reason. Idiot fancied himself a transplant surgeon, future Christiaan Barnard. I put an end to that pipe dream despite the pressure.”

“Pressure from who?”

“Politicians from California.” The last word delivered with even more contempt than the first.

“San Francisco?”

“Yup. Lots of calls from greasy characters. Apparently his father was some sort of big shot. No matter to me. Do something like that, you’re out.”

“How was he caught?”

“A nurse walked in on him, got him red-handed, the fool. Middle of the night. He had a surgical kit laid out next to the patient’s bed, had even made the initial incision. Lord knows how he thought he could have gotten away with it—enough, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t need this grief, go bother Swenson.”

Organ theft.

Sterilization without proper consent.

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Smartest boy.

Making his own rules. No surprise. He’d grown up seeing his father do a lot worse.

Years later, more surgical felonies?

What had Hope’s role been in all of it?

But the same question: Why had Hope and Locking been targeted and not Cruvic, himself?

Still, Cruvic had to be at the core of it. Barone had shown up at the police station because Cruvicknew the walls were closing in.

Scared?

Not of the police . . . scared for himself. Because Locking’s murder had put Hope’s into focus for him.

Told him who. Why.

But why now, and not afterHope’s murder?

And what had brought Cruvic out in the open?

Darrell Ballitser’s attack. The news reports linking him to Hope.

First time themurderer had known of the link?

But how could that be, if the issue was unethical surgery?

I went around and around with it.

Assume Ballitser’s attack had focused the murderer on Cruvic.

After that, the murderer had begun watching Cruvic . . . seen him with Locking? At Mulholland?

Unless I was totally off, and Cruvic had killed both Hope and Locking to keep them quiet.

But then why send his lawyer to talk to Milo?

The more I wrestled with it, the more convinced I became that Cruvic was now a target and he knew it.

Getting away with years of loose ethics until he’d finally offended the wrong person.

Incollaboration with Hope and Locking.

Loose ethics . . . sterilization without consent . . . organ theft.

The house on Mulholland.

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Private clinic.

Something Locking had been involved with, too . . .

Then it hit me.

So simple.

But where did Mandy Wright figure in? Party girl. . . workinggirl.

Days before her murder, she’d done the club scene in L.A. Before that, she’d met with Cruvic and his father in Vegas, left the casino with both of them.

Not for sex.

Another kind of freelancing.

She’d told Barnaby,“It’s like acting.”

What had Milo said about Club None—big hair and perfect bodies.

Mandy would fit in.

Her companion, too?

The poor waitress, Kathy DiNapoli. Murdered simply because she’d served drinks in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Perfect bodies.

Mandy hired to pick someone up.

A special kind of john.

Slowly, inexorably, like a snake coming alive in the heat, the chain unfolded in my head.

The chain between Hope, Locking, Mandy, Kathy.

Venomoussnake.

The Morry Mayhew show that Hope had appeared on—what was the name of that producer?

Suzette Band. I’d promised to call her if I learned something.

The old information barter.

She’d have to make another payment, first.

34

Next stop: Mulholland Drive.

The road was beautiful in the daylight, the house behind the electric gate a brown-brick contemporary, sparkling with color around the borders—flowers invisible in the dark.

I’d kept my sweat-stained T-shirt on but had substituted jeans for the running shorts. In my hand was a bag picked up from a pharmacy in Beverly Hills an hour ago. I’d bought toothpaste and dental floss and vitamin C to get it. The Seville, parked just down the road, was old enough to pass for a delivery vehicle, I supposed. I was too old a delivery boy for most cities but L.A.

was full of underachievers.

I rang the bell on the gatepost. After a moment’s delay a voice came through the speaker,

“Yeah?”

“Delivery.”

“Hold on.”

A few minutes later, the front door opened and a man in a black shirt and black jeans came out, stared at me, and approached in a flat-footed, plodding walk.

He was in his late thirties, short and wide, with thinning black hair on top, the side wisps tied into a barely long-enough ponytail. Bushy sideburns longer than Milo’s, oily skin that shone, wire-rimmed glasses, pummeled features.

Sleepy expression, except for little piggy eyes that never left me.

The black shirt was silk, oversized, untucked, and he kept his right hand in front of him, as if protecting something. Plainclothes cops wore their shirts out to conceal guns and I supposed thugs did the same.

“Yeah?”

“Delivery for Mr. Kruvinski.”

I held the druggist’s bag out.

“What’s in it?”

“Medicine, I guess.”

“He gets his medicine from his doctor.”

I tried to look apathetic.

“Lemme see.”

I gave him the bag and he pulled out a small amber bottle filled with yellow tablets. The right
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color, but the wrong shape. MyPhysicians’ Desk Reference chart showed Imuran as a scored doublet, these were singles. Vitamin Cs. Black shirt didn’t react. As I’d hoped, not observant.