luxury in this town.”
“Okay,” I said. But I was wondering who’d pushed the buttons. Thought, immediately, of the old sheik at the party. There was no way to pursue that with Del, so I thanked him again.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Hear from Milo recently?”
“No. Have you? I think he’s due back Monday.”
“Not a word. The duty roster says he’s supposed to be back in the
After he hung up, I looked in the Yellow Pages for a rest home on South Brand, found nothing. A few minutes later Mal Worthy called to remind me of tomorrow’s deposition. He seemed worried about my state of mind, kept asking me if I was okay.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Perry Mason couldn’t get the better of me.”
“Mason was a wimp. Watch out for these insurance guys. By the way, Denise says definitely no more sessions for Darren. She wants to handle things by herself. But that’s off the record. As far as the other side’s concerned, the kid will be in treatment for the rest of his life. And beyond.”
“How’s Darren doing?”
“About the same.”
“Persuade her to continue treatment, Mal. If she wants someone else, I’ll get her a referral.”
“She’s pretty resolute, Alex, but I’ll keep trying. Meanwhile, I’m more concerned with helping her put food on the table.
I spent the next couple of hours preparing for the deposition, was interrupted by the phone.
“Dr. Delaware? Maura Bannon?
She sounded around thirteen, had a high voice with a slight lisp and a New England accent and turned her statements into questions.
“Hello, Ms. Bannon.”
“Ned Biondi gave me your number? I’m so glad I caught you- I wonder if we could meet?”
“For what purpose?”
“You knew Dr. Ransom, right? I thought maybe you could give me some background on her?”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Oh?” She sounded crestfallen.
“I haven’t seen Dr. Ransom in years.”
“Oh. I just thought… Well, you know, I’m trying to give a well-rounded picture, establish some context? For the profile? It’s such a strange thing, a psychologist killing herself like that- man bites dog, you know? People would be interested in finding out why.”
“Have you learned anything more than what you put in your first article?”
“No, I haven’t, Dr. Delaware. Is there anything more to find out? Because if there is, I’d surely appreciate knowing about it. I think the police have been holding back on me. I’ve put several calls in to them, but no one’s returned them.” Pause. “I don’t think they’re taking me seriously.”
“I’d like to help you,” I said, “but I really have nothing to add.”
“Mr. Biondi said-”
“If I led Mr. Biondi to believe any different, I’m sorry, Ms. Bannon.”
“Okay,” she said. “But if you find out anything, please let me know?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, Dr. Delaware.”
I sat back, stared out the window, and felt the loneliness coming on.
Misery loves company- the bigger the other guy’s misery, the better the company. I called Newhall information and asked for a number on D.J. Rasmussen. No listing. Thinking of my only other connection to the young drunk, I phoned Dr. Leslie Weingarden’s office.
“I was just about to call you,” said the receptionist. “Doctor can see you after her last patient, around six.”
“I really don’t need an appointment. Just wanted to talk to her over the phone.”
“I’m telling you what she told me, Mr. Delaware.”
“Six will be fine.”
10
Leslie Weingarden’s building was a three-story, red brick Federal structure with limestone cornice and forest-green awnings, situated in the heart of Beverly Hills’ medical district. The interior was golden-oak raised paneling, green-and-rose carpeting. The directory listed several dozen tenants: M.D.’s, dentists, a handful of Ph.D.’s.
One of the Ph.D.’s caught my eye: KRUSE, P.P. SUITE 300. Made sense- this was couch row. But years before he’d had another address.
Leslie Weingarden’s office was on the ground floor, toward the rear of the building. Her nameplate listed her specialties as Internal Medicine and Women’s Health Issues. Her waiting room was small and decorated in budget good-cheer- white-and-gray miniprint paper, overstuffed white cotton chairs and Danish- modern tables, a scattering of art prints, a potted schefflera in a straw basket. No patients, but the remnants of the day’s traffic were apparent: gum wrappers, an empty aspirin bottle and a used emery board on the coffee table, magazines splayed open on the chairs.
I knocked on the glass partition, waited several seconds before it slid open. A Hispanic woman in her fifties looked out. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Delaware. I have an appointment with Dr. Weingarden.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here.”
I waited for half an hour, leafing through magazines, wondering if any of them had carried Paul Kruse’s column. At six-thirty, the door to the inner office opened and a good-looking woman around thirty came out.
She was petite, very slender, with frosted short hair and a lean, alert face. She wore dangling silver earrings, a white silk blouse, pleated dove-gray gabardine slacks, and gray suede pumps. A stethoscope hung from around her neck. Under it was a heavy gold chain. Her features were delicate and regular, her eyes almond- shaped and dark brown. Like Robin’s. She wore little makeup. Didn’t have to.
I stood up.
“Mr. Delaware? I’m Dr. Weingarden.” She held out her hand and I shook it. Her bones were tiny; her grip, firm and dry. She placed both hands on her hips. “What can I do for you?”
“You referred patients to a psychologist named Sharon Ransom. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but she’s dead, committed suicide on Sunday. I wanted to talk to you about her. About getting in touch with those patients.”
No trace of shock. “Yes, I read the paper. What’s your involvement with her and her patients?”
“Mostly personal, somewhat professional.” I handed her my card.
She examined it. “You’re a psychologist too. Then it’s
The question surprised me. “No.”
“Because she sure needed one.” Frown. “Why all the concern about her patients?”
“I ran into one of them today. D.J. Rasmussen. He gave me your name.”
