The Clinic (41 page)

She’d looked him up in her files and saidNo, thanks, he was bumped ’cause of physical factors.

What physical factors?

You don’t know? You’re his agent.

We haven’t gotten into—

Ask him. Gotta go.

Physical factors.

The blood test, not just for HIV, but also for tissue compatibility. Hope with faculty clout, getting access to the sample.

It fit.

Not hard evidence but enough tohypothesize.

Cruvic’sreal clinic was the house on Mulholland Drive.

Honor thy father . . .

Milo drank the rest of the water and looked up at the track lighting. “Maybe we should throw a wrap party. Maybe the department will even compensate me for the rental and the ad inVariety

.”

“You paid for it yourself?”

“Department doesn’t authorize sting dough on the basis ofhypotheses and I didn’t want to spend six goddamn months going through channels. And what other choice was there? The wimpo judge said no warrant on Muscadine’s medical records and apartment ’causehe doesn’t like hypotheses. Meaning if I’d just walked up to the asshole and yanked his shirt up it would be no grounds, illegal search, and the scar would be excluded from evidence. Let alone forcing him
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to take an X ray, see if his kidney’s missing.”

“And not much chance the surgeon kept records.”

“And as asshole Barone came to tell me, the assholesurgeon is out of the country. And, for the time being, with multiple murders on the agenda, busting Dr. Heelspur for malpractice isn’t going to be the D.A.’s priority. But eventually, when what he did gets out, he ain’t going to be working in Beverly Hills or anywhere else.”

“Any chance of jail time for him?”

He shrugged.

“Forced retirement may not mean much to him,” I said. “He probably doesn’t need the money.

Though being a doctor’s a big deal to him psychologically. Avery big deal. So maybe it’ll hurt.”

“Why do you say it’s such a big deal?”

“He stole Muscadine’s kidney but sewed him up and let him live. Fatal error for Hope and Mandy and Locking, and, if Muscadine ever learned who’d cut him, for himself. But Cruvic wanted to see himself as a healer, not a killer. Working through his own childhood, just as Hope had tried to do.”

“Hope,” he said, shaking his head. “Setting Muscadine up for the knife.”

“Smartest girl and smartest boy, devising a project to save Big Micky,” I said. “She and Cruvic went back a long way. Strong bond. Maybe because Cruvic was someone who understood what it was like to be an A student with a parent who lived on the wrong side of the law. To have a secret life. I’ll bet Big Micky paid Lottie Devane’s medical bills at Stanford—one of the places he’d gotten a kidney. And the consultation money Hope’s been getting from Junior and Barone is probably really some kind of allowance from Senior. Before the book, forty grand would have made a lot of difference in her life.”

“Payback time,” he said. “And Mandy was the bait. Where does Locking fit in?”

“I don’t know, but keep looking up north.”

“Another smart boy,” he said. “You think the entire conduct committee was just a ploy to find a donor for Daddy?”

“No,” I said. “I think Hope believed in it. But she and Cruvic had probably been discussing what to do for Big Micky for some time. We know from the doctors at Stanford that he’d already tried going through channels but was unlikely to qualify for another kidney because two failures made him a very high risk for rejection and so did his poor general health and his age.

Maybe Cruvic and Hope even considered using one of the women at the clinic as a donor—sterilize, then snip something extra. Maybe they were just waiting around for the right girl—someone with no family ties whatsoever. Then Hope came face-to-face with Muscadine, big and strong and healthyand no family ties. Plus, she believed him to be a rapist who was going to get away with it, so there was her moral justification. They tested his blood, ruled out HIV and other infections, and did a tissue match. Bingo. Not that it was any big miracle. The more compatibility factors the better, but kidney transplants are often done just on the basis of
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an ABO match, and both Kruvinski and Muscadine were O-positive, the most common type.”

“Christ,” he said. “For all we know, theydid do some poor girl at the clinic and that failed, too.

When all this comes out, we may hear about all sorts of people with scars and backaches.”

“There’d be a limit for the old man. He could only tolerate so much surgery. This was probably his last chance. That’s why they had to find an ideal donor.”

“Muscadine . . .”

“Who Professor Steinberger never met, because she’d resigned from the committee before his case came up.”

“Hope didn’t like the Storm kid much, either, but he had family ties.”

“The worst kind of ties: a wealthy father more than willing to make waves. And for all Kenny’s obnoxiousness, his guilt was a lot more ambiguous. Maybe Hope still held on to a sense of fairness.”

“Maybe.” He shook his head. “Setting up Muscadine for involuntary charity.Harvesting him.

Christ, it’s an urban legend come to life. I almost feel sympathy for the bastard.”

“It would be traumatic for anyone,” I said, “but for someone like Muscadine—prizing his body, trying to merchandise his looks—it was so much more. When I spoke to him at his apartment, he said he’d found the blood test Kafkaesque. He also said his back injury had felt like a knife going through him. Playing with me. Or just getting it off his chest without letting on.”

“Free therapy?”

“Why not?” I said. “Don’t actors learn that? Seize the moment?”

Big Micky was anything but.

He sat facing us under a huge live oak. Nothing grew under the tree, and the ground had reverted to sand. The rest of the yard was perfect bonsai grass around a half-Olympic black-bottom pool with a spitting-dolphin waterfall, herringbone-brick hardscape, statuary on pedestals, blood-red azalea beds, more big trees. Through the foliage, a spreading, hazy view of the San Gabriels said money couldn’t buy clean air.

The old man was so shrunken he made the wheelchair look like a high-back. No shoulders, no neck—his smallish head seemed to sprout from his sternum. His skin was legal-pad yellow, his brown eyes filmed, the skin around them bagged, defatted, jeweled with blackheads. A fleshy red blob of a nose reached nearly to his gray upper lip. Bad dentures made his jaws work constantly. Only his hair was youthful: thick, coarse, still dark, with only a few sparks of gray.

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Milo’s warrant had opened the electric gate of the house on Mulholland but no one had come up to greet us and he’d taken out his gun and let the uniforms come on like an army. Just as we’d reached the front door it had opened and the ponytailed frog I’d given the medicine vial to was leaning against the jamb, trying to look casual.

Milo put him against the wall, cuffed him, patted him down, took his automatic and his wallet, read his driver’s license.

“Armand Jacszcyc, yeah, this looks like you. Who else is in the house, Armand?”

“Just Mr. K. and a nurse.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” said Jacszcyc. Then he noticed me and his head retracted.

The uniforms went in. A sergeant came back a few minutes later, saying, “No one else. Lots of guns, we’re pulling an arsenal.”

Another uniform came out with Nurse Anna. Her tight face was glossy with sweat and her big chest was emphasized by an electric-blue angora sweater.

She kept her head down as they took her away.

“Okay,” said Milo. “Leave me a couple of guys to tear up the place for dope.”

“No dope so far,” said the sergeant.

“Keep looking. And bust this one for concealed weapon.”

Frog was hustled off and we stepped in. The center of the house was one sixty-foot stretch of dark-paneled space clear to the back, sparkle-ceilinged and gold-carpeted, filled with groupings of green and brown couches, ceramic lamps with fringed shades, heavy, carved tables full of souvenir-shop porcelain and crystal. Clown paintings and Rodeo Drive oils of rainy Paris street scenes said all talent should not be encouraged. The rear wall was covered by pleated olive drapes that locked out the sun and sealed in the smell of decay.

A screech-bird voice from the back yelled, “Where’s thatwater, Armand!”

A wheelchair sat next to a fake Louis XIV commode with an obscenely inlaid front. The marble top was crowded with medicine bottles. Not like the vial I’d showed Jacszcyc. Big white plastic containers. No prescription blanks. Drug-company samples.

“Armand!”

“He had to run,” said Milo. “Nurse Anna’s gone, too.”

The old man blinked, tried to move. The effort turned him green and he sank back.

“Who the hell are you?”

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“Police.” Milo flashed ID. Two uniforms came over and he told them, “Over there.” Pointing to the open doorway of a big brown kitchen. The counter was piled with water bottles, soft-drink cans, takeout cartons, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

“What the fuck you moe-rons doin’ here?”

His accent was interesting: the broad farmer drawl of Bakersfield tucked up at the final syllables by a hint of Eastern Europe. Lawrence Welk without the cheer.

“Gimme some water, moe-ron.”

Milo filled a glass and held it out along with the warrant.

“What’s that?”

“Drug paper. Anonymous tip.”

The old man took the glass but ignored the warrant.

He drank, barely able to hold the glass, water dribbling down his chin. He tried to put it on the table, didn’t protest when Milo took it.

“Drug paper? Wrong customer, moe-ron. But what do I give a flying? Tear up the place, it’s rented anyway.”

“Rented from you,” said Milo. “Triage Properties. That’s a medical term. Interesting choice for a doing-business-as. My-son-the-doctor’s idea?”

The old man put his hands together and closed his eyes.

“Triage,” repeated Milo. “DBA the Peninsula Group, DBA Northern Lights Investments.

Northern Lights traces to Excalibur Properties, which traces to Revelle Recreation, which traces to Brooke-Hastings Entertainment. Your old skin biz. Beforethat, your old manure-and-meat biz. You musta really liked the name, giving it to wife number two and the so-called charitable institution you established in San Francisco: rehab for street girls. What, Junior treating their VD

and doing their abortions and helping the cute ones get into dancing?”

“You prefer welfare?”

“So what else did Junior do that year? Practice his surgical technique?”

The old man’s hands shook a bit. “Go ahead, moe-ron, finish. Then go back to your boss and tell him you found nothing.Then, go fuck yourself.”

“I’d rather talk.”

“About what?”

“Bakersfield. San Francisco.”

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“Nice towns, both. You wanna know where to eat, I got recommendations.”

Milo touched his gut. “Food isn’t what I need.”

“No,” said the old guy. “You’re a fat fuck—here’s a tip: Lay off the meat. Look what happened to me.” He reached up with effort, flicked a chicken-skin jowl. It fluttered as if paper.

“Big meat eater, were you?” said Milo.

“Oh, yeah. Meat, meat, meat.” A purplish tongue tip cruised along a gray lip. “I ate the best.

Ate the fat, too, every bit. Now my arteries and everything else are clogged and I gotta sit here and put up with moe-rons like you.”

“Tough,” said Milo.

The old man laughed. “You give a flying, huh?”

Milo smiled. “So. The new kidney making life any easier?”

The gray lips turned white.

“I also want to talk about Junior,” said Milo. “His sudden holiday.”

“Fuck off.”

“We also served paper for his place in Beverly Hills. Alleged medical offices. Except the only thing we found in there were rooms full of porn videos ready for shipping.” Smiling again. “And that operating room. Must have cost a fortune.”

The old man pushed a button on the wheelchair’s arm and the contraption began reversing slowly.

Milo held it in place and the chair whined, wheels scraping the carpet.

“We’re still talking, Mr. Kruvinski.”

“I want a phone. I got a right to a fucking phone.”

“What rights? You’re not being arrested.”

“Leggo of the chair.”

“Sure,” said Milo. Pushing another button, he locked the tires.

“You’re in big trouble, pigass,” said the old man. “Lemme see that paper.”

Milo gave him the warrant again and he unfolded it.

“I need my glasses.”

Milo stood there.

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“Gimme my glasses!”

“Do I look like Armand?”

Cursing and squinting, the old man held the warrant at arm’s length with palsying hands. The arms lost their strength and the paper slipped and fell to the floor.

I picked it up and tried to give it to him.

He shook his head. “You guys are no good. Rotten, no honor.”

“Oh yeah,” said Milo. “Honor among thieves. Spare me.”

“What do you want!”

“Just to talk.”

“Then get yourself apsychiatrist !”

Milo grinned at me.

“Fuck off, clown.”

“Why so hasty, Kruvinski? Maybe we could help each other.”

“Inhell .”

“Maybe there, too.”

Milo leaned over him. “Don’t you godfather types make a big thing about gratitude? You’re looking at the guy who saved Junior’s life.”

Something flickered behind the cloudy eyes.

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t save Hope Devane. Or your grandnephew, little Casey. But I did get the guy who did them. Stopped him before he got to Junior.”

The clouded eyes were wide now. Unblinking.

“Who? Gimme a name.”

Milo placed a finger on Kruvinski’s lips, gently. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to forget about whatJunior did. Which you can bet the scumbag will use as his defense. Odds are any jury’s going to sympathize with him. Especially one of our idiot L.A. juries. Or we won’t even have a trial

’cause the D.A. will plea-bargain it down. Meaning sooner or later the scumbag’s gonna be out and guess who he’s gonna be looking for? So unless Junior plans to stay on vacation forever, he’s gonna be looking over his shoulder a lot.”