A call to the development office at Western Peds added focus to Dr. James Asherwood’s generosity. Back in the sixties he’d endowed a small fund for the neonatal ICU.
Special concern for problem newborns on the part of a man unable to father children. A man who worked ob-gyn at a place where covert abortions were standard operating procedure.
How that connected to a baby buried under a tree eluded me.
That night the big blue Duesenberg didn’t appear in my dream but a cream-colored Auburn Boattail Speedster did. No reason to believe Jimmy Asherwood’s had been that color but I’d pulled up images on the Web, supplied my own script and scenery.
In the dream, Asherwood and a young Felix Monahan, who bore a striking resemblance to me in my twenties, roared up a series of dusty, sun-splotched canyons that snaked through the Santa Monica Mountains.
The ride ended with a smoke and a nip from a silver flask at a spot where the ocean grew vast. Then a return ride that felt more like aerial gliding than motoring.
When Asherwood dropped me at the dingy apartment building on Overland that had housed me during starving-student days, he tipped his fedora and saluted and I did the same and I assured him I’d never betray him.
His smile was blinding. “I trust you, Alex.”
The following morning Milo dropped in at nine o’clock.
Robin had left early for a trip to Temecula, visiting an old Italian violin-maker who’d finally retired and was parting with maple, ebony, and ivory. I was sitting at the kitchen table reviewing a custody report that had a decent chance of being read because the judge was a decent human being. Blanche curled at my feet relishing the shallow sleep of dogs, snoring gently. She sensed Milo’s presence before the door opened, was up on her feet waiting for him.
He said, “Ah, the security system,” patted her head, placed his attache case on the table, and sat down.
No fridge-scavenge. Maybe he’d eaten a big breakfast.
“Time for current events, class.” Out of the case came a rolled-up newspaper. The masthead read:
The Corsair
A pair of articles shared the front page: a feature on renewed interest in the benefits of high colonics and “SMC Student Plays Crucial Role in Westside Murder.”
Heather Goldfeder’s headshot was accurately elfin. The slant was her “extreme bravery after coming across a hideously slain homicide corpse as she trained for a marathon in Cheviot Park. ‘What made it worse,’ said the SMC freshman, ‘was this wasn’t the first murder in my neighborhood, a little baby skeleton was also found in the park and there was also another baby dug up real close to where I live. Though I heard that one was real old.’ ”
I said, “Let’s hear it for freedom of the press. Maria know yet?”
“She woke me at six, was spewing like I’ve never heard her. I told her it hadn’t come from me, she said she didn’t believe me, I said feel free to waste time investigating. Then she started in on how it was my responsibility to muzzle my witness and I said last I heard gag orders came from judges.”
He put the paper away. “The one who’s
He went to the fridge, searched a top shelf.
I said, “Any tips come in?”
“Nothing serious yet, and I don’t think there will be unless Flower Dress’s picture goes public. Still waiting to hear back from Maria on that.”
He tried a lower tier. “What’s with you guys, no leftovers?”
“We’ve been eating out.”
“Not even a doggie bag? Oh, yeah, that’s not a dog, it’s an alien princess who won’t touch her foie gras unless it’s been consecrated by a celebrity chef. Am I right about that, mademoiselle?”
Blanche trotted up to him, cocked her head to the side.
Grumbling about his back, he bent low to rub behind her ears. She rolled over and exposed her belly. He murmured something about “Entitlement.” She purred. “Nice to see my charm transcends gender.”
I said, “She’s a happy girl. Had lamb chop leftovers last night.”
“Don’t gloat, Dr. De Sade.” He foraged some more, returned with a half pint of cottage cheese and a bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce that he glurped directly into the container, concocting a melange that evoked something you’d find at a shotgun homicide.
Three tablespoons later: “Got the DNA results on everything. Nothing in the old bones, too degraded, but plenty in the new bones: The baby’s mommy had some African American heritage so Flower Dress wasn’t her. So much for the mother-child-bad-daddy theory. Any suggestions?”
“Nothing that would make you feel better.”
“Try me.”
“Take away the family angle and you could have an offender who murders all kinds of people for motives you won’t understand until you catch him.”
“A pleasure killer,” he said. “Gets off on amateur taxidermy. I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, knew you would.” His eyes dropped to the cottage cheese container. He downed another spoonful of clotted red soup. First time I’d seen him grimace after ingesting anything.
Dumping the mixture in the trash, he drank water from the tap. “So what’s my plan, just wait and hope this nutcase screws up on the next one?”
“You could put the park under surveillance.”
“You think he’d actually go back?”
“Nothing succeeds like success.”
“Well,” he said, “the best I can do for surveillance is a couple of additional drive-bys per shift by sector cars. I know ’cause I’ve already asked, great minds and all that … maybe I’ll do an all-nighter … God, I’m hungry, how long will it take you to defrost a steak? Or a roast? Or half a cow?”
His phone chirped Ravel’s “Bolero.” He picked up, flashed a V. “That’s great, sir, I apprec-” The victory sign wilted as he listened for a long time.
He put the phone down and drank more water at the sink.
I said, “His Godliness ranting?”
“Lower the volume, it woulda been a rant. ‘Well, Sturgis, looks like your fucking victim is gonna be a fucking reality star for fifteen fucking minutes so get a decent fucking photo of her fucking dead face because you’ve got one fucking shot at this. And you better fucking be able to do something with it because I just swallowed a whole lot of fucking bullshit from a fucking piece-of-shit politician who’s got fucking White House connections.’ ”
I said, “When will the photo run?”
“Tonight at six. If I get my fucking ass in gear.” He smiled. “I believe I will.”
Ten-second flash at the tail end of the news. Three hours later, Milo phoned, exuberant. “Her name’s Adriana Betts and she’s originally from Boise. A cousin from Downey saw it and recognized her, called Adriana’s sister back in Idaho, the sister called me, emailed a photo. She’s flying down tomorrow, I booked Interrogation B at the Butler Avenue Hilton.”
“Did the sister have anything interesting to say about Adriana?”
“Wonderful person, not an enemy in the world, how could this happen, why do bad things happen to good people.”
That got me thinking about Jimmy Asherwood and I was hit with a strange, aching sympathy for a man I’d never known.
“Alex? You there?”
