The Clinic

eyes.

I took an aisle seat in the third row and watched. The couple onstage didn't budge, the sparse audience remained inert, and the theater was silent.

Two more minutes of nothing.

Five minutes, six… group hypnosis?

Tough job market for actors so maybe the U was training them to be department-store mannequins.

Five more minutes passed before a man in the front row stood up and snapped his fingers. Pudgy and bald, tiny eyeglasses, black turtleneck, baggy green cords.

The couple got up and walked offstage in opposite directions. Another pair came on. Women. They sat.

Assumed the position.

More nothing.

My eyes were accustomed to the darkness and I scanned the audience, trying to guess which young man was Muscadine. Hopeless. I looked at my watch. Over an hour to go and spending it in Static Heaven was threatening to put me to sleep.

I walked quietly to the front row and sat down next to the bald finger-snapper.

He gave me a sidelong look, then ignored me. Up close I saw a little patch of hair under his lower lip. What jazz musicians used to call a honey mop.

Taking out my LAPD badge, I flexed it so the plastic coating caught stage light.

He turned again.

“I'm looking for Reed Muscadine,” I whispered.

He returned his eyes to the stage, where the two women continued to simulate paralysis.

I put the badge away and crossed my legs.

The bald man turned to me again, glaring.

I smiled.

He hooked a thumb toward the rear of the theater and got up.

But instead of walking, he stood there, hands on hips, staring down at me.

A few eyes from the audience drifted toward me, too. The turtlenecked man snapped his fingers and they sat straighter.

He hooked his thumb, again.

I got up and left. To my surprise he followed me, catching up out in the hall.

“I'm Professor Dirkhoff. What the hell's going on?” His chin hairs were ginger, striped with white, as were the few left on his head. He scowled and the honey mop tilted forward like a collection of tiny bayonets.

“I'm looking for-”

“I heard what you said. Why?”

Before I could answer, he said, “Well?” Stretching the word theatrically.

“It's about Professor Hope Devane's murd-”

“That? What does Reed have to do with that?” One hand flew up to his face and the knuckles rested under the chin, socratically.

“We're talking to students who knew Professor Devane and he's one of them.”

“There must be hundreds,” he said. “What a waste of time. And it doesn't permit you to barge in here, unannounced.”

“Sorry for interrupting. I'll wait til after class.”

“Then you'll be wasting your time. Reed's not here.”

“Okay, thanks.” I turned and walked away. When I'd taken three steps, he said, “I mean, he's not here at all.”

“Not in class or not in school?”

“Both. He dropped out a month ago. I'm quite miffed- more than miffed. Our acting program is extremely selective and we expect our students to finish no matter what the reason.”

“What was his reason?”

He turned his back on me and headed back to the swinging doors. Placing one hand on blond wood, he gave a pitying smile.

“He got a job.”

“What kind of job?”

Long, deep breath. “One of those soap operas. A serious mistake on his part.”

“Why's that?”

“The boy has talent but he needs seasoning. Soon he'll be driving a Porsche and wondering why he feels so empty. Like everyone else in this town.”

12

Back home a note on the fridge said, “How about we eat in? Went for provisions with Handsome, back by six.”

At five-thirty Milo called and I pulled out my notes and got ready to report on the day's interviews. But he broke in:

“Got a response to my teletype. Las Vegas Homicide has a cold case that matches: twenty-three-year-old call girl, found on a dark side street near her apartment. Stabbed in the heart, groin, and back, in that order. Under a tree, no less. A month before Hope. They've been figuring it for a lust-psycho. Working girls get killed all the time there. This girl danced, in addition to hooking, had been in a topless show at the Palm Princess casino last year. But recently she'd been working the pits as a freelance. Two, three hundred a trick.”

“So why was she found on the street?”

“The theory was she hitched up with the wrong john and he killed her either on the way over to party at her place or afterward. Maybe she was walking him out to his car and he surprised her with the knife. Or maybe she hadn't made him happy enough or they couldn't agree on price and he left mad.”

“Any physical resemblance to Hope?”

“From the photo they faxed me, no, other than they were both good-looking. This girl- Mandy Wright's her name- looks gorgeous, actually. But dark-haired. And twenty-three makes her a lot younger than Hope. And clearly no professor. But given the wound pattern, we may have a traveling psycho, so I think I'd better concentrate on finding out if any other homicides around the country match. For all her controversy, the good professor may very well have been the victim of a nutcase stranger. I'm planning to fly out to Vegas tonight, play show-me-yours-and- I'll-show-you-mine.” He coughed. “So, what were you saying?”

Before I could tell him, Robin came through the door, holding a grocery bag and Spike's leash. Her color was high and she was smiling as she waved. She put the bag down and kissed me.

I mouthed, “Milo.”

“Say hi.” She left to change.

I relayed the message, then told him all of it: the conversations with Julia Steinberger and Casey Locking, Tessa Bowlby's panic, Patrick Huang's anger and alleged alibi, Reed Muscadine dropping out to take the acting job.

“Bottom line: Hope made a strong impression on everyone. Though if it is a traveling serial, that's probably no longer relevant.”

“The Bowlby girl- was she really scared?”

“Petrified. Pale and skinny and weak-looking, too, so I wondered if Muscadine's AIDS test might have come back positive. And if he dropped out 'cause he's sick. Or maybe it was just because he got the acting job. But what's the difference?”

“Don't go around feeling useless, yet. Mandy Wright changes things but I can't afford to eliminate anyone or