kickbacks for referrals, billing for gynecology instead of psychology to up the reimbursement, whatever. The abortion question got his dander up a bit, meaning he probably does them at the center. Maybe here, too, for the high-priced crowd. If so, he wouldn't want it publicized, apart from the controversy. Because a pro-choice fertility patient might find it difficult to submit to the care of someone who also destroys fetuses. But he made a good point about his being the target. And I stick with what I said about a political murderer going public.”
When we got to the exit door, he said, “If he was sleeping with her the consultant thing could have been a way of shunting money to a girlfriend.”
“She didn't need his forty. She made six hundred grand last year.”
“He knew her before the book. Maybe it's been going on for years. And Seacrest found out. I know I'm reaching but we keep talking about that heart-genitals-back thing. Revenge. Some kind of betrayal. Cruvic did get a little passionate talking about her, wouldn't you say?”
“He did. Maybe he's just a passionate guy.”
“Dr. Heelspur. Saying the same thing Seacrest did: “It had nothing to do with me.' ”
“No one wants to be close to murder,” I said.
He frowned and pushed the door to the courtyard. Tight-faced Nurse Anna was at the courtyard table, smoking and reading the paper. She looked up and gave a small wave.
Milo gave her a card, too. She shook her head.
“I only saw Dr. Devane when she came to work.”
“How often was that?”
“It wasn't regular. Every so often.”
“Did she have her own key?”
“Yes.”
“And she always worked out of that room we were just in?”
Nod.
“Nice lady?” said Milo.
Split-second pause. “Yes.”
“Anything you want to tell us about her?”
“No,” she said. “What could there be?”
Milo shrugged.
Returning the gesture, she stubbed out the cigarette, collected her paper, and stood up.
“Break's over, better be getting back. Have a nice day.”
She headed back to the building as we crossed the flagstone. As we opened the big door to the street, she was still watching us.
8
Milo put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it.
“What?” I said.
“Something about Cruvic…” He started the car. “Maybe I've been on the job too long. Know what came into the station this morning? Newborn baby mauled to death by some dogs. Seventeen-year-old unwed momma weeping, tragic accident, right? Then the detectives find out the dogs were in the next-door neighbor's yard, separated by an eight-foot fence. Turns out Momma killed the kid, tossed it over to destroy the evidence.”
“Jesus.”
“No doubt she'll be claiming she was the victim, going on TV, writing a book.” He gave a terrible smile. “So am I excused for negative thinking?”
Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a portable cellular phone and punched numbers. “Sturgis. Anything? Yeah, I'll wait.”
“Mr. Information Highway,” I said, struggling to erase the image of the savaged infant. “Since when does the department issue cell phones?”
“Oh, sure. Department's idea of the information highway is two extra
Blue Investigations was his evening moonlight: after-hours surveillance jobs, mostly nailing insurance scammers. Mostly he hated it. Lately he'd been turning down referrals.
“If it's reimbursement you're after, maybe you should bill it as gynecology,” I said.
He cracked up. “Uh-huh,” he said, into the phone. “Yeah, yeah- where? Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Backing out onto Civic Center, he drove west. “Cindy Vespucci- the girl Kenny Storm threw out of the car- just returned my message. She'll be lunching at the Ready Burger in Westwood in a quarter hour. Willing to talk if we show up before her next class.”
The restaurant was on Broxton, on the west edge of the Village, where the streets knot up and walking can be faster than driving. Plastic yellow sign, sweating glass window, two rickety tables on the sidewalk, one occupied by two girls drinking Cokes with straws. Neither acknowledged us and we went inside. Three more tables, yellow tile walls also sweating. Lettuce shreds and straw wrappers flecked the red-brick floor; the smell of frying meat was everywhere. A quartet of Asian countermen with Ferrari hands chopped, flipped, wrapped, and played cash-register arpeggios. A numb-looking queue, mostly students, curved from the door to the counter.
Milo studied the interior tables. The lunchers who noticed him didn't do so for long. Same for the kids in line.
We went back outside and he checked his watch. One of the girls put her drink down and said, “Officer Sturgis?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I'm Cindy.”
She was a college freshman but looked like a high-school sophomore. Barely five feet tall, maybe ninety-five pounds, borderline beautiful in an elfin way, with long, straight blond hair, the expected wide sky-blue eyes, an upturned nose, and a cupid's bow mouth. I felt immediately protective and wondered if I'd ever have a daughter.
She wore a gray University sweatshirt over tight black leggings and white running shoes. Book bag by her chair. The nails at the end of her fingers were gnawed. The girl with her was also pretty and blond, a bit chubby. The table was littered with greasy paper and miniature foil packets of ketchup and mustard.
Milo held out his hand. Cindy swallowed and proffered hers. As she looked up at him her mouth lost resolve. He hunched a bit and made his voice gentle. “Good to meet you, Cindy. We really appreciate your talking to us.”
“Oh, sure.” She looked back at her friend and nodded. The chubby girl stared at us then got up, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Cin?”
“I'm okay, Deb. See you at two.”
Deb nodded and walked up the street, peering over her shoulder a couple of times before crossing and entering a record store.
Cindy said, “Do you- should we just talk here?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Um- I'm sure someone will want to use the table. Can we walk?”
“Sure.”
She retrieved her book bag, tossed back her hair, and gave a smile so effortful it must have burned calories.
