“How did it happen?”
“A drive-by shooting. About two weeks ago.”
“She was shot to death?”
I nod.
She props an elbow against the doorjamb and pulls off the elastic band, running a hand through her bangs, then clamping down tightly as if she’s going to pull out her hair. As it falls into place I see that actually she has a shoulder-length precision haircut and is wearing a diamond wedding band.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Despite the diamonds and the do, this is not a lady of culture.
“Excuse me, but — Jesus Christ. She had kids.”
“I know.”
She stays that way, gripping her hair, staring down at her bare feet.
“I’m a nurse. I mean, I haven’t worked since we moved out from Boston, but I’ve seen …,” her voice trails off, “in the ER … what it’s like when someone is shot.”
She is a nurse. I am in law enforcement. She lives in this house now, she has servants now, but maybe we are not so far apart. We both serve the public. We are both in the business of order and repair. She gazes up and for a moment I am able to hold her look in mine. One thing we share is professional knowledge; we have both seen what a young woman’s body looks like after it has been decimated by bullets.
“You’re her friend? It must be pretty bad for you, too.”
Embarrassed because it’s not as bad as it probably should be, “I’m trying to help out because of the kids. Somebody told me you owed Violeta money.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“When she left. About four hundred dollars.”
“My husband took care of paying her.”
“Would you like me to talk to your husband, then?”
“I would really like you … to just go away.”
She gives me a half-assed smile as if I’m supposed to graciously understand her confusion and shock. But I don’t understand, because there’s something else going on here, something much deeper.
“You seem upset, Claire.”
The tip of her nose is red and moist, eyes bright with tears. She shakes her head and looks up at the sky as if to contain them. “Did you ever make a really bad mistake?”
“I never make mistakes,” I say. “I’m a perfect person.”
She appreciates that and it opens her up. “I used to drink a lot in high school,” she goes on, “I could do Southern Comfort all night long and wake up in the morning fresh as a daisy.”
There’s something fresh about her still. Maybe it comes from the creamy pale skin and light freckles, but she seems unguarded and direct, as if after one beer she’d tell you her whole life story and you’d be interested because there wouldn’t be any crap.
“We used to party, it didn’t matter with who, we used to skip school and go to Revere Beach — no matter what you did, you could get away with it. But then there’s the one guy you really fall for, and he’s always a mistake. Does that kind of thing ever happen to you?”
She makes me think of John Roth and I blush.
“Once or twice.”
“Did you get away with it?”
I reply with a wry look. “That remains to be seen.”
Suddenly her fingers form a fist and she gives the mahogany door frame a good pop. I wonder if her husband, the hapless sap who paid for the multimillion-dollar house, was the mistake she’ll never get away with.
“I wouldn’t hit that too hard,” I advise. “They don’t build houses like they used to.”
She smiles. “Hey, we’re in California. Isn’t it all supposed to fall apart?”
I return the smile. “What else about Violeta?”
“She was a very sweet girl.”
“Do you think she was involved with drugs?”
Claire Eberhardt seems shocked. “No, not at all. Never. She was straight as straight could be. A
“Then why did you fire her?”
In an instant the openness dries up. As direct as she can be, I see also that Claire Eberhardt can take on a stony working-class defiance. I’ve crossed some line of propriety and there’s no going back; she’s simply through talking to me.
“We just had to let her go. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
She has left the door open. I glimpse a two-story entryway with a crystal chandelier way up there in the stratosphere. And she’s arguing with me over four hundred bucks?
She returns clutching a peach-colored business card and a tissue. She’s apparently got herself all worked up again.
“My husband would know about the money.”
I observe her critically, trying to square Mrs. Gutierrez’s description of the lady being “very mean” with what I see. There is something churning inside Claire Eberhardt, but it does not appear to be malice. It appears to be guilt.
On the verge of breaking down completely, she murmurs, “I’m so sorry,” and gently closes the door. In gray script the card says, RANDALL EBERHARDT, M.D., DANA ORTHOPEDIC CLINIC, with an address on Fifteenth Street, south of Wilshire across from the hospital, ten minutes away. So she’s a nurse and the sap turns out to be a doctor. Now I know how Claire Eberhardt got into the neighborhood.
• • •
The Dana Orthopedic Clinic is in its own remodeled Victorian house in the medical center of Santa Monica. The waiting room, just like the business card, is peach and gray. The receptionist has told me that without an appointment to see Dr. Eberhardt I will have to wait. Luckily the upholstered benches — peach and gray — are orthopedically correct and it is actually relaxing to sit there and read
Then I get antsy. Then I get pushy. Because there is nobody else in the waiting room.
“Is the doctor in surgery?”
“No.”
“Is the doctor on the premises?”
“Yes.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“He’s with a patient. It will just be a little longer.”
We have three more rounds of this and another forty-five minutes pass. My plan is to bully the doctor into writing out a check for four hundred dollars then and there and be done with this whole business. If he balks I will threaten a lawsuit on behalf of Violeta’s children. Doctors don’t like lawsuits. That should end the discussion. Again I refrain from pulling out my badge and terrifying the receptionist. That would be against regulations.
An hour later the doctor is still with a patient and I feel a sudden panic about getting back before Duane Carter notices how long I have been gone. Resigned to confronting Dr. Eberhardt at another time I thank the receptionist for her tremendous help and skulk out the door around back to the alley where I have parked my government car illegally and where, I am further incensed to discover, it is being blocked by a black limousine.
I had backed the blue Ford between a telephone pole and a dumpster next to a brick wall; now this limousine has pulled up alongside, making it impossible to maneuver out. The doors of the limousine are locked and there is no driver in sight.
By holding my breath and walking on tiptoe I can squeeze in between the two vehicles and open my door about eight inches — enough to angle a shoulder inside and turn on my siren and loudspeaker.
