“No, but I saw him.”
“Where?”
“The casino.”
“When?”
“Maybe a month before.”
“Before she was killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Why, is he some kind of-”
Milo held a big hand up. “Tell me, Ted.”
“Okay, okay, I was working and saw her doing her thing. Slinking around in a little black halter dress, her hair up, fake diamond earrings.” He closed his eyes for a second, preserving the image, opened them, tugged at his red shirt. “I tried to catch her eye, so I could maybe get to see her later. She gave a big smile, then I saw she was smiling past me, not at me. At someone else.”
“The doctor,” said Milo.
“I didn't know he was a doctor. Later she told me he was. She walked right past my table, he was at another 500-dollar table, big pile of chips. She said hi to him and some other guy, hugs and kisses, like old friends. He collected his chips and they all walked off. Next day I told her nice of you to say hi. She said don't get touchy, I go way back with the guy. He's the doctor who fixed me. I owe him.”
“What'd she owe him for?”
“Maybe he did it for free, who knows?”
“A trade?”
Barnaby shrugged.
“What did he look like?” said Milo.
“Nothing special. Thirty-five, forty. Short. But big here.” Touching a shoulder. “Like a gym rat. Short hair, almost skinned, kind of jap eyes. Good threads- suit, tie, the works.”
“And the other one?”
“What other one?”
“You said there was another guy.”
“Yeah, but he was old, no big deal. Sick-looking- yellow skin, in a wheelchair. The doctor was pushing him around. Maybe he was a big-bucks patient having a last fling. You see that all the time in Vegas. Totally fucked- up people, paraplegics, people on air tanks, losers with no legs. Getting pushed around the casino with cups full of chips. Like a last fling, you know?”
“What else did Mandy say about them?”
“She didn't say nothing at all about the old guy.”
“And the doctor?”
“Just that he fixed her.”
“And she owed him.”
“Yeah. Is he some wacko?”
“No,” said Milo. “He's a hero.”
Barnaby looked confused.
Milo said, “Anything else you can think of?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Yeah. You're welcome.”
“The address on Vista Chino your current one?”
“Yeah.”
“What's the address of the place you're leasing?”
“What's the diff, you got me busted, I can't take it now.”
“Just in case.”
Barnaby recited some numbers and a street. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started to walk off.
“Want me to talk to Giovanne?” said Milo.
“It won't do any good.”
“Suit yourself.”
Barnaby stopped. “Hey, you wanna do it, fine. You wanna feel like a hero, too, fine.”
30
We played five hands of losing blackjack, thanked the pit boss, got back on the highway, and raced through the desert. A gray moon sat low in the sky and the sand looked like snow.
“Old man in a wheelchair,” I said. “Maybe Big Micky Kruvinski?”
Milo shifted his bulk in the driver's seat and rolled his neck. “Or maybe he
“The main thing: Cruvic knew Mandy.”
“Bastard. Gotta find a way to get into his records. Barone's an expert on building paper walls and all we have against Cruvic so far is suspicion, no grounds for a warrant.”
“Did you ask Barnaby about dope because you think there might be a dope angle?”
“I asked him because he's still a user- did you see all that sweat, those eyes? I meant what I said about bad guys.”
“Hope and cocaine? No evidence she ever used.”
“No evidence on Hope, period.”
“Casey Locking might be able to provide some,” I said. “He has some connection to Cruvic. I keep thinking about the time we talked on campus, his taking the law-and-order line. Which is standard psychopath behavior- the rules apply to everyone but me. Maybe I can learn something about him from Hope's other student- the one in London. I'll try her again.”
He pushed the Porsche over ninety. “It's weird, Alex. The case starts out all high-tone- professors, the high-IQ crowd, but now we're back on the usual terrain: dopers, dealers, hookers, characters.”
“Hope's little boxes,” I said.
He thought about that for a mile or two, finally said, “Yeah. But which box had the rattlesnake?”
We stopped for coffee at an all-night diner in Ontario and were back in L.A. just before 2:00 A.M. Another note had been added to the scrap on the dining-room table:
Talk about your ships in the night!
Wake me if you want.
Your pen pal. R.
Despite four cups of decaf my throat was dry from the desert air and I poured myself an iced soda water and sat drinking in the kitchen. Then I realized it was morning in England and went to the library to find Mary Ann Gonsalvez's number.
This time she answered, in a soft, curious voice. “Hello?”
I told her who I was.
“Yes. I got your messages.” No emotion.
“Do you have time to talk about Professor Devane?”
“I suppose- it's so terrible. Have they any idea who did it?”
