name for it but I forgot it. Auto-immune condition- the body attacks itself by leeching pigment. No one knows what causes it, but in Trapp’s case I’ve got a theory: Asshole’s so full of poison, his own system can’t stand him. Maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll fade away completely.”
“What do you think about his being at the house?”
“Who knows? I’d love nothing more than to get something on the scrote, but this one doesn’t scream felony. Maybe he and your late friend were getting it on and he went back to make sure he hadn’t left any evidence. Sleazy but not indictable.” He shook his head. “If she was getting it on with him she
“What about the quick sale on the house?” I asked. “And the twin sister? I know she exists- existed- because I met her six years ago. If she’s still alive she’d be Sharon’s heir.”
“Six years is a long time, Alex. And who’s to say she hasn’t been found? Del was right- that’s up to the lawyers. Sure, sure, it smells of cover-up, but that doesn’t mean what’s being covered up is anything juicy, pal. This kind of thing’s routine when you’re dealing with the pricey crowd. Just last month we had an art theft up in Bel Air. Thirteen million dollars’ worth of French Impressionism, gone, like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Private chef did it and split to Monaco. We filed the papers; family hired private help. They recovered the pictures; few months later the chef had an accident with scalding water.
“And speaking of accidents, last April the teenage daughter of a ‘prominent manufacturer’ up in the Palisades got pissed at the family maid for throwing out one of her magazines, stuck the poor lady’s hand in a garbage disposal. Bye-bye five fingers, but the maid changed her mind about filing charges. Took early retirement- ten thousand per digit- and shipped back to Guatemala. Then there’s a talk show host- everyone knows him, helluva witty and charming guy. His game is getting drunk and putting women in the hospital. The network adds two million a year to his salary for damage control. Ever read a word about any of it? Ever see it on the six o’clock news? Rich folk in awkward situations, Alex. Sweep it under the rug and keep it out of court. It happens all the time.”
“So you’re saying forget the whole thing.”
“Not so fast, Lone Ranger. I didn’t say I was going to
“Del made it sound as if he was okay.”
“Del didn’t know him. I did. Besides, Del’s a good guy, but our relationship’s been a bit frosty of late.”
“Departmental politics?”
“Marital problems- his wife’s giving him grief. He’s sure she’s stepping out. It’s turned him asocial.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. He was the only one in the division who ever treated me human. And don’t get me wrong- we’re not ripping each other’s throats out. But he’s not going to extend himself- for anyone. Anyway, the timing’s right for a little extracurricular info-gathering. I don’t have to report till Monday, and Rick will either be working or sleeping it off all weekend.”
He got up, walked around. “Idle hands make the devil’s work, lad. Far be it from me to tempt Satan. Just don’t expect anything dramatic, okay?”
I nodded, took the dishes to the sink and started washing.
He came over and placed a big, padded hand on my shoulder.
“You look down. ’Fess up, Doctor. This friend was more than just a friend.”
“A long time ago, Milo.”
“But from the way you look when you talk about her, it’s not that ancient a history. Or is there something else on that scary thing you call your mind?”
“Nothing, Milo.”
He removed his hand. “Do consider one thing, Alex. Are you ready to hear more dirt about her? ’Cause, from what we already know, once we start digging, it ain’t gonna be buried treasure time.”
“No problem,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Uh-huh,” he said. And went to get another beer.
14
When he was gone my nonchalance faded. How much more dirt did I really want to encounter, when I’d never made sense of what I knew already?
I’d been followed up too.
The scene with the twin photo left me addled, in pain, unable to concentrate on work. Three days later I started calling her, got no answer. Four days later I gathered my resolve and went back to the house on Jalmia. No one home. I inquired at the psych department, was informed she was on temporary leave. None of her professors was worried about her absence. She’d had to take leave before-“family business”- had always made up the work, was a top-notch student. They suggested I talk to her adviser, Dr. Kruse.
When Kruse didn’t return a week’s worth of phone calls, I looked up his office address and drove there. The building was five stories of anodized steel and bronzed glass on Sunset near Doheny, granite- lobbied and maroon-carpeted, with a noisy French restaurant that opened to a sidewalk cafe on the ground floor. The directory listed an odd mix of tenants: about a third psychologists and psychiatrists, the rest various film- related concerns- production companies, agents, publicists, personal managers.
Kruse’s suite was on the top floor. His door was locked. I kneeled, opened the mail slot, and peeked in. Darkness. I got up and looked around. One other suite took up the rest of the floor- an outfit called Creative Image Associates. Its double doors were locked too.
I taped a note under Kruse’s nameplate, leaving my name and number, and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible
The oil stain in the carport was dry, the foliage wilting. The mailbox was crammed with at least a week’s worth of correspondence. I skimmed the return addresses on the envelopes. All junk. Nothing indicating where she’d gone.
The following morning, before heading for the hospital, I went back to the psych department and got Kruse’s home address out of the faculty files. Pacific Palisades. I drove there that evening and sat waiting for him.
The tail end of November, just before Thanksgiving. L.A.’s best time of year. The sky had just deepened from El Greco blue to a glowing pewter, swelling with rain clouds and sweet with electricity.
Kruse’s house was big, pink, and Spanish, on a private road off Mandeville Canyon, just a short drive down to the coast highway and the high, battering tides of autumn. The street was narrow and quiet, the nearby properties estate-sized, but Kruse’s layout was open, no high walls or gates.
Psychology had been good to him. The house was graceful, with two hundred feet of landscaped garden on each side, adorned with verandas, Monterey roofs, hand-turned wooden grillwork, leaded windows. Shading the south side of the lawn was a beautifully warped black pine- giant bonsai. A pair of Brazilian orchid trees had sprinkled the freshly sown rye grass with violet blossoms. A semicircular driveway inlaid with Moorish tile cut an inverted U through the grass.
At twilight, colored outdoor lights came on and high-lighted the landscaping. No cars, not a sound. More canyon seclusion. Sitting there, I was reminded of the house on Jalmia- the master’s influence?- thought about Sharon’s inheritance story and wondered again if Kruse had set her up.
I wondered, too, about what had happened to the other little girl in the photo.
