The Clinic

like those you see in Spain and Italy and Greece, leading to courtyards. A ring-in buzzer was topped by a tarnished bronze sign so small it seemed intent on avoiding discovery. M. CRUVIC, M.D. etched shallowly.

Milo punched the buzzer and we waited. But for the hum of the cars on Santa Monica, the street was sleepy. Geraniums grew out of boxes in the beautician's window. In all my years in L.A., I'd never had a reason to be here.

Milo knew what I was thinking. “Looks like someone else likes privacy.”

Rubbing his lip with his lower teeth, he pushed the buzzer again.

Electric bee-buzz response, the click of release. He shoved at the heavy wood and we stepped in.

On the other side was a courtyard. Flagstone-floored, open to the sky, set up with potted bananas, flax plants, azaleas. A small iron table and two chairs. Ashtray on the table. Two lipsticked butts. The interior building was two stories with barred windows and hand-wrought balconies. Two doors. The right one opened and a woman in a light blue uniform came out. “Right here.” Throaty voice. She pointed to the left.

She was around fifty, trim and brunette with a very large bust, a tight, shiny, tan face, and dancer's calves.

“Detective Sturgis? I'm Anna, come on in.” She gave a one-second smile, led us to the left, and opened the door. “Dr. Cruvic will be right with you. Can I get you some coffee? We have an espresso machine.”

“No, thanks.”

She'd taken us into a short, bright hallway. Dark wood doors, all closed, and dense tan carpeting that smothered our footsteps. The walls were white and looked freshly painted. She opened the fourth door and stepped aside.

The room was small with a low ceiling. Two beige cotton armchairs and a matching love seat sat on a black area rug. A chrome-and-glass coffee table separated them. A pair of high windows exposed the brick wall of the beauty-parlor building. No desk, no books, no phone.

“Dr. Cruvic's offices are on the other side but he'd like you to remain here so as not to upset the patients. You're sure you don't want coffee? Or tea?”

Milo declined again and smiled.

“Okay, then. Make yourselves comfortable, he should be right in.”

“Nice old building,” said Milo. “Must be good to have this kind of space in Beverly Hills.”

“Oh, it is neat,” she said. “I think it used to be some kind of stable- they ran horses around here back in the old days. I think Mary Pickford kept her horses here, or maybe it was another of those old-time stars.”

I said, “Does Dr. Cruvic do his operating right here or does he go over to Cedars or Century City?”

Her taut face turned glassy. “Mostly we do outpatient procedures. Nice to meet you.”

She left, closing the door. Milo waited several moments, then opened it and looked out. Four long strides took him to the end of the corridor and a door marked TO WEST WING. He tried the knob. Locked. On his way back, he jiggled others. All bolted.

“Is my paranoia kicking in “cause I don't like doctors' offices or did she not like your question about where he operates?”

“It did seem to throw her,” I said. “Sorry to put a stress on her face-lift.”

“Yeah, she is glossy. I thought she might have been recuperating from a sunburn, but with that chest you're probably right… Did you want coffee? Far be it for me to speak for the entire class.”

“No, this room is stimulating enough.”

He laughed. “Warm and cozy, huh- could you do therapy, here?”

“I can do therapy anywhere but I'd prefer something a little less stark.”

“Maybe this was Hope's therapy room.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it's separate from the west wing. No upsetting the patients. Assuming she worked here. Which isn't that big of a stretch: He paid her almost forty grand, we haven't found patient files anywhere else.”

The door opened and a very broad-shouldered man about five-nine gusted in wearing a very wide frown.

He was around forty with thick gray hair styled in a long, spiky crew cut, the sideburns clipped high above small, close-set ears. Dark, extremely alert eyes studied us. Slanted- five degrees short of an Asian tilt.

His face was round with pronounced, rosy cheekbones, a straight nose with flared nostrils, and a strong chin already shadowed with morning growth.

He wore a tailored white double-breasted jacket over a spread-collar blue shirt and a black silk crepe tie hand- painted with crimson and gold swirls. Black slacks broke perfectly over two-tone black-leather-and-gray-suede wing tips. He stuck out his hand and revealed a French cuff held together by a gold-barrel link. His wrist was thick and coated with straight black hair.

“Mike Cruvic.” Nodding, as if we'd just come to a consensus. Even when he stood still he seemed to bounce.

“Doctor,” said Milo. They shook, then I got Cruvic's hand. Muscular grip but soft palm. Buffed nails.

“Thanks for taking the time, sir.”

“Happy to, though I really don't know how I can help you find Hope's killer.” He shook his head. “Let's sit, okay? Got myself a heel spur from running in old shoes. You'd think I'd know better.” He knuckled his forehead three times and sank into the love seat.

“You know what they say,” said Milo. “The doctor's kids go barefoot.”

Cruvic smiled and stretched his arms. “In this case the doctor gets sore feet. I never thought I'd be talking to the police about murder, let alone Hope's.”

Tucking his finger into a wing tip, he rubbed the side of his foot and winced.

“Creak, creak,” he said, rolling his shoulders. Their bulk wasn't due to padding. His posture was perfect, his belly board-flat. I pictured him in his home gym at daybreak, bouncing and pedaling and pumping. One of those early risers just waiting to take on the day and knock it out in two rounds.

“So,” he said, finally sitting still. “What would you like to know?”

“We have on record that you paid Dr. Devane thirty-six thousand dollars last year,” said Milo. “Did she work for you?”

Cruvic floated a palm over the spikes of his crew cut. “I never tallied it up but that sounds right. She consulted to the practice.”

“In what capacity, Doctor?”

Cruvic touched a finger to a broad, pale lip. “Let's see, how can I be forthcoming without compromising my patients… are you aware of what we do here?”

“Obstetrics-gynecology and fertility.”

Cruvic produced a business card from an inner pocket of the white jacket. Milo read it, then handed it to me.

MILAN A. CRUVIC, M.D., FACOGPRACTICE LIMITED TO PROBLEMS OF FERTILITY

“I used to do OB-GYN but for the last few years I've been doing just fertility.”

“The hours?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Delivering babies. The hours can be rough.”

Cruvic laughed. “No, that never bothered me, I don't need much sleep. I just like doing fertility. People come in, sometimes there's absolutely no medical reason they can't conceive. It tears them apart. You analyze it, come up with a solution.” He grinned. “I guess I fancy myself a detective of sorts.” He looked at his watch.

“What was Professor Devane's role in all of that, sir?”

“I called Hope in when I had doubts.”

“About what?”

“Patients' psychological preparedness.” Cruvic's brow creased and the gray spikes tilted down. “Fertility enhancement's an exhausting process. Physically and psychologically. And sometimes nothing we do works. I warn patients beforehand but not everyone can handle it. When they can't, it's best not to start. Sometimes I can judge who's likely to have problems. If I can't, I call in experts.”