'There's no doubt whatsoever.' She sounded offended. 'I checked and double - checked, Doctor, and then I asked the head of the department, Dr. Gowdy, and he was positive no Timothy Kruger graduated from here.'
'Well, that settles it, doesn't it? And it certainly casts a new light on Mr. Kruger. Could you check one more thing?'
'What's that?'
'Mr. Kruger also listed a B.A. in psychology from Jedson College in Washington State. Would your records contain that kind of information as well?'
'It would be on his application to graduate school. We should have transcripts, but I don't see why you need to - '
'Marianne, I'm going to have to report this to the State Board of Behavioral Science examiners, because state licensure is involved. I want to know all the facts.'
'I see. Let me check.'
This time she was back in a moment.
'I've got his transcript from Jedson here, Doctor. He did receive a B.A. but it wasn't in psychology.'
'What was it in?'
She laughed.
'Dramatic arts. Acting.'
I called the school where Raquel Ochoa taught and had her pulled out of class. Despite that, she seemed pleased to hear from me.
'Hi. How's the investigation going?'
'We're getting closer,' I lied. 'That's what I called you about. Did Elena keep a diary or any kind of records around the apartment?'
'No. Neither of us were diary writers. Never had been.'
'No notebooks, tapes, anything?'
'The only tapes I saw were music - she had a tape deck in her new car - and some cassettes Handler gave her to help her relax. For sleep. Why?'
I ignored the question.
'Where are her personal effects?'
'You should know that. The police had them. I suppose they gave them back to her mother. What's going on? Have you found out something?'
'Nothing definite. Nothing I can talk about. We're trying to fit things together.'
'I don't care how you do it, just catch him and punish him. The monster.'
I dredged up a rancid lump of false confidence and smeared it all over my voice. 'We will.'
'I know you will.'
Her faith made me uneasy.
'Raquel, I'm away from the files. Do you have her mother's home address handy?'
'Sure.' She gave it to me.
'Thanks.'
'Are you planning on visiting Elena's family?'
'I thought it would be helpful to talk to them in person.'
There was silence on the other end. Then she spoke.
'They're good people. But they may shut you out.'
'It's happened before.'
She laughed.
'I think you'd do better if I went with you. I'm like a member of the family.'
'It's no hassle for you?'
'No. I want to help. When do you want to go?'
'This afternoon.'
'Fine. I'll get off early. Tell them I'm not feeling well. Pick me up at two - thirty. Here's my address.'
She lived in a modest West L.A. neighborhood not far from where the Santa Monica and San Diego Freeways merged in blissful union, an area of cracker box apartment buildings populated by singles who couldn't afford the Marina.
She was visible a block away, waiting by the curb, dressed in a pigeon - blood crepe blouse, blue denim skirt and tooled western boots.
She got in the car, crossed a pair of un stockinged brown legs and smiled.
'Hi.'
'Hi. Thanks for doing this.'
'I told you, this is something I want to do. I want to feel useful.'
I drove north, toward Sunset. There was jazz on the radio, something free form and atonal, with saxophone solos that sounded like police sirens and drums like a heart in arrest.
'Change it, if you'd like.'
She pushed some buttons, fiddled with the dial, and found a mellow rock station. Someone was singing about lost love and old movies and tying it all together.
'What do you want to know from them?' she asked, settling back.
'If Elena told them anything about her work - specifically the child who died. Anything about Handler.'
There were lots of questions in her eyes but she kept them there.
'Talking about Handler will be especially touchy. The family didn't like the idea of her going out with a man who was so much older. And' she hesitated, 'an Anglo, to boot. In situations like that the tendency is to deny the whole thing, not even to acknowledge it. It's cultural.'
'To some extent it's human.'
'To some extent, maybe. We Hispanics do it more. Part of it is Catholicism. The rest is our Indian blood. How can you survive in some of the desolate regions we've lived in without denying reality? You smile, and pretend it's lush and fertile and there's plenty of water and food, and the desert doesn't seem so bad.'
'Any suggestions how I might get around the denial?'
'I don't know.' She sat with her hands folded in her lap, a proper schoolgirl. 'I think I'd better start the talking. Cruz - Elena's mom - always liked me. Maybe I can get through. But don't expect miracles.'
She had little to worry about on that account.
Echo Park is a chunk of Latin America transported to the dusty, hilly streets that, buttressed by crumbling concrete embankments on either side of Sunset Boulevard, rise between Hollywood and downtown. The streets have names like Macbeth and Macduff, Bonnybrae and Laguna, but are anything but poetic. They climb to the south and dip down into the Union District ghetto. To the north they climb, feeding into the tiny lake - centered park that gives the area its name, continue through arid trails, get lost in an incongruous wilderness that looks down upon Dodger Stadium, and Elysian Park, home of the Los Angeles Police Academy.
Sunset changes when it leaves Hollywood and enters Echo Park. The porno theaters and by - the - hour motels yield to botdnicas and bode gas outlets for Discos Latinos, an infinite array of food stands - taco joints, Peruvian seafood parlors, fast - food franchises - and first - rate Latino restaurants, beauty shops with windows guarded by Styrofoam skulls wearing blond Dynel wigs, Cuban bakeries, storefront medical and legal clinics, bars and social clubs. Like many poor areas, the Echo Park part of Sunset is continually clogged with foot traffic.
The Seville cut a slow swath through the afternoon mob. There was a mood on the boulevard as urgent and sizzling as the molten lard spitting forth from the fryers of the food stands. There were home boys sporting homemade tattoos, fifteen - year - old mothers wheeling fat babies in rickety strollers that threatened to fall apart at every curb, rummies, pushers, starched collared immigration lawyers, cleaning women on shore leave, grandmothers, flower vendors, a never ending stream of brown - eyed children.
'It's very weird,' said Raquel, 'coming back here. In a fancy car.'
'How long have you been gone?'
'A thousand years.'
She didn't seem to want to say more so I dropped it. At Fairbanks Place she told me to turn left. The Gutierrez home was at the end of an alley - sized twister that peaked, then turned into a dirt road just above the foothills. A quarter mile further and we'd have been the only humans in the world.
