The Murder Book

'I'm not saying she acted alone, Bert, or even initiated the murder. But she could've lured the victims, and either receded into the background or participated.'

'Any theories about the main perpetrator?'

'The girl had a boyfriend, six years older, with a criminal history, including murder.'

'Sexual murder?'

'No, an ambush killing.'

'I see,' he said. 'Any particular reason you didn't mention him, initially?'

'The cover-up's more likely related to the girl.'

'This fellow wasn't wealthy.'

'Young black street pusher.'

'I see- and what became of this murderous young felon?'

'He vanished, too.'

'A girl and a young man,' he said. 'That would change things. Psychosocially.'

'A killing team,' I said. 'One scenario is the two of them picked up the victims at the party and took them somewhere to be raped and murdered.'

'A Svengali-Trilby situation,' he said. 'Dominant male, submissive female… because that's what it usually takes to get an impressionable young female involved in extremely violent behavior. Nearly all sexual violence seems to emanate from the Y chromosome, doesn't it? What else do you know about this boyfriend?'

'Apart from being a junkie and a pusher, he was manipulative enough to get a street-smart bail bondsman to forgo a bond. And calculated enough to ambush the bondsman- that's the homicide he's wanted for. Still wanted. Another of Milo's open cases.'

'Sad convergence for Milo,' he said. 'A junkie in the strict sense- heroin?'

'Heroin was his first choice, but he was eclectic.'

'Hmm… then I suppose that would explain it.'

'Explain what?' I said.

'With sexual sadists, one usually thinks of alcohol or marijuana as the drugs of choice, correct? Something mild enough to take the edge off inhibition, but not sufficiently incapacitating to blunt the libido. Other drugs- amphetamines, cocaine- can foster violence, but that's usually more of a paranoid reaction. But heroin?' He shook his head. 'Opiates as the great pacifiers. Take away the necessity to steal in order to obtain heroin and no place would be safer than a city full of addicts. I've certainly never heard of a junkie acting out in such a sexually violent manner.'

'Not while high,' I said. 'But a heroin addict in need of a fix wouldn't be good company.'

'I suppose.' He scratched an ear. 'Even then, Alex, wouldn't the violence be impulsive- born of frustration? An addict would be interested in the needle, not luring and raping and cutting up young girls. Just garnering the concentration would be difficult, wouldn't you say? At least that's the way it was years ago when I worked with addicts.'

'When was that?'

'During my internship, I rotated through the Federal hospital in Lexington.'

'Where haven't you been, Bert?'

'Oh, lots of places… do forgive my rambling, Alex. What do I know about crime? You're the expert.'

As I got in the Seville, he said, 'What I told you before about Robin. I didn't mean to presume to instruct you how to live your life. I've presumed an awful lot, today, haven't I?'

'I didn't take it that way, Bert.'

He sighed. 'I'm an old man, Alex. Most of the time I feel young- sometimes I wake up in the morning ready to dash to the lecture hall and take notes. Then I look in the mirror… the life cycle. One regresses. Loses one's sense of propriety. Forgive me.'

Tears welled in the gray eyes.

'There's nothing to forgive-'

'You're kind to say that.'

I placed a hand on his shoulder. Beneath the purple polyester he was soft and frail and small. 'Is everything okay, Bert?'

'Everything is as it should be.' He reached up and patted my hand. 'Lovely seeing you, son. Don't give up.'

'On the case?'

'On anything that matters.'

I drove down the hill, paused to look through the rearview mirror. He remained standing in the driveway. Waved. A tired wave.

Definitely distracted, I thought as I drove away. And the sudden mood swings- the tears. A different Bert from the buoyant man I'd known.

The allusions to senility.

Nothing beyond my age norms.

As if he'd tested himself. Maybe he had.

An impressive man, afraid…

He called me son several times. I realized that for all his travels and adventures, the first-time mention of being married, he'd never spoken of having children.

Alone, in a house full of toys.

If I reached his age, how would I be living?

I got home just before dark, with a head full of road glare and lungs teeming with smog. No numeral blinked on my phone machine, but two messages had been left with my service: someone wanting to sell me earthquake insurance and a request to call Dr. Allison Gwynn.

A young female voice answered at Allison's office.

'Hi, Dr. Delaware, I'm Connie Martino, Dr. Gwynn's psych assistant. She's in session right now but she told me to let you know that she'd like to speak with you. Her last patient's finished by eight and you can drop by the office if you'd like. Or let me know what works for you.'

'Eight works for me.'

'Great. I'll tell her.'

At seven-forty, I set out for Santa Monica. Allison Gwynn's building was on Montana Avenue, just east of the beach city's boutique row, a pale, one-story late-forties moderne affair with rounded corners and grilled slat windows and apricot-tinted accent lighting. A small patch of daylilies sprouted near the front door, bleached white by the night. Inside were four suites: a three-woman obstetric-gynecology group, a plastic surgeon, an endodontist, and, at the rear, A. GWYNN, PH.D. AND ASSOCIATES.

Allison's waiting room was empty and smelled of face powder and perfume and the merest nuance of stress. The decor was soft chairs and thick wool carpeting and marine prints, everything tinted in variants of soft aqua and beige, as if someone were trying to bring the beach indoors. Halogen spots tuned to dim cast a golden white glow- the beach at twilight. Magazines were stacked neatly. A trio of red call buttons next to the door listed Allison's name above those of two assistants: C. MARTINO, M.A. AND E. BRACHT, PH.D. I rang in, and, a moment later, she opened the door.

Her black hair was tied back into a ponytail and she wore an ankle-length, navy crepe dress above matte brown boots. The dress had a scoop neck that dipped just below her collarbone. The same meticulously applied makeup. Same diamond accents at wrist and neck and ears, but tension played around the big blue eyes. The first time I'd met her, she'd maintained steady eye contact. Now she was focused somewhere over my left shoulder.

'Sorry for bringing you all the way here,' she said, 'but I didn't want to talk over the phone.'

'I don't mind being here.'

Her eyebrows rose. 'Well, then, come in.'

Her inner office was more of the same maritime hues and compassionate lighting. The room was large enough for group therapy, but set up for individual work, with a desk in the corner, a sofa and a pair of facing easy chairs. She took one of the chairs, and I sat down opposite her. The navy dress covered most of her but clung to her body and as she positioned herself, I saw muscle and curve, the sweep of thigh, the tug of bosom.

Remembering her history with Michael Larner, I switched mental gears.