The Clinic

Dark bruises on white skin.

Seacrest's sudden anger.

I got back in the Seville and onto the 405 north.

Pasadena eats more than its share of smog but today the air was clean and the office buildings on Cordova Street shone as beautifully as a Richard Estes painting.

Storm Realty and Investment was a one-story neo-Spanish surrounded by brilliant flower beds and jacaranda trees still in purple bloom. The accompanying parking lot was pristine. I pulled in next to Milo's unmarked just as he got out. He was carrying his briefcase and a tape recorder and was wearing a gray suit, white button-down shirt, red-and-blue rep tie.

“Very GOP,” I said, looking down at his desert boots and trying not to smile.

“When in businessland, do as the businessmen. Speaking of commerce, I found a couple of Sunset Strip bars Mandy Wright just might have frequented.”

“Might?”

“No ID yet but a couple of promising maybes. We're talking big hair, perfect bodies, so an ugly girl would have stood out better. As is, I was lucky to find two bartenders who'd been working there a year ago. Neither would swear it was her, just that she looked familiar.”

“Was she working or hanging out?”

“Her line of work, is there a difference? And if she was working, they wouldn't admit it and jeopardize the liquor license. The thing that makes me think it could be a valid lead is the places were only a block apart, so maybe she was cruising. Club None and the Pit. Trouble is, neither barkeep can remember seeing her with anyone.”

“But it does put her in L.A.”

He crossed his fingers. “The other thing is, I spoke to Gunderson, the Temple City detective who handled Tessa's complaint against her old man. He's an assistant chief now, barely remembered the case, but he pulled the file and said his notes indicate they never took the complaint seriously. Considered Tessa a head case. He started to remember the father vaguely. As a nice guy- admitted to a juvenile record when he didn't have to, very up-front about everything. So Muscadine is looking increasingly righteous and let's finish with the damned committee- ready for Master Storm?”

“Before we begin, I've got some evidence of Hope being abused.” I told him Steinberger's story, then my few minutes with Seacrest.

“Bruises and a bad temper,” he said, frowning. “What, specifically, got him so pissed?”

“He was pissed at the outset, got red in the face when I told him I wanted to talk about the relationship.”

“Good. Maybe we're getting under his skin. Maybe I should work him a little more… Wouldn't that be something, he roughs her up for years and she writes the book telling women how to defend themselves.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” I said.

“For what?”

“Style over substance. Little boxes. But if she and Seacrest were having problems, the book, all the attention it got her, could have crystallized her dissatisfaction, made her decide to finally break away. Maybe in that sense, fame was her death sentence. But as to what that has to do with Mandy Wright, I still can't come up with anything. And here's another complication: Last night I took another drive by Cruvic's office. He wasn't in but Nurse Anna was. Along with Casey Locking.”

I told him about the Mulholland house and he copied down the address.

“Shit,” he said. “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into hypothesisland- okay, I'll find out who owns it. Meanwhile, let's go persecute a mouthy kid.”

We crossed a long, quiet reception area to get to Kenneth Storm Sr.'s office, past a pair of secretaries who looked up from their keyboards resentfully, talk radio in the background.

The Storms were a testament to genetics, both bull-necked and wide-shouldered with sandy crew cuts and small, suspicious eyes that locked in place for long stretches.

Senior was fiftyish with the dissolute, puffy look of a fullback gone sedentary. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons and a Masonic pin in the lapel. Junior's jacket was dark green, his buttons as bright as his father's.

They were both positioned behind Senior's canoe-shaped blond-oak desk, which had been cleared of everything but a cowboy bronze and a green onyx pen-and-pencil set. The office was too big for the furniture, walled in oak veneer and carpeted in beige shag. Real-estate and life-insurance achievement awards were Senior's idea of self- validation. A cigar smell filled the room but no ashtrays were in sight.

Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone's idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm's attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr. yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.

“Furthermore,” said Bateman, “with regard to the substance of this proced-”

“Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?” said Milo.

“I'm Mr. Storm's attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.”

“So you regard this as a business affair?”

Bateman bared his teeth. “May I continue, Detective?”

“Has Mr. Storm Jr. engaged you formally?”

“That's hardly relevant.”

“It might be if you're going to stand around making up rules.”

Bateman massaged a sapphire cuff link and looked at the boy. “Would you care to designate me as your attorney, Kenny?”

Junior rolled his eyes. His father tapped his sleeve with an index finger.

“Yeah, sure.”

“All right, then,” said Bateman, “with regard to this procedure, Detective, you will refrain from…”

Milo placed his tape recorder on the desk.

“I have a problem with that,” said Bateman.

“With what?”

“Taping. This is neither court testimony nor a formal deposition and my client's not under any formal suspicion-”

“So why are you acting like he is?”

“Detective,” said Bateman. “I insist that you stop interrupting-”

Milo shut him up with a loud exhalation. Picking up the recorder, he examined a switch. “Mr. Bateman, we drove out here as a courtesy, rescheduled several times as a courtesy, allowed your client's father to be present as a courtesy, even though he's reached the age of majority. We are not talking juvey traffic court here. Our interest in the lad is the fact that he had a highly hostile exchange with a woman who was subsequently stabbed to death.”

Junior mumbled and Senior shot him a look.

“Detective,” said Bateman. “Surely-”

“Counselor,” said Milo, taking a few steps closer. “He's not a formal suspect yet, but all this shuffling and dodging is definitely firming up the picture of an individual with something to hide. You wanna sit here, play F. Lee Bombast, that's your business. But if we do conduct an interview today it's gonna be taped and I'm gonna ask what I want. Otherwise, we'll reschedule at the West L.A. substation and you all deal with the freeway and the press.”

Junior mumbled again.

“Ken,” warned Senior.

Junior rolled his eyes again and fingered a pimple on the side of his neck. His hands were big, hairless, powerful.

Milo said, “Sorry to be taking up your time, son. Though you've got a bit of time on your hands, don't you. Being