The Clinic

2

A self-help book changed Hope Devane's life.

Wolves and Sheep wasn't the first thing she published: a psychology monograph and three dozen journal articles had earned her a full professorship at thirty-eight, two years before her death.

Tenure had given her job security and the freedom to enter the public eye with a book the tenure committee wouldn't have liked.

Wolves made the best-seller lists for a month, earning her center ring in the media circus and more money than she could have accumulated in ten years as a professor.

She was suited to the public eye, blessed with the kind of refined, blond good looks that played well on the small screen. That, and a soft, modulated voice that came across confident and reasonable over the radio, meant she had no trouble getting publicity bookings. And she made the most of each one. For despite Wolves's subtitle, Why Men Inevitably Hurt Women and What Women Can Do to Avoid It, and its indicting tone, her public persona was that of an intelligent, articulate, thoughtful, pleasant woman entering the public arena with reluctance but performing graciously.

I knew all that but had little understanding of the person she'd been.

Milo had left me three LAPD evidence boxes to review: her resume, audio- and videotapes, some newspaper coverage, the book. All passed along by Paz and Fellows. They'd never studied any of it.

He'd told me about inheriting the case the night before, sitting across the table from Robin and me at a seafood place in Santa Monica. The bar was crowded but half the booths were empty and we sat in a corner, away from sports on big-screen and frightened people trying to connect with strangers. Midway through the meal Robin left for the ladies' room and Milo said, “Guess what I got for Christmas?”

“Christmas is months away.”

“Maybe that's why this is no gift. Cold case. Three months cold: Hope Devane.”

“Why now?”

“ 'Cause it's dead.”

“The new lieutenant?”

He dipped a shrimp in sauce and put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, his jaw bunched. He kept looking around the room even though there was nothing to see.

New lieutenant, same old pattern.

He was the only acknowledged gay detective in the LAPD, would never be fully accepted. His twenty-year climb to Detective III had been marked by humiliation, sabotage, periods of benign neglect, near-violence. His solve record was excellent and sometimes that helped keep the hostility under the surface. His quality of life depended upon the attitude of the superior-of-the-moment. The new one was baffled and nervous, but too preoccupied with a dispirited postriot department to pay too much attention to Milo.

“He gave it to you because he thinks it's a low-probability solve?”

He smiled, as if savoring a private joke.

“Also,” he said, “he figures Devane might have been a lesbian. “Should be right up your… ahem ahem… alley, Sturgis.' ”

Another shrimp disappeared. His lumpy face remained static and he folded his napkin double, then unfolded it. His necktie was a horrid brown-and-ochre paisley fighting a duel with his gray houndstooth jacket. His black hair, now flecked with white, had been chopped nearly to the skin at the sides, but the top had been left long and the sideburns were still long- and completely snowy.

“Is there any indication she was gay?” I said.

“Nope. But she had tough things to say about men, so ergo, ipso facto.”

Robin returned. She'd reapplied her lipstick and had fluffed her hair. The royal-blue dress intensified the auburn, the silk accentuated every movement. We'd spent some time on a Pacific island and her olive skin had held on to the tan.

I'd killed a man there. Clear self-defense- saving Robin's life as well as mine. Sometimes I still had nightmares.

“You two look serious,” she said, slipping into the booth. Our knees touched.

“Doing my homework,” said Milo. “I know how much this guy enjoyed school, so I thought I'd share it.”

“He just got the Hope Devane murder,” I said.

“I thought they'd given up on that.”

“They have.”

“What a terrifying thing.”

Something in her voice made me look at her.

“More terrifying,” I said, “than any other murder?”

“In some ways, Alex. Good neighborhood like that, you go for a walk right outside your house and someone jumps out and cuts you?”

I placed my hand on top of hers. She didn't seem to notice.

“The first thing I thought of,” she said, “was she was killed because of her views. And that would make it terrorism. But even if it was just some nut picking her at random, it's still terrorism in a sense. Personal freedom in this city kicked another notch lower.”

Our knees moved apart. Her fingers were delicate icicles.

“Well,” she said, “at least you're on it, Milo. Anything so far?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Situation like this, what you do is start fresh. Let's hope for the best.”

In the kindest of times optimism was a strain for him. The words sounded so out-of-character he could have been auditioning for summer stock.

“Also,” he said, “I thought Alex might be able to help me. Dr. Devane being a psychologist.”

“Did you know her, Alex?”

I shook my head.

The waiter came over. “More wine?”

“Yes,” I said. “Another bottle.”

The next morning, Milo brought me the boxes and left. On top was the academic resume.

Her full name was Hope Alice Devane. Father: Andre. Mother: Charlotte. Both deceased.

Under MARITAL STATUS, she'd typed MARRIED, but she hadn't listed Philip Seacrest's name.

CHILDREN: NONE.

She'd been born in California, in a town I'd never heard of called Higginsville. Probably somewhere in the center of the state, because she'd graduated from Bakersfield High School as class valedictorian and a National Merit Scholar before enrolling at UC Berkeley as a Regent's Scholar. Dean's list every quarter, Phi Beta Kappa, graduation with a summa cum laude degree in psychology, then continuation at Berkeley for her Ph.D.

She'd published her first two papers as a graduate student and moved to L.A. for clinical training: internship and postdoctoral fellowship, crosstown, in the Psychiatry Department at County General Hospital. Then an appointment as a lecturer in women's studies at the University and a transfer, the following year, to the Psychology Department as an assistant professor.

Next came ten pages of society memberships, scholarly publications, abstracts, papers delivered at conferences. Her first research topic had been differential achievement in girls and boys on mathematics tests, then she'd shifted gears to sex roles and child-rearing methods, and, once again, to sex roles as they affected self- control.

An average of five articles a year in solid journals- premium gas for a Ferrari on the tenure fast track. It could have been any C.V., until I came to the tail end of the bibliography section where a subheading entitled